The Burma Effect (8 page)

Delaney did not bother to reply. Instead he sent an email to Mai in Bangkok, reminding her that he would be arriving late the next night and that he would see her on Wednesday. He thought it best not to use the phone for this sort of thing now.

From the Montreal chapter of the CG Jung Society there was an email asking for a progress report on the paper he had been promising for months. He was to write something about war reporting and conflict zones, from a Jungian perspective. He was to look for archetypal elements and images in any aspect of the conflicts he had witnessed. Working title: “Mars and Mercury—Jungian Reflections from a Messenger of War.”

He had absolutely no idea how to begin such a paper, bitterly regretted ever having been persuaded to try and had been delaying matters for months. He was a stray the Jungians had picked up, as a service mainly to Natalia. She had been one of their star members. He messaged Willa Mackenzie, the Society's president, apologizing yet again.

Hi Willa. Thanks for your message. I'm on the road again, London now and Bangkok next, so not at all sure I will be able to get my paper ready in time for the May meeting. Hope this is no trouble. Can you possibly slot someone else in? I will try my best for June. Can't promise, though, as really pressed these days with work and some other personal things. Apols once again. Best regards, Frank.

O'Keefe had sent him a press clipping about a former colleague of theirs who had been fired from the
Toronto Star
and another about the Thai government campaign to promote condom use.

The Reuters men were in their usual supper break places at the rundown Calthorpe Pub on Gray's Inn Road. It was 6 p.m. and they were on the agency's four-to-midnight news desk shift. They were, like Delaney, in their late forties, very experienced, very well travelled and, most of the time now, very fed up with their jobs, with news agency work and with journalism.

Ron Cranwell was from London originally, had lived in Asia for years and was back mainly to give his daughter a chance to finish school in the British system. He was known as a rock solid agency deskman, unflappable under the intense pressure when major stories broke and a good clear writer of news breaks. His thick crop of wiry hair had gone entirely grey since Delaney last saw him.

Ed Stanton was an American who had lived outside the U.S. for almost 30 years. He never expressed any interest in going home. He had covered most of the big stories in Asia and had lived with a series of Asian women, never for more than a couple of years at a time. He had run into trouble with a senior Reuters editor in Singapore and found himself dispatched to London for a spell on the World Desk. His drinker's face had reddened substantially over the years and his paunch had expanded substantially now that he had come in from the field.

“Kellner is an absolute nutcase,” Stanton said after fresh pints were fetched from the bar and Delaney had been brought properly up to date on the latest Reuters gossip. Lately, this gossip usually involved journalists of about their age who, whether willingly or unwillingly, had left the game, usually to be replaced by people half their age, or less. “That's saying something, from a bloke like you, Ed,” Cranwell said. He was tucking into a very large plate of steak, eggs and chips. The chips were blood red with cheap ketchup and malt vinegar. An ashtray brimming with cigarette butts produced spirals of smoke at Cranwell's right hand.

“No, fine, OK, we all like a drink,” Stanton said. “But Kellner's brain was addled with dope as well. None of us were into the dope like Kellner. The guy was floating around the region in a purple haze most of the time. Seriously.”

“Nice writer, though,” Cranwell said. “He still does some nice stuff from out of there.”

“Sure he does, yeah. Of course he does,” Stanton said. “But Delaney's trying to figure out where the guy's gone and all I'm saying is with someone like that there's no way of knowing. Word was he was into all sorts of stuff. Little bits and pieces on the side. You never know how stuff like that will end up, especially in Bangkok.”

“What was he into on the side?” Delaney asked. “Does anybody know for sure?”

“It's just gossip,” Cranwell said. “Bullshit.”

“I don't know, I don't know about that,” Stanton said. “You kept hearing stories.”

“Press club bullshit,” Cranwell said. He drained his pint, got up to get three more. The Irish publican and his waiflike wife darted to and fro behind the heavy oak bar. The place was jammed with locals from a nearby housing estate and a sprinkling of Reuters and commercial TV types from the big office block down the street. A tremendous roar erupted from time to time as tiny soccer players on a TV screen made particularly dramatic moves.

“What was he into on the side, do you think?” Delaney asked again when Cranwell was back.

“Well, he was the guy a lot of them went to for smokers' supplies, for example. A lot of them didn't want to deal with Thais and he was a contact for that. Nothing major, just a little service for the correspondents club guys who didn't want to deal with locals. Nothing big time as far as I was told.”

“What else?”

Stanton lit up a small cigar. Cranwell lit another cigarette off the end of his previous. His ashtray badly needed changing.

“Well, he had a deal with some guys up north to bring furniture down and sell it on to Australia or somewhere. Or New Zealand.” “Furniture?” Delaney said.

“Yeah, chairs and tables, things like that.”

Cranwell snorted. “Bullshit. Who told you that?”

“That was the word, Ron.”

“The word around the Bangkok Press Club isn't worth shit and you know it, Ed. Furniture. Who cares anyway?”

“He also was a sort of consultant for businesspeople who wanted to know the score on how to make deals in the region. He told me that himself one night,” Stanton said.

“Now that would be a nice little earner in that part of the world,” Cranwell said. “That would be something I would want to get into.”

“There's a lot of people wanting to do business with the Thai military, and the Burmese military who'd pay big money for the inside story on any sort of big project, any big deals coming down the pipe,” Stanton said. “Timber, for example, the Thai military guys are big on timber.There's a lot of road construction contracts up for grabs. Thailand and Burma both. Building contracts. Tobacco even. Some of the Australians are pretty keen on Burma around now, for example. Kellner could have made a lot of money just introducing people, giving them briefings, maybe going in to various places with groups of guys.”

“Was he doing that for sure?” Delaney asked.

