“But Major Potter got suspicious,” said Lit.
“So Vogal had him kicked out,” said Phosy.
“And suddenly here was Potter on an MIA mission to find the pilot they’d tried to eliminate,” said Lit.
“It must have driven Vogal and Bowry senior nuts,” Johnson laughed. “What if they really found the boy? It would have all been over for them. They had no choice but to make sure Vogal was here to see that nothing was discovered. He couldn’t let anyone meet with young Boyd or find the briefcase.”
“And that puts Vogal at the very top of the list of suspects in Potter’s murder,” said Phosy.
“It sure does,” Johnson agreed.
“Oh,” said Dtui. A new reality had just hit her. “If Captain Boyd’s father was running the show, it would have been his decision….”
“To have his son killed,” said Phosy. “That’s correct. That’s the kind of people we’re dealing with here.”
The soldier was crouched on his haunches enjoying all the intrigue. He had his own contribution.
“Two villages melted,” he said.
Lit looked at him.
“Melted?”
“The pink rain,” said the soldier. “When they sprayed it they burned two villages. About ten families in each one. They were well away from the Ho Chi Minh trail. No enemy activity around here. They thought they were safe. No need to evacuate. Then, one day, they were gone. Dissolved. Nothing left of them. My wife’s family was in one of the villages. Melted like ice.”
The soldier’s brown smile belied the horror of what he’d just told them.
“That’s what haunted Captain Boyd,” said Dtui. “That’s what made him turn on his cohorts.”
“We’ve got to get word to the Friendship,” said Lit.
“The radio,” said Dtui.
“Nah, no good,” the sentry told them. “They’re all on their way to Phu Bia to have another go at the Hmong. I got through just as they were leaving.”
“Then we’ve got to get back,” said Phosy.
He shook the soldier”s hand again.
“I’m sorry about your wife’s family,” he said. “And thank you for not killing me.”
“My pleasure,” said the soldier.
As the visitors set off down the mountain he called after them.
“By the way,” he said. “Forgot to mention. Captain Chuan said that with all the commotion up at Phu Bia he hadn’t been able to release any of his men you asked for. Said he’s sorry about that.”
The visitors froze and turned back to the sentry.
“Captain Chuan didn’t send any guards up to the Friendship Hotel?” said Lit.
“He said he was sorry. Hoped it wouldn’t be a problem.”
WHEN DID WE GET TOO OLD FOR THIS?
The head of the senator’s bodyguard detail—the four men everyone assumed were soldiers—was a Filipino named Emiliano. He’d recently returned from a trip back to Manila where he’d killed Nino Sebastian, and a swing through Pattaya where he’d made Cueball Dave’s death look like a heart attack. He was very good at what he did which justified the money they paid him. He spoke only a little Lao and very few words of Thai, which explained why he’d not opened his mouth since their arrival. His team comprised two Thais and a Lao. Mercenaries all. They communicated with their employer in English. They were there not merely for the protection of the man who paid their substantial salaries, but to eradicate obstacles. For four days they’d been setting light to jungle and blowing up communication towers, so they all felt more comfortable back in a milieu for which they were better suited—murder. The killing on the agenda today would not be one for the squeamish. They had an entire dining room full of people to massacre. But they’d done worse.
To its credit, the marijuana tea took the edge off the menace. Although the hostages were supposed to be sitting cross-legged on the floor, three were now curled up and fast asleep. No amount of shouting would rouse them. Dr. Yamaguchi had a terrible case of the munchies and his crunching of sesame biscuits provided a constant soundtrack for the drama.
Peach, still stoned but coming down, had lost the ability to speak in any language at all and had become quite angry with herself. Secretary Gordon had found that he was now able to sit cross-legged on the floor. He crossed and uncrossed his legs and laughed with amazement whenever he didn’t fall onto his side. Everyone had been told to shut up but this was a talkative crowd and there were very few in its midst who really understood the gravity of the situation. Siri and Bpoo sat together at the back assessing the chances of getting out of there alive. Senator Vogal and Ethel Chin had left the room. There were guards at each point of the compass with their AK47s trained on the heads of the hostages. Only one of them, Emiliano, seemed unaffected by the tea. He had the look of a young man who was suspicious of everybody and everything. The other three were clearly in various states of euphoria. One appeared to be trigger-happy. His hand twitched on the trigger in time to a nervous tick in his left eye. Another smiled and moved in a sort of glide, gentle, calm. But there was no doubt from the look in his eyes that he’d enjoy a good killing. Far from rendering them harmless, the mercenaries looked even more villainous as a result of Madame Daeng’s tea. Perhaps the head of the Federal Bureau of Narcotics had been right after all. Marijuana could very well be the most violence-causing drug in the history of mankind.
“Did you see me mowed down in a hail of bullets?” Siri asked Bpoo in a whisper.
“Stop it.”
“Or that you’d be going with me?”
“I don’t want to discuss it. All right?”
