The Burma Effect (33 page)

Kate looked unconvinced.

“A gun can make things worse,” she said again. That was exactly what Ben Yong had tried to tell him outside Mae Sot.

Rawson, it seemed, spent most of his professional life looking aggrieved in hotel lobbies. He was waiting for them when they got back to the Oriental.

“Bad move, Francis. Very bad,” he said. To Kate he said: “Officer Hunter, I would have thought RCMP training would have led you to advise our Francis against going to ground like that in this situation.”

“I'm off duty, Mr. Rawson,” she said, shaking his hand.

“Well, I'm not. My job is to get this man, and now you, it seems, back to Canada in one piece. As soon as possible. We could go tomorrow if the Thais agree they've got everything they need.”

“We're going to take a beach break,” Delaney said. “Don't get upset.”

“A beach break? No chance,” Rawson said.

“A short one,” Kate said.

“No chance,” Rawson said.

“Let's talk about this tomorrow, Jon,” Delaney said.

Delaney wanted to find Cohen before they left. He didn't want Kate to come with him. She agreed, reluctantly, to stay in their hotel room to rest. They ate an early dinner and he gave her his mobile number.

“Should I be a true Canadian and start worrying now?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “It's just a visit to Cohen, if I can find him, and I'll get the last bits that I need on this. You rest here tonight. Then we go south. Without Rawson and Company.”

“OK, Frank. Are you going to carry that gun tonight?”

“No. I'm going to use the Thai driver tonight. He's a cop.”

“Will he be in with you everywhere you go?”

“Outside. Close by.”

“Is he any good?”

“I'd say. They wouldn't assign him to us if he weren't.”

“All right, Frank.” she said. “But I'd rather go with you. Mountie escort. The best in the world.”

“No chance. You'll cramp my style. And Cohen's.”

Rawson started his search at the Chivas Bar. Some of the regulars there said Cohen had not been in for a while. They suggested another small bar farther down the Patpong strip. It was called Lace. Sometimes Cohen met dope contacts there, they said.

The sex show had not started at Lace when Delaney went in. It was too early for a place like that. Tough-looking Thai guys in their twenties were lounging around, waiting for tourist marks to come in later and get into trouble of various sorts. No one had seen Cohen there either.

Delaney's driver took him over to the Dusit Thani Hotel. Delaney went up to the top floor to the press club. He had two things to do there. One was to check for Cohen and to find out where else he might be.The second was to put a notice on the bulletin board about Ben Yong's death. A lot of correspondents had known Ben, had used his services.

Delaney had tapped out a short notice on his laptop earlier and printed it out in the Oriental's business centre. It read: “The foreign correspondents' community in Thailand has lost a valued colleague and a dear friend. Benjarong Yongchaiyudh, known to all here as the best of drivers, was killed in May 2001 while on assignment in Mae Sot. He was 57. He was a journalist in spirit and in deed.”

Delaney pinned the notice up, along with an old ID picture of Ben. A couple of early drinkers came over to look. Word would spread quickly around the club and Delaney knew that later, when the usual crowd arrived, there would probably be an impromptu journalists' wake.

Chris Hislop, the Voice of America man in Bangkok and a press club stalwart, said as Delaney turned away from the bulletin board: “That's a damn shame. Ben was a top driver.” “The best,” Delaney said.

“What's the story?” Hislop asked. “Was he with you?”

“It's a long one, Chris. I'll tell you another time, OK? Tonight, I've got to find Mordecai Cohen. Something urgent. You seen him around?”

“No, not for days. We figure he's hooked up with some girl or he's scored something special to smoke and he'll turn up eventually.”

“Where does he go, when's he's on one of those?”

“He usually just stays home. He's got a terrible little local-style place down by one of the canals way over in Thonburi. Terrible place. No air con. Nothing. Cheap and cheerful. No one bothers him there.”

Delaney got full directions. Cohen's place was not accessible by car. He would have to take one of the narrow longtail river boats, powered by huge American automobile engines directly attached to a combination rudder and drive shaft. They raced at all hours up and down the Chao Phraya River and its maze of adjacent canals.

