Slash and Burn

4

The Lao Justice Minister’s office had an adjoining suite with a conference table made of teak. It was so large and heavy they’d had to cut it in slices in order to get it up to the third floor. Its reassembly hadn’t been terribly successful and there were two incongruous lines of Happy New Year adhesive tape stretching across the table top to disguise the joins. At this table sat the American delegation to one side, and the Lao to the other. There were two perfectly good table ends but it appeared nobody was allowed to sit there. Instead, they faced off like American football teams. There were seven Americans, not including the interpreter, and eight Lao.

Siri wasn’t terribly surprised to learn that the Lao simultaneous interpreter, Judge Haeng’s cousin Vinai, was in bed with laryngitis. To the vice-minister’s displeasure, the meeting was conducted through the competent but unverifiable translation of Peach, the missionary’s daughter. But so confident was she in her interpretation that both sides soon settled into a seamless row of pleasantries and introductions. Like all very good translators she quickly became invisible; invisible that is to all except for Judge Haeng who ogled and grinned at her from across the table.

Like all the leaders, Minister of Justice Bounchu was a military man. For some, the transition from camouflage to charcoal gray had been an uneasy one. He’d been fighting for most of his life and living in the caves of Sam Neua throughout the revolution. It was obvious he’d be more comfortable with mortar fire exploding around him than he was in diplomatic circles. Despite his bulk and his ferocious countenance, there was something timid about him, like a polar bear shaved and put in an ill-fitting suit. This ministry was his sweet fish reward at the end of a heroic life, more a position than a role. He smiled and nodded and left all the details to his minions. He sat opposite the Sumo-in-sundress head of the American delegation, Representative Elizabeth Scribner, Democrat, Rhode Island. Selected for this mission presumably because of her bulk, Mrs. Scribner was not a smiling, all-friendly politician. In fact, one would have to assume she was elected to congress as a result of intimidation.

Siri, still with no idea why he’d been called for, listened to the minister’s address with its pompous language, then to the reading of the early communications between the Chief of Mission of the United States consulate in Vientiane and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Pathet Lao Government. Saigon had fallen to the Vietminh in April of 1975, and the Pathet Lao claimed the prize of Vientiane eight months later during a well-orchestrated handover. Being good sports, they invited the US consulate to remain in operation, insisting only on the removal of CIA personnel. That left a grand total of six, all confined to Vientiane with the odd trip across the Mekhong for shopping in Nong Kai or other pleasures in Bangkok. The US State Department had attempted to sneak in one or two spooks as cleaning staff or bookkeepers but the PL had a comprehensive list of the names and backgrounds of CIA operatives provided by the very resourceful Soviets. Apart from a little housekeeping, the remaining consulate staff were an ornamental lot. They had nothing much else to do but send memos to the PL. No consulate personnel had been allowed to travel around Laos. The US aid agency-USAID-compound had been closed and its employees hustled onto flights out of the country. So only a few dozen US citizens officially remained. Some were teaching, or married to Lao citizens, or working for the Quakers or Mennonites.

According to the communications, it appeared that a year earlier the consulate had made a request that they be allowed to investigate claims of US citizens held in captivity in Lao prisoner-of-war camps. The Lao had pointed out that following a unilateral program referred to as Homecoming, all known military and political prisoners in Laos and Vietnam had been handed back to their delegations. They added that the war was over and there was absolutely no point in hanging on to them anyway. But the Missing In Action-MIA-lobby in the US was strong and evidence was constantly mat erializing to indicate that there were indeed American ex-servicemen on Lao soil. In a number of memos, the PL had reminded the consulate that, according to US policy following the Treaty of Geneva in 1962, there were no American military on Lao soil to begin with. As there were officially no ground troops or US air force personnel active in Laos, with tongues in cheeks the PL had asked how these MIAs had been clumsy enough to find their ways into prisoner-of-war camps in the middle of a neutral country. The notes back and forth appeared to have reached a stalemate.

