“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”
•••
Sunday was a full day of events at the Games. Buses and limousines and diesel road trains shuttled the competitors from the village to their respective events. Each country had its own pool of vehicles but the drivers were instructed to give rides to anyone with an official name tag as long as they had room. Civilai had drawn the day shift and would accompany the marksmen to the Dynamo Shooting Range some fifty kilometers away in Mytishchy. They’d be there the whole day so it shouldn’t be difficult to keep an eye on Sompoo.
As the other Lao competitors’ events wouldn’t begin until the following day, Dtui and Daeng thought it would be fun to go to the boxing arena at the Olympiisky Indoor Stadium and admire world-class pectorals and abdominals. They were a little disappointed when they discovered Olympic boxers wore vests.
Once Siri had slept off his shift in a comfortable bed, he jotted down the various tasks he had to perform. First he would go to the Communication Center at the post office and pick up Phosy’s daily telex. At coffee time he had an appointment with Roger at the Nebesa Milk Nook. This, he thought, might be followed by a sauna, a leisurely lunch with wine and a film or two at the cinema. There were no Lao performing that day so he didn’t feel unpatriotic for having such thoughts. And the first feature film of the afternoon would be Distant Journey, a Czech film made in 1950 and directed by Alfréd Radok. He’d never heard of it. He wouldn’t be able to understand the dialogue or read the English subtitles but he considered himself fluent in the intrinsic language of cinema. He and Civilai had discovered that particular voice in their study days in Paris and had been hooked ever since. They could have easily forgotten the Games and spent the entire week in a dark air-conditioned room watching the magic of cinematic genius.
Two telexes to Civilai had arrived from Laos. He and Siri had exchanged nametags so the doctor could collect them. The charmingly efficient clerk in baby blue fatigues looked at the name on the tag, compared it with the name on the telexes and didn’t even bother to look up into the eerie green eyes of the little Asian man in front of her. Siri sat on one of the many overstuffed armchairs and read the messages. He circled the name of the PhD student in Moscow and underlined a few pertinent statements. He went back immediately to the clerk to send his reply.
“Thank you, Comrade Seaweedeye,” she said.
•••
Roger seemed a little upset not to be with the Olympians on the battlefield but he’d been assigned to take instructions from the Lao administrators so his smile never faltered. He had brought with him a roll of papers not much thicker than the original list.
“I’m so sorry, uncle,” he said. “It seems the best the research department can do is provide the addresses and phone numbers. They suggested that handing over private information would be an invasion of privacy. But I get the feeling all the interesting stuff will be in a file at the Kremlin.”
“So much for the new age of openness,” said Siri.
“We wouldn’t want the KGB to be unemployed, would we now?” said Roger.
Siri went directly to the name of Manoi Zakarine on the new list. There were two phone numbers and two addresses beside his name. They were written in Russian.
“Why would this fellow have two addresses?” asked Siri.
Roger took the list. “Ah,” he said. “One is a student residence out near the People’s Friendship University.”
“He shares a dormitory room?”
“It’s a sort of apartment building near campus. Students have that option if they can afford it.”
“So the boy has money.”
“It would appear so.”
“And this other address?”
“Now this used to be a very exclusive address in the center of Moscow. Most of the apartments belong to the descendents of influential people. The rooms would be passed down through generations. A foreigner wouldn’t be able to buy or rent such a place. It’s a short walk from the river. If we were allowed a commercial real estate market it would be the equivalent of a building with a view of Central Park in New York.”
“Then how can he list this as his address?”
“It would have to be a sort of loan, I suppose. The owner would allow someone to live in their apartment, perhaps while they’re overseas or working officially in another province.”
“But he would have been there long enough to list it as one of his official residences.”
“Perhaps a favor from a friend?”
“Or a friend of the father,” said Siri, recalling the information in Phosy’s telex. Of course, Siri had met the old tycoon. He’d found little to like. The man would happily jump into bed with any faction, creed or religion if he thought there was a few million kip to be made. He was fickle even on a personal level and Siri doubted the tadpole had wriggled very far from the toad. Money passed down through the blood of generations. But Siri was open-minded enough to give Comrade Thonglai Zakarine’s son a chance.
