ROAD TO MANDALAY

by Rolf Richardson

  When she had finished, Gudrun had a big smile on her face: “Says he should be here in about two hours. We’re to look out for a white Toyota Sienna.”

  Jim left the Colonel’s man to guard the boat, while he led us along a narrow path to a place on the Lashio road that should be far enough from potential trouble and with a good view of approaching traffic.

  There Jim left us. We had grown very fond of the head-man’s son, so it was tough to say good-bye. Especially for Freddie, who showed unaccustomed signs of emotion.

  “See you in England,” said Freddie.

  “I visit you. See Man United play,” came the response. With total immersion in English he’d soon be fluent.

  The Colonel had told us the border remained closed, although expected to re-open shortly, so the road was still a dead end, with little traffic. Over two and a half hours passed and we were becoming worried, when at last a white dot appeared on the horizon. We asked Su, as the only one not to look foreign, to stand in the road. The white dot became larger; slowed; then stopped. I checked that it had the Toyota logo of interlinking ovals.

  The driver’s door opened.

  From Gudrun, “Igor!”

  Had she not shouted his name, I wouldn’t have recognised the man I had last seen over a dinner table at Cliveden. This man was wearing sandals, a pair of blue shorts and a floppy fawn shirt: but the maestro-style mop of greying hair was the same. Yes, this was Gudrun’s Russian colleague from Stockmann. The charming Igor.

  Gudrun didn’t do hugs, so they shook hands. We piled into the car. Igor did a smart about turn. And we headed for Lashio.

  51

  MANDALAY. JUNE

  Maybe it was the shock of returning to normality, but I only remember odd scraps about the next few days. We arrived in Lashio after dark and put up for the night in an eminently forgettable hotel. Although there were flights on to Mandalay, we were unable to find space at such short notice, so carried on next day by road.

  Igor said they had almost given up hope. Gudrun’s last communication from Ruili had spoken of maybe four or five days to reach Lashio. But nothing had been heard from us for almost two weeks. Cellphones, wi-fi, all those clever gadgets we call civilisation, don’t penetrate the Burmese jungle. In our Dak we’d been marooned in the 1940s. The rescue team had agreed to wait only another couple of days before returning home, their mission a failure. We’d just made it.

  Our Mandalay hotel, modern and centrally located, is slightly clearer in my mind than the one in Lashio only because we spent six days there. Apart from Gudrun, who was in constant conference with Igor and his Stockmann team of two young ladies, we were like hospital patients: do as you’re told and keep quiet.

  They had some thorny problems to sort out. How to explain the sudden appearance of four Europeans and one Chinese, all minus the obligatory entry visa. Then get us on the right side of the law again. We were no longer worried about the local Tatmadaw; negotiations were now taking place at a more rarefied level. Gudrun was always trying to impress us with talk about Stockmann’s international contacts. I sincerely hoped this was not just hot air.

  One day I caught her during a coffee break and asked how things were progressing. She paused, as though wondering how much to tell.

  Eventually she replied with a question of her own. “You know Aung San Suu Kyi?”

  I replied solemnly that I had heard about the Nobel Peace Laureate and now de facto Prime Minister of Burma.

  “And that she went to Oxford?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, one of our members - doesn’t want his name mentioned - is a professor at Oxford. Was a great friend of the Michael Aris, the Lady’s late husband.” Gudrun tapped the side of her nose and winked.

  That was comforting. Provided Gudrun was not fantasising. If she was, we would soon be exchanging our hotel rooms for prison cells.

  For Freddie and Su, their hotel room was already pretty much a prison because Gudrun had ordered them not to go anywhere without permission. Freddie’s rescue had cost a heap of money and one casualty - Panda. She had no intention of losing her prize at this late stage. Freddie could probably not have cared less. Mandalay was back in wi-fi land, therefore much the same as Acacia road London: except it was warmer outside and he now had a girlfriend.

