“The pilot might have a chance to operate the autorotate,” Johnson told Peach. “What that means is that you disengage the rotor from the engine and control the rate of descent by changing the pitch of the free-turning blades. It’s quite possible to land a craft on autorotate without any damage at all. A few of us back home have done it without causing any injuries. That’s why I was asking how long the gap was from when Boyd’s engine cut out to when the village woman heard the explosion. Depending on his altitude when the engine died, those extra few seconds could mean that the pilot controlled his dive rather than just drop.”
Phosy asked, “What are the chances of him getting out alive in thick bush even if he did autorotate?”
“You’d have to pick an open spot and aim for it. It was night. The jungle was dense. His chopper exploded so he probably collided with the trees.”
“But how long would he have had before the crash?”
“Judging from the woman’s description, I don’t know, about thirty seconds?”
“Could he have bailed out before the chopper blew up?” Daeng asked.
“You know, they used to put chutes in helicopters in the early days,” Johnson told her. “But they turned out to be more messy than helpful. A lot of guys got tangled up in the blades. Most fliers I know don’t even bother to bring one along.”
“So, back to autorotate,” said Civilai. “Once you’ve disengaged the rotors you presumably know the trajectory of the fall. Am I right?”
“You’d be traveling at about a forty-five degree angle. But, yes, you’d be kind of swaying down in a straight line. You’d be at a ground speed of about sixty to seventy knots.”
“More control than say just letting go of the joy stick when you’re flying normally?”
“Yes.”
“And how long does it take to release the steel cable from the spool?”
“Pretty slow if it’s working through the pneumatics. But there’s a release catch you can use if that doesn’t work. The cogs disengage and the cable drops at its own pace.”
“And how long would that take to be fully extended?”
“No more than ten seconds.”
“Civilai, what’s your point here?” Daeng asked.
“Just playing the odds, Daeng, old girl,” he said. “I’m a young helicopter pilot. I’ve just engaged autorotate. I’m slicing toward the trees with a full gas tank. I have nowhere to land. I know in thirty seconds I’ll be blown to hell. As I’m quite fond of myself, I’d rather not let that happen so I climb down into the fuselage, release the cable, grab hold of the harness and jump.”
“And what damned good would that do you?”
“Push the odds more in my favor, comrade. I’m traveling forward at sixty knots at the end of my thirty-meter cable. That means I hit the trees a few seconds before the helicopter which, as that would be an isosceles triangle, is thirty meters away by the time it explodes. Due to the trajectory and speed the force of the explosion sends its whatever volatile substance ahead of it. Hence the crater being at the edge rather than the center of the crash site. A sixty–forty chance of the pilot not being blown up.
Voilà
. Mathematics was my favorite subject at school. What does our American think of that?”
When Peach passed this fantasy on, Johnson laughed until his belly hurt.
“You’d be flying into trees at eighty miles an hour,” he said. “You’ve dropped to the end of a steel cable in ten seconds. If the harness hasn’t crushed your ribs you break your head on a tree.”
“Tree tops being basically soft leaves,” said Civilai, determined to rescue his hypothesis.
Johnson asked for the old Politburo man’s telephone number. He told him he had friends in Hollywood who’d really be interested in a man with such a vivid imagination. To his surprise, Civilai took out a pencil and started to write it down. He was interrupted by Phosy who shot to his feet and looked around as if he’d scented an ambush.
“Damn,” he said, and rushed off at full speed into the jungle.
“See? Now you’ve upset Phosy,” said Daeng.
“What do you suppose that was about?” Civilai asked.
*
By the time the search continued after lunch, the objectives had changed. More of them were hunting with the hope of not finding any human remains. Civilai’s fanciful theory that the pilot might have enacted a daring escape had secretly sparked more hope in the others. Madame Daeng knew nothing of the character or dreams of the young pilot but her sense of adventure left her willing him alive. Nobody knew what had happened to Inspector Phosy. Someone suggested he might have come down with diarrhea after eating too many NASA lunch modules. But when he returned at three, he looked none the worse for wear. He had headman Ar in tow. The old man called his son’s name and the boy emerged from his hiding place in the undergrowth. He walked over to his father and grinned at the policeman. Phosy called for everyone to gather around as he had an announcement to make. He asked Peach if she’d be so kind as to help with the translation. He put his arm around the boy’s shoulder. Bok shrugged him off.
