The Burma Effect (14 page)

There were women in the Chivas, of course, some of them prostitutes, but not the insistent kind.

They were only a few of them, hand-picked by management, and they sat quietly at one end of the bar smoking cigarettes and drinking Cokes. Other young women came in, too, with an assortment of Western middle-aged men. These women sat quietly also, while their partners swapped stories with buddies or simply sat and drank.

It was a place where younger, tougher-looking men also came for a quiet drink. U.S. military types, some of them, and a core of South Africans, and some Australians and New Zealanders, former soldiers who had pitched up in Bangkok and decided to stay. Many were still soldiering, but for much better pay and in much less public campaigns. Some of these mercenaries had been coming to the Chivas for years, and recruiters knew where they could be found.

There were also a few journalists and cameramen at the Chivas Bar usually, mainly those who did not like the press club for daytime drinking. Mordecai Cohen was one of these, and he had suggested meeting Delaney there on the afternoon before the attack on Ben's car.

Most regulars at the Chivas ordered beer or straight spirits. It was not a bar where elaborate cocktails were considered appropriate. Cohen did not accept that philosophy. He was drinking a bright yellow-red Tequila Sunrise when Delaney came in and stood peering around through the dimness from the doorway.

“Over here, mate,” Cohen called out from the back. He had spent a lot of time with Aussies and liked their banter. “Behind the yellow sunrise, mate.” Delaney sat down and ordered a draft beer. “You find Nathan, yet?” Cohen asked, sipping his cocktail through a straw. He offered a large gentlybuzzed-in-the-daytime smile.

“Still AWOL, Mordecai. Any ideas?”

“None. I avoid ideas when I am drinking.” Delaney was instantly irritated.

“You really don't give a shit where Kellner might be, do you?”

“I told you the other night, Frank. The guy is on some bender somewhere. Some particularly potent weed may have arrived from somewhere or other and he's gone off to smoke it with a pretty young thing. He will surface when he's done.”

Delaney decided to control his irritation. He drank some more beer and said nothing; he was not sure, now that he was there, how he expected Cohen to be of any real help.

“Didn't see you atop the Dusit Thani tower last night, Frank. The guys were asking for you. Your round, apparently. We were all concerned as you slouched off the other night. Thought you might be in need of medical attention.”

“I pulled through,” Delaney said.

“Find any company last night, mate?”

“In bed with my book at nine,” Delaney said.

“Ah, the palm sisters. I only use picture books when all else has failed, Frank. I can fix you up tonight, however. This afternoon, even. Couple of possibilities at the bar as we speak.”

“No thanks. I've never liked soldier boys,” Delaney said.

“The other end of the bar, of course. Direct your gaze to the other end, if you would. All but one of those young women are over the age of 18, I would guess. From here. In this poor light.”

“How's business in here these days anyway?” Delaney said.

“Who for. The girls or the soldier boys?”

“Soldiers.”

“Not too good, as far as I hear. A lot of the lads have shoved off. Africa's the place just now. Equatorial Guinea is supposed to be good now. And Ivory Coast. Nice little rebel thing developing up north there, and the government's looking for what they so quaintly call instructors. Some of the guys have gone over there. A thousand U.S. a day I hear. Plus expenses. Over in Ivory Coast.”

Delaney looked over at a crowd of what were almost certainly mercenaries. One Thai girl of about 16 sat among six or seven burly young men. “No local work?” he asked.

“Oh, there's always the odd job for some of them upcountry,” Cohen said. “For expat businessmen, mostly, who sleep better at night with young strapping Western lads outside the compound or watching the warehouse. That sort of thing. Routine stuff. No real bang-bang. I'd be up there if there was.”

Delaney doubted that. He doubted any newspaper or magazine would hire Cohen to shoot any serious action unless the entire Bangkok photo graphic corps had been killed or deported forever.

“Where do they go these days, around here?” Delaney asked.

“Burma border, mostly, these days,” Cohen said. He held up his empty cocktail goblet for the bartender to see.

“Burma seems to be on everybody's mind these days,” Delaney said. “How do you mean?”

“These guys over at the bar, or so you say. Other guys who turned up at Kellner's place, asking if he had gone in. Kellner himself, or so Mai says. And his editor in London. And you.”

“Ah, I was just talking about Suu Kyi. The lady. Kellner was obsessed.”

“So I hear.”

“Who from?”

“Mai.”

“I see.”

“You been in Kellner's place lately? His study?” Delaney asked.

“Not lately. Not really. Why?”

“The guy has pictures of Suu Kyi everywhere. Bits of quotations. Clippings. All kinds of stuff.”

“I told you. He was obsessed. He wanted to get into her drawers.”

“Come on, Mordecai. Come off it.”

“He had stuff like that at the other place too.”

“What other place?”

“Fuck,” Cohen said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Fuck,” Cohen said. “Kellner's going to kill me. I've got to quit drinking and smoking dope during the day.”

Cohen looked genuinely worried. He quickly slurped up the rest of his cocktail, lit a cigarette, looked for a waiter.

“What are you talking about, Mordecai?”

“Don't tell Mai, OK?” Cohen said. “Kellner will kill me.”

“Tell her what? Come on, Mordecai. Kellner's been missing for a month. What have you got?”

“He has a house,” Cohen said quietly.

“A house.”

“Yeah.”

“Where? He has another place?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“Upcountry. In Mae Sot.” Delaney had been to Mae Sot only once. It was a dusty little Thai town on the Burmese border. Main industry: black market trading across the frontier. Lots of jade and gems. The place was filled with Thai army rangers, Burmese exiles, Hmong and Karen hill tribespeople, and a world class assortment of ne'r do wells and thieves. Once in a while a stray mortar from the Karen rebels on the Burmese side would land in the town, adding to the ambience.

