The Delightful Life of a Suicide Pilot

by Colin Cotterill

  That night, the general spent more time on the toilet than in his bunk. Sometimes the two overlapped. It gave him many hours to think about his encounter with Captain Jame. It hardly seemed possible the old man was able to read his mind but that “hardly” was doubt enough. He hadn’t seen the many prewritten entries in the ledger that covered all the possible greetings the general was likely to make. He hadn’t seen the ladder up which I carried the cockerel. He hadn’t seen me creep into his tent during the afternoon and put a laxative called nigari in his green tea. And so, in his mind, there were the seeds of doubt. And the next time he met Captain Jame to play shogi, the general was so busy thinking and double-thinking for both of them that he lost every game. Jame was inside his head and would remain there forever.

  “Nonsense,” said Daeng. “It’s all nonsense. What we need is a good murder.”

  Chapter Five

  The Pole Jumper

  Chief Inspector Phosy stepped off the military plane onto the uneven grass landing strip in Vang Vieng. A small herd of goats had panicked when the Antonov landed, then they regrouped when it took off. Phosy was accompanied by Second Lieutenant Jiep, one of the bright young generation of policemen handpicked by the chief inspector himself. There were so few men and women he could trust in his own police force. Phosy was intent on building a department he could be proud of. In total he managed two thousand officers nationwide, many of whom he had no cause to respect. Some, not threatening enough to be sent for reeducation, were left over from the old regime. Most had taken a sideways step from the military, undergone a crash course in peacetime law enforcement, and returned to their hometowns to extort money from the few people who had any. It would be an uphill task to change such a system.

  Phosy was forty-nine years old in a country where the life expectancy was fifty-two. That gave him three years to fulfill his dream of a slick, efficient law enforcement network. He hoped it might grow from the twenty young people he’d selected and trained and whom he referred to as “the squad.” He’d logged his absence from his office as a training day for Jiep. There were those who questioned Phosy’s habit of running off and conducting investigations when he should have been signing papers and shaking hands. But he’d lost contact with an officer. Sihot was a friend. They’d worked together on numerous cases. And, as Phosy reminded everyone, no one was better qualified to find a missing person than he was.

  His first call was to the police station at the intersection of the main highway; more a kiosk, as it turned out. He’d sent a message ahead to say he’d be arriving but wasn’t surprised not to be met at the airstrip. So when the Antonov resumed its journey to the military camp at Kasi, they were alone all but for a herd of goats and a 1953 Renault with the word taxi written on a cardboard sign on the dashboard. The driver had picked up Sihot four days earlier and taken him to the police box on the north-south highway. As the officers headed there, Phosy admired the beautiful setting. The dark emerald karsts stood proud above lime green rice paddies that bordered the fast-flowing river. He could understand why the Vietnamese might select this area to get away from the frantic pace of Hanoi.

  Village Police Sergeant Ookum was contemplating his next case on a hammock strung between two wooden posts. Phosy prodded him awake. Sergeant Ookum focused, smiled, and said, “Hey, man. What’s up?”

  Phosy helped him out of his attitude and his hammock with a sound kick. The sergeant seemed more irked than censured.

  “You remember me?” Phosy asked.

  “Sure,” said Ookum. “You’re the guy who trained us in Vientiane.”

  “That’s correct. But since then I’ve become the chief inspector of police.”

  “Wow, man. Congratulations.”

  Phosy shook his head, went to the only desk in the kiosk, and opened the top drawer. A small arsenal of joints was lined up in two ranks.

  “Are you high?” Phosy asked.

  “Only high with the honor of representing the Royal National Police Force in the execution of its duty,” said Ookum, and decorated the sentiment with a jaunty salute.

  “You do know there’s been nothing royal since ’75?” said Jiep. Phosy was pleased that the young officer had the confidence to speak up.

  “Oh, yeah. Right. It slips my mind sometimes.”

  “I need you down off your cloud for a while to answer some questions,” said Phosy.

  “I’m totally off it, General. Ask away.”

  “Captain Sihot.”

  “Lovely man.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He went back to Vientiane the day after he arrived.”

  “You saw him leave?”

  “Not with my eyes, you know? But he said he’d be leaving then and I had no reason to doubt him. He seemed honest.”

  “Did you accompany him on his investigation?”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did he tell you why he was here?”

  “Yeah, that I know for sure. He wanted a guide.”

  “Did you find him one?”

  “You’re damned right I did, General. Ouan down at the old resort. Public service is my creed. No job too difficult.”

  Vang Vieng was something of a ghost village. Close to midday there was nobody on the dirt tracks. Dogs scratched in the shade of huge water jars. The taxi passed a deserted construction site with a sign in front that read Happy Guest House to be built here. The owner was obviously gambling that one day there might be a rush of foreign tourists discovering this Eden. Phosy hoped, with little confidence, that his Lao brothers and sisters might keep their mouths shut, forget tourism and profits, and leave the pretty views to the locals. As Civilai used to say, tourism had a way of deleting all the wonders that attracted it in the first place.

  “And what did you learn from our encounter with the local police person?” Phosy asked Jiep as they drove through the village.