“As some of you already know,” Phosy said, “this is Bok. He’s headman Ar’s son. Bok cannot speak and he’s a little slow to understand. But he’s very talented. He hunts well and he knows all the secrets of the jungle. His speciality is catching insects, as you can see. I asked his father when he first developed this fascination with lassoing little creatures and it appears it was somewhere around the time the sorceress witnessed the dragon crash into the moon. She believed Bok’s sudden change was another manifestation of the disaster that happened that night. Apart from his insect fetish, Bok also started to draw pictures. In the beginning he drew them in the sand but his father bought him some paper and crayons and Bok became an artist. Another miracle. Before that the boy just used to sit in front of his hut day and night, staring off into the distance. Suddenly he could walk and the strength returned to his fingers. He was a different person. He couldn’t yet speak but his father believes it’s just a question of time. So what really happened to stimulate Bok’s mind?”
Phosy pulled an old Thai Mekhong Whiskey calendar from his pack. On the front page was a colour photograph of a young girl in a bikini. The audience looked on in dismay. Was the boy’s mind turned by half-naked women holding glasses of whiskey? Fortunately not. The inspector turned over the calendar to show that the backs of the photographs were blank and someone had made sketches on the large white sheets. He flipped them over one by one. The illustrations, without exception, were of what looked like a large monster. It had big feet and hands like table tennis bats. All of this might have been attributed to an inability to draw. But attention had been given to small details like the flowers on the monster’s shirt and blood spurting from the mouth. And the main feature of each picture was a string leading from the monster’s hand. It reached up into the sky and at its end was a bizarre flying creature with one huge eye.
“Very nice story of rehabilitation,” said Judge Haeng. “Very heart-warming. Now perhaps you’d like to rejoin the search. We’ve been covering for you for two hours.”
“No, I feel a point coming on,” said Civilai.
“The point is,” said Phosy, “there’s no ground in any of these pictures. The monster is flying. For ten years, Bok has been training insects so he can fly like the monster. Where did a boy with no schooling or life experience pick up a concept like that? Why would he ever believe he could be carried away by insects?”
“By being at ground level and watching a man fly down at the end of a string,” said Daeng.
“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” said Phosy. “From Bok’s point of view the helicopter was as small as an insect. There was a full moon so he could see it clearly. And to him, the man was a monster. Civilai was right. Boyd did come down at the end of the cable.”
“Oh my goodness.” Judge Haeng laughed and looked around apologetically at the Americans. “What rubbish. Surely this isn’t what we pay you for: the psychological analysis of mental retards.”
“It sounds plausible to me,” said Madame Daeng.
“Of course it does, madam,” said Haeng. “And we all know that you studied for five years at law school. So … no wait, it was primary school, wasn’t it? I seem to recall you didn’t even make it to high school. And if you had, you’d know that such a farcical theory is inadmissible. It’s missing the two key ingredients known as empirical evidence and logic. Giants being transported by hornets won’t get you far in a court of law. Am I correct in assuming you don’t have any concrete evidence of this, Inspector?”
“No … sir,” said Phosy.
“Just as I thought. Now perhaps—”
“No, I mean, no you aren’t correct. The evidence has been in front of us all the time but we didn’t look.”
He turned to Bok and said something in Phuan. Bok looked at his father who nodded. Slowly and gently, Bok removed his cap. The exhausted beetles were both resting on the peak. Phosy took the once yellow cap and held it up to the audience.
“I don’t know if you can read it from where you’re standing,” said Phosy, “but the lettering on the cap says UNC. At the orientation they told us that Boyd played college football for the University of North Carolina.”
“The boy might very easily have found it at the secondhand market,” said Haeng.
“Together with atomic submarines and Elvis Presley wigs,” mumbled Civilai.
Phosy turned over the cap. Sewn inside the lining was a label.
“Peach, could you read this for us?” Phosy asked.
She took hold of the cap and smiled.
“It’s printed with the name “BOYD BOWRY, 1960.” If Bok found this in the market, he got real lucky.”
The discovery caused elation in all but the judge. He continued to argue that the hat, like the tailplane, could have been blown away in the explosion and found at a later date. He wasn’t able to explain how it escaped the flames. It didn’t irrevocably prove that the pilot had survived the crash but Sergeant Johnson apologized to Civilai for doubting his hypothesis. He promised to buy him a beer and the Hollywood deal was still on. As they walked back to the trucks, there was just the one remaining mystery to be solved.
