Return to Mandalay (43 page)

But Eva had other things to think about tonight. She was wearing close-fitting cotton jeans, sandals and a long-sleeved T-shirt to discourage mosquitoes. And she wanted to be able to run. She’d followed Ramon’s instructions and had taken a circuitous route to the moat, dodging in and out of shop doorways, past the street sellers and market traders, whose stalls were piled high with crimson chillies, peanuts and pungent, colourful spices, swathes of fabrics in cottons and silk, patterned, embroidered, beaded. But she hadn’t been tempted to stop and linger. She was on a mission and the adrenalin was rising high. She was pretty confident she hadn’t been followed, but she couldn’t be sure.

She waved down a taxi and gave the address of Ramon’s factory, forgetting, as usual, to barter. By the time they arrived at the familiar building, dusk was drawing in. Eva got the taxi
to drop her off by the main entrance and then walked quickly up the dusty track that led to the factory, forcing herself not to break into a run. She looked from left to right. There was not a sound to be heard, not even the faintest brush of the breeze through the thick clumps of bamboo and palm trees lining the track, and not a soul to be seen. And the building, as she’d expected, was in darkness.

She crossed the compound to the warehouse and knocked softly three times, trying not to think about what she would do if Ramon weren’t there. There was no sign of his car, but then he’d hardly leave it at the front for anyone to see. She’d let the taxi go as he’d told her to. Her mobile didn’t work in Myanmar and, anyway, she didn’t know the numbers of any taxi-cabs. She thought she saw something – a bat? – flapping around near the roof. She shivered.

No one answered the door. Eva tried not to panic. She was miles away from anywhere and, with no streetlamps, it wouldn’t be easy to walk back to civilisation either. Still … She thought briefly of the conversation she’d had with her mother earlier. A good conversation. She’d sounded so different.

She leant against the door. ‘Ramon,’ she whispered. She knocked again, three times.

As if by magic, the door creaked open at last. Thank God. She slipped through the opening.

‘I thought I heard someone out there earlier,’ Ramon said. He peered into the gloom. ‘I was watching when you arrived, but there was nothing suspicious.’

‘Good.’ He shut the door behind her and Eva’s eyes began to adjust to the light. Ramon was also dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and he was holding a large crowbar.

She gasped. He looked very menacing.

‘It is to open the crate,’ he hissed. ‘Come on. It is through here.’

Eva followed him, stepping carefully past all the obstacles. The warehouse was strangely eerie in the near darkness, crates and packed furniture stranded here and there, the beam from Ramon’s torch flashing briefly over them as they passed through. The scent of wood, newspaper and cardboard filled the air.

‘Can’t you switch the lights on?’ Eva whispered. It was all very cloak and dagger.

‘That is not a good idea, Eva. The lights could be seen from outside.’

He stopped, handed her the torch and when she shone it down, she saw a crate that had been separated from the rest. She directed the beam to the stamp of Handmade in Mandalay. And closer still … She could just make out the blue-and-gold peacock insignia half-hidden underneath.

‘The dancing peacock was on our country’s flag,’ Ramon said sadly. ‘And before that it was on King Mindon’s silver coins. It is a disgrace for that company to abuse our heritage in this way.’

Eva couldn’t agree more. But perhaps now was not the time. ‘Let’s get on with it,’ she suggested.

‘OK. Here we go.’ Ramon lifted the crow bar and began to
lever the crate open while Eva continued to direct the beam. Breaking the seal was a simple enough matter. But the top of the crate was firmly fixed with nails and what looked like bits of old tin cans for reinforcement. Even so, Ramon worked quickly and in less than two minutes, he had prised off one of the planks of wood. Eva caught her breath.

‘What was that?’ He stopped. ‘Did you hear something?’

She shook her head. ‘It was probably the wind. Or bats.’

‘Now we have it.’ He eased open the crate. It was full of shredded paper. He dug his hand in and pulled out a package wrapped in newspaper. He looked up at Eva who was still standing, the torch-light directed at the crate. ‘Yes?’

‘Yes,’ she breathed.

‘Stop what you are doing, please.’ The voice came from the other side of the warehouse.

The broad beam of a searchlight swept over them. Eva felt completely exposed.
What the
 …? Khan Li, was her first thought. But no, Khan Li wouldn’t be speaking English for a start.

