The Burma Effect (18 page)

He raced down the stairs and out on the porch. The mercenary was lying prone now, on his side, exhausted and soaked. His blood-red eyes told the story however. The only thing that separated them from his murderous wrath was the thin line around his wrists and ankles. The soldier didn't move; he just watched Delaney go around the side of the house carrying his gun.

“I don't want that thing,” Ben said.

“Take it, I've found another one upstairs. You'll never use it. Just show it to anyone who comes along. It will give us a few extra minutes maybe. I don't expect you to use it.”

“I don't like guns, Frank. Even just holding them.”

“Take it. I'll leave the safety on. Take it.” Ben very reluctantly took the gun, and held it stiffly by his side, pointing directly at the ground.

“Go on out to the car. I will be there in five minutes. Then we'll go straight back to the hotel and think things through, OK?”

“OK Frank. OK.” Ben headed slowly off through the yard toward the driveway. Delaney ran back up on the porch and upstairs. He stopped outside the third room and tried the second key he had found. It opened the lock and he went inside.

This room was very different from the other two. It smelled of machine oil and wood. A big tarpaulin had been spread on the floor and three rectangular crates were laid out on top. On a rack like those found in clothing stores were hanging a few field uniforms in military camouflage.

There was a heavy blue flak jacket in the corner. A word on the front had been taped over. Delaney tore off the tape, revealing the word
PRESS
.

He went to one of the crates.There were no labels on any of them. The lids were loosely nailed shut. Even without a crowbar, Delaney was able to loosen the lid on the one he was examining and pull it up. Inside, AK-47 assault rifles, six of them, not new but in good condition and well oiled and polished. The same number of guns in the two other crates. In a smaller wooden box, Delaney found ammu nition, smoke bombs, stun grenades, flares, tear gas canisters and a launcher. Other gear lay here and there in boxes or in small piles. Handcuffs, batons, a few helmets, originally NATO or UN issue probably; some first aid kits, ropes and rigging. Enough gear for a heavy defence or minor assault. But against which enemy or to be directed at which target?

Delaney looked at his watch. He had spent almost an hour inside the house. Time to go. He left the room without bothering to close cases or lock the door. He ran into Kellner's room, grabbed the pistol from the desk and then ran down the stairs, through the kitchen and out onto the balcony. Then down to where the mercenary lay in the mud.

He squatted down, reached over and carefully pulled away the gag. The soldier immediately let loose a volley of curses and threats.

“You are dead, you're dead, you scumbag. I will kill you when I get clear. You're dead. Dead.”

“Who are you working for? Kellner? Where's Kellner?”

“Fuck you. You're dead.”

The mercenary redoubled his efforts to free himself of his bonds. Delaney pulled at the barrel of his pistol, cocking the mechanism and making it ready. “You'd never use that, you faggot,” the merc said.

“Only if I have to, friend,” Delaney said. “Where is Nathan Kellner? I'm a friend of his from Montreal. He knows me. I'm looking for him. That's the only reason I'm here. I don't care what you guys are doing.”

“I am going to make it my mission in life to kill you. I'll kill you slow. You're dead,” the mercenary said.

Delaney looked at his watch and stood up. Conversation was not what the South African military man wanted at this stage.

Suddenly, from out at the main road, Delaney heard the sound of car horns. Several long blasts, followed by a much more feeble short blast from another car. Ben's car. Then two bursts of gunfire. One burst, almost certainly an automatic rifle, then another. Then silence.

“My Christ,” Delaney said and started running for the driveway and the trees.

“You're dead, you're dead,” the soldier shouted after him. “My buddies are back and you're dead. You're both dead.”

After he left Delaney, Ben decided he would walk down the driveway instead of going through the trees. Eventually, he would have to come out to the road anyway, he thought, and into possible danger. So there was no use trying to prolong things by creeping through the trees. He walked slowly, enjoying in an odd way the quiet of the drive, as if it were an oasis of safety in some way.

He trudged slowly, carrying the pistol at his side and wishing he could be out of this now, back in the quiet of the hotel, sipping beers and talking quietly with Frank or, better still, sitting in his own crowded living room in Bangkok with his wife and children, sipping beers and talking quietly. Quiet was one of the things Ben valued most in life, despite the crazy job he had done for years with foreigners. Sometimes there had been bad times and even dangerous times. But he tried to avoid them now, more than he ever had.

Getting older now
, he thought.
Driving for these guys is a job for a younger man, maybe.

Songbirds were still in voice despite the rain.The birds stopped as he moved under their trees, and then started again as he passed on by. Ben had birds in a cage at home, small yellow and green finches that he and his son would feed together. He wished he could be there now, instead of in this difficulty in the rain.

His feet were soaking wet and his old leather sandals squeaked and squelched as he walked. When he got to the car, he put the gun on the passenger seat in the front. He walked farther out into the middle of the road and looked carefully south to where he and Frank would be heading very soon. Nothing.
We will get out of this
, he thought.

He backed his car out from where he had left it under the trees and stopped it, facing Mae Sot. He backed it down the road a little farther and then shut it off and left the driver's side door open. He wished he had some lunch. He wished he could be opening one of the nice lunches his wife always made for him before he left on a long drive. He wished he could open one of the fizzy orange drinks she always packed for him and sit there having a nice little picnic in his car, maybe with the radio on low. With no troubles.
Why have troubles?
he thought.

Suddenly he sat up very straight. He was sure he heard a car in the distance, maybe more than one. The noise grew louder fast, something coming. Now there was no doubt; at least two cars were coming fast toward him on the bad road.