As they were unable to travel and had no permission to investigate MIA claims, the US embassy in Bangkok invited Lao citizens to bring evidence of downed aircraft and/or remains of airmen to their Vientiane consulate where officials would check their veracity. There were rumors, none confirmed, that they were offering cash rewards for genuine finds. They could never have envisaged what a stampede this would produce. The queues extended around the block. Citizens had gone to great lengths to secure laissez-passers to travel to the capital to present their souvenirs. Others sent packages through the unreliable post with details of where to forward the checks. One clerk from the Central Identification Laboratory in Bangkok was responsible for sifting through a mountain of bones-most of them from pigs-and teeth: some from elderly relatives who hadn’t quite finished with them. There were dog tags fashioned out of beer bottle tops and photographs of Uncle Dtoom who was albino but from the right angle looked just like an American airman. One hopeful claimant sent the front fender of an old Ford which he swore had fallen from the sky whilst he was working in his paddy.

Despite their obvious inauthenticity, all of the claims had to be labeled and documented. The site of a supposed discovery was marked on a map and after six months there were more crosses on that map than were military personnel active in the US armed forces. It was as if every village in Laos had its own downed airman. Yet, in all that time, not one positive identification was made and the program was abandoned. The Washington lobby was not amused so the US embassy in Bangkok moved on to its Plan B, to arrange for joint US/Lao teams to go off into the countryside to investigate claims in a professional manner.

All these recommendations were read out in painful detail during that long morning in Minister Bounchu’s meeting room. Each guest had his or her own bottle of syrupy green Fanta for refreshment, and bottomless cups of lukewarm tea were available. The Americans, unaccustomed as they were to Lao all-day meetings, drank thirstily. The Lao barely touched their drinks. After an hour and a half it became apparent why. There was a good deal of seat-shifting and leg-crossing from the American contingent and it was obvious that they were in need of a toilet break. Yet the seriousness of the day’s affairs called for strict adherence to protocol. Nobody wanted a gaffe of etiquette to stymie the talks. Being the first to go to the toilet could be seen as a sign of weakness. So they held it in. The cadre reading the reports had not yet reached March 1978. There were still four months of communications to go and faint smiles on the faces of the Lao delegation.

But after another half an hour Congresswoman Scribner had apparently reached her limit. She cleared her throat, nodded politely, and sighed before beginning a serious conversation with the interpreter, Peach. The Lao, unused to interruptions during official gatherings, looked at her in astonishment. Peach, well aware of the infringement, apologized several times before passing on the Congresswoman’s message.

“Congresswoman Scribner would like to point out that both sets of delegates already have copies of the various communications between the two sides,” she said, nervously. “She humbly suggests that, without further ado, we get to the point at hand.

The Americans wish to know whether the recommendation has been accepted. She….”

At this point, Peach blushed and everyone on the Lao side could tell they were due for another hiccup of protocol.

“Go on. Say it,” Siri urged her. “It can’t get any worse.”

All heads turned to Siri who smiled and shrugged. Peach continued.

“The congresswoman would like to remind the minister that the US consulate currently has a request for aid in the form of cash for the procurement of rice to stave off the effects of last year’s harvest failure. It was signed by both the prime minister and the president. The congresswoman would … would not like to think that such an important decision might be stalled by the lack of agreement over a small MIA request.”

The Lao present broke into a flurry of smiles but only Siri’s was genuine. Apart from reading his address, the minister had found little to do at this meeting but his moment had come.

“Little sister,” he said to Peach in a low, husky voice, “please tell the fat woman that she isn’t in Washington now. This is Laos. We’ll do things the way we do things. If she doesn’t like it, she can go home.”

And with that he gestured for the clerk to read on. The congresswoman came to the boil like a pressure cooker and continued to bubble throughout the remainder of the morning. It was almost lunchtime before the government’s response was read. The US delegates were bloated as dumplings, their leader visibly stewed. It was the vice-minister of defence who finally read the cabinet’s decision.

