Assignment Bangkok (16 page)

“Where do you think Mike got it?” Durell asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe he stole it from me, from our joint bank accounts in Bangkok.”

“Wishful thinking. You owed Chuk’s bank on your notes. Did you have that much?”

“No.”

“Then where did he get it?”

“He won’t say. I don’t think you should ask him, either.”

Durell watched the bunker down below. A third uniformed man came out of the hole in the ground. This one was clad in the black pajama outfit of the Pathet Lao, and he carried a revolver in his belt. Officer type. The face was just a face. The three uniformed men went over to the trucks and jeeps and donkeys, and were lost in the crowd. Durell looked at his watch. The wind had died and the sun was merciless, although thunder still rolled beyond the

soft, wooded mountains. It was one o’clock. He looked flatly at Benjie.

“Let’s eat,” he said.

“They’ll head west and south, at dawn. To do that, they have to go through this, gorge, and then past the tea plantation. I know this place, Cajun.” Mike laughed. “I once had a geologist friend who stayed with us, when the tea farm was still working. He said this whole scarp of schist and limestone is rotten, honeycombed with caves and faults. A few years ago there was a government team from Bangkok nosing around here, to consider building a dam that would block the pass and build up an artificial lake for irrigation. Nothing came of it, though. So that’s why I asked for the dynamite.”

“To blow the cliff down?”

“Right. Just when the caravan passes through at dawn tomorrow. The charges would have to be placed and timed pretty carefully, though.”

Mike was panting from the grueling climb to the top of the cliff. They had been guided by Miss a tribesmen out of Xo Dong, and Mike labored slowly with the aid of his wooden stick. He had a Chinese automatic rifle slung over his shoulder.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“We can do it,” Durell said, “if we can stay hidden through the night.”

“Lots of caves here. We’ll just sweat it out.”

Durell walked over to Benjie. She sat on the ledge, her knees drawn up under her chin, and stared passively across the gorge. Her eyes were remote. He sat down beside her.

“Did you ask him about the money?” she said.

“Not yet.”

“What are you waiting for? To really nail him to the cross?”

“I need him, right now. Later, we’ll see.”

“How can you be so cold about it? He’s my brother, after all. I feel sick about it. I shouldn’t have told you. Especially after you and I . . .”

“I’d have found out, anyway,” he said.

“I feel like a Judas,” she whispered. “If Mike stole the money from me, or accepted it from the Muc Tong, I guess it doesn’t make any difference. I want to help him, Sam. What can I do? Since you and I—in the river . . .”

Her voice trailed off. She didn’t look at him. Durell got up and stood beside her. “I haven’t seen the evidence yet,” he said. “But it could have been planted. Maybe you put it there, yourself, in the first moments when we found him.”

Her body tightened, and her shoulders hunched as if she had a chill. “Go away,” she whispered.

“Did you?”

“Please!”

He walked away from her.

Durell spent two hours climbing up and down the face of the cliff, careful to avoid walking in a line tangent to the sight of the caravan men below. There were trails going up and down, and they had been used until recently, and perhaps were still being used by the local tribesmen. The caravan people moved about with open freedom, as if sure of their security. Their only guards were within several hundred yards of the edge of the camp. Durell moved in quite close, to watch their routine. Most of the loading was finished. The men ate an early meal, cooking over open fires, unconcerned. The pickets were back for their supper and sometimes were not replaced, leaving gaps in the defense perimeter. Durell hoped for a glimpse of more officers coming out of the bunker. Several black-uniformed Pathet Lao and two men in Thai uniforms came and went around the bunker. Perhaps the Thai outfits were stolen, to be used if the caravan were stopped on the way toward Bangkok. The organization seemed to be loose and easy, not really military. Gangsters and smugglers were not given to too much discipline. When the shadows deepened in the mountain pass, and the last sunlight was lost behind heavy, gathering clouds, he made his way back up the cliff.

He was halfway up when they caught him.

The trail at this point was narrow, twisting around a bulge in the sheer face of the rock cliff of crumbling limestone. They were waiting in silence around the bend, not moving, their weapons ready. It was not that he had been noisy or careless. They must have spotted him when he was down below, starting the ascent to rejoin Mike and Benjie. They carried rifles, and the black muzzles were steady and hard, like their eyes. Three of them. And an officer. Uniforms like those worn among the caravaneers, but legitimate. Thai Security patrol.

