Missing Louise

by Nicholas Frankcom

  Throughout Mike’s detailed explanation Jean’s expression turned from one of passing interest to that of amazement and rising disbelief. She seemed barely able to contain her excitement and fidgeted constantly, biting her lip on several occasions as she listened with increasing focus.

  “I know her, I know Louise Pemberton!” Jean beamed back, trying her best not to put a hand to her face as she spoke.

  “You’re kidding me,” Mike replied, the only thing keeping him from dismissing this as a hoax was Jean’s face, fully lighted with a heartfelt smile.

  “Yes, Louise. I met her on Koh Chang back in November with my sister Shell. I don’t fully understand what must have happened, but she left in a hurry. We had a night out and became parted, I don’t know about this creep, some gawky English guy that had the hots for her, maybe she lost him, but when we called around for her the next day she had gone. We were real concerned at first, though Louise was a smart vixen, so we figured she must have moved on. She had plans and seemed a tough old cookie, not the type to invite trouble. After that my sister went home and I took a trip out to Cambodia. It’s the last I have heard her name mentioned until just now.”

  Mike and Rusty took this information in, mulling over the fact that no sooner had they found the trail to Louise than it fell into a blank wall. It was so close, though not quite close enough. Already she could possibly be lost to them. By the look of things she was out of there, possibly with some creepy guy hanging around. Asia could be the best and worst place to travel at times. There was always something. They looked at each other dejectedly, before returning their gaze to a more upbeat Jean.

  “Anyway,” she continued, scratching her side temple as she spoke. “I think I know where she might have gone!”

  Seven

  The poor condition of the road created a plume of dust, making the view behind semi-visible. The mirrors were all but useless. Visibility was on a par with the heavy dawn fog which often shrouded the Mekong. The vibrations alone were enough to ruin any chance of a clear image. A shard cracked and fell, blinding him further. A brief look over his shoulder revealed a shape ploughing up the mud from rutted verges. He could just make out a battered bonnet. There was little mistaking, the white pickup truck was trailing him. With a wider section of rare tarmac on the road just ahead, the pickup was choosing to accelerate. Opportunities to overtake were rare, although so was the need given the rural location. The driver probably knew the isolated road; knew where to quietly hide and where to strike. They must have been watching, patiently waiting for him to drive by. In all probability they would have done their homework and known that the wait would not be too long.

  This was a lonely stretch of the road, far from the nearest village offering plenty of tree cover able to hide a whole army, hardware included. It was a perfect place to stage an ambush, a car-jacker’s utopia. Pin clasped the steering wheel hard, fighting for greater control, before pumping the accelerator to release enough power in the old Toyota Carina to pull away. With long segments of pitted road in store, the venerable Japanese car would be in grave danger of breaking up at this speed. The heavy-duty shocks supporting the pickup behind would hold out much better, cushioning more of the damaging potholes. It might only be a matter of minutes. Heavy grinding noises churned out from the vibrations were already hinting at something terminal. A fork in the road ahead presented Pin with his only viable choice. Timing to precision, he pulled hard on the wheel and held on. Biting down hard on his tongue he fought for control. All pain was lost in the moment.