“The Central Committee and the Politburo of the People’s Democratic Republic of Laos have considered the request of the United States of America to conduct one single mission in the north of the country to search for a supposed downed airman. The Lao Subcommittee for Post Conflict Affairs is pleased to announce that your request has been accepted. A joint Lao/American task force will be dispatched to Xiang Khouang province in the northeast of Laos where an investigation will be conducted into the disappearance of civilian helicopter pilot Boyd H. Bowry. As per your description, Comrade Bowry apparently went missing in August 1968, whilst on a”-he cleared his throat as if the cough were written in the script-“‘humanitarian aid mission’ in the area around Long Cheng. After careful scrutiny, the subcommittee has approved eight of the fifteen names provided by your consulate, thus:

“Major Harold G. Potter-US Military, retired-as team leader;

“Dr. Donald Yamaguchi-forensic pathologist attached to the University of Hawaii;

“Sgt. John Johnson-United States Marine Corps attached to the United States consulate in Vientiane;

“Mr. Mack Gordon-second secretary of the United States Embassy in Bangkok;

“Mr. Randal Rhyme-journalist with Time magazine;

“Miss Peach Short-interpreter.

“These six may later be joined by Senator Ulysses Vogal the Third-United States Senator, Republican, South Carolina, and Miss Ethel Chin, secretary to the senator.

“The People’s Democratic Republic of Laos will be sending the following ten officials to work on an equal, counterpart basis with the United States team. Its members are….”

Siri listened to the reading of the list with little surprise. It was the type of cronyism he’d come to expect from his government. He recognized most of the names and their familial and professional connections to people in high places. The majority were incompetent or, at best, redundant. The only name that jumped out at him as being a marvelous choice, a true professional medical man with a stunning record, was his own tucked down there at the bottom. So, that was why they’d dragged him along. They didn’t even have the good manners to consult with him beforehand. Well, he thought, I’ll be taking a dip in the Mekhong with rocks tied to my old fellow before they get me on a joint task force to Xiang Khouang. Dream on, Politburo. Unless….

To the great, almost visible relief of the delegates, the vice-minister announced they’d be breaking for lunch and would talk about details and dates early in the afternoon. A room never cleared so fast. In seconds, only Siri and Minister Bounchu remained. They’d been through countless campaigns together. Siri knew the general to be a sincere but simple man. He knew the soldier saw Siri’s educational background as a barrier between them, as did many of the jungle elite. Siri’s lack of respect for the Party line didn’t help to bring the two old men together. They admired each other for their respective skills; Bounchu’s expertise at inflicting damage on men, Siri’s at repairing them. But they had never been, and could never be, friends.

“You’re going to make this difficult for me, aren’t you, Siri?” Bounchu said, leaning back on his creaking chair. He avoided looking into Siri’s emerald green eyes. Eyes that intimidated so many.

“Not at all,” Siri replied. “I’m going to make it dead simple.”

“You can’t not go, you know?”

“Oh, I can.”

“You’d embarrass the Party, Siri. Not for the first time, I know. The Americans are aware we have just the one coroner. They specifically mentioned your name.”

“They’re looking for bones, Comrade. I don’t know a humerus from a whale’s appendage.”

“Listen. If you didn’t go, they’d be the experts.”

“They are the experts. I’m a converted bush surgeon. They have a decorated forensic pathologist on their team. A real one.”

“Well, for some reason, they hold you in esteem, Siri. They know about the cases you’ve worked on. It’s what they believe you are that counts, not what you consider yourself to be. We need someone there who can keep a professional eye on them. Like it or not, you’re the only one we’ve got.”

“Don’t you read the Pasason Lao, Comrade Bounchu? I’ve just come back from a very traumatic holiday in Cambodia.” He ran a finger across the tick-shaped scar on his forehead. “I’m not fit for service. I’d never pass the medical.”

“Yes, I’ve heard all about it. It was unfortunate, I give you that.”

“Unfortunate? You’re right. Torture and starvation and near death could get a little troublesome. By rights I shouldn’t be here today. And it’s for that very reason that I don’t have to take any more damned fool orders from you lot. You can’t do any worse to me than the Khmer Rouge did. What were you thinking, Bounchu? That you’d drag me into this meeting stone cold, show me no respect, and expect me to be so fired up with national pride after a morning with the enemy that I’d gladly traipse up north on a bone hunt? It might work with your young brainwashed cadres but I’m over the hill and happily rolling down the far side. I’m a renegade. Out of control. So you either shoot me for disobedience or put up with me telling you where you can stick your task force.”