“Since when could you read English?” Civilai asked Phosy.
The policeman smiled.
“I may be an old dog,” he said, “but Dtui’s been teaching me some tricks. I can’t have a wife who’s smarter than me, can I now? English this year. Russian next. By the end of the seventies I’ll be a chief inspector at Interpol.”
THE MAN WHO MISTOOK HIS WIFE’S HAND FOR A NAPKIN
Toua, the manager of the Friendship Hotel, greeted the returning trucks by running down the front steps and waving his arms frantically.
“The senator. The senator,” he shouted.
“What about him?” asked Lit, jumping down from the flatbed before the truck had come to a complete stop.
“Somebody shot him,” called Siri, who was sitting at the rattan table on the veranda with what looked like a can of Budweiser beer in his hand. He was looking remarkably cool, considering. Ugly was looking even cooler in the chair opposite.
“Is he dead?” called Phosy.
“No. But he sustained an injury which might end his career.”
“Where was he shot?” asked Lit. Everyone had climbed from the truck. One group surrounded Toua, who was acting out the shooting quite dramatically, and the other stood in front of Siri.
“He lost the tip of the index finger of his right hand,” Siri told him. “He may never shake again.”
“I don’t consider it fitting to take this so lightly, Doctor,” said Judge Haeng, who ran inside with the Americans.
“Where is he?” asked Phosy.
“Dining room, basking in sympathy. I dare say he could use some more.”
“This is getting out of control.” Phosy shook his head.
“And you haven’t heard the half of it,” Siri told him. “Go do your investigating and I’ll tell you the rest when you get back.”
Civilai and Daeng opted to join Siri at his table. Ugly eyed them both and decided to let them sit there.
“I didn’t do it,” Siri told them.
“I didn’t think for a minute you did,” said Daeng patting his hand.
“I wanted to,” he confessed. “I’ve had to put up with his whining all afternoon. There’s never a gun around when you need one.”
“How’s his finger?”
“He’ll live. He bled like a geyser though. Quite impressive.”
“Do you think that was the plan?” Civilai asked. “Just to wing him?”
Siri sipped his beer and Civilai looked around for service. He could barely see the inn door. The murky sky had brought on the dusk an hour early. The generator clunked and rattled and gurgled in the distance and a small pale bulb came to life above their heads.
“I went to the Russian Circus once,” Siri said. “Saw a man shoot the tassel off a woman’s bra. She didn’t even flinch. But in the real world I can’t say I’ve ever seen a sniper good enough to pick off a joint.”
“So they were…?”
“Aiming at his heart? Quite possibly.”
“He let you treat his wound?” Daeng asked.
“Reluctantly. Yamaguchi argued that he was better at cutting them off than stitching them on.”
“Where was the hit?” Civilai asked.
“Just here,” said Siri, pointing to a scrubbed area beyond the table.
“And I assume they didn’t catch the shooter.”
“No.”
They stared out at the dark shadows that lingered between the bushes.
“So, it probably isn’t wise to be sitting here under a lamp,” said Civilai.
“Buffalo dung never lands twice on the same mushroom,” Daeng reminded him.
“Of course.”
Civilai called out for one of the hotel staff without much hope he’d be heard. But a small, rugby-ball-shaped girl in overalls ran out to the balcony. He ordered three beers.
“Did you find the bullet?” Daeng asked.
Siri leaned back and pointed to a hole in the stucco with decorative cracks.
“It’s probably in there,” he said.
“You didn’t have an urge to dig it out?” Daeng asked.
“Phosy would only sulk and ask me who the policeman was in this outfit.”
“And the senator’s finger?”
“Probably in there with the bullet.”
The evening meal, ever different, was this night a sort of grand jury with food. The tables had been pushed together and all those who hadn’t been killed or shot at and those not under the delusion that they’d be next, sat around it. On the menu was spam with local cabbage, and clam chowder out of cans with sticky rice. The liquid accompaniment was Johnny Red on the rocks and tepid Coca-Cola. Those opting for room service included the senator and Ethel Chin, General Suvan, Judge Haeng and his cousin. Also absent was Rhyme from
Time
who was using his bathroom as a darkroom and had to do his exposures while there was still electricity. Dr. Yamaguchi sat once more with Auntie Bpoo at a separate table. The astounded gossip about them was rampant.