“Sergei,” he shouted and signaled for the telephone.
Dtui and Daeng had enjoyed their morning at the boxing arena. It was a vast hall with seats that went so far back you could barely make out the number of boxers in the ring. To offset the distance there were huge screens that showed the action live at ten times its normal size. They sat with some of the runners and the Lao boxing team who had nothing to do that day but be mesmerized. The thought that later that week they’d be down there in the ring with the world’s TV cameras trained on them would keep them awake at night. They were in awe of the skills of the boxers on display, all that is but conceited Maen.
“I can win this,” he said.
His teammates mocked him playfully because they weren’t bright enough to realize he was being serious.
“The only thing that can stop me beating the Jordanian is if they pay off the judges,” he said. Daeng and Dtui had stopped listening to him long before. At the end of one fight, Dtui turned around to talk to Chom the rat catcher in the seat behind her.
“How’s your Botswana friend?” she asked.
“Sammy? We only get to understand each other when Roger’s around. But we compare notes through drawings and hand gestures. Personally from a professional point of view, I think he’s a slave to technology. Far too reliant on gadgets.”
“What do you use?”
“Stealth,” he said, with a perfectly straight face.
Dtui held back a laugh. “Stealth?” she said.
“Study the enemy. Learn their weaknesses. Allow them to defeat themselves.”
“I see,” said Dtui.
“It’s worked for me and my family for three generations. Back then it was for sustenance. Used to be plenty of good meat on a rat back then.”
“Really?” said Dtui.
“They taste a lot like deer.”
“I see.”
“But with all the chemicals people put down you aren’t brave enough to chance eating one these days.”
“That’s a shame.”
“And then there’s the Rat’s Piss Fever,” said Chom. “A lot of places seem to have that back home. That can kill you. Don’t know if they have that here. We’re looking forward to discussing it with Yusov.”
“Yusov?”
“He’s the vermin eradication officer for District eight, right here in Moscow near the village. Roger arranged it. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I can pick up a few tips to take home with me.”
“I’m happy for you,” said Dtui.
Conceited Maen was boasting about some dynamite-bodied blonde discus thrower he’d met after breakfast. He was deciding whether to keep the appointment they’d made or work on the cocktail waitress who’d slipped him her phone number the night before.
Dtui and Daeng decided to move on to some other event. They’d had en
ough of he-men. They were fine when you admired their oiled biceps from a distance but the closer you got the more you had to listen to them. And that was invariably a turn-off in anyone’s book.
•••
Siri had sat spellbound through Distant Journey but had foregone the pleasure of watching The Childhood of Maxim Gorky because he had an appointment. He didn’t have to take public transport. He could have clicked his fingers and a limousine with an attentive driver would have carried him off to anywhere on the planet. But after only two days at the village the service overkill was already getting to him. He’d become conscious of the force field around the village that kept depression out. The swanky department store and burger stands might have fooled most of the athletes but not a seasoned socialist like Siri. So instead he took the beautiful metro to Park Kultury and walked the rest of the way. The Royal Palace in Luang Prabang wouldn’t have made it onto the short list of metro station design excellence in Moscow. He wondered how long a chandelier might last in a Lao bus station.
The block which housed Manoi’s city apartment was only three stories. A height considered a waste of space in the rapid age of development. It probably dated back to the rebuilding boom after the great fire of Moscow in 1812. Roger had insisted there were no longer any elite districts and no exclusive buildings; that a toilet cleaner would have as much right to live there as a concert pianist. But, as apartments were passed down through generations, that would only work if the toilet cleaner’s ancestors had been lucky with the lottery.