Ramon jumped up from where he’d been squatting by the crate. ‘Who is there?’ he demanded. ‘You are trespassing. This is my property. Come out where we can see you.’

She heard the sound of footsteps coming closer. One pair of footsteps. One man.

‘This crate. It is yours?’ the man asked.

She knew that voice. There was a dryness to it that she recognised.

‘That is my business,’ Ramon growled.

‘And mine too, I think,’ the man replied.

With a click, the lights came on.

Eva stared at the man with his hand still on the switch. ‘Klaus,’ she breathed. What on earth was he doing here?

‘You …’ Ramon muttered a curse in Burmese under his breath. ‘How did you get in?’

Klaus switched off the spotlight. ‘Hello, Eva,’ he said. ‘Ramon. It was a simple matter to get in through the door. You must improve your security, I think.’ His voice seemed to echo around the half-empty warehouse. ‘And the crate …’

‘It’s not our crate,’ Eva said. ‘Otherwise, why would we have come here in the dead of night to break into it?’ She didn’t feel so scared anymore. This was Klaus, for heaven’s sake.

But Ramon was glaring at him. ‘This is my warehouse,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here? Why are you asking us all these questions?’

Klaus looked from one to the other of them. ‘You say this is not your crate …’ he began. ‘May I ask you then, why you are so interested in it?’

‘What is it to you?’ Ramon was still bristling with anger. He took a step forwards, but Eva put a restraining hand on his arm.

‘It’s a long story,’ she said. She was still trying to work out where Klaus fitted into all this.

‘I am listening.’ He folded his arms.

‘Are you working for Khan Li? Is that it?’ It was all she could think of. Klaus had admitted that he knew him.

‘Most certainly, no.’ Klaus reached into his jacket and flashed an identity card at them. ‘I am part of a German investigation team,’ he said.

‘Police?’ snapped Ramon.

He shook his head. ‘We are professional, yes. And we work for a private individual. But now, we work alongside the Burmese custom authorities.’

Eva and Ramon exchanged a glance.

‘So you’re investigating Khan Li,’ said Eva. She felt a wave of relief wash over her.

He raised an eyebrow and nodded.

‘Then switch off the lights,’ Ramon said. ‘There may still be someone watching.’

‘There is no one watching,’ said Klaus. ‘They have all left.’

Once again, Ramon muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath and Eva couldn’t blame him.

Klaus turned to him. ‘And you?’ he asked.

‘Me?’

‘You are working for Khan Li, yes?’

Ramon swore again. He tore his hand through his hair.

‘No, of course he isn’t.’ Eva had begun to grasp the situation.

Klaus looked disbelieving. ‘Then why does the shipment go out from your factory?’

‘I was not aware it did,’ Ramon said. ‘Until yesterday. My warehouse manager …’ But he tailed off. Eva guessed that even after what the man had done, Ramon would make every effort not to get him into more trouble.

Klaus was still regarding him appraisingly. And of course it looked suspicious. Hadn’t she thought the same thing herself? ‘Have you been keeping watch on the factory?’ she asked Klaus.

‘I have.’

‘Were you watching when I arrived?’

‘Of course.’

Again, Ramon made a move towards him, and again Eva put a hand on his arm. ‘To see what happens to these crates?’ she asked.

‘Exactly.’ Klaus came closer, looked down at the crate. ‘We have been following their progress,’ he said. ‘We have gathered the material and evidence we need. There are people who are very interested in what is happening here. Not only German people.’ He nodded. ‘Burmese too. Not everyone is corrupt.’

‘Of course not everyone is corrupt,’ Ramon said.

‘And the man at the Shwedagon?’ Eva asked. Had he given information to Klaus? He had certainly been paid for something.

‘The man …? Ah.’ He nodded. ‘You are very observant, Eva. And yes, he is a man who has been of some help in our investigations.’

How many more of them were involved? Eva could see it was a bigger enterprise than she’d ever suspected. ‘Perhaps,’ she suggested, ‘we should all see exactly what’s inside.’

Klaus frowned. ‘I confess that I was not expecting this development,’ he said. ‘We do not wish to alert people too soon. It is a delicate matter. But when I saw that you two …’

Clearly, he remained unconvinced. She waited. It was blatantly obvious that she and Ramon were not involved in anything other than finding out what was going on.

‘You must be tempted,’ Eva said. The crate was already open.