  The Toyota lurched to the right, hit a bump and ground out the sump. Briefly losing his grip on the wheel, Pin fought to keep the car from going over. His elbow connected with his petrified front seat passenger, knocking him against the window. There was no time to check the rear-view, even if he could see, but the pickup would soon be in close pursuit. The sudden turn would create momentary confusion, though would do little to throw the tail. With the road thinning into an impassable track, he aimed the car over the rutted verge towards a clump of tangled bushes. It would have to do. Racing towards the first of the spindle like branches, he pulled hard on the handbrake and spun the wheel. The Toyota lurched sideways on, the sudden force bursting a tyre, with the explosion resembling a thrown grenade. The locking shudders burst the door open, an advantage Pin had not counted on. With a forceful shove, he pushed the cab’s other screaming occupant out through the hole, closely following behind. Rolling out, he pulled at the strap clipped to his loaded Kalashnikov, taking it with him. The robust SLR easily coped with the jarring fall to the ground. Pin admired and knew this weapon intimately. The rifle was every part the wielder’s legend. During years of bloody dogfights it never let him down. Whatever the conditions it never jammed, could hammer through the magazine during any monsoon or dust bowl. His was a genuine USSR model, razor sharp in accuracy, legendry in the pit of a fire-fight; not an inferior Chinese copy that his adversaries mistakenly carried. He fancied his chances in any backwater skirmish. Slipping off the safety, he was ready to fire before he came out of the roll from his forced exit. He lay prone facing the road behind them. With the stalled Toyota now covering them from a frontal assault, Pin risked a quick rearward glance.

  “Down!”

  His frightened passenger needed no further coaxing and lay flat against the nearest spindly bush. If he were bruised from the fall he wasn’t showing it. Focusing again, Pin looked to fire beneath the car. The gap provided a near perfect slot for aiming at his pursuers, without them getting a clear view in return. He waited as the white pickup mounted the steep verge and accelerated towards them. Pin could make out little through the accompanying cloud of dust, but counted at least two or even three in the front cab. Their focal point would be on the Toyota, not on the arid grassland and desolate bushes behind. Pin chose his moment and fired. A lethal volley of shots spat out from the oiled Kalashnikov, peppering the pickup with holes. Pin clenched his teeth and kept firing. The windscreen exploded inwards as the pickup charged out-of-control, veering sharply to the left. The head of the driver lurched forward, his lifeless body gripping the wheel as if skipper of a ghost-ship, as it smashed head-long into an outcrop of sharp granite rocks. The grinding impact spewed bodies out as it rolled over, bouncing twice, the doors flapping, before coming to a rest at the foot of a hill.

  Pin waited. He motioned behind him, his flat hand hoping to help calm his terrified passenger. His charge would have to wait, lying against the scattered scrubs in clear shock. His ashen face and far off gaze suggested that he was not planning on going anywhere. Pin had no option but to go forward and investigate. This was the moment of exposure and danger. The driver was dead and maybe his passenger. He had seen them thrown back under the fire of his gun. They would have taken the brunt of his ambush. But if the pickup cab held three things got murkily dangerous. The other might well have shared the same fate, though could just as likely be lying in wait, willing him to walk into his sight. Pin crawled forward and listened. The eerie silence told him little. Perhaps a wounded man might be crying out in agony, but any able bodied survivor would be perfectly capable of being very still; happy to blow him to bits the second he showed his head. If any passenger hadn’t wanted him dead before his lethal volley of shots, they certainly would now. A car full of slain comrades would ignite anger and hate, fusing the powerful combination into a formidable adversary. Any survivors would be baying for revenge and blood.

  Making use of the cover, Pin skirted around the Toyota and took a closer look at the pickup. The white truck had righted itself at the end of its deadly somersault. A torrent of steam laid testament to a punctured radiator, shot to pieces with a barrage of lead. There was no movement or sign of life, prompting Pin to gingerly edge forward. All the time as he closed in his finger tensed over the trigger. Approaching the cab he counted two bodies through the shattered glass. Both had taken head wounds, their arms thrown together in a grim lover
s embrace by the force of the crash. A low but gargled moan drew him around to the side, where he spotted the third occupant crawling out of the vehicle. Saliva and bile slipping from the wounded man’s open mouth pointed to severe internal injuries and a life force wringing out its last breath. Ping felt little compassion as he studied the dying man. He knew that there would be no fanfare of sorrow if the situation were reversed. The man wore no uniform, though this didn’t exclude him from active employment at any number of government agencies. And if he worked independently, the gang had demonstrated a high level of organisation, despite having lost heavily in the fire fight. Luck may not have been with them on this occasion. Any deviation from the events that they had just played out could easily have left him dead. Ping was in no doubt that he was facing a formidable enemy, one with far reaching arms. It could be one of the gangs, but corruption was written all over the stinking truck. Either a covert capital dept was in the know, or a high-up official was on someone’s deep payroll. The modernising government had long ago risen above such things, but they failed to hold the strings tight enough on occasion. He considered putting a bullet into the figure below him, a last act of mercy, only to note that his act of clemency was no longer required.