Delaney's driver clearly didn't like the idea at all. He seemed unsure whether it was his duty to stay with the car at the dock or to come along with Delaney in the longtail. He opted to stay with the car. That suited Delaney fine.

Delaney took a boat all to himself. The boat driver manoeuvred the craft as fast as he possibly could through the heavy river traffic, leaving a trail of spray, a V8 roar and a haze of oil smoke behind him. He seemed to know where he was going.

The canals got very narrow eventually and the boatman had no choice but to slow down to a crawl. The huge engine growled and backfired in protest. They passed old teak houses on stilts, with yellow lantern light coming from the windows. Delaney wondered how much, or, more to the point, how little it would cost Cohen to rent one of these sagging canal houses. Surely he would be the only Westerner in the area.

Eventually they pulled up to a house flying a Jolly Roger pirate's flag on a small pole out front. Crates of empty beer bottles were stacked on the deck. Delaney gave the driver 20 dollars and asked him to stay. He climbed up the rickety wooden stairs to the deck. Psychedelic music from the sixties wafted from an open window. Delaney smelled opium and fresh popcorn. Cohen was clearly at home.

Delaney didn't bother to knock. He pushed open the low door and went inside into the lantern light. Cohen was dozing in a hammock hung near a small table laden with beer bottles, smoker's paraphernalia and photography magazines. His eyes snapped open immediately when Delaney shook him, and he tried to leap out of the hammock and head for the door.

“Cohen, for god's sake take it easy. It's me, Delaney.”

“Delaney, what are you doing here, man? You almost killed me.”

“Why so jumpy, Mordecai?” Delaney said, as Cohen adjusted his sarong and collapsed back into a low rattan chair. He wore no shirt.

“You almost killed me, man, waking me up like that. What are you doing here?” Cohen fumbled for a Marlboro, lit it with a vintage Zippo.

Delaney saw no reason to ease in. He stood next to Cohen in the lamplight.

“Kellner's dead, Mordecai,” he said.

Cohen stiffened, took a long drag on his cigarette. His hand was shaking. “No way,” he said.

“In Burma. The generals killed him.”

“No,” Cohen said.

“Yes, Mordecai. I saw his body in a Rangoon morgue.”

Cohen suddenly started to cry. He sobbed like a schoolboy, covering his face with both hands, cigarette still grasped between index and middle finger of his left.

“No way,” Cohen said. “No way.”

“It's your fault, Mordecai,” Delaney said. “And Ben Yong is dead too because of you.” “No,” Cohen said. “No, no way.”

He stubbed out his cigarette and hugged his knees. He looked wistfully over at his table of drugs and beer.

“Who did you tell?” Delaney said. Cohen lit another cigarette, said nothing. “Who, Mordecai? The Burmese? Why would you do that?”

“I didn't tell the fucking Burmese anything,” Cohen shouted. “Who then?”

“The Aussies. The fucking Aussies,” Cohen said.

“Why them?”

“Because Kellner was going to rip them off. Because the whole idea was stupid and I figured I'd stop it that way. I told them they were going to get ripped off, that's all. They slipped me some cash. I needed the cash and I figured the whole Suu Kyi thing would fall down if the rip-off messed up. That's it. It would have been better that way. That's all I did. Nothing about Suu Kyi.”

“You stupid pathetic asshole,” Delaney said.

“Then Kellner disappeared and everything fell apart,” Cohen said, he hugged his knees and started crying again. “I need a joint,” he said.

“You pathetic asshole,” Delaney said.

“The Aussies wouldn't have killed him,” Cohen said.

“But the generals would.”

“I didn't tell the generals.”

“But the Australians did. They must have.”

“But only about the rip-off, man. That's all they could have said. No way they knew about the Suu Kyi thing.”

“For Christ's sake, Mordecai, you know what that regime is like. The generals take Kellner in to ask him some questions and the way they work he would have told them everything, anything. Then they killed him. And stood back and watched it all unfold in Mae Sot, Mongla and then Rangoon.”