“Please do not move, Mr. Durell. My men are well trained. These are my best.”

Durell did not move. “Major Luk?”

“I am honored that you remember me.”

“I owe you some thanks for letting Miss Slocum and me out of Savag’s barracks.”

“The General was very angry.”

“And he put you out here in the boondocks?”

“My duties bring me here.”

“With just three men?”

“The patrol is on my own initiative.”

Durell remembered the Thai officer’s pride in his nation, his uncertainty about Uva Savag, and his professionalism. Major Luk’s face was bland and smooth, untroubled by the sultry heat of evening. Thunder crashed suddenly, much louder and nearer. The day was dying. Only a few pale streaks of sunlight still glowed over the hills.

“Please,” said Luk. “You will not resist. I must have your word.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Not precisely. As I said, the patrol is my own. I know who and what you are, Mr. Durell, and I am not surprised to find you here. I have scouted your party up on the cliff.”

“You have bigger fish to fry.” Durell waved to the glowing caravan fires in the valley. “Those people don’t seem to be worried about your border security force.” “There has been no action ordered against them.” “Because Savag gets paid off?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Put your guns away. I believe we’re friends.”

“Possibly.” Luk smiled. “I have my duty to do. My men do not understand English. They follow and obey my orders. Each has been a victim of Savag’s temper—they each have lost rank and privilege for minor infractions. That is, they did their duty as they are supposed to, which annoyed our General, who has another view of what should be done here.” The major smiled again. His black eyes were opaque in the growing dusk. He spoke quietly to the three men, who lowered their guns reluctantly.

Durell could have taken them at that moment. It was all a matter of attitude, of movement and response. The odds were not bad. Two of the men had their guns pointed downward. The third cradled his weapon in his arm, pointed out over the gorge. Only Major Luk kept his hand on his holstered revolver.

It was the certainty of noisy alarm that checked Durell. He could have used his own gun before the others moved, lulled as they were by Luk’s command. But he didn’t think Luk would go down easily. And if there was shooting, the caravan would be alerted. Not worth it, Durell decided.

“Well, then, here we are,” Major Luk said. “The tribesmen say your friends have dynamite. I can understand your plans. You must permit me to join you.”

“Savag will nail your hide to a tree,” Durell said.

“I do only what I think must be done.”

On any mission, the pattern shifts constantly. New elements enter, old ones vanish. Major Luk might or might not be sincere. Each new danger had to be weighed and balanced. Luk might be a spy for Savag; he might be working with the Muc Tong. But there seemed to be little choice, at the moment.

“All right,” Durell said. “Come along.”

Kem had found some Buddhist monks, hermits who lived in nearby caves, and they had joined the little party. With darkness, they chose one of the nearest caverns, and all of them tried to make themselves comfortable. For two hours in the dim starlight, Durell continued to explore the cliff over the gorge, looking for a site for the dynamite, but found nothing that would guarantee a devastating rock slide onto the road below. They ate cold rice for supper. Thunder rolled overhead and turned the night totally black, forcing Durell to abandon the dangerous climb around the cliff. When the rain came, its force was enormous, hammering at the mountains as if it would never end. Major Luk and his three men sat apart from the others in the cave. The Missa tribesmen were angry at the presence of the soldiers, but no one left the shelter during the height of the shower.

“I am a demolition expert, myself,” Major Luk said quietly to Durell. “When the rain ends, the moon should be out, and we can place the charges then.”

“Before dawn,” Mike insisted. “They move out then.”

“Agreed.”

The cave’s opening was screened by black water that fell heavily down the face of the cliff. It seemed never to end. Thunder rolled and shook the earth and drowned out the subdued chanting of Kem and his newly found hermit monks. There were eight of them, with shaved scalps and dirty robes. Incense curled from an ornate bowl one of them carried. Kem continued in deep conversation with them during their ceremonies. None of the pilgrim monks spoke to the tribesmen or Durell.

“Will they help us, if we need them?” he asked Kem.