Once he’d skipped lightly and incompletely over the autopsy findings, Siri was happy to give details of the communication tower explosion in Phonsavan and his theories on the slash and burn. At the post office he’d met the regional governor. The man had no idea why there were so many fires lit around the town. Like Siri, he was certain it had nothing to do with agriculture. All the planes had left the airfield so there was no danger of an attack there, and as far as he knew all the rebels were focusing their resources on the defence of the base at Phu Bia. But with the felling of the post office tower, and now the attempt on the life of Senator Vogal, Siri had become more concerned that the target might just be the Friendship Hotel itself, and more specifically, the American contingent.
“Can’t we just put them on a bus and send them somewhere outside the smoke?” Dtui asked.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Commander Lit told her. He gave her a warm smile that Phosy didn’t fail to notice. “Given the current unrest, none of the roads are completely secured,” he said. “None of the truck drivers in Phonsavan would agree to drive us out of the region, no matter how much we offered them. Army convoys are the only things moving. Despite the fact that we aren’t that well protected here, the Americans will be much safer at this place than on the road. And we aren’t certain there’s really a threat.”
“What are you talking about?” Phosy asked. “Someone shot a United States senator.”
“Right,” said Lit. “But as you pointed out, the bullet turned out to be musket shot. We have two musketeers right here at the hotel. There’s a possibility that one of the old guards tripped over his own sandal and dropped his weapon. Muskets aren’t the sniper’s weapon of choice. And the explosion in Phonsavan would seem to be more an act of sabotage than an attempt on the diplomat’s life. If they’d wanted to kill Comrade Gordon they could have done so on the road into town.”
If Lit and the others were to learn that Major Potter’s death was also murder, Siri knew they’d be more inclined to believe that this was an attempt to cull the American population. Siri had briefed Phosy about the autopsy but he wasn’t at liberty to tell everyone. There was a very strong likelihood that the murderer was in their midst and Siri and Phosy knew that capture would be easier if the perpetrator believed he or she was getting away with it. There was, however, a consensus at the dinner table that security was wanting at the Friendship and they would attempt to recruit new guards, professional soldiers from the local garrison, as soon as possible the following day.
Attention turned to the successes in the field. For the benefit of those left behind that morning, Civilai gave a colorful rendition of the day’s events. Both sides agreed that there was a great deal that didn’t make sense. Secretary Gordon told the group that all the documentation related to this mission was already at the consulate in Vientiane. The pouches would be taken on a Swedish forestry helicopter via Luang Prabang to Muang Kham, thus avoiding the smog. From there they’d be put on the local bus to Phonsavan which currently traveled with an armed escort. Gordon had no idea how long this process would take but there were better than even odds that they’d arrive before the teams departed. The weather report from the capital was that the smog had shrouded a fifty kilometer radius around Phonsavan and there was no wind forecast. They could be there for a very long time. Fires were still burning and to Siri it really looked as if a thick curtain of intrigue was being deliberately pulled around the hotel.
As the whiskey took hold, the full-table discussion crumbled into smaller groupings. Phosy had taken the opportunity to continue his discussion with Sergeant Johnson. Peach acted as their translator with Dtui making up the four. At one stage during their conversation Dtui was absolutely astounded when her husband reached across the plastic tablecloth and took hold of her hand. She thought he’d mistaken it for a napkin but he kept hold of it. It happened right there in public for everyone to see. Even Commander Lit noticed. She put it down as a small miracle right up there with his remembering her birthday—which he didn’t.
“I still don’t get it,” Phosy said. “The sergeant here learned to fly with his dad in their family business. He got his license when he was seventeen. He graduated from high school with A grades in all the sciences … and the marines wouldn’t let him be a pilot?”
“That’s pretty much it,” said Peach.
“Why not?” Dtui asked Johnson directly. He laughed.
“For the same reason they wouldn’t let me be a quarterback,” said the sergeant. “Some things are reserved for white boys.”
“He couldn’t be a pilot because he was black?” Dtui asked.
