Within sight of the potted tarmac they were ordered to stop and wait quietly.
“What do you think is going on?”
The whispered voice belonged to Rusty, once again wanting to know the reason behind everything. It was almost like he was failing to grasp the plot of a film and needed to continually seek answers.
“We’ll be requiring some transport,” Louise replied, much like replying to a ranked request in an army-corp logistics outfit. She was finding the situation easier to manage the more involved she became. “We have a few miles ahead of us. I suspect they’re checking the highway for activity and getting our trucks roadworthy. They’ll not want to be getting going until the light fades a bit more. The roads are little used around here and we would stand out, even though many of the other vehicles will be equally ancient and over-crowded.”
Mike noticed how Louise referred to “our trucks”. The change in her was remarkable. If ever a girl from Portishead could be labelled with “going native” it would surely be Louise. More used to brand perfumes and French red, she was now best contented pushing through vines in a remote Asian jungle. He was not allowed to ponder this image further as John pushed his way past a low branch to be at his side. During their trek Mike had clean forgotten about him.
“The bit that gets me the most is that I was getting to like it back there. I had most things I needed with the added bonus of seeing Louise here swan around with her mid-rift showing. Do you think this Plain of Jars place will have much smoke? I brought a bag along just on the off chance like.”
Mike noticed Louise turn her back on him. No love lost there he thought. John had brought up an interesting point though, what would the Plain of Jars be really like? It would certainly be more open, expose them to the dangers of ambush. Their principle advantage was that the area was remote and mountainous, largely unpopulated. He searched his memory for pieces he that had read concerning the ancient archaeological site. He seemed to remember that the area was huge, covering much of the Xieng Khouang Plain. The jars themselves were perhaps 2000 years old varying in size and design. Although there were over 400 sites most tourists kept to the mapped out two or three. Legend had it that a long forgotten king used the jars for storing “lao lao” rice wine, although modern interpretations pointed towards burial rituals. Many caves in the area housed shallow graves and hand carved artefacts. The Vietnam War witnessed ferocious fighting in the area between the Hmong and Pathet Laos communist guerrillas. The plain now bore many of those scars; large swathes still blighted by unexploded bombs and crippling mines. Mike suspected from what he earlier learned that their initial destination might steer them more towards these ravaged areas than the safer picturesque fields where many of the intact jars lay waiting for the tourists’ lens. He only hoped that they might move on quickly once they took their prize. Too many ghosts already walked the plain. He shivered to think that more might die to join them. A large raindrop caught his nose, bringing him back from deep thought. If John didn’t find any grass it would be the least of his worries.
“We should shelter back within the trees until the trucks are up and running,” Dan called out from the road. “It’s unusual to have such rain this time of year, so just keep dry and hope it passes over soon”.
Any notion that the rain would quickly pass diminished as the sky grew darker. Mike found that by pushing close to a tree trunk he was able to avoid much of the downpour. He saw the others do likewise. Stooping down with his head resting against the bark he closed his eyes and welcomed a surge of fatigue. It felt like an age since he was last able to seek out a proper break. So much was happening, so many things to comprehend. In a whirl of confused images he fell into an immediate sleep.
As he was falling down a dark pit he knocked against a stone jar, disturbing the heavy lid to reveal a beautiful golden face, a smiling Buddha. He reached to touch the smoothness of its cheek, the polished contours, just about to touch before his wrist was taken. He looked at the firm hand taking him and pushing him away. Pemberton was saying he should leave it, bring his daughter back instead. Behind him Louise ran, beckoning him as she went. She smiled, running towards a plane moving through thick green plants. He pulled away from Pemberton and went after her. He tried to pull the stone jar with him, stunned that he was able to drag such a solid weight. The plane taxied towards him, moving faster as it closed ground. With the jar firmly in his grip he moved towards the open door. Louise was calling him, hand outstretched. He went faster, reaching out towards her. As he closed in his shoulder was grabbed. It was a strong grip, pulling him back. Someone was trying to stop him, not Pemberton, a younger man with a ferocious hold. The wheels of the plane clipped him as it began climbing. It shook him and pushed him to the floor.