  “He was high, sir, on duty.”

  “He certainly was, boy. And why didn’t he know anything about the case?”

  “Because Captain Sihot wasn’t confident enough to share the details with a stoner?”

  “You’re quite right again,” Phosy said with a nod. “Which is why he asked for a guide. Someone hopefully more reliable.”

  “And you’ll fire the sergeant?”

  “Not at all. Police boxes all over the country are run by Sergeant Ookums and worse. Eventually, we’ll replace them, but there are good points. The sergeant was at his post, he was in some version of his uniform, and there was a bicycle parked outside.”

  “Why is that a good point?”

  “Because if he was corrupt he’d have a motorcycle. No, boy, he’s friendly enough. I’m sure he gets along well with the locals. He’ll keep.”

  The taxi pulled up in front of the old French resort. The cabins had long since yielded to the monsoons and many were without roofs. But, according to the sergeant, the restaurant was still functioning and provided fare for visiting cadres and those lost on the highway. There were a few wooden tables in front of a bunkerlike structure. Phosy called for service.

  “Good day?”

  From the rear of the building came a pudgy man with a random sort of beard that sprouted here and there like the hair of a mangy dog. He was dressed in camouflaged fatigues from a long-ago campaign.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, without enthusiasm. “Welcome to Ouan’s restaurant. Looks like you got here just before the rush.”

  “We have some questions,” said Phosy.

  “Certainly,” said Ouan, “but I don’t see how you can ask questions on empty stomachs. How about a little lunch?”

  The policemen hadn’t eaten since early that morning but they were nervous about a restaurant that had no customers for long periods.

  “How old are your ingredients?
” Phosy asked.

  “I have a refrigerator, Comrade,” said Ouan, as if the life span of food was unlimited once chilled. “I have a generator. Take the weight off your feet. Sit here in the shade and I’ll see what I can rustle you up.”

  He led them to the nearest table and wiped it with his forearm.

  “Perhaps a drink?” he said.

  “Water for us,” said Phosy.

  “Really?” said Ouan. “I have cold beer.”

  “No, we’re on duty,” said Phosy, although the thought of a cool beer there in the middle of dusty nowhere did appeal to him. Jiep had also perked up at the mention of it. But Phosy was the chief of police. He had to set a good example. “We’re here on official business. We’re looking for a colleague of ours. We believe you met him four days ago. His name is Sihot.”

  “Captain Sihot,” said Ouan. “Of course.”

  “You showed him around?”

  “Took him to the karst where that terrible accident happened. That poor Vietnamese gentleman.”

  “And where did you go after that?” asked Jiep.

  “Well, he was asking about a girl,” said Ouan. “He thought the Vietnamese had gone on a picnic with a local girl.”

  “Did you know who she was?”

  “No. It’s very unlikely a girl from these parts would allow herself to be entertained by a foreigner, especially a foreigner with a wife and mistress. If there really was a lass she’d have to be from somewhere else. Probably a Vientiane girl. Low morals down there. Most likely he brought a whore with him.”

  “We’d like to talk with some locals,” said Phosy. “Someone who might know where the girl was from?”

  “Certainly, Officer,” said Ouan. “But first, let’s get you both fed and watered. Special price for our friends in the police force. Captain Sihot loved my fried rice with river crabs. I’m an excellent chef.”

  They had no idea how good a chef he was because the food was spicy enough to strip the paint off a tank. Every mouthful was like swallowing fire. They were hungry so they persevered, but it was only the introduction of two bottles of 33 Beer that allowed them to put out the flames. They completely forgot the “no drinking on duty” rule.

  At first, Phosy put the dizziness down to the temperature and the food. Then he looked across the table at Jiep, whose eyelids were drooping. And when the spoon dropped from the chief inspector’s numb fingers, he knew what had happened but it was too late to do anything about it. The scenery closed in on him and the last thing he remembered was Ouan standing behind Jiep with a satisfied look on his mangy face.

  “You do realize he still hasn’t flown anywhere?” said Daeng. “He claims to be a pilot yet he still hasn’t left the ground.”

  “He’ll take off eventually,” said her husband, somewhat less confidently than on the many other occasions he’d said it. Toshi’s diary had continued to meander through weird territory.

  “And have you not started to wonder about the people he lives with?” Daeng pushed on. “They’re freaks, every last one of them; hunchbacked, grossly fat, half blind and legless. Were the Japs really so benevolent that they’d provide work opportunities for the mentally and physically handicapped?”

  “It was wartime,” Siri reminded her. “They selected a team to prepare a base for the invaders away from the front line. They were probably excluded from fighting because of their physical limitations but were ideal for the work they were called on to do.”

  “Then what was Toshi doing there?” Daeng asked. “If they really did select a team of misfits, what, apart from dull writing, was his disability?”

  Despite the lack of excitement, Siri had persevered with his reading. Toshi’s diary may have been dull but it was beautifully written and Siri was enjoying every image. He knew few of his countrymen could produce such handsome prose. His invitation to help the writer was no longer a rescue mission in his mind and more of a desire to meet the man who’d fashioned the work. It would be the getting together of a writer and a fan.