“What? You’re the one who predicted all this. It’s brilliant.”
“Let’s focus all our attention on getting out of it, shall we?”
“You may have noticed the odds have swung against us. I think you and I might have overpowered Miss Chin—just—and her short-fingered boss. But now I’m tempted to say they have the upper hand. And, no offence intended here, but if I’m about to be massacred, I’d rather like to be with my wife.”
Siri stood and four gun muzzles swung in his direction. All the guards yelled.
“Siri, sit down,” said Bpoo.
“Sorry.”
Siri raised his hands as one does in such circumstances. The guards were now yelling in a frenzied version of their own languages. He ignored them and picked his way through the seated and sleeping bodies to where Madame Daeng resided. He smiled at her and, even though no Lao in any conditions under any circumstances would think of doing such a thing, he kissed her on the cheek as he sat. The hostages who noticed clapped and cheered. All the guards had assumed firing positions. They obviously wanted to kill someone. But, just as obviously, they were under orders to desist. Judge Haeng, who sat shuddering in front of Siri, was apparently unaware of this directive. There was a puddle beneath him which presumably did not originate from a burst water pipe under the flooring. Dr. Yamaguchi yelled something which caused the Americans to laugh, but Peach was deep in thought and didn’t translate it. The guards were clearly out of their depth in such company. The fact that none of the hostages seemed to appreciate the awesome power they wielded made them look a lot like little boys playing soldier. There was no fear to feed off.
Civilai, who probably didn’t need two and a half cups of marijuana tea to be cantankerous, called to the Thai-and Lao-speaking guards.
“Brothers,” he said, “doesn’t it concern you that you’re behaving like trained monkeys, dancing to the tune of the American dollar? We’re all of the same blood, you and us, yet you point your guns at your relatives. Would you do this to your own mother? Your—”
The shot exploded through the happy crowd like a split in the atmosphere. Civilai reached for his left ear just as the blood started to spurt. It was only a nick but there was no denying the fact that his brain was only a few centimeters from his earlobe.
“Ooh!” said someone in the audience. One of the sleepers awoke and asked what was happening. Emiliano, the Filipino, had fired his pistol left-handed from his hip. Whether he was related to Annie Oakley or merely couldn’t care less whether he hit the old man in the forehead, nobody would ever know. But it was an impressive shot. The young man, still holding his AK47 in his right hand, leaned back against the wooden beams and rolled his cigarette with his tongue. He had almost everybody’s attention which pleased him. Mr. Geung, holding his stomach, got to his feet and ran to the door. It appeared he was about to throw up. The smiling guard decided to let him go and laughed as he ran past. He was just another harmless moron.
“Now perhaps you’ll all shut up,” said Emiliano.
“Typical,” said Siri, glaring directly at the marksman but talking to Civilai. “I lose an earlobe so what do you do? Rush out to get your own earlobe shot off. When is this jealousy going to end?”
Civilai was apparently feeling no pain.
“Did it come out the other side?” he asked Cousin Vinai.
Emiliano had raised his pistol again, this time taking aim.
“Did somebody ask a question?” Civilai shouted. “You’ll have to speak up. This isn’t my good side any more.” He too smiled at the gunman.
It was just a question of discipline. Was the Filipino angry enough to override orders? Was he a soldier or a psychopath? Cool, cold—unable to take a joke. The pistol moved through the air from Civilai, to Siri, to Civilai.
“Please. After him.” Siri gestured to Civilai.
“No, I insist. After him,” Civilai replied.
Siri felt Daeng squeeze his hand just as Senator Vogal walked into the room. His hair was wet. He’d taken a shower, perhaps a few belts of coffee, and some downers or uppers or whatever it is that negates cannabis because he seemed more in control of himself than he had been.
“What’s going on?” he shouted.
“Just playing with the locals,” Emiliano smiled.
“Plenty of time for that,” said Vogal. He had hold of Ethel Chin’s wrist. He was squeezing and it was hurting. “Miss Chin here has decided to join the party.” He dragged her across the room and threw her to the ground.
“What? You can’t do this to me,” she screamed. “After all I’ve done for you. After all you said. Our plans.”
“Oh, do stop it,” said Vogal. “You never could hold your drugs. Did you honestly think this was all going to have a happy ending?”
“You bastard.”
“See? No control over your mouth. Never could keep it shut. Once a noisy chink, always a noisy chink.”
“I didn’t. I didn’t tell them anything.”
Vogal nodded to Emiliano.
“If anything else comes out of this mouth,” he said. “Shoot it off.”
“My pleasure,” said the marksman.
The Lao had no idea what the couple was talking about but it seemed quite obvious they weren’t getting along that well. Nobody bothered to translate and nobody really cared. But then it was Siri’s turn.
“You!” said the senator.
“Moi?” said Siri.
Vogal called for one of the Thais to translate.