“Jesus, Frank. Jesus. Give me a break. I never meant for them to kill him. No way. It was just a little gig for me on the side.”

Delaney felt anger welling up from somewhere deep inside. He suddenly felt glad he had not carried a gun that night. He understood, as he had on only a few other occasions in his life, the impulse to attack, to injure, to murder.

“And you told those mercenaries Ben and I would be heading up to Mae Sot,” he said.

“Give me a break, Frank, come on. I didn't think they would hurt you. I thought they'd just throw you the hell out of there. I didn't want you to get pulled into it, so I told them you were on your way.”

“They killed Ben Yong.”

Cohen hugged his knees and rocked in his chair. He wiped tears away with the back of his hands.

“And now you're hiding out in this hovel, stoned and worthless and hiding,” Delaney said. “There's guys following me, Frank.”

“Good. People are following me too.”

“They're going to take me out, Frank.”

“Good,” Delaney said.

“Come on man, you can't mean that,” Cohen said.

“I mean it. You're lucky I don't kill you myself.”

R
awson warned him as they went by embassy car to police headquarters the next day that General Kriangsak Chatichai was not a happy man.

“He's a cop's cop,” Rawson said. “He's been made to understand by his superiors and by the political people that this is not a standard case and that there's an international diplomatic dimension. He knows something very strange was going on in Mae Sot, but he's been told to ease off because most of what actually happened, happened in Burma and because the Thai side simply doesn't want this to blow up any bigger. But he's not a happy man, because a Thai citizen ended up dead at Kellner's place up there, and was buried up there, and no senior policeman worth his salt, even in Thailand, would want to just let that go. So he'll go through the motions today, just for his own self-esteem, but there's not a hell of a lot he can do on this one because he's been told to stand back and because the guy who killed your driver is already dead.”

General Chatichai was indeed an unhappy man. He frowned deeply when an aide brought Delaney and Rawson into his large office. He did not get up from his black leather swivel chair. He waved at two straight-backed wooden chairs placed in front of his massive, glass-covered desk. He did not offer his guests any tea, although a large tea flask and an array of cups sat on a tray close at hand.

“I understood that I would speak to Mr. Delaney alone, Mr. Rawson,” Chatichai said.

“I am representing the Canadian government during this interview with Mr. Delaney today, General,” Rawson said. “I think my embassy has indicated this to your colleagues.”

“I have not been told,” Chatichai said.

“My apologies,” Rawson said. “I am just here to observe.”

“There is no need for observers,” Chatichai said. “This is routine police business.”

“That is not quite how my government sees it, General,” Rawson said.

Chatichai's frown deepened. He turned to Delaney.

“Mr. Delaney, I have read your written statement about what happened in Mae Sot last month. I appreciate your detailed description. You are a journalist and used to reporting what you have seen. I need you to talk to me today about what you apparently did not see. Your report is not clear on some matters of importance to the police.” “I'm happy to help,” Delaney said.

“You say that a group of foreign mercenaries abducted you when you went to the farm outside Mae Sot. You say one of the men shot Mr. Benjarong Yongchaiyudh and then they abducted you. Is that correct?”

“Yes it is,” Delaney said.

“Why did they not shoot you also?” Chatichai said.

“We were separated at the time. Mr. Yongchaiyudh was waiting for me on the road and I was still on the property. The men came back and saw him there and they shot him.” “You were still on the property?”

“Yes.”

Chatichai looked at Delaney's typewritten statement.

“With another of the men you say were mercenaries.”

“Yes.They were definitely mercenaries, General.”

“Why had you not gone out to the road with Mr. Yongchaiyudh? Why did you stay back? Your statement does not speak about this.”

Delaney hesitated.

“I was trying to find out where Nathan Kellner might be. That's why I went to his farm. I stayed to look around some more.”

“You were searching his place.”

“Yes.”

“You entered illegally.”

