The Burma Effect (21 page)

“This is getting crazier by the minute,” Delaney said. “You're all going to get killed or arrested. Lots of people are going to get killed.”

“You too, then,” Tom said. “You go out like a hero. If not, you've got a hell of a story.”

“I don't want this story. I don't want anything to do with this,” Delaney said.

“You're in,” Stefan said. “For a while. At least until we find Kellner.”

“And how are you going to find Kellner?” Delaney said. “This is the only place he would be.”

“Something's come up. He's late,” Dima said. “He'll probably meet us on the Burma side. He knows where. Upcountry or in Rangoon.”

“We're too far along in this operation to let it drop now,” Stefan said.

“Kellner could be dead,” Delaney said. “The Burmese could have got wind of this and killed him already.”

“Who would have told them?” Stefan asked.

“I don't know. Anyone along the way. Cohen maybe.”

“Not Cohen,” Stefan said. “He's Kellner's man.”

“Maybe,” Bobby said.

“Kellner could be dead,” Delaney said again.

“Then you in deep shit, man,” Abbey said.

Delaney found himself eating lunch in an isolated Thai barn with a band of mercenaries about to cross into Burma to double-cross an Australian business consortium and an array of Burmese generals, all with a view to kidnapping one of the world's most prominent democracy advocates.

Sammy and Clive cooked. Steaks sizzled in iron pans, and potatoes and fried onions. Cartons of beer were opened. The lunch took on a somewhat festive air. Only Bobby, Abbey and Delaney put a damper on proceedings. Delaney ate, however, hungry again as he recuperated from his ordeal. Knowing also that he might need the strength in the days ahead.

“The condemned man ate a hearty meal,” Tom said, punching Delaney on the shoulder.“Eat up good.”

“Who knows what kind of rubbish we'll get to eat over on the other side,” Clive said.

Afterward, Dima and Stefan went back with Delaney to the room it seemed he had now been assigned. Stefan cleared a few of his own things off the opposite bunk and moved them out. Delaney was to be alone, it appeared.

“When are we going to go?” he asked.

“Soon,” Dima said. “Tomorrow night, maybe Saturday. Sunday latest. We go soon. Rest up. It is a long drive.”

He threw a book on Delaney's bunk. Letters from Burma by Suu Kyi. “Something for you to pass the time,” he said.

The mercenaries had a party that night. Perhaps they had one every night. Delaney was not invited. It started in the kitchen late in the afternoon. Delaney had read for a while and slept again. Loud voices and the clink of beer bottles woke him.

As the light faded, the party spilled out of the kitchen into the yard. The soldiers did not use the main house at all, it seemed. Someone put a tape in a cassette player in one of the vans and turned it up loud. Rolling Stones. Through the window, Delaney heard shouts, curses, laughter, snatches of increasingly drunken conversation.

Eventually, after dark, he heard a van engine start up. He went to the window of his room and looked down into the yard. Six of the mercenaries piled into the van, carrying beer bottles. They were all in civilian clothes now. Dima, it appeared, was to stay. He stood in the yard watching his comrades get ready to go.

“No women back here after,” Dima called out.

“Absolutely not,” Stefan called from inside the van, drunk too, despite being leader of the group. “These men are under my command.”

“Bullshit,” Sammy shouted.

Abbey was driving. He pulled around in the yard and slowly headed out and down the driveway. The headlights of the van cut long beams in the steamy tropical night. Delaney saw the beams bounce and glance through the trees and then disappear.

Dima stood watching them go. Then he walked over to the porch of the main house and sat outside on a metal chair near the table, under a light. An AK-47 was propped up near the doorway. A pistol lay on the table, along with beer bottles and a book. Sentry duty.

Delaney stood watching from the upstairs window of the barn. Dima looked up, saw him and raised a beer bottle in salute.

“Don't even think about it, my friend,” he called out to the prisoner across the silent yard. “Don't even think about it. You would not get three metres out of that doorway.”