“The guy was always flush with cash. He always had a lot more dough than he should have had with a job like his. It's what I heard,” Stanton said. Cranwell snorted again. “When?” he said. “A while back,” Stanton said.

“You've been in London for fourteen fucking months.”

“Yeah, OK, but I'm just telling Delaney what I heard.”

“Don't believe a word this guy tells you, Frank. He doesn't know what he's talking about. Never did.” Cranwell raised his glass with a big smile. “A usually unreliable source.”

They all laughed and drank their warm beers, blinking in the haze of cigarette smoke. The crowd in the pub was now far too large for the space. It would be almost impossible to move through the throng and to get close enough to the bar to order another drink. Cranwell and Stanton would have to get back to work soon in any case.

“What do you think's going on, Frank?” Cranwell asked.

“No idea,” Delaney said. “He just fell out of sight.”

“Fell. That'd be right.”

“You going over soon?” Stanton said.

“Yeah, tomorrow,” Delaney said. “I'll go see his girlfriend, try to find out what's what.”

“Now she is a real fox, a beauty,” Stanton said. “I've met her. A foxy lady.”

“You working on a piece, Frank?” Cranwell said.

“No. Just checking out what's what for his family.”

“I thought he wasn't close to his family,” Stanton said.

“His sister's still around.”

“She ask you to check things out?” Stanton said.

“Sort of,” Delaney said.

“What are you really working on, Frank?” Cranwell asked.

“Don't start playing journalist on me now, OK, Ron?” Delaney said with a smile.

“Pretty hard not to,” Cranwell said. “Not much happening around here.” He looked at the seething, increasingly loud pack of drinkers and smokers. “I better get back. There's a fair bit of copy to move tonight.”

“I'm going to have one more,” Stanton said, looking over at Delaney. It was Delaney's round.

After Cranwell had left, Stanton said, “Is Kellner in real trouble, do you think?”

“He's been gone for month,” Delaney said. “No one has heard a word from him for a month and it's Southeast Asia.”

“I think he's bought it. I think someone's probably snuffed him,” Stanton said. “How do you figure that?”

“Oh, just a feeling. I've worked with guys like that on and off over the years. Someone eventually snuffs them or maybe they get killed in the field or in a car accident or whatever. They're hiding out in Asia but they usually end up dead. Even an overdose, or whatever. Or some deal goes wrong or the guy puts his nose in a story he should have left alone or it's to do with a girl.There's a lot of ways to piss people off in that part of the world, Frank. I've done it myself.”

Delaney raised his glass in a toast.

“You need a hand over there, Frank? A fixer? A driver?”

“I've got one lined up, Ed, thanks. A driver I used to use whenever I went over. He's good.”

“OK. If Kellner's pissed off the military you're going to need a local guy with you.”

“Yes.”

“What are you actually working on, Frank?”

“I'm a Good Samaritan, Ed.”

“Right. Of course.”

Delaney walked down Gray's Inn Road with Stanton to the office. It was 7:20 p.m. A camera crew was coming out of the giant revolving doors. Cabs idled at the curbside. After Stanton went in, Delaney ran for the 19 bus. It was an ancient Routemaster, with an open area at the back to hop on. He was not in a hurry and the slow swaying ride down to Piccadilly on the old double-decker would give him time to think.

In some ways, the situation already seemed obvious. Kellner had run afoul of someone, somehow, and they had taken him out. Delaney was almost sure his assignment now would be to find out where Kellner's body was and who had killed him. But Stanton's talk about business deals and consultant work left open the possibility that Kellner had simply run off to avoid debts or a bad deal or an unhappy client. But would he have left Mai behind? Kellner was not the sort to ever be without a woman, no matter where he was.

The giant Jamaican bus conductor was panting heavily after climbing up the stairs to the second level to collect fares. On the old Routemasters after a certain hour, the older conductors preferred not to bother at all with the second level. There were very few passengers upstairs. This would be his only sweep of the upper deck for an hour or so.

Delaney gave him a five-pound note. The Jamaican stood on the swaying floor, his substantial weight braced against a seat behind.

“What the fuck's this, man?” the conductor said. “Coins, man. One pound.”

“I've got no coins,” Delaney said.

“I don't want no notes on my bus, man. I don't want no folding notes on my bus.”

“I've got no coins,” Delaney said again. It had been awhile since he had had the Routemaster tourist treatment.

“One pound,” the conductor said again. “Coins only, man. I want coins.”

“Leave him alone, you old bastard,” said a gingerhaired Irish teenager in an LA Rams sweatshirt. “He's a Yank tourist, isn't he? He's got no fucking coins. Leave him alone.”

The conductor pressed a rubber strip above his head, twice. A bell clanged down below and the driver stopped the bus with a great lurch.

“Off my bus. You both,” the conductor said.

“Fuck off,” said the ginger-haired kid. A Japanese couple up front looked back, alarmed.

“Off,” the conductor said. “This bus going nowhere tonight, man, till you both get yourselves off.”

“For Christ's sake,” Delaney said, regretting he had chosen to put himself in the way of this particular London Transport experience. He got up and moved to the narrow bus stairs.

“I'm not going anywhere,” the Irish kid said. Delaney got off somewhere in the theatre district, amid a small Monday night crowd of tourists and young drunks in from the suburbs. The argument on the top deck of the bus raged on as he moved away. The driver got out and lit a cigarette, leaning against a huge red fender in the fading London light.

Delaney ate in Chinatown, at a place he remembered on Gerard Street. It was full of Asian families and other large groups. He was the only one eating alone and the waiters seemed perplexed. He caught himself thinking that Kate would like London, would have liked the scene on the bus, would like the Chinese food he was eating by himself. He resisted the impulse to call her on his mobile phone.