Rawson said: “General, Mr. Delaney's statement says clearly that he entered the farm in the hope that his friend would be there. He did not enter illegally. He simply entered the farm property and the house to see if anyone was there.”

“And the person you say was a mercenary was there and he attacked you and Mr. Yongchaiyudh and then you, as you say in this report, subdued him,” Chatichai said. “You hit him with a chair and tied him up.” “Yes,” Delaney said.

“Why did you not run out then, if you had been attacked? Why did you wait so long that the others returned and shot Mr. Yongchaiyudh? Would it not be a normal thing to run away at that point, Mr. Delaney?”

“I wanted to find out where Mr. Kellner was.”

“So you asked Mr. Yongchaiyudh to wait in the road, where there might be danger, and you searched the house you say you thought belonged to your friend.”

“I didn't think Mr. Yongchaiyudh was in danger,” Delaney said.

“Someone you said was a mercenary attacked you and you felt it necessary to beat him over the head with a chair and tie him up. You did not think there was danger that day?”

“We didn't know what to expect next.”

“Wouldn't a normal response be to run away to safety?”

“I wanted to find out where Kellner was,” Delaney said again.

“Was that so important that you would put your driver in such danger, Mr. Delaney?” Chatichai asked.

Delaney felt anger welling up. His guilt over Ben's death was not police business. He would deal with that privately. Rawson raised his hand ever so slightly, urging Delaney to stay calm.

“What was it that you were actually looking for that day, Mr. Delaney?” Chatichai asked again. “What was so important that a Thai citizen needed to be shot while you searched a farmhouse in Mae Sot?”

“I've answered that question, General,” Delaney said.

“And then they took you to Burma.”

“Yes.”

“They shot the Thai national and they brought the Canadian national with them by road all the way to Burma.”

“Yes.”

“You are very fortunate to be Canadian, Mr. Delaney.”

“Mr. Delaney had a very difficult time in Burma, General,” Rawson said. “He was abducted and treated very roughly by the mercenaries and then by the Burmese authorities.”

Chatichai threw Delaney's written statement down on the desk.

“And now your government wants me to simply close this file, just like that,” he said.

“That would be a police decision, General, not one for my government to make,” Rawson said. “We have given you our full cooperation.”

*

The interview did not get any better. Chatichai went through the motions of questioning Delaney and went through the motions of expressing outrage but, in the end, politics and diplomacy prevailed over police work and he showed them the door. No handshakes, no wai. A distinct lack of Thai hospitality.

“I intend to order that this file be left open,” the general said as they stood by the doorway. “That is your prerogative,” Rawson said.

“I reserve the right to continue the investigation.”

“Again, a police prerogative.”

“Mr. Delaney, we may have more questions for you the next time you decide to visit Thailand,” Chatichai said. “Any time you come back again.” “Is that a threat, General?” Delaney said. Chatichai looked like he would explode. “It is a statement of fact,” he said.

Kate was waiting for him at the pool when Delaney got back to the hotel around noon. She was already deep in holiday mode, in a yellow swimsuit and an RCMP ball cap.

“Well, at least they didn't keep you in overnight,” she said when she saw him.

“Almost,” he said. “You cops are a tough bunch.”

“Let's get out of here,” she said.

“Right,” he said. “Tomorrow. We'll have to shake the embassy guys first.” “Outlaws,” she said.

*

There was one last bit of business before they could go in holiday mode to Ko Chang. Delaney needed to speak at last to his editor, to explain that he was taking some more time off before returning to Montreal. He would leave out the part about his planning to write a long piece about Kellner and the Suu Kyi plot for Asia Weekly. The editor there, who Delaney knew well, had been more than delighted, even on the vaguest of descriptions of what the article would entail, to commission something over the telephone from Singapore. They would hold pages open for him in the next issue. With the current edition about to go to press, that gave Delaney about ten days grace to write and file.

Rawson was off somewhere doing spy business. Delaney and Kate sunned themselves for the afternoon and ate an early dinner in the dining room with well-heeled tourists and business types. Rawson found them there as they were finishing and sat down at their table.