The monk shrugged. “These men are very holy. They have come here and lived here for eight years. Each year, they have permitted another pilgrim to join them in meditation.”

“What do they meditate about?”

“The evils and the end of the world.”

Durell pointed to the black mouth of the cave, “There’s evil right outside, down in the valley. Have you told them about it?”

“I have explained why we are here. They are considering it. But they will not speak to strangers. They speak only to me because we are all members of the Sangha. It is doubtful if they will act.” Kem’s eyes glowed. “They are indeed the holiest of men, Sam. The eighth year is almost ended, and soon they will choose another to join them for the ninth. They say the cycle must not be broken.”

Durell considered the circle of tattered old men. Some had small prayer wheels, others simply sat with eyes closed in contemplation. “They won’t interfere with us, Flivver?”

“They have renounced the wicked world, and seek only to achieve merit for their next lives.”

The rain fell. Nothing could be seen in the black night, except when jagged lightning flashed and the mountains shook with the thunderclaps. In the intermittent blue light, Durell tried to see what was happening where the caravan was camped. He looked at his watch and was surprised to find it was almost midnight. Unless the rain stopped soon, there would be no chance to go out on the cliff and find a proper place for the dynamite.

He went to Mike, who sat in one of the deeper recesses of the cave, around a jut of rock that made it safe to light a clay oil lamp in which the wick sputtered and gave off a rancid, smoky smell. Benjie sat with him, talking quietly, when he approached. She looked up and got to her feet. “Sam . . .”

“We’ll talk now.”

“I don’t want to hear it, Sam. Mike is lying.”

“To hell with you both,” Mike said.

Benjie walked away, her shoulders stiff, as if she expected a blow in the back. Durell sat down. There was a half-empty bottle of Mekong in Mike’s lap, and he offered it vaguely, his face shadowed by the guttering lamp. Durell shook his head and Mike grunted and shifted his weight back against the wall to favor his bandaged ankle.

“Benjie says you know about the money.”

“That’s right.”

“I just counted it,” Mike said. “A neat little package. It comes to about thirty-two thousand U.S. dollars. A guy would have a real ball with all that.”

“Where did you get it, Mike?”

The other’s eyes were muddy with liquor. He smelled of sweat and pain. “I found it, old buddy. Are you going to make something out of it?”

“Where did you find it?”

“In Xo Dong. Actually, I didn’t even know I had it. Old Gujiwandara Phan must have slipped it into my pack. I was so uptight about my ankle I never realized it, until Benjie snooped around first thing, always playing Mama and Big Sister. She’s a bitch, even if she is my only family.”

“You didn’t know it was in your pack?”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“But you think it came from this Gujiwandara?”

“He was the headman of Xo Dong.”

“Where would a tribesman get that kind of money?” Mike shrugged. He looked angry and defensive. “How would I know? I think he’d collected it over the year from his villagers, to pay off the Muc Tong. But then he didn’t pay them off, did he? Because they burned the place down.”

“Where is this headman now?”

“He’s dead.”

“That’s convenient.”

“If you don’t believe me, to hell with you.”

“Could someone else have planted the money on you?” “Oh, sure,” Mike said, “Benjie could have done it.” “Why would she do that?”

“Come to think of it, maybe she really did.”

“Why?” Durell asked again.

“Listen, Cajun, don’t grill me. I know you think it’s important, but I took on this job for you, I’m just a hired hand, in it for the kicks and salary, and nothing else. I’m not in the drug racket. I never was. God knows, I can’t keep any money in my pocket, and my sister always complains. I’ve got no head for business, either, and Benjie really runs everything connected with Thai Star. Just the same, old buddy, I’m not about to sell out to a bunch of bastards like the Muc Tong. Now, you’d better believe it, or we part ways, here and now.”

Durell said, “Maybe Benjie smothered you with too much care and affection, Mike, but you’ve made a grave charge against her, saying she might have planted the bribe money on you.”

“Hell, I only say she
might
have done it. She’s been up a tree lately, being squeezed by Chuk, back in Bangkok. He holds all the Thai Star notes. He gave us a lot of labor trouble, too, ran up our costs with delays and strikes and squeeze money. The Thai Star is Benjie’s whole life, and she’d do anything to save it.”