  Alexei and I decided we might as well play tourists. We had the place almost to ourselves, because no one in their right mind visits Burma in June. Mandalay lies in what they like to call the dry zone, which only means that during the Southwest monsoon it’s slightly less sodden than other places. Although miles from any ocean, it’s almost at sea level and therefore also hot and humid.

  This was Burma’s second city, big and sprawling, much of it flattened during the war. But with judicious use of taxis, only walking short stretches and always carrying a brolly, we began to enjoy it.

  We pottered round the royal palace, red roofs and green gardens rebuilt from wartime wreckage. Visited the golden-topped water pagoda at Amarapura. Became Buddha experts.

  Leaving the hotel, we were often greeted by what Alexei called our ‘fan club’; half a dozen children, no older than ten, dressed in red longyi, with a crimson surplice-type garment on top and what appeared to be orange hand towels on their heads. They were... I hesitate to use the word ‘beggars’ because in the west these are people we deplore. But In Burma the giving and receiving of alms is something noble. For this purpose each one carried a large tin potty, not in case they were caught short, but because they hoped to hear the tinkle of Kyats - pronounced ‘chats’, as we donated our coins and notes.

  What we did not see in Mandalay were any of Kipling’s ‘flying fish’. Nor ‘dawn coming up like thunder out of China across the bay’, which was impossible on two counts: China was too distant and there was no bay. The old fraud had never been anywhere near Mandalay. Never mind, it’s great, tub-thumping imperial stuff.

  Unlike Kipling, we had been on our road to Mandalay. And now we wanted out. Which eventually came courtesy of a vehicle old Rudyard could scarcely have dreamt about: a flying machine.

  How they managed it I don’t know and never will, but Gudrun’s claim that Stockmann had contacts in high places could not have been entirely bunkum. After almost a week they handed back our passports, now furnished with all the correct stamps. This must have been especially challenging with regard to Su, who had said she wanted to stay with Freddie and would therefore also need a visa to enter the UK.

  “You happy with that, Freddie?” Gudrun asked. Best to make sure.

  “Yea... ‘course. That’ll be great,” replied our genius. Then, with a grin, “She can look after Cobber. Okay, love?”

  Su smiled and inclined her head. Whether their pillow talk included cats I don’t know, but she already had the measure of her man; more than Alexei or I, even his mother Megan, had ever achieved. Being named his cat protector was the ultimate accolade, her future as his consort assured.

  We left Mandalay early for Yangon. Way back there had been only one domestic airline, Air Burma, which boasted a spectacular accident rate. Now there were half a dozen, who usually got customers to their destinations alive. Anyway, we made it, although approaching Yangon it became scarily bumpy.

  All we saw of Burma’s capital was the airport because it was then on to Bangkok, from where there were plenty of onward connections to London.

  But not until the next day. We spent the night at the Bangkok Shangri-La, right on the river, in unashamed luxury. Say what you like about Stockmanns, it was not afraid to push the boat out on special occasions. We had started our epic at Cliveden and were now winding it up in similar style.

  At dinner Gudrun and Igor made sure there was plenty of the sparkling stuff; and food that was a distinct improvement on Dakota dining. Chatter became increasingly hysterical, as we relived the highs and lows of the past weeks. Freddie Ricketts, our bumbling genius, had been snatched from enemy hands and was returning to his homeland.

  Mission accom
plished.

  52

  CHELTENHAM, ENGLAND.

  ONE YEAR LATER. JUNE

  The invitation came from Su. From an address in Cheltenham. West Country. Very English.

  During the twelve months since our return we had kept in touch; knew that Gudrun had told the British government it was wasting native talent by neglecting Mr Ricketts, who should be helping his country repel cyber-attacks, not festering in a South London bedroom. Stockmann must indeed have some clout, because the government had listened and offered Freddie a post at their nearby eaves-dropping facility.