As Mike awoke he felt a sense of loss. He was missing something, someone was trying to stop him take it. He became aware of a further jolt. John’s hand was on his shoulder, rocking him. Mike instinctively looked down at it, noticing for the first time the frayed nails and white knuckles.
“Come on Mike. Wakey, wakey. We’re all ready to board up now. Next stop, the unexplained wonder of the Plain of Jars. Please fasten your seatbelts as we tumble into the mystical world of the archaeological plunderer.”
Mike ignored the humour and wearily rubbed his eyes and surveyed the scene. It was difficult to gauge how long he was out for, but he guessed it could not have been for long seeing as it was still raining. The low throb of an elderly diesel could be heard from the road close by. Without further direction he made his way towards it. Being this close to the road caused him a fleeting pang of fear, memories of the hijack still too fresh. He guessed that the bus must have come to grief close by but was unable to pinpoint any obvious landmarks. Seeing Louise and Rusty talking by the truck he walked across.
“Here comes the sleeping beauty,” Rusty was quick to call across. Mike was pleased to note that his dry wit was coming out again. Even John was at it. Perhaps the Australian was simply happy to be on the move once more.
“Hi Guys. Did I miss much during my brief nap?” Mike did his best to straighten his hair as he spoke.
“Less of the brief mate!” Rusty jibed. “No, just getting ready to get the show on the road. Got a bit of a journey ahead and our Hmong heavies are keen to get moving soon, especially with this rain. The road isn’t too good and could become a quagmire if we’re unlucky.”
Mike smiled before looking for Louise. She was moving towards the lead truck and soon returned with Pin. The thickset Hmong beckoned them to form a group huddle, a habit learned through Dan and his football antics, though it suited his westernised leadership style, trying to involve all where he was able.
“I want you all to split up as we leave. We are going to be exposed and therefore will be facing some danger. There seems little point in having eager journalists appear because they want pictures of dead farang. I’ll ask the truck drivers to leave in intervals of 30 minutes. If one of our trucks gets hit for any reason others will live to fight on.” Pin’s face was stern as he spoke. They all knew there was great risk from this point on.
Mike counted five trucks in total, all old and all in various states of disrepair. He wondered how long the Hmong had garaged them out here in the jungle in preparation for such an evacuation. Amongst the chaos he found himself allocated to a truck with Dan and Louise. Both Rusty and John were taking a ride in the trailing truck, the last scheduled to leave.
“Hi Guys, looks like a modern day Noah’s Ark doesn’t it, save for the animals that is”?
His remark to Louise and Dan was met with a polite smile but little else, prompting him to take a seat and watch the disembarkation in silence. Each truck housed a mixture of Hmong from various ages to spread their skill set out. Those capable and old enough carried a weapon, the Kalashnikov being the rifle of choice. A few sported utility green grenades fashioned around arms belts, probably untested and
potentially more dangerous to the user. He counted ten or so Hmong to each truck, which given the number seemed to account for all of the occupants back at the camp. Within a short space of time he felt a low rumble beneath him as the antique engine kicked into life. He stood to shout his farewells to Rusty and John in the remaining truck, but found his words lost beneath the noise. Instead he watched from under the canvas as they drew away. It was the first time since they met that he was apart from the carefree Australian. It was more than missing his companionship. He felt a slight ill at ease that events were unfolding far beyond his control. With Rusty close by he would feel better prepared. The traveller portrayed a quiet confidence, a knowledge that he could cope. Mike wanted him here, he wanted the quiet confidence. There were too many things to go wrong, too many complications in a journey to one of the remotest places in Asia. The Pha Bang weighed more than many people together.
