Savannah yawns, stretches, tries to massage her own neck. “What do we do now?”
“See what they’re up to. Take pictures if anything happens.”
Soccer Fan shuffles from the screens to the barn doors with the baseball-cap dudes behind him. He stands back as the other two haul themselves onto the flatbed and start tossing cabbage toward the cab end. I snap lots of pictures with my work phone.
A baseball-cap dude—older, with a moustache—pulls a well-filled plastic bag from under the produce. It’s about the size of a five-gallon freezer bag, but instead of turkey parts, it’s full of something bright red. I zoom up the last photo I took—the thirteen megapixel camera gives me lots of room for magnification—and discover the red is actually a mass of smallish round pills. Old Cap hands it down to Soccer Fan, who carries it inside the barn. Young Cap brings up the next bag, and pretty soon half a dozen sacks of pills have disappeared into the barn before the baseball caps take a break.
Savannah presses against my back. She’s very warm. She whispers, “Ya ba.”
“What’s that?”
“Pills made of meth mixed with caffeine.”
“That’s redundant.” I feel her shrug. “We’re looking for heroin.”
“Poppies are a fall and winter crop. Meth you can make anytime.”
Right. “Does it smell like anything?”
“Chocolate. Why?”
“How do you know that?”
“Well, first, Thais call it ‘chocalee.’ Second, I tried it once. You can get it anyplace. I hated it, but I still remember what it smells like.”
“Do they need the pots to move it around?”
“How should I know?” Her whisper turns sharp. “I’m not a drug cop. The junta’s talking about legalizing it, so I doubt the police spend a lot of time on it except to get their bribes.”
The baseball caps come outside with bottles of water and gather around the truck’s back end to shoot the breeze with Soccer Fan for a couple minutes. The caps climb back onto the flatbed after they finish their break, then commit more produce abuse. More bags of happy pills surface and shuttle into the barn. After the tenth one, Old Cap shouts something at Soccer Fan, who gives him a dismissive wave.
Savannah warms my back again. “They’re done.”
The caps rearrange the cabbage. Soccer Fan shambles out of the barn and tosses a bulging plastic grocery bag to Old Cap. I’ve seen enough bundles of cash to know what they look like wrapped in plastic. The men throw jibes back and forth, then the caps climb into the truck’s cab and drive off.
Soccer Fan lounges against the right-hand barn door while his phone entertains him. So much for us moving.
His phone rings a few minutes later. The ringtone is something in a minor key with a heavy backbeat. He has a grunting conversation with whoever called, shoves the phone in his thigh pocket, then trudges into the barn.
He doesn’t close the doors.
Soccer Fan wanders to the pile of red-filled plastic bags by the crates. He flips the lids off all three crates, then turns one lid forty-five degrees and sets it on top of the closest crate to us to make a table. Then he dredges something out of the middle crate, dumps a bunch of straw out of it, and sets it on the makeshift table.
It’s a cylinder, maybe six inches tall and six wide, a deep terra-cotta red with black bands around it. Soccer Fan starts fills it with small bags of red pills, then puts a familiar red-and-blue sticker on the bottom.
Savannah whispers, “That’s Shan. It’s a ceramic box with a brown slip. But why put the pills in it? They could’ve left it in the produce.”
“The clay in the pots masks the smell from drug dogs. That’s why these people use the Nam Ton wares to move heroin.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. DEA told me, and they’ve got no sense of humor.”
I check both ways on the road and then, without thinking too long about it, step out of the bushes and scurry to the right-hand barn door. I have a good-but-not-great view of Soccer Fan’s work… but if he turns around, he’ll have a great view of me watching.
A flapping noise makes me glance over my shoulder. Savannah’s pounding the pad of her index finger into her palm, making the sound of a small bird flapping its wings. She looks half-scared and half-pissed. She mouths, What are you doing?
I point to my phone, then Soccer Fan, then point to her and then toward the highway. That seems to piss her off more.