Delaney said nothing. He turned and went back to his bunk and started reading a book by the woman they were going to try to kidnap, the woman who obsessed Kellner, the woman who now would obsess them all.

Mongla and Rangoon

D
elaney had fallen asleep soothed by the gentle words of Aung San Suu Kyi in her letters from captivity. He awoke to the sound of six drunken mercenaries whooping and swearing and slamming doors.

He had no idea how late it was because they had not given him back his watch, but he sensed from the look of the night sky outside his window that it was not long before dawn. It took the soldiers a long time to settle, and he lay in his bunk listening and waiting for morning to come. He tried unsuccessfully to not think of Ben Yong.

Delaney did not sleep again. Eventually, as the sun rose above the trees, Dima came into his room, carrying a set of car keys.

“Let's go,” Dima said. “We've got to get your things out of your hotel. We pull out tonight. When these other guys sober up.”

There was no noise from the other rooms. Delaney pulled himself upright. “Where will you go?” he said.

“Where will we go, you mean,” Dima said.

“Burma. All of us. Like we told you.”

“You're crazy.”

“Like we told you.”

Delaney got dressed. Dima went into the room next door and roused Tom, the American. He looked very bad as he came out, tucking a crumpled T-shirt into his jeans.

“Where we going, Dima? I'm messed up,” Tom said. “I need a beer.”

“We're going to this man's hotel. You go in with him and play U.S.A. tourist while he gets his things and his driver's things. I watch from outside.”

Dima turned to Delaney. “We don't want those hotel people to start worrying about you,” he said.

“They probably already are,” Delaney said.

“Not in Thailand. Not yet,” Tom said. “They probably figure you got lucky with one of the local ladies of the night.” He belched and scratched his armpit.

As they went out, Tom stopped in the kitchen and came out with some sweet rolls. He tossed one to Delaney and one to Dima and they went out into the morning air. They stood eating silently before climbing into one of the vans.

As they bounced down the rutted driveway, Delaney said suddenly: “I want to see where you buried my driver.”

“No way,” Tom said. “What's the point?”

“He was my driver. I've known him for years,” Delaney said.

“He's dead, that's it, that's all,” Tom said.

“I want to see where you put him,” Delaney said.

“In the ground, where we'll all end up. No big deal.”

Dima drove in silence. He looked over at Delaney, then at Tom. “Two minutes,” he said.

“For Christ's sake, Dima,” Tom said.

Dima drove another few metres and stopped the van. He gestured into the trees to their left. “In there,” he said. “I'll go with you.” He and Delaney got out.Tom glowered in a rear seat, and then got out as well, carrying a 9-millimetre Glock.

“He's not going to try anything, Tom, put that away,” Dima said.

“No fucking way. He's going to get all blubbery and try to make a run for it. You watch,” Tom said.

Delaney said nothing. Dima led him a short way into the trees, with Tom walking a few paces behind them.

“There,” Dima said, taking off his wire spectacles and polishing them with the end of his shirt. “Two minutes.”

Delaney saw a mound of fresh red earth in a tiny clear area just ahead. He walked slowly forward and stood there in silence with his back to the mercenaries. Insects and bright yellow butterflies swooped around. Tears came, for the first time since Ben was shot.

Delaney stood silently for a while, and then his grief gave way to anger. He swung around and shouted at his captors: “There's not even a marker. He's a human being for Christ's sake and you killed him.”

Tom came round from behind Dima and pointed his pistol at Delaney's chest.

“Easy buddy,” Tom said. “Take it easy.” Dima watched Delaney calmly, saying nothing. “I told you he'd freak out, Dima. I told you he'd freak out,” Tom said.

Delaney turned back to the grave. “Let's go,” Dima said.

“Yeah, let's get going,” Tom said.