Siri drank his green Fanta as a sort of visual exclamation mark. It was warm and syrupy and he wished he hadn’t but it was a fittingly dramatic touch. Bounchu wasn’t the type to fly into a rage. One of his qualities as a leader was his poker face. You could never tell whether he was about to shake your hand or shoot you. It wasn’t until he smiled that Siri knew the minister wouldn’t be reaching for his Kalashnikov.

“Siri, old friend,” he said. “We’ve been through a lot together.”

A drastic change of tactic, Siri noted. He recognized the sudden lowering of the red flag and the hoisting of a white one in its place. Now they were old friends?

“I’m really in a tough situation here,” Bounchu said softly. “The prime minister really wants this mission to go well and he insisted I do everything humanly possible to convince you. I don’t want to put any pressure on you, comrade. I know what you’ve been through. But, surely for old time’s sake you could help me out just this once. Five days in the north? Is that too much to ask?”

Siri shook his head slowly.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“I’d consider it a personal favor.”

“There might be a way.”

“Name it.”

“So, tell me again,” said Madame Daeng.

“No matter how many times I tell it, the story won’t change,” Siri assured her. “Unless of course you ask me again in three weeks by which time I will have forgotten the original story and be forced to come up with something far more entertaining to tell you.”

Siri was attempting to understand American culture by reading Henry James’s The American, translated into French. But either the translator lacked the ability to extract the precious ore from the dense seams in James’s prose, or James learned his craft writing radio scripts for Thai soap operas. Either way, Siri’s confidence was beginning to ebb. He doubted the book would help him understand Americans in the three weeks he had left to familiarize himself. He was thinking of switching to Melville. He had other translated works in his secret library: Harper Lee, even Scott Fitzgerald. He firmly believed that you could learn most about a people by reading the works their academics convinced them were worthy of the title “classical.”

“Then let me just see if I’ve got the facts right,” Daeng continued. She was standing in the doorway of the Paiboun memorial library-their back bedroom-with her arms folded. “Call me cynical if you like….”

“I would never dare.”

“But, for some reason, none of this seems to ring true.”

“Then I must be lying. I’m hurt.”

“Siri, I would never accuse you of lying even if I know for a fact that you were. It’s not what a good wife does. But you do have the ability to leave out strategic parts of stories and what remains, although not exactly a lie, plays a substantially different tune to the truth.”

“So sing me what you have.”

“Minister Bounchu calls you into his office and asks you to lead a team-”

“Technically, General Suvan’s the team leader.”

“Right. But he drools a lot and forgets where he is. He’s obviously only on the team as a charitable political appointee. His name was next in line for a junket.”

“A fair appraisal.”

“And, with no pressure whatsoever from you, no coercion or bribery, the minister accepts the list of names you put together for a task force to head off into the jungle with the Americans. And your list just happens to include your wife, your nurse and her husband, your morgue assistant and your best friend.”

“And Commander Lit from Vieng Xai.”

“Who you befriended on a case.”

“He’s a good man.”

“And Minister Bounchu said, “Good one, Siri. Nice choices.”

“Something not unlike that, yes.”

“Siri?”

“Yes?”

“Did you blackmail the Minister of Justice?”

“How could you even suggest such a thing?”

“Threaten to expose something from his past? Things only a doctor would know?”

“I told you about that?”

“Siri?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You know I’ll find out eventually.”

“Yes, but I enjoy your interrogation methods. Come on, Daeng. We’ll have a grand old time.”

“Which brings me to the purpose of this mission; what you’ve been calling our group vacation to the northeast. We are to team up with a bunch of American professionals and head off into the jungle to look for the remains of a downed aircraft.”

“And its pilot.”

“And you believe this trip won’t be stressful? You do remember you’re convalescing?”