My phone’s camera has a pretty good built-in zoom, so I can get decent pictures of the setup and of what Soccer Fan’s doing in the barn. At least, I can when he gets out of the way. The view from the other door would be much better. I wait for him to have his back square to me, then dash across the open doorway.
My foot lands hard on some gravel. Crunch.
The flapping noise gets my attention again. Savannah’s crouched behind a tree, holding up her hand palm-out: stop.
I plaster myself against the door. It’s at least ten yards from here to the treeline and the only cover nearby.
Nothing happens for a thirty count except for my heart trying to hide behind my stomach. Then I hear it: the scratch of rubber soles on dirt. Noisy breathing. I can smell him—he needs a shower even worse than I do. Can he smell me? Savannah’s disappeared into the thicket, so at least she’s safe unless she does something dumb, like I did.
B.O., breathing. I start a silent count. He’s standing just inside the doorway, close enough to touch. What’s he doing? I mean, other than looking for me?
When the count reaches twenty-two, the breathing and B.O. cut off. The sound of his sandals trails off into nothing.
You can’t get good help these days. Thank god.
I get some decent-ish pictures. Gotcha, assholes. Just as I wonder what else to do, a bright light catches the corner of my eye off to my left, toward the highway.
Headlights. Coming this way.
To hell with the gravel. I bound across the forecourt and duck between a couple saplings with seconds to spare before the front of the barn lights up. A late-model white Toyota Hilux skids to a stop, then jerks backwards to present its tailgate to the barn. Two guys bail out of the cab and march inside. A few very fast heartbeats later, a second pickup, this one black, barrels into the forecourt, backs up next to the first truck, and spills another load of guys.
I meet with Savannah at our blind across from the barn doors. The trucks block our view inside, which means they also block the bad guys’ view outside. I shoot a couple more photos: trucks, license plates.
Savannah hisses, “Let’s go! I’m done with this!” She grabs my collar and hauls me away.
Chapter 45
There’s a metal stool and a small wooden table in the arcade outside the sliding glass door to our room. That’s where I watch sunset paint the clouds gold as they sweep across a lavender sky. It’s still hot, but the breeze moves the air around better than the fan in the room. It’s actually nice out here.
A few other guests—mostly Thais, another pair of westerners—lounge in the arcade or on the bungalow porches. A couple cute Asian kids, maybe eight or nine years old, are playing on the benches outside the front office. A black rooster scratches around the parking lot.
I just woke up. I’ve been asleep for over ten hours. My brain feels like day-old cotton candy. At least I’m not running into walls anymore. My arms and legs are spotted with calamine lotion so I don’t go crazy scratching the bug bites.
The door slides open behind me. Savannah leans a shoulder against the jamb, I think more for support than to look casual. She’s wrapped in that short, thin white robe from last night. Her eyes are at half-mast and her hair’s messed up. “Hi.”
“Hi.” I go back to watching the sunset.
A few moments later, she slides her hands over my shoulders and down my chest. On my way out here I pulled on a clean pair of board shorts but didn’t bother with a shirt. This is more contact than
we had in bed. She kisses the back of my head.
I ask, “Are we speaking again?”
She was angry-quiet on the way back from the barn. Once we got here, she slammed the bathroom door in my face, then went from the shower directly to bed without bothering to dry off or to say a word to me. I took the opportunity to go through her luggage.
“Sorry I’ve been such a bitch.” Her voice is low and sleepy.
“I understand. I put you in danger. You didn’t sign up for this.”
“Actually, I did. This is me exhausted and jet-lagged. Like it?”
“Not much.”
“I don’t either. I usually don’t leave my room the first day I get here. I’m not fit for human company.”
I stroke the soft hair on her arm. Her skin’s very warm. “Is this the first time you’ve come here with somebody?”
“Uh-huh. Sorry you’re the guinea pig.” Savannah kneels by my stool and sits on her heels, close enough to be warm but not touch.
“What are you doing down there?”