Delaney stood a few moments more by his old friend's grave and then turned to walk silently back to the van. They drove all the way to Mae Sot without a word exchanged. Tom sat in the last row of seats, his pistol laid out beside him.

Dima pulled over in front of the Mae Thep Guest House and turned off the engine.

“Let's not make this complicated, OK?” he said to Delaney. “You go inside, you explain to the people there that you are checking out and that you want your driver's things as well.Tell them you're off on a trek. Pay the bill in cash and come out.” He threw a wad of Thai baht onto Delaney's lap. “Keep it simple. Tom is nervous today.”

Tom pulled his T-shirt out of his jeans and tucked his gun into the back waistband. “Very nervous and very pissed off with your little display back there, and very, very hung over,” he said to Delaney.

They climbed out and went up onto the balcony and inside. The young Thai man at the front desk gave them both a wai and smiled.

“I'm checking out of Room 14,” Delaney said. “My friend who was in 15 is not here but I will pay for his room and take his things too.” The desk clerk looked troubled about this idea. “Where your friend is now?” he asked. “He can come for his own things later maybe.”

“He's on another tour,” Tom said, gesturing over his shoulder at the van waiting outside. “We'll meet up with him after.”

The clerk still looked dubious, but his Thai politesse and experience with the unpredictable ways of Western tourists prevailed. He reached for two keys from a row of hooks behind him, and Tom and Delaney went upstairs to the rooms.

“Don't start blubbering when you go into your guy's room, OK Delaney?” Tom said. “Just get his shit and your shit and we go, all right?”

Delaney said nothing. He tossed his few things into the small bag that he had left in his room, and found his passport and some other papers where he had hidden them. When he went into Ben's room, the emotions were intense and he fought tears. Ben had placed a small framed photo of his wife and two children on the bedside table. Delaney looked silently at it for a few moments before putting it into Ben's bag.

“Easy, easy,” Tom said.

Delaney said nothing. He went downstairs, paid both room bills and walked back out with Tom to the van. Dima slid open the rear door, as a tour operator should. The desk clerk watched them from the balcony.

“Well done, Delaney,” Dima said.

“Very professional,” Tom said.

On the ride back, Delaney fought grief and regret. But he did not fight the anger. That went into a special place he had developed over the years, for possible use later.

The plan was for them to drive by night in two vans from Mae Sot all the way to Mae Sai, the northernmost town in Thailand, at the gateway to the Golden Triangle, and then cross over into Burma at Tachilek. Apparently, there was to be a rendezvous with the Burmese military, or some faction of the Burmese military, there. This much Delaney learned from snatches of conversation as the mercenaries, late that afternoon, roused themselves and prepared for what would be a drive of at least 11 hours.

They did not take Delaney into their confidence, nor did they appear to be trying to hide much from him. One of the vans was to tow a covered trailer onto which they loaded their small but impressive cache of weapons and equipment. How they intended to get that gear all the way up Highway One, where police checkpoints were common, Delaney had no clue.

By nightfall they were ready. Delaney could see, as he watched them from the window of his room, that despite their carousing and their lack of formality amongst themselves, these were well-trained and experienced soldiers. They moved efficiently around, preparing the vans, securing equipment, loading supplies for the trip. Dima and Stefan, however, were clearly in charge.

They pulled out after Stefan had made a slow final walkaround of the compound, making sure doors were locked and everything was in order. Bobby had roared off earlier on one of the trail bikes, returning with a wiry, unsmiling Thai man in his thirties. This was to be the watchman, apparently. He was assigned a sleeping place on a cot on the open area of the barn, with the motorbikes. Bobby showed him how to start the bikes, and where the electrical switches were and a small fridge in the barn, and then led him to the table on the balcony with the radio.

Again, in the vans, there was military discipline and no complaints about the long journey ahead or the lack of comfort. Delaney was in the lead van, placed in the back row of seats by himself. He rode with Dima, who drove, and the two British mercenaries, Clive and Sam. Stefan drove the other vehicle, with Tom, and with Bobby and Abbey, the two men who had argued most strenuously against Delaney being allowed to come along.