With that, Klaus seemed to make up his mind. ‘Why not?’ He gestured to Ramon.

Ramon shrugged, but picked up the package wrapped in newspaper still on top of the crate.

They both watched as he uncovered a small wooden image of Buddha. There was nothing remarkable about it. It looked much the same to Eva as hundreds of others she’d seen at Li’s, badly distressed and made of inferior wood, roughly carved, looking nothing like the antique it was presumably pretending to be.

Eva glanced at Klaus. ‘How did your client get involved with all this?’ she asked. Though she could guess. The questions she was trying to ignore were rather closer to home. Why would the Emporium be interested in this stuff? To what extent were they involved? And where did that leave her?

‘All this?’

‘Fake antiques.’ It was, she had to admit, a disappointment.

Klaus raised an eyebrow. ‘They have been exporting to Germany,’ he told her. ‘Many questions have been asked.’ But his eyes were on the wooden Buddha in Ramon’s hands. ‘May I?’

Ramon handed it to Klaus, who turned it this way and
that, weighed it in one hand, shook it, examined it as if he were looking for something specific. ‘Perhaps we must dig deeper,’ he suggested.

Soon, they were surrounded by wooden Buddhas, elephants and chinthes scattered on the warehouse floor, all made of the same inferior wood with tacky coloured glass eyes. ‘Should we keep going?’ she asked.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Klaus. ‘We keep going simply because most people would stop.’

She saw what he was getting at. But what was he hoping to find?

They reached the next layer and Eva unwrapped a small wooden tiger. It didn’t look much different from the others. Apart from …

‘Please, Eva?’ Klaus was looking over her shoulder.

Eva handed it to him. ‘Now it begins to make sense,’ he said. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket, spat on it and rubbed.

All at once, Eva knew exactly what was going on. It was so obvious. So simple. It wasn’t about fake antiques at all. This … This was what it was all about. The wooden tiger was of the same quality as the other pieces so as not to arouse suspicion from any custom officers who might be checking. But one thing was different. They had stolen the idea from the historic little chinthes.

Ramon squeezed Eva’s hand. The wooden tiger had large, striking and quite perfect crimson eyes. Even in the artificial light from the bulb above, they glowed.

‘Rubies?’ Eva whispered.

‘Rubies,’ agreed Klaus. He whipped an eyeglass out of his shirt pocket and examined the tiger’s eyes more closely. ‘Just as I was expecting,’ he said.

‘You have a daughter. Another daughter.’

These words kept running in and out of his brain and Lawrence tried to make sense of them. Like a mountain stream, they tripped down from his consciousness, sometimes clear, sometimes picking up assorted debris on the way, winding and flowing towards the source. Only what was the source?

He sighed and tried to get more comfortable in the bed. So much of his life seemed to consist of this now, attempting to make sense of things that were happening, things that were being said to him. Sometimes he took it in. He always tried to take it in. Then he’d hear a voice whispering: ‘Did he hear me? Do you think he heard me?’

And he’d want to shout: ‘Yes, I heard you! You can talk to me. I can hear you.’ But he couldn’t. He couldn’t shout. And although he had heard – he really had – already, he’d lost the sense of whatever it was that had been said. He tried to catch it, pull it back. He tried to prise the meaning out of it as if it were nothing more than a tin of sardines and he’d simply lost the key. He tried to grasp it. But it wasn’t always possible. Not anymore.

Sometimes it stayed with him, for seconds, minutes, hours,
a day … Sometimes it vanished. Gone to gossamer, lightly floating away like a forgotten dream, like fairy dust. And just as bloody elusive.

‘What’s elusive? Dad, what’s elusive?’

He must have said it out loud.

‘Did you hear me? I was telling you about your daughter.’

‘Rosie,’ he croaked. She wasn’t making any sense. ‘You’re my daughter. I’ve always loved you.’ Tears were pricking at his eyelids, though whether this was due to frustration or what had happened with Rosemary, he couldn’t say.

‘Oh, Dad …’

He couldn’t say either precisely what had happened with Rosemary or where he’d gone wrong. Though he knew he had. But he was sure that, very recently, he had understood and tried to put it right. That was all he could do now, try to put it right. And he had the feeling that she’d been trying too. He could also say, for certain, that he’d always loved her. And it’d be true.

He felt her cool hand on his brow. So sweet, so calming. It’d be true.