“I’ve applied to the marine air corps every six months and been knocked back each time,” Johnson told the interpreter. “I guess I should think myself lucky they let me be a chief mechanic. It took me eight years to work my way up to that lofty position. When the war ended and they weren’t desperate for mechanics any longer they had me in uniform guarding a half-empty consulate in Vientiane. But it could be worse. I could be dumb
and
black.”
“You must be angry,” Dtui said.
“Things are getting better,” said the marine. “Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if my son makes it to copilot by the time he’s fifty.”
“How old is he now?”
“Four.”
They were disturbed by the sound of Rhyme the journalist yahooing like a cowboy as he walked in the door of the restaurant. Under his arm he had a thick folder. He grabbed the first glass he came to and quaffed it. The owner didn’t seem to mind.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I bring you the magic of aerial photography. The wonder of journalism. The genius of man.”
He took out one large photographic print from the folder and held it up, walking around the table like the round-announcing girls at boxing matches, complete with the sexy walk and blown kisses. The Lao assumed he was drunk with whiskey but it turned out he was merely drunk with the glory of discovery. The buzz of Peach’s translation accompanied his announcement.
“It was the first day of the mission,” he said. “And our last period of visibility. As we floated over the picturesque landscape from Spook City to Ban Hoong, our fearless photojournalist leaned bravely out of the hatch behind Sergeant Johnson here and recorded our descent to the merciless terrain that had claimed our young pilot. We followed the crack carved through the thick jungle by the Ban Hoong stream. And there, no more than three miles from the village, was where the ghost of our pilot stopped to rest and clean the blood from his mouth.”
“How could you know that?” Yamaguchi asked.
“Because, respected sir, he had the foresight to tell us so.”
Rhyme dropped his first print onto the table in front of the doctor, reached into his back pocket and pulled out a large magnifying glass. This he handed to Yamaguchi.
“Perhaps you could tell our audience tonight exactly what it is you see there at the bend in the river.”
Yamaguchi squinted through the glass and pumped it back and forth in search of a focus.
“A pile of rocks on a sand bank?” he said.
“A pile of rocks. Yes, sirree. A pile of rocks. But look what happens when you zoom in to that pile of rocks.”
Rhyme dropped a second print in front of the doctor. It was a blow-up of the rocks.
“My goodness,” said Yamaguchi.
“Your goodness indeed. What is it you see there now, sir?”
“The rocks have been arranged to spell out a word.”
“And that word is…?”
“BOWRY.”
“I thank you for your cooperation, sir.”
And the journalist took a bow. Everyone left their seats to get a look at the photograph. There was no doubt. Boyd Bowry had survived the crash. Sergeant Johnson shook Civilai by the hand. Mr. Geung bounced up and down. The elation of the hunt had control of them all … all but Commander Lit.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you keep those photographs,” said Lit via Peach.
“What are you talking about?” Rhyme asked. “They’re my pictures.”
“The close-ups you can keep,” Lit told him. “But I’ll have to take all the aerial photographs. You didn’t have clearance to photograph from the air and I’m afraid there are security issues I have to take responsibility for. If I’d been on your helicopter I would have stopped you taking them.”
“He’s serious, isn’t he?” Rhyme asked.
“Sure is,” said Peach.
“Geung, are you certain it was Dr. Siri you saw climb through the window last night?” asked Madame Daeng.
She and Dtui had taken the morgue assistant back to the doctor’s room and they were sitting either side of him on the bed. Siri was on the chair opposite. He’d spent much of the day considering what Mr. Geung had told him. His friend was incapable of telling a lie. If he said he’d seen the doctor climb into Major Potter’s room, then it was true. Geung clearly didn’t sense the gravity of the situation. In fact he thought it was a splendid game.
“There’s only wuh … wuh … one Dr. Siri,” he sang to a popular Thai radio jingle.
“When was this exactly?” Dtui asked. It was not the most sensible question to a man with an abstract grasp of time.
“You asked me to to to look for the doctor in the t-toilet,” he said.
“But when you came back you said you hadn’t seen him,” said Dtui.
“You you asked if he was in the t-t-toilet.”
“You’re right. I did.”
“And I said he wasn’t.”
“That’s true. Where else did you look?”
“Everywhere.”
“And you went out the back and saw him there?” Daeng asked.
“Yes. I said, ‘Doctor! Doctor!’ but you didn’t hhhhhear me. And you got in the window.”