  They were in the reception area at UNDP; the UN’s development program, what Comrade Civilai had described as the United Nations’ center of ill-advised, overfunded, pie-in-the-sky, misoperations in Laos. Siri was kinder. Even though the UN in Laos wasn’t itself sure of what it was doing there, it did pump in lots of money, some of which filtered down to the communities. Perhaps that was not the way it had been intended but the most successful aid projects were invariably those which wrote corruption into the budget.

  The visitors were there to meet Herbert Roper of the United Nations High Commission for Refugees. He was in charge of the repatriation program. For every thousand refugees on their way to convenience stores and Asian food markets in the West, there was a handful who’d panicked before heading overseas and decided to go back home. Some had spent years in the camps being vetted and re-vetted at a pace so slow they’d started to wonder if the West really wanted them. Many were Hmong who’d been the backbone of CIA operations during the war. The US had made a brave show of accepting its quota but pointed out that America was currently full and could take no more. But still they came to the camps. By the end of the seventies, families were leaving Laos not because they had deep ideological differences with the ruling socialist regime but because they were poor. And there were the Chinese who had suddenly found themselves victimized as a result of bad feelings toward mainland China. And there were those mountain tribes who’d fought alongside the Pathet Lao but had still been forced down from the hills by their former allies to farm the lowlands. There was any number of reasons to flee. Those who could swim took their chances crossing the Mekong. The camps didn’t get any emptier and the UN started to promote the values of repatriation of refugees from the Thai camps back to Laos. Returnees were promised a place to live, forgiveness for previous affiliations, and, most importantly, a guarantee that they wouldn’t be executed. It was not a tempting package unless you figured in the seventy US dollars for every man, woman, and child in the family, free farming tools, and rice for a year.

  The man charged with making all this possible was Herbert Roper, an English anthropologist and linguist. He spoke a number of the languages of the Sino-Tibetan, Indo-European, Altaic, and Mon-Khmer groups and was a veritable erupting volcano of knowledge. He was the gentle type, with the build and manner of a man married to academia. But like many married men he had a secret life. His appetite for beautiful women was voracious and he unashamedly preferred the company of those who had husbands of their own. He was an unlikely but seemingly successful Lothario. Perhaps it was the thrill of the illicit that drew him to bored housewives and them to him. His list of conquests included the wives of men of wealth and power who, had they known, could have ended Roper’s philandering at the end of a razor blade.

  When he arrived, flustered, in the UNDP foyer he was already sweating even though he’d come from his air-conditioned office. He was dressed for a chilly spring evening in Surrey. He gave a soggy handshake to Siri but wiped his hand on his trousers before taking the hand of Madam Daeng. Siri observed that this handshake lasted a little too long for his liking. Daeng didn’t seem to mind at all.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said unconvincingly in fluent Lao. He didn’t take them to his office or invite them to sit. He’d obviously planned for this to be a brief visit. That suited Siri.

  “We’ve been informed that you’re traveling to Thakhek this weekend,” said the doctor.

  “By helicopter,” said Daeng.

  Roper only had eyes for her.

  “That’s true,” he said.

  “We would like to go with you,” said Daeng.

  Roper produced one of those condescending British smiles that leaves a person in no doubt they’ve said something utterly ridiculous.

  “Of course that would be totally out of the question,” he said. “Even if you were a politburo member I’d be unable
to give permission for such a thing.” He started walking toward the door. “I’m sorry you wasted your time here.”

  He noticed the old Lao couple were not following him.

  “But there is a way,” said Daeng.

  “This is the United Nations,” said the man. “It isn’t a travel agency.”

  “Dr. Siri?” said Daeng.

  Siri reached into his shoulder bag and produced a single sheet of paper. He unfolded it and read, “Madam Wojcik. The wife of the Polish consul.”

  He looked up just in time to see what little color there was in the Englishman’s face drain into his button-down collar.

  “I . . .” he said.

  “Recently returned from a trip to Bangkok where a confidential maternity test revealed that, despite her advanced years, the good lady is five months pregnant,” Siri continued. “Whence a decision was made to terminate the pregnancy.”

  “How . . . ?” said Roper.

  “You are based in a socialist state and dallying with a married woman whose husband represents a socialist country,” said Daeng with a smile. “Spying is one of our fortes. How could we not know? It would appear the only ear the story has yet to reach is that of the consul.”

  “Who I believe is an insanely jealous man,” Siri added.

  “I . . .” said Roper.

  “Now, for a waiter or a taxi driver that would not necessarily be a problem,” said Siri.

  “He could just jump on the bus and make a living elsewhere,” said Daeng.

  “But for a United Nations representative, particularly one with a wife and two children of his own, this situation could be a little sticky,” said Siri.

  “This is . . .” Roper lowered his voice even though they were alone in the room. “This is blackmail.”

  “Not yet,” said Daeng.

  “That’s coming,” said Siri.

  “And when it does you’ll be pleased to learn that we don’t want money,” said Daeng.

  “That would be most uncivilized,” said Siri. “All we want . . .”