“The Thais don’t like public affection. This also covers me up.”
“These are the same people who have that crazy red-light district in Bangkok?”
“That’s for the farang. We’re not there.” She pulls my hand next to her, holding it so nobody can see. The clouds and a few sighs go by. “Get what you needed at the farm?”
“Yeah. I wrote the report for the feds after you went to bed. They emailed me a couple hours ago saying they liked what they got.” All this went through Allyson, of course, but I’m impressed by the turnaround.
“So are you done with the DEA?”
“Afraid not. The barn’s only the Thai end of the pipeline. They want to know where the heroin originates. And I still need to find where Nam Ton comes from.” I avoid mentioning ICE because it makes the story too complicated.
“That’s too bad. By the way, you should wear a shirt out here. Thais think it’s tacky to show too much skin in public.”
Oh, well. I’d like to simply sit here and watch the sun go down, but I hear the countdown clock ticking in the back of my brain. “We need to get ready to go into Myanmar.”
“Not right now.”
“Soon. Today.”
“There’s not much of today left.”
“I know. There must be something we can do. Buy water or something.”
She squeezes my hand. “We need to sleep more. Today’s a good day for that. We won’t get to relax once we go over the border.”
How do I tell her we’re on a deadline? The thought of losing another day may be enough to keep me awake. “The State Department website says we need visas to get in.”
“Uh-uh. Pay the border guard, like, five thousand kyat.” She pronounces it chat. “He’ll wave you through.”
“How much is that?”
“Uh… four dollars. They call it ‘tea money’.”
There’s another phrase I’ll never be able to hear the same way again. “What do we need to take in with us?”
“I’ll make a list.” She stands, stretches. “I’m starving.”
“Put some clothes on and I’ll feed you.”
“Okay. I want to shower first.” She holds out her hand. “Come scrub my back. I’ll make it up to you for being a bitch.”
Bedhead, soft eyes, a dreamy smile—she’s adorable. I feel like such a schmuck for playing her. “Deal.”
We eat dinner at the Tayoung Yunnan Noodle Restaurant downtown, an open stall with pictures of food lining all three walls. It’s apparently famous among western tourists who come to places like this. Savannah orders—in Mandarin—for both of us. The fried dumplings would be good even if I hadn’t gone almost a full day eating only energy bars. Then we raid the So Good Super Mart (an ambitious 7-Eleven by any other name) across the street for a dozen flats of water, canned food, first-aid kits, mosquito netting, bug spray, and some things I didn’t realize we need. “Diapers?”
“Gifts.”
Now it’s nighttime.
Thousands of stars glimmer between the scattered clouds. A more-than-half-moon hovers above the hills to the east. A few lights glow amber behind curtains at the hotel.
I stand at the hotel parking lot’s far edge, hoping the rooster won’t attack me. The cell reception is best out here and I’m as far away from eavesdroppers as I can get and still be on-property. My thumb punches a contact on my work phone.
“Yeah?”
At least she sounds awake. “It’s Matt. Where are you?”
Carson says, “You called, and you don’t know where I am? Coulda been sleeping.”
“I checked the time in Kiev and Toronto, and it’s daytime in both places.”
“Huh. Toronto. You?”
“Thailand.”
“The fuck’re you doing there?”
“Working. I need some advice. Got a few minutes?”
She sighs. “Yeah, okay. What?”
“I’m going into Myanmar tomorrow—”
“The fuck’re you doing that for?”
“Work. From what I’ve read, it’s your basic corrupt Third World basket case. I know you have experience with those. What should I watch out for? Lonely Planet goes only so far.”
“Jesus. You there alone?”
“Somebody’s with me.”
“Who is she?”
“What makes you think it’s a she?”
“I know you. Tell me it’s not that art bitch.”
I told her about Savannah weeks ago. My lack of an answer is my answer.
“Really? The one you can’t trust? Good going, you dart.”