  Moves were afoot to get Su a job at the same place, but there remained the hurdle of security. As someone able to interpret the mysteries of the Middle Kingdom, she would be invaluable; but could she be trusted?

  On our return from Burma, Alexei and I spent the rest of the summer on some of my favourite Greek islands: first Skiathos, Skopelos and Alonnisos; then on to Andros, Tinos and Syros in the upper Cyclades: places that did not attract the hordes that almost blotted out the sun in high season Mykonos and Santorini. Stockmann had rewarded our efforts with a handsome bonus, so there was no rush to return to full employment.

  Having proved our worth, they were keen to keep us on their books, ready to leap into action again if needed; for this they offered enhanced monthly retainers. Feeling it was not yet time to settle down, we agreed, but for a limited period. This left us free for some consultancy work during the winter, before returning to Val Fornet in early March to enjoy six weeks on the snow.

  And now we were humming along the A40 towards Cheltenham in Alexei’s red Boxster. I still had no need for my own car, but sometimes felt I was living too much on my partner’s earnings. I comforted myself with the thought that I shared the costs of Alexei’s place in Docklands and, should we decide to go our separate ways again, could easily return to my flat in Richmond.

  Alexei’s satnav did not take us to the Ricketts house, but to a hotel which Su assured us was only a short walk away. She was secretive about her guest list, but said it was too large to accommodate everyone overnight in their house. Su had appointed herself social secretary, a necessity if they were not to be hermits, because Freddie still devoted most of his time and energy to computers and cats. But he was pretty tolerant, so the arrangement probably worked pretty well.

  We checked into our hotel and walked to the Ricketts residence, which was indeed only a few hundred yards away. It looked of Victorian vintage, bay windows, high ceilings, probably expensive to heat in winter.

  Su answered the bell; the same Su, tiny, pigtailed, broad smile. As we came in, a voice from inside called out, “Who’s that?”

  It was a voice I thought I recognised. And I did. The voice made flesh was Megan, Freddie’s mother. Hugs all round.

  “Aren’t I a lucky lady?” she said, as we came into the lounge. “Not only a new daughter-in-law; they’re also letting me live in their granny annex. And I mean granny.”

  We were slow to catch on, so Megan led us across the room to a bundle in the far corner. Put a finger to her lips, said, “He’s asleep. But isn’t he gorgeous!”

  It looked to me like any normal infant, but the ladies seemed to think it was something special. There was much clucking and tickling of infant’s chin, which caused it to wake up and start yelling.

  Su went to the bottom of the stairs and shouted, “Visitors here, Freddie. Time to come down.” Then returned to our infant-worship.

  I could understand it with Su. Mothers tend to be dopey about their first-born. More worrying, Alexei was every bit as enthusiastic as the other ladies; disconcertingly broody.

  “What’s his name?” asked Alexei. Unlike me, she had registered the fact that ‘it’ was male.

  “Dak,” replied Su.

  “Dak?”

  Su blushed. “Dak, as in Dakota.”

  “We left the Academy in a bit of a rush,” explained Freddie, who had joined us. “Su forgot her pills. Difficult to find more pills in the jungle.”

  Typical of Freddie to blurt out such delicate matters. We had been living on top of one another in the hull of the old Dakota, so they must have been very discreet, because I had noticed nothing.

  Oblivious to the discussion about his conception, Dak reduced his noise level to a gurgle, attracting renewed cooing from the ladies.

  Baby devotions were cut short by the doorbell.

  At first I could only see two figures: Gudrun and Igor. There was much rejoicing at our reunion. Then Gudrun introduced the third figure. Jim.

  Jim?

  Jim!

  From a Mowgli figure in the Burmese jungle to an English gentleman in a crisp shirt, pressed trousers and brown loafers. No wonder recognition took some seconds.

  “All thanks to Gudrun,” he said in an accent that was better than many who had been born here.