“Yes, you can buy me an aperitif,” Rawson said. “No, I am not offended that you failed to ask me to join you this evening for dinner. Now that the pressure is off. Gin and tonic, please.”

“Our friend General Chatichai doesn't think the pressure is off,” Delaney said after the waiter had gone.

“Kate here will appreciate his desire to close the case properly. Imagine how an RCMP inspector would react if he was told to let something like this slide. No police officer would be happy with that.”

“The perpetrators are dead, Jon,” Kate said.

“Chatichai can't be sure of that,” Rawson said. “He wants bodies, motive, murder weapons, DNA, fingerprints, witness statements, chapter and verse.”

“He'll just have to let it go,” Delaney said.

“You'll just have to get out of his country,” Rawson said.

“Soon, Jon,” Delaney said.

“Tomorrow,” Rawson said. “Thai Airways to Vancouver.”

“This time next week. Same flight,” Delaney said.

“Bad move,” Rawson said. “Very bad.” Harden was very agitated indeed.

“Frank,” he said when Delaney reached him by telephone that evening, “you must think we're running some kind of sheltered workshop just for you over here. You drift in and out, filing the odd column whenever you damn well please, ignoring the wishes and suggestions of your section editor. You spend more time on your own book projects than you do on your column. Then you drift over to Europe without my say-so or Patricia's, apparently to do research there, god knows why, for a column that is supposed to be about Canadian politics and issues. I see no story proposal, no forms filled out, no request for air travel, nothing, nothing. You drop completely out of sight for almost a month and then we get an urgent call from External Affairs saying you are in a jail cell somewhere in Rangoon and can we please confirm to the Burmese authorities and the Thais and whoever the hell else wants to know that, yes, you're on assignment for the Tribune or you may never get out. Frank, I've been in the newspaper business for more than 30 years. You're in for about 25, or thereabouts. What is your best guess about what an editor-in-chief, and a son of a bitch of one at that, would say to a staffer who messes up like that?”

“Ed, there's a lot more to it than that. I'll explain it all to you when I get back.”

“Have you got something to file? What all this about Nathan Kellner? Where's he fit into all this? Can you at least file something after all this nonsense?”

“I'm not sure it's a Tribune story, Ed,” Delaney said.

“What in Christ's name is that supposed to mean? You're over there and you're working for me and you're telling me whatever it is you've got is not a Tribune story?”

“I think it's really more like something for a world readership, Ed.”

“Frank, I'm going to ignore that. I'm going to pretend I never heard you say that. You're a Tribune staffer . . .”

“I'm a contract columnist, Ed,” Delaney said.

“Frank, are you out of your mind? I've been very patient with you for years. Very patient because you're good at what you do. Don't push your luck any further, OK? You are on very thin ice at this news paper as it is. I want you to come in to see me the minute you get back and we'll thrash all of this out once and for all. Patricia has some ideas for changes.”

“Let's sort it all out then,” Delaney said.

“Yes, let's do that,” Harden said. “When are you coming back in?” “Next week,” Delaney said.

“You really are out of your mind,” Harden said.

Delaney had not been dreaming much since his release from Insein Prison. There was never any predicting when he might have what the Jungians would call a big dream. In Bangkok, however, before heading out with Kate, he dreamed this:

He is deep in Quebec woods, the same place where Natalia was killed. But it is summer, not winter. All the snow is gone and the maple trees and the elms and the oaks provide a green canopy, shading him from the hot sun. Cicadas whine and there is birdsong. All is peaceful. He walks slowly through the trees, knowing exactly where he is to go. He comes into a large clearing and there before him is a round lake, smooth as glass. A perfectly circular mirror. The still water reflects the blue sky and white clouds overhead. There is a long narrow dock heading out to the centre but it does not quite come all the way in to shore. He must make a leap from the water's edge onto the wooden slats of the dock, one last leap before he can walk out to the exact centre of the lake. He is almost at his destination. He hesitates, and the dream ends.