Twenty Six
There was little need for a battering ram. The rubber-soled boot did the job just as well. Two solid kicks and the door to Kae’s city retreat splintered, falling inwards as a vested officer charged through, diving to his side. Within a heartbeat a stun-grenade was lobbed in followed by five further armed men. The lead officer fired as he went. It was standard procedure to open up with live ammo during a high profile raid. With luck and surprise all assailants might be silenced before any counter attack could be unleashed. The policy did little to favour any occupants, innocent or not. A wide spray of bullets was intended to neutralise everybody. So long as the primary objective was hit the interior officials were happy and the procedure manual would go a further year without any amendments or reservations. Laotian police were very good with their paperwork and had a wide margin to work with on collateral damage. They peppered the entrance hall with a hail of high velocity rounds.
On the dark communal steps a group of curious neighbours gathered in the early evening humidity. They kept a discreet distance, as much for their own invisibility than for reasons of personal security. Many enjoyed the relative obscurity offered by the neighbourhood and preferred to keep it that way. Plenty held convictions borne out of poverty and opium addiction. They were used to frequent police raids and harassment, but not those requiring elite firearm’s officers. Some saw the insignia and closed their doors. This had “political” stamped across it. They remained inside, careful; not to be seen peeking.
Captain Vaenkeo briefly looked across at the hoard of darkened faces, keeping to the shadows, knowing that they would flee if he took so much as one step in their direction. If exchange of gunfire burst through the door many might be within ricochet distance. This wasn’t a consideration the captain took too seriously. Public health and safety rated low on his agenda. His more immediate concern was in pulling together a few statements. It was important to quickly establish any numbers and identities to recent occupants of Kae’s urban hideaway. He doubted whether any would be willing to come forward, given their lack of visibility within the city. Current profession or visa status might get a little awkward under questioning. It was more likely that bribes or force might become the requirement before willing witnesses could be coerced into signing any documents. Either would be easy enough to accomplish. It was common practice amongst his list of essential duties, only the list wasn’t officially recorded anywhere. You took on the mantle of Captain within PC38 and you had free reign so long as you didn’t fuck anyone over who mattered. For now what mattered was getting some kind of description, maybe even numbers. He didn’t need anything that would stand up in a court of law. There would never be a trial. Once his elite sharpshooters had secured the flat he would simply ask a few uniforms to rustle up some of the more pliable bystanders. For now they carefully watched and absorbed, aware that the operation underway on their doorstep looked serious. Anything involving PC38 would surely be shrouded in the darker side of politics.
A series of vociferous stun grenades and rapid small arms fire brought the show to an end. The captain remained on the external walkway, shielded by three armed officers. The whole assault took only a few seconds, indicating little or no opposition. Kae might be a scheming crook, brought up on a diet of cheap Kung-Fu flicks, but he would surely have put in a performance if cornered. It suggested that Vientiane’s very finest response unit were too late, the little fucker looked to be already on his way.
The men inside were efficient professionals. Moving through the sparse apartment in small numbers, they quickly cleared every room. Doors were forced and rallying shots fired. Long before any impatience were allowed to grow within the waiting captain they were able to realise his fears. Kae and an as yet unknown band of hired mercenaries were gone. The departure looked to be measured, planned. Cupboards were closed and beds made. The apartment looked bare and immaculate. This was no last minute dash for freedom under the lights of the approaching PC38 convoy. Kae and Company was comfortably on their way.
As Captain Vaenkeo fought to contain a marked disappointment, a young officer from the road blockade below ran to his side. He hoped such a powerful autocrat as Vaenkeo might notice the information he bore, mark it down against his record. It would be a big coup in his career. This helped him override his fear in approaching such a fearsome figure, especially one on the receiving end of bad news. He thought his dispatch might help lift Vaenkeo’s spirit.
“Sir, we just received notification from a local station on the Vang Vieng Road. A patrolman limped back earlier this evening from his rounds. He took a near hit from a speeding jeep. There were several occupants, one of which could have been a Thai. No further details, but given the failing light I doubt whether too many citizens would be heading out of town. Fewer still would flout the law in such a way, only if they needed to avoid being pulled over. The fact that they were willing to use force suggests that they could be the suspects we are searching for.” The young rooky stood to attention whilst he delivered his message. He hoped to appear both professional and loyal.