  His decision to kneel beside the body and check for ID saved his life. With his focus on the wreckage of the pickup and its bloodied passenger, he momentarily exposed himself to a sharp rising hill up beyond the pickup. A burst of shots slammed into the cab where he had been standing. He was fleetingly startled by a figure charging down the hill. The man must have escaped from the pickup soon after the crash. It was the only plausible explanation. His adversaries were resourceful but Pin found it hard to believe that he was told to hide here in the event of any chance encounter. The hair was shoulder length, longer than the norm, like a warrior of old China. At some level Pin found this incredulous, that in the modern age a gunman would consider such a charge. With an SLR pointing the way, a wild battle cry accompanied the man’s solo assault. Pin was quick to level his own Kalashnikov at the advancing assailant and prepare to fire. He pulled the trigger. A mechanical click pushed on an empty magazine. With the sickening rush of panic, Pin dived over the body, still sprawled by his side. Bullets ricochet off the paintwork, close to his head. Crouching behind the corpse he drew a knife and hoped. Wild with blind fury, the gunman charged in. Realising the inadequacy of his small knife, Pin held the door and slammed it forward. Raising his rifle for a last killing shot, the gunman realised the action too late. The swinging door knocked the gun harmlessly off target. With the weapon pushed to one side, the gunman lost balance, catching his head on the door as he fell. He slumped over hard onto his side.

  Pin swiftly jumped to his feet, dancing around the protruding door to hastily retrieve the discarded gun. It was obvious that his attacker was either dead or unconscious. The man lay completely still. Reaching knowing to the neck, Pin checked for a pulse. Happy to locate a slow, rhythmic beat, he straightened up. Keeping the man alive could be useful to him. He now had a source to reveal what these men knew and who they were working for. Intelligence kept him one step ahead, something he needed now more than at any other time during his turbulent life. Looking at the scene around him, he felt that there were very powerful enemies around, sinister forces that chilled him and would stop at nothing to achieve their goal. He had to know who they were and what they knew. If they were government related he was in deep and murky trouble. More would come, next time better prepared.

  After checking on his unconscious captive more thoroughly, Pin made his way back to the Toyota, skirting around the car to the bushes beyond. Sitting up rubbing his eyes, in total disorientation following the events of the past few minutes, sat the farang, a westerner he had come to know as John. His dazed appearance suggested that they should move swiftly and return to where the others waited. Getting back to the camp safely was now his only concern, preferably with no further armed interruptions.

  Eight

  Jean said it so casually. She knew where Louise Pemberton was headed! Those words of insight put them on a path that had so far taken three days. Stating that she was at a lose end and firmly insisting on accompanying them, Mike now found himself in a mini-bus travelling across the “Friendship Bridge” on the border with Laos, duelling for foot space with the Kiwi’s ample legs. He found it hard to counter her argument that she would be infinitely more approachable if and when they encountered Louise. Rusty seemed to take more exception to their new travelling companion, a standpoint which Mike felt mildly bemused by, considering Jean’s natural whit and rounded buttocks.