Two grey vans swung into sight up ahead, slipping and sliding in the mud and gravel. Headlights on in the middle of the day. The driver of the first one must have spotted Ben's car because he gave a loud blast of the horn. The vans came closer and the lead driver leaned on his horn again, again, again.

Maybe they want to come straight through
, Ben thought.
Maybe they are not going to Khun Nathan's at all
. He reached for the gun and put it on the dashboard.
Just let them know I have one, like Khun Frank said
, he thought. For some reason, he decided to sound his own horn. He wasn't clear even in his own mind why he did that. He started the engine and waited as two tough-looking men in American-style T-shirts got out of the front of the lead van, carrying rifles.

Ben reached for the pistol with his right hand, and then held the gun and steering wheel with that hand as he shifted gears with his left and looked back over his shoulder to reverse away from trouble. “Gun!” one of the van men shouted.

The first burst of their gunfire smashed out Ben's new windshield and tore into his left shoulder and side. His pistol went off as his body stiffened involuntarily and slammed back against the seat. The second burst from a stranger's rifle ended his troubles forever, put him somewhere still and quiet forever.

Delaney ran straight toward the trees, not taking the driveway. The rain had made everything slick, slippery. Sweat and rain poured into his eyes. He brushed clumsily through undergrowth and vines, keeping away from the driveway but heading toward the entrance as best he could. He heard two cars powering up the driveway now, obviously slipping around in the mud but moving fast. He thought he glimpsed one of them through the trees before he hit the ground. A grey van.

He lay still, listening. In the distance, near the house, he heard shouting. Ahead, from where Ben had parked, he heard nothing. His heart pounded in his chest and he fought the panic that gripped him.

“Jesus Christ,” he said quietly.

He stood up cautiously, dripping wet, covered in mud and leaves. No matter what his next step, no matter what he might find, he had no choice but to head to the road to find out what had happened to Ben.

Suddenly he heard shouts again. Then voices in the trees behind him. The mercenaries were coming back after him from the house. He began to run clumsily toward Ben's car. When he got to the edge of the woods, he stopped, looking out from the heavy shadow into the clear area at the start of the driveway.

Ben had parked the car at the side of the narrow road, almost blocking it, but about 25 metres past the driveway so that cars coming from Mae Sot could still turn in toward the house. He hadn't tried to hide his car. He had just moved it out of the way and positioned it so he could speed off down the road past the driveway when ready.

The windshield was shattered on the right-hand side. Ben's body was still upright behind the wheel but slumped back against the driver's seat. Head way back. His mouth was open. His chest and one shoulder a glistening mass of ruby arterial blood.

“Ben, Ben,” Delaney shouted out as he ran for the car. “Ben.”

A burst of gunfire kicked up mud and stones in front of Delaney's feet and he stopped running and turned, not even thinking of raising his own gun.

“Stop there or I'll kill you,” shouted a tall black man with a West African accent. He pointed an AK-47 directly at Delaney. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt stretched tight over his muscular shoulders and chest. Rain ran from his shaved head. He shook droplets from his eyes. “Get rid of that pistol,” he said. Delaney dropped it on the ground.

“My driver,” he said. His heart was pounding and grief was gripping his guts.

“Gone,” the West African said. “He's gone. Move here toward me now.”

Delaney instead moved toward the car, wanting a closer look at Ben. A burst of gunfire tore up earth in front of his feet.

“Last chance,” the gunman said. “Move here toward me now or I'll kill you. You'll go where your driver's gone.”

Delaney stopped where he was, turned to face the gunman. A group of four other men now emerged from the driveway, all running, all carrying assault rifles. All were wearing jeans and T-shirts; none in military fatigues.

“I got him, I've got him, no qualms,” the West African said. “Under my control.”

The small band of gunmen lowered their rifles and stood staring at Delaney in the rain.

“Check him out, Abbey,” said one of them in a heavy Afrikaner South African accent. “Get his gun. I'll give you cover.” He had spiky blond hair and wore one small loop earring. There was a small spiderweb tattoo on his neck, just below his left ear. “OK, Stefan, you watch him good.” The black man walked warily toward Delaney as Stefan pulled the AK-47 expertly to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel. The three others who had run with him from the house stood by, guns cradled downward.

“You killed my driver,” Delaney shouted, numb with grief and shock. “Why would you kill my driver?”

“Shut up, shut up,” Abbey said. “What you got on you, man? You kneel now, we check you out.”

He shoved Delaney to his knees, picked up the pistol from the road and put it on top of Ben's car.

“What else you got?”

“Nothing,” Delaney said.

“I find another gun on you, I'll beat you good,” Abbey said. “You got a knife?”

He shoved Delaney over into the road, pushed him flat on his face and kicked his legs apart with a foot. He began to pat him down, looking for weapons. Then he pulled Delaney's wallet out of his pocket and began looking through it as the others watched.

As he pulled out credit cards and papers and Thai and U.S. banknotes, Abbey called out to his colleagues who stood watching and waiting.

“Gold American Express card, Francis J. Delaney. Green Am Ex card, corporate. Francis J. Delaney.” Abbey dropped both cards into the dirt. “Quebec driver's licence, looks like, all in French. Monsieur Francis Delaney. Canadian Red Cross Society blood donor's card, Francis Delaney, Blood type B Positive. That's good to know.” He pulled another card out.

“Fuck, man,” Abbey said. “We got trouble here, my friends.This guy's a fucking reporter. International Federation of Journalists, Member in Good Standing, Frank Delaney,
The Montreal Tribune
. My sweet Jesus, we got a reporter here.”

The others walked over to where Delaney lay in the dirt. Abbey pocketed the cash from Delaney's wallet, had a quick look through the rest of its contents and threw everything into Ben's car through the side window.