“Kellner's got a house in Mae Sot,” Delaney said.

“Yup. Don't tell Mai.”

“What's he got a house up there for?” Cohen looked pityingly at Delaney.

“What do you figure?” Cohen said.

“What?”

“It's a holiday house. For little getaways, little rendezvous. A little weed, some nice local girls. No interruptions, no stress.”

“That's mainly what he did down here,” Delaney said.

“Yeah, but it's different up there. More buzzy. Different scene. Edgy, like. Plus Mai wouldn't be around.”

“You've been there?”

“Only once. It was Kellner's private little deal. He didn't want guests, usually.” “How long's he had it?”

“Oh, not long. Six, eight months. I helped him drive some stuff up there not long after he got it. Got him set up. Our big secret. He's going to kill me for telling you.”

“What's it like? What's he got in there?”

“Oh, nothing special. A local-style house, but quite big. Couple or three bedrooms. Two stories. Off by itself near the river. You can see the Burmese side from the roof terrace. A little gentleman's hideaway. There's a sort of fixed-up barn with more sleeping space up top. Not that he wanted many guests, as I said.” “Christ,” Delaney said.

“He's put a lot of Suu Kyi shit in there, too.That's what made me think of it. A big picture of her, some other stuff. Her books and articles. Plus books about her. Kinda weird. Like a shrine. He's obsessed. I figure he gets high and deflowers virgins in front of Suu Kyi's picture. Way the hell up in Mae Sot.”

Cohen laughed out loud.

“You think that's where he is?” Delaney asked.

“I can't think of any other place he'd be,” Cohen said. “Not for this long.”

“Why doesn't he let people know?”

“No idea. Stoned. In love. Both, probably.”

“Mai's worried,” Delaney said. “He should call her to say he's all right.”

“That's a 1950s concept, Frank. A suburban North American concept, in my humble opinion. Around here anyway. Ask some of the guys at the bar if they remembered to call their sweethearts today to say they were OK.”

“You truly are an asshole, Mordecai, you know that?” Delaney said.

“I know that,” Cohen said. “Drinks?”

Ben Yong was waiting for Delaney outside the Chivas sometime later, as arranged. Then they almost got themselves killed in the backwater little soi outside Kellner's apartment.

After Delaney had left Mai and got back to the hotel, he realized how tired he was. His muscles were aching from the exertion and the adrenaline rush of the afternoon's violence. As always after a dangerous episode, Delaney needed absolute quiet, calm, solitude.

He had a shower and put on the hotel bathrobe.

He felt better not wearing Kellner's shirt. He stood looking at it, a multicoloured tropical number from Robinson's, the big Thai department store near Patpong Road. A dead man's shirt? Maybe. Delaney had started the day thinking Kellner was dead. Now he was not so sure.

He pulled a big yellow legal pad out of his bag and sat at the room's desk. This, too, was his pattern when things got complicated on an assignment. Sitting quietly, thinking, writing elements of the story down as they came to him, underlining particularly odd or important items. He had spent a long time as a reporter developing these habits.They were useful now that he was in another line of work.

What did he know? What was emerging? The major element, he could see clearly now, was Burma. And, for reasons which were still absolutely unclear, Aung San Suu Kyi. But, in the Kellner story, there might be no direct link, or at least no logical link, between those two particular pieces of the puzzle.

Delaney wrote “Burma” at the top left of the legal pad, and then drew a line down the middle. He wanted links, patterns.

He wrote: London–Burma embassy questions. Kellner plans to go in? Editors cagey.

Then he filled the page, over the next hour or so, with many items, some linked with arrows, some underlined: Australian businessmen, angry about a Kellner story—Burma connection? Burmese men (officials?) visit Mai in Bangkok apartment. Burma materials in Kellner study. Suu Kyi pictures, texts. Suu Kyi love letters?? Mae Sot house; near Burma, plus more Suu Kyi items . . .

The list also included: Drugs, dealing small time—moving into bigger time? Guns?? (Delaney crossed that out eventually). Mercenaries?? (This, too, he crossed out eventually). Other business deal?? Consultancies? For foreign deals?

He wrote: CSIS. Why Canadian interest? Kellner on CSIS assignment?? Kellner working for another agency?

He wrote: Domestic. Mai brother/brothers. Foreigners with sister. Kellner/Delaney out? Gun attack?? In a Lexus?

Delaney pondered these last points for a while. The gun attack outside Kellner's place had come the afternoon after he had spent a night with Mai. The watchman's attitude had changed suddenly. Mai's brother clearly did not like foreigners sleeping with his sister. But to shoot at Delaney for that? And at another Thai? Those were not warning shots, Delaney was sure of that. Would Mai's family, her brothers, actually try to kill someone, kill Kellner and Delaney, for hooking up with Mai? He thought not.

Clearly, Delaney decided, he was being watched. At least when he moved in and out of Mai's. If it was government or police, or Burmese agents, her phone might not be secure. Delaney himself had said little of substance on the phone in any case. Then he wrote, suddenly: Cohen. Watch Cohen. He wondered if Cohen was feeding someone information, or if Cohen knew far more than he was letting on about what Kellner was actually up to. He seemed completely unworried about his old friend Kellner having disappeared. This seemed too nonchalant, even for a man like Cohen. Even if he knew all about Kellner's habits and his Mae Sot love nest. If that is what the house was truly used for.

He wrote again: Suu Kyi. Obsession? Obsession with one woman?

Delaney pondered that entry, too, for a long while. It sent him into other areas, some personal, some usually taboo. He thought of his own apartment back in Montreal. What would an investigator or a journalist make of that, of what could be found there in desk drawers and hung up on walls? What would this tell people about Delaney and his relationship with a woman called Natalia?