  With no viable alternative, from Trat they took an overcrowded bus to Bangkok. Following his last encounter with the buzzing metropolis, much of the magic of Thailand’s capital had dimmed for Mike. Returning so soon caused an element of unease, worries of the back-alley mugging fresh on his mind, though there was little choice in their transit city. Bangkok was still the humming hub of communication, the central piece of South East Asia’s vast transport network. On arrival the train north was fully booked, leaving little option other than a further crowded bus to the border at “Friendship Bridge”. With inevitable connection delays, the journey took an exhausting three days, much of which was spent chasing sleep in broken reclining chairs under cold air-con ventilation. His hopes of catching Kae in the rush were dashed in the mad clamber for connections, leaving him with no alternative other than to leave a jumbled message about the goose-chase to Laos. He hoped calming conversation with the Thai would have helped focus many of his current questions and concerns. He still saw himself as the amateur sleuth, bumbling along on a journey directed more by lady luck than skill.

  A jaded Mike finally stepped out of the minibus that served as a shuttle and looked back over the modern bridge that spanned the legendary Mekong, the long meandering river marking the border between Laos and Thailand. The only information that Jean was able to convey had been that Louise was planning a trip to Vientiane when they had last spoken. Jean was convinced that Louise was looking to a prompt start on her next stage of travelling, and bar any unexpected downfall (or more likely, a change of heart and direction) was several weeks and a couple of thousand miles ahead of them. This was a scrambled conversation when the two girls were sharing an illicit smoke in front of the fire eaters on Lonely Beach. The details were fleeting and vague, though it was enough to set their makeshift party off on a lengthy overland trip to the Laotian capital. It wasn’t as if they had anything else to go on. The trail before them would be cold with many possible paths or dead-ends, but at least it seemed they were making headway.

  The sketchy details prompted a torrent of questions from Pemberton when Mike finally called him from a coin eating payphone in Trat. His aloof and lecturing manner weighted the questions with double edged requests, plying Mike into elaborating on what they had, which was in fact very little. The underlying fact was that Louise was still alive, or at least was when she shared the joint with Jean, which though enough for Mike, was not wholly enough to satisfy Pemberton. He said that he needed details to give his ever-pressing wife. Mike mused that this was down to the fact that Louise was still not making any contact. Whatever agenda Louise possessed was not one she wanted to share, certainly not with her parents in any case, though the real reason could well lie at a more sinister level. Maybe she was too afraid to drop in for a chat with her folks, perhaps even unable? It was probably useless to hypothesise, given that from what they knew pretty much anything could be going on. Mike terminated the call with a promise to phone again, no matter how small the news seemed. He was well aware that this was more an order than request. Even if Pemberton weren’t his temporary paymaster, the demand still would have been made. Pemberton firmly believed in a world of big pegs and small pegs. Mike was under no illusion what size the older man had in mind for him. By contrast, Louise seemed not to have inherited this trait. As Mike remembered, she would often take the opposite stance, p
romoting equality for all during powerful debates in one of the High Street pubs. It bemused Mike how they could possibly be related.

  Passing through the customs post shed no further information, though if they knew any details of Louise Pemberton passing through, the guards were unlikely to let a group of three dishevelled backpackers in on the latest international bulletin. Language difficulties did little to help the matter. Visas could be purchased on the spot, organised paperwork of any kind being an afterthought. That way the exact accounting figure could never be published. The only maintained records were for regulars, known smugglers and gun runners. These were probably only kept for purposes of bribe. Petty criminals could easily pay their way across. Unless the guards remembered her personally it was highly unlikely that even professional detectives from Scotland Yard would even get much out of them. With few other ideas in mind, the plan once again reverted to the only one they knew. Guesthouses and bars would be checked and information boards plastered with notes and makeshift posters. The three agreed that they should check in to a guesthouse in the heart of the transitional travelling community, one where Louise might well have chosen through any distinctive charm or convenient proximity to attractions or backpacking facilities. Although this worked very well on Lonely Beach and Trat, Vientiane promised to prove a tougher proposition. None of them had crossed this border before. Laos lay unfolding before them in some way similar to a mysterious and slightly unconventional cousin, someone they had heard much about but never met. There was an air of great uncertainly, a scent of tingling danger.