“I think we have that worked out. Savannah’s got an agenda and she needs me for it, so she has an incentive to play nice.”
“And you’re fucking her.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I know you. Tell me she’s useful for more than blow jobs.”
“She knows the area and speaks Thai and Mandarin.”
“Oh.” Surprise. “Okay, listen hard. Know who to bribe and how much. Don’t overtip.”
“Overtip?”
“That line on the expense report? ‘Gratuities’? That’s for bribes. Pay ‘em too much, they figure you have more. Next. Bring gifts when you deal with the local movers. They like western shit—booze, cigs, watches, runners. Anything branded.”
Probably not diapers, though it explains the four cartons of Marlboros Savannah made me buy. “I assume the more senior they are, the better the gift?”
“Yeah. Next. Don’t be an asshole unless you need to. They’re used to asshole Americans. They know you people are usually hot air. Don’t be a pussy, either.
“Next. They come on hard, you come back harder. You show fear, you’re done. They respect strength. They threaten to kill you or rape your girl? You threaten to burn their village.”
“That actually works?”
“Yeah. Done it. Sell a good line of bullshit, you can make it work.”
There are depths to Carson I haven’t even started to explore. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. Listen good to this one. Don’t fuck with the local women unless the men invite you to. Nothing gets you dead faster than getting caught with the warlord’s girlfriend. Hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“Repeat it.”
“Don’t fuck with the local women.”
“Good. Keep telling yourself that. Finally: they like you more if you’re useful. You’re a businessman; so are they. Show them how they win by helping you. They’ll love you… this time. You’re only as good—”
“—as your last deal. That one, I know.” Is she telling me how to work with the mafia or the finance industry? “How do they feel about horse heads in beds?”
“Depends on how they feel about horses. I know places that works. Myanmar probably isn’t one. That help?”
I’m afraid to think that it really could. “Yeah. Tha
nks. How’d your project work out?”
“I’m alive.” Pause. “Watch your ass. Where you’re going is my world, not yours.”
“I know. I wish you were here.”
She doesn’t answer right away. “Glad I’m not.”
Chapter 46
8 DAYS LEFT
I wake up to the sliding glass door clicking shut. Savannah’s not on the bed anymore. Her robe isn’t draped over the back of the desk chair, either.
My phone says it’s 5:18 a.m. I knuckle the crud out of my eyes, then shuffle to the door and peek around the drapes. The coming sunrise paints everything a soft pearl gray. Savannah’s marching across the parking lot toward the place I called Carson from last night. When she gets there, she puts her phone to her ear and paces back and forth, pushing her fingers through her hair.
Who’s she calling at this hour? Somebody back home? She already knows I told the feds about the barn; she gets nothing from telling them again.
Her Chinese friend?
She hasn’t told me yet what she needs me to do for her. Is she setting that up?
Is she setting me up?
The Burmese immigration officer frowns at our passports.
Getting through the Thai border post at Kew Pha Wok wasn’t nearly as hard as I’d thought it would be. Savannah talked to the head soldier in Thai and gave him her prettiest smile while two of his buddies nosed around the truck. She’d told me they don’t really care much who leaves, just who comes in. She didn’t even have to bribe them.
The Burmese checkpoint a few dozen yards away is a whole different matter.
It’s less developed than its Thai counterpart: a shack, a barricade, a sandbagged emplacement next to the red-dirt road. Three guys in the kind of lizard-green fatigues you see in Vietnam War movies are digging under the truck’s hood and seats. One taps the door panels and fenders, probably looking for hidden compartments. They’re Myanmar Army, apparently almost universally called Tatmadaw.
The immigration dude strokes his chin. The chevrons under the blue “Immigration” patch on his short-sleeved olive uniform shirt say he’s a sergeant, if their ranks work like ours. I’m sweating like a horse and even Savannah’s long button-up olive dress shows some dark spots, but the sergeant doesn’t seem to notice the humidity.
Chasing Clay (The DeWitt Agency Files Book 3) Page 28