“A stroll in the cool forests. A little scoop here and there with a trowel. Lunch and a little rice whiskey with friendly local hill tribesmen. What better than a week in the cool fresh mountain air of Xiang Khouang? In Europe they pay huge sums of money for alpine spa retreats and here we are getting paid to attend one. Explain to me how that could be a bad thing, Madame Daeng. Nothing to worry about at all.”

“I’d like to believe so. Because it might have escaped your memory but not two months ago you were knocking on death’s door … from the inside. And trouble finds you, Siri Paiboun.”

“Trust me. Nothing can go wrong this time.”

5

CUEBALL DAVE

Cueball Dave still insisted on the ponytail. He got comments about it all the time. They called him pathetic. Guys over fifty don’t put their hair in a ponytail, they said. It’s an act of desperation, they said, especially when the top of your head’s as white and shiny as a cue ball, hence the nickname. But Cueball Dave didn’t care what they thought. He didn’t want to look like all those other old fogies. It gave him a style. Told them all he wasn’t a bank manager. Told them he had a wild background. And the girls in Pattaya loved tugging on that little tail of his.

He had a comfortable life. He’d lived in Thailand for ten years and couldn’t speak a word of Thai. Waste of time. Stupid tones he couldn’t get his tongue round, and besides, all the night people spoke some kind of English. He had a condominium room he’d bought and paid for, had shares in a restaurant he ate at, a regular bar he drank at, and a dozen or so regular serious night-time relationships. He had a wife and kids somewhere back in Boston, and a pilot’s licence, canceled, in some bureaucrat’s drawer in DC. Life had become very simple for Cueball Dave. There were those who could only dream of such a life. But Dave was always looking for more. Always had his eye open for something better. And then, in a moment of brilliance, he made it happen. Things were about to change.

He was out on the town celebrating his good fortune. He was in a Johnny Walker atmosphere vacuum where everything outside the bubble wasn’t really happening. He might not have been in that bar at all. In front of his nose were the ankles and too-large stiletto heels of a girl in a bikini, dancing-kind of. Some sixties rock was bellowing out of the speakers and there was a sweaty stale strawberry-tinted smell in the air. A dozen cheap air-fresheners hung behind the bar like decorations. A well-groomed homo was making eyes at him from across the stage. There was a gibbon on a chain begging drinks. Someone had rung the free-shots-for-everyone bell by accident earlier and the bar stewards had beaten him up when he refused to pay. Dave was on his third beer mat. The first two were his fretwork initials now. The drunk he’d been talking to had vanished. He wondered how long he’d been alone. He held on to his glass as if he might tip backwards off the stool should he let go of it. Then someone stepped inside his vacuum.

“Excuse me.”

Cueball Dave swiveled his neck around slowly as if it was starting to rust and saw the homo standing there. He was dressed as a man but any Asian in a place like this was after something.

“Look, son. I don’t-” he started.

“I’m sorry to trouble you, but aren’t you David Leon?”

“I might be.”

“You don’t remember me? I was one of your flight mechanics at Udon. Manuel Castillo. Manny. From the Philippines?”

“Well, yeah. Sure,” said Dave. He had no idea who this boy was but he didn’t want to make himself sound like he thought all Asians looked the same. Young for a field mechanic though. Perhaps he’d met him. Too much of a coincidence for it to be a pickup line.

“I’m so happy. I knew it was you,” said the young man.

Manuel Castillo, or whatever his name was, threw his arms around the ex-pilot before the old boy could get out of his way. His cufflink caught on Cueball Dave’s neck. Then the lights went out.

The Baby Booby Agogo didn’t exactly close. It wound down and then wound back up again depending on how many customers were there and how much money they were spending. Cueball Dave wasn’t spending any money and he was taking up valuable space. He’d been unconscious on the countertop for an hour and he made the place look low class. The mamasan, a sprightly old lady whose makeup appeared lime green under the mood lights, decided that, regular customer or not, Dave had overstayed his welcome. She shook him roughly but he didn’t react. After her second attempt to rouse him, she felt for his pulse. She was a woman of vast experience so her next reaction was to take out his wallet, remove all but twenty baht, replace the wallet and shout for the bar manager. Another customer had chosen the Baby Booby as his final resting place.