Vaenkeo barely noticed the officer as he digested the information, his thoughts were elsewhere. The summarisation sounded plausible. Few drivers would be keen taking to an unlit road with night-time falling. Not forgetting the potholes, there were plenty of tight bends and a few bandits to worry about. Kae would be armed and doubtless be welcoming the empty tarmac. Your average Laotian would hardly aim to run a police officer off the road. If he were in a hurry Kae would. It all added up.
The cunning Kae had cart-wheeled the net this time. This caused the captain less pain than colleagues might have suspected. His British contact was at his efficient best. His colonel had done well in recommending him. One visit to the Pembertons, a brief shinning smile and all the doors opened up. A selection of letters secreted away from the girl’s bedroom looked to be most revealing. Her paternal pen pal was quite specific on how she might make the trip to Laos. Kae could flee as fast as he liked, but Vaenkeo knew exactly where he was running.
Twenty Seven
“Why didn’t you take better care of her?”
Kae was furious with Vig. The Chinaman was the professional here. Surely he would be able to keep tabs on Jean, their trump card. This wouldn’t be the first time he had a simple kidnap to manage. It was a preferred skill on the job description. If anything this abduction would be easier to organise than most, especially seeing that the girl didn’t realise she was in a kidnap situation (although judging from her current reaction it looked like things had recently changed).
Now with Jean taking off over the mud like a bunny fleeing the farmer’s shotgun, hopes and dreams were fading. His lucrative café bar lay in smouldering ruins, his life rubbed out by PC38. Involving those fascist wankers from the onset seemed such a plan, a stroke of criminal genius with their tentacle fingers. He hoped he could play them into his pit of dreams, keeping the Vietnamese fraternity thinking he was hard at work alone. He needed their dollars and contacts in equal measures. Triad tentacles verses dictatorial pol
ice. Now he rued the day he ever mentioned it. All he now had was this fucking mission; everything was now pegged to it. If the girl got away and chummed up with her friends he was fucked. He would still have to run to the highest hill, this time with no untold wealth.
“Don’t just stand there, get after her! We need that bitch.” His anger produced spit as he spoke.
Kae’s comment was largely aimed at Vig, but all three took off nevertheless. Who would want to hang around and face the wrath of a fuming Asian Mussolini? Vig disguised any alarm as he pursued Jean through the heavy rain and mud. There was an edge of the desperate warlord in Kae’s reaction. Vig was used to a spot of temper letting; Kae’s anger was infamous amongst Vientiane’s colourful underworld. Neither was it unusual for Vig to become the target for Kae’s volcanic wrath. It was the raw intensity, the reckless edge that worried Vig. The barriers were down and now his venom was thrown at Jean, a girl he needed to keep calm, to show trust and understanding towards even if their friendship were lacking in sincerity. He had much to sacrifice, his life was hanging on this one, but Kae was losing it and that spelt danger.
He could just make out Jean up ahead, maybe 50 feet in front. The heavy rain obscured much of his vision. She was making good progress. Vig guessed that with several armed mercenaries hot on her tail she was unlikely to hold back and take in the view. If anything she would be running for Olympic gold. His fear was in getting to her before she had the chance to reach the corner and raise all kinds of hell. He upped his speed, his army training taking over. Over a short distance he could still do it. Any pain became blocked out as he stepped up several gears. His footing was guided by instinct, each step firm throwing his speed forward. He was briefly aware of movement to his side, happy that the chosen aides were very capable of slogging it out through the mud. For a few seconds he was sure that they might just do it. Old aches were ignored as he closed in on Jean. He could now clearly see her blonde hair, darkened by the relentless rain. As he was working on his next move he became startled by a revving engine.
Missing Louise Page 18