Just outside Tak where Route 105 joins Highway One, the little convoy slowed and then stopped at a roadside restaurant and bar. A middleaged Thai in a brown police uniform came out of the shadows of the parking lot and climbed in beside Dima, who shook his hand. The policeman looked like a veteran of much trouble.

“Welcome, Sergeant,” Dima said. “We thank you for this.”

The policeman did not smile. “Long way, long way tonight. Many stops for us, many police stops. Let's go, let's go.”

“Sergeant, we have the magic formula for that,” Dima said, turning to smile at Clive and Sam, “Magic baht.” Dima held up an enormous bound brick of local currency and the three mercenaries laughed.

“I hope this is enough,” the unsmiling policeman said. “We need very much baht tonight.”

“And much baht for you tonight too, Sergeant,” Clive said. “Much, much baht for you.”

For most of the way, Dima drove. He did not seem to get tired or need sleep at all. About halfway, Sam drove for a couple of hours, but even then Dima did not sleep. Clive dozed most of the way, as did Sam when he was not driving. Delaney tried to sleep when he could, bracing himself against the constant swaying and the incessant bumps. In the other van, it was the same. Dozing mercenaries, with Stefan driving most of the way.

Their rented personal policeman proved useful. Half a dozen times on the narrow highway, they were stopped at checkpoints. Each time, their policeman got out of the van and spoke for a long time in Thai to the local officers. Money was exchanged, as predicted. At one checkpoint, a baby faced policeman seemed to insist on seeing what was in the trailer pulled by the rear van. There was a long discussion in Thai, watched warily by Stefan and the three other soldiers in his vehicle who were instantly wide awake and alert.

“Come on Sergeant, come on now,” Clive said softly as he watched the scene through the window of the first van. “Show us you're worth it, my lovely.”

Eventually, after much debate and much gesticulation and much baht, the baby-faced cop waved them on, profoundly unhappy either with the situation, or with his personal takings, or both.

They stopped for rice and dumplings at a roadhouse outside Lampang that was frequented by truckers and local whores. A teenager with wild eyes came up to their table, selling amphetamine.

“You want yaa baa? Drive all night, no sleep. Be with woman all night maybe,” he said.

“Piss off, kid,” Bobby said.

“Thai stick maybe?” the kid said.

Their policeman said something rough in Thai and the dealer fled.

They pulled into Mae Sai precisely at 8 a.m. That was clear because in most provincial towns in Thailand all activity ceases at 8 a.m. while the national anthem plays at full volume on dozens of scratchy loudspeakers and radios. Dima and Stefan stopped the vans and waited for this brief outburst of national pride to subside. “Jesus Christ,” Clive said.

Highway One, a fairly good road in this part of Thailand, ends abruptly in Mae Sai. It gives way to a vast, dust-choked open space that looks like a chaotic, slowly shifting parking lot for big trucks, vans, cars, motorized rickshaws and motorcycles of all sizes. Cheap restaurants and bars and guest houses surround the area.

But all attention focuses on a narrow two-lane bridge over a muddy tributary of the Mekong. Halfway across this bridge, past Thai checkpoints, is a set of forbidding iron gates, with the words “Welcome to Myanmar” in English, Burmese and Thai. Beyond that, past the Burmese checkpoints and visible through a copse of tall trees, is the tense little garrison town of Tachilek.

Their policeman directed them to a guest house on the edge of Mae Sai, with parking for the vans out back under high trees. They checked in to rest for the day. It was to be another night journey that night, it seemed. Dima spoke quietly in the lobby to their policeman, both of them looking over at Delaney who was sitting, bone weary, in a rattan armchair.

The policeman made a call at the desk and about 15 minutes later two young uniformed officers arrived and saluted him. He gestured toward Delaney and they looked over at him suspiciously.