  When we had welcomed the head-man’s son, Gudrun explained, “The best way I could honour my promise to the Colonel was for Stockmann to fund Jim’s further education in England.”

  “He’ll be staying with us while getting his English up to speed at a college here in Cheltenham,” explained Su.

  “And hopefully next year up to Oxford,” added Gudrun. “That’s where Aung San Suu Kyi, the Myanmar leader, went. Maybe Jim will be the first Shan president.”

  The mood as we sat down to dinner was festive. We were just starting on the main course - rack of lamb - when Su mentioned that her parents would shortly be coming to visit.

  “From Shanghai?” I asked. It was a silly question, because Su had told us that’s where she came from, but I was puzzled. She had fled the country in dubious circumstances, which in a society like China often reflected on the family. Yet they were being allowed to travel.

  Quick to catch on to what I was driving at, Gudrun explained, “Xi Jinping is no Putin. The two men may have much the same aim, a place in the sun for their nations, but the Chinese are more subtle, more devious. Not for them the murder of political opponents on foreign fields. Chinese policy is to establish trade links, do business. If a few small fry like Su and Freddie escape the net, no matter; it won’t affect their overall strategy.”

  “But what about...?” I hardly dared mention the name on a jolly occasion like this, “… what about Panda?”

  “No one seems to know what happened to Mr Cho,” said Su, without missing a beat. “Just walked off one day and hasn’t been seen since. There was talk of him having to visit a sick sister in Harbin, but that’s only a rumour. After a couple of months they had to assume he was not coming back and appointed a new Academy head.”

  I was kicking myself for being so stupid as to bring up the subject of Panda, which must surely ring a bell with Megan, who knew nothing about his fate.

  Then Freddie made it a million times worse by observing callously: “Panda’s probably still feeding the fishes.”

  Those of us who knew what had happened, didn’t need reminding. And those who didn’t were bewildered. I was less concerned about Jim, whose English was still not good enough to catch nuances: he would simply continue to wonder what we were talking about. But Megan was different. She must never be allowed to learn the truth. It had to remain a secret between the five of us.

  Desperate to find a diversion, anything to change the subject, I blurted out, “Well, I know someone who’s happy and that’s Cobber.”

  Freddie’s big tabby had taken over the best chair in the lounge. It was his throne, when not out slaughtering the local wildlife.

  “Cheltenham’s ideal mousing country,” Alexei agreed. “Much better than Streatham.”

  To shut out the unmentionable, we fell back on feline inanities. Then found other topics for discussion. There was laughter, as before, but now it was strained. I had foolishly reminded everyone that our success had come at a price: Mr Cho - Panda. He might not have been the most lovable of men, in fact we had scarcely known him. He was simply the victim of circumstance, a casualty on the way to achieving our objective:
the extraction of cyber-king Freddie Ricketts from enemy territory and his reinstatement on home soil.

  First Kuznetsov on the snows of Val Fornet. Then Mr Cho in the waters of Lake Erhai. Both casualties of war, but a strange sort of war, where one protagonist, Stockmann, was engaged in unilateral action against any opponent they thought merited their attention. Stockmann, whose motto was “The Minority is always right.”

  Gudrun and Igor were very persuasive. Their causes seemed just. At the moment. If Alexei and I stayed on their payroll, we would have to make sure that did not change.

  For now, though, it was time to celebrate:

  Freddie was back home and gainfully employed.

  Megan’s difficult son had found himself a girlfriend, who had produced a lovely bouncing boy.

  Jim from the jungle was starting a career which might one day put a Shan nation on the map.

  And Cobber the cat had exchanged the arid hunting grounds of South London for the fertile fields of Gloucestershire.

  THE END

  If you have enjoyed “ROAD TO MANDALAY” why not try Rolf Richardson’s other books, all available on Amazon:

  The Last Weiss (2015)

  Coffin Corner (2016)

  Bear Bugger Cruise (2017)

  Night Watchman (2017)