“You tell him he’s the one,” he said. “You tell him what’s about to happen in this room is all down to him. It should have all been really simple. We find the pilot’s body, make sure everything in the chopper was destroyed, the MIA story’s a hoax, Potter kills himself but nobody’s game to report it. We all go home. Everybody’s alive at the end of it apart from some annoying drunk. You weren’t supposed to spoil all that, old man. You know why we insisted on having you on the team? I’ll tell you. Because you’re a flake. Yeah, really. Ghosts and ghouls and travels through hell and back. Yeah, we get to hear about all that. We aren’t completely without intel. You were supposed to be the coroner who knows nothing. You and the team of misfits your minister recommended were supposed to party your way through the week and not have a clue what it was all about. But you get your own team together, don’t you? And you get nosy and you screw it all up. You’re a serious disappointment. I don’t usually like to get blood on my own hands but I’m really pissed at you. None of you other folks need to worry. I don’t want anyone to panic. I’ll just shoot the doctor here to make myself feel better then you can all go home.”
No room was less likely to break out in a panic than the restaurant of the Friendship Hotel. Those who had a clue what was going on were watching it like a movie. They weren’t in it. But Vogal was right about Ethel Chin. She really didn’t know when to keep her mouth shut.
“Yeah? How stupid do you think they are?” she yelled. “They’re all dead. Tell them wh—”
Like its predecessor, the bullet that silenced Ethel Chin sliced through the room and confused everyone. Toua and his wife had been sitting behind her and they were splattered with blood. They knew. But everyone else seemed mystified. Chin dropped onto her side, dead, and Emiliano put down his pistol, resisting the temptation to blow smoke out of the barrel. He looked proud, fulfilled.
“Ah! Peace,” said Vogal. “You know? Murder is such a wonderful tool for discipline. I’m surprised high schools haven’t cottoned on to the concept. Shoot the smart ass in the back row and you’re guaranteed cooperation for the rest of the semester. It’s on my next budget recommendation to the senate.”
With Vogal’s oratory and the henchman’s struggled translation in the background, Madame Daeng turned to her husband and smiled.
“It’s that scene, isn’t it?” she said. “The one in your movies where all is lost, the assassins are about to massacre the innocent hostages—then, from nowhere, the hero swings in on a rope and rescues us.”
“I think you were right up to the ‘all is lost’ part,” Siri laughed. “I knew I shouldn’t have fed Ugly this morning. If he was hungry there’s a possibility he’d fight to the death to save me. Failing that….”
“I was thinking more of Captain Boyd making an unlikely return from the dead.”
“If we had a wish for every noodle we’ve ever eaten, it still wouldn’t be enough to make that happen.”
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Us too.”
“It’s starting to look that way. If we made a rush for them they might do us the favor of laughing themselves to death.”
Daeng looked around and chuckled.
“We are a ragged lot,” she said. “Most of us wouldn’t make it to our feet before the first bullets hit.”
“When did we get too old for this, Daeng? What happened to those days when we were somersaulting through the air with a cutlass in each hand taking out the enemy twenty at a time?”
“I don’t think that was us, love. That was Bruce Lee.”
“You know, I think you’re right. I often confuse myself with him.”
“I’d sooner have you.”
“And I’d want nobody else but you.”
Their grips tightened.
“It’s been an exceptional eight months together,” she said.
“I’d rather been hoping for several more.”
“Me too.”
Something had happened. The guards were all moving to the same side of the dining room. Siri knew it was the precursor to a firing squad. He wondered what options there were. Rushing the guards was better than sitting back and waiting, but he wondered how many of the stoned hostages were in any fit state to attack. The senator was pointing at him. A guard came wading through the bodies.
“I get to do a solo,” Siri said and gave his wife’s hand a last squeeze before getting uncomfortably to his feet.
“Give them the recitation,” Daeng said. “The really long one you bored everyone to death with at Dtui’s wedding.”
“Madam, that was my own Lao translation of a Marot sonnet.”
“Try that one. It might work again. Siri….”
He stopped and looked back.
“Yes?”
“Did you put clean underwear on this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, that’s something, I suppose.”
He gave her a warm smile and followed the guard who hurried him along with the butt of his gun. From a far room came the sound of the generator starting up. The clattering of the loose washers and nuts was worse than ever. Auntie Bpoo sat erect and strained her ears. At the front of the room, Vogal, with a pistol in his hand, was attempting to force Siri to get to his knees. The doctor refused to do so. The sound of the rattling pipes grew louder.
Bpoo had it.
“Siri,” she called, “put your fingers in your ears.”
She saw Siri smile at the joke.
“Siri, I’m serious,” she called again. “It’s mid-afternoon. There
is
no generator. Do it.”
Siri immediately understood and, to Vogal’s surprise, pushed his fingers into his ears and began to sing.
“I rather doubt that will help him very much,” said the senator, laughing.
“Daeng, you too,” called Bpoo. “Civilai, if you’re at all conscious. Now. Put your fingers in your ears and hum.”