Siri leaned against the heavy glass doors and found himself in a small foyer with a deep carpet. The decorations were every bit as ancient and fussy as the old lady seated behind a large desk. Her motorcycle helmet hairstyle had been rinsed pink. An ornate plaque in front of her probably described her occupation but Siri couldn’t read it. She spoke into a clunky walky-talky handset and even before he gave the name of the man he’d come to see, the woman had held up three fingers and pointed to the lift. It was a small cage, the type they used to lock up the criminally insane in France. Despite the poor state of his lungs Siri opted for the stairs. He stopped on the first two landings to catch his breath. He was planning to do the same on the third floor but instead he looked up to see a solid hunk of a man with tattoos. One was the outline of a cobra squirming from one wrist to the other. He was likely of Asian descent but everything else about him said Russian bouncer.
“Siri?” he said.
“Yes,” said Siri.
When Siri reached the top step the man gestured for him to raise his arms. It was a very thorough frisking. When it was over, the bouncer nodded to the open apartment door. As he passed the man, Siri noticed a bulge in the back of his belt that probably wasn’t a tail.
Manoi had perfectly timed his walk to meet Siri in the hallway. He shook the doctor’s hand with two of his own; the politician’s shake.
“Dr. Siri,” he said. “I’m honored.”
Manoi was the type of twenty-seven-year-old who was already on the threshold of middle age. He was overweight with a chin for each decade he’d lived. His hairline was retreating, his eyes were puffy, and his nose was latticed with veins. He was clearly an abuser of himself.
“Comrade Manoi?” said Siri. “I wasn’t expecting you to know who I was.”
“Are you mad, man?” said the youngster. “It isn’t every day a national hero phones to make an appointment. My father talks about you often.”
“Really?” said Siri, trying hard to retrieve his hand. If the father ever did mention his name, Siri was sure it would have been in a negative context.
“Absolutely,” said Manoi. “I’m flattered to be receiving delegations from the Olympic team. Please, come this way.”
The apartment was more spacious than most Vientiane markets. Manoi led him through a series of museum-like spaces, pointing out this and that famous artefact. They arrived at a comparatively small room with an enormous television on one side. It was naturally tuned to the Olympics. The picture window offered up a partial view of the trees that lined the river and the city beyond. A European woman in a French maid uniform stood to one side. She was attractive but heavily made up and not at all friendly. Manoi sat on a velvet sofa and Siri joined him. On the granite-topped coffee table sat two glasses containing a clear liquid. Manoi hoisted one, Siri the other.
“This,” said Manoi, “is probably the most delicious vodka one can buy, yet it costs nothing. It’s Stolichnaya. Only Russians know how to make vodka.”
“It seems a shame to waste it on such an old man,” said Siri.
“It will make you live forever,” said Manoi.
All Siri could think of was the scene in Arsenic and Old Lace where the lonely old man is killed with a poisoned drink. Nobody knew where Siri was. He could disappear in the crime novel sense of the word and nobody would be any the wiser. There was no time to switch glasses so he knocked back the inexpensive vodka and survived.
“That’s astounding,” he said.
“Can’t get better,” said Manoi.
There were a few minutes of small talk about life in Moscow and conditions back in Laos, of the Olympic team and their chances. But Manoi hurried it through so he could get to his question.
“Why did you want to see me?” he asked.
Siri had planned a lot of lies in anticipation of that question; as a courtesy visit on behalf of the Lao Olympic Committee, as research to get a feel for the life of a Lao student in the Soviet Union, as a potential business venture. Everything had depended on the impression Siri gained in the first ten minutes. Things had not gone according to his expectations. He’d imagined a cocky but confused youth squatting in a friend’s apartment, living on a modest stipend until he graduated. No luxury penthouse, no armed guard, no French maid.
“There are rumors back home that somebody in Moscow wishes you ill,” he said.
The young man didn’t seem at all concerned. He held up the two glasses for the maid to refill.
“It’s 1980,” he said. “Have our countrymen still not reached a level of maturity at which they no longer listen to rumors?”
Siri considered that comment to have been directed at him.
“I’m afraid not. The committee felt it was a credible enough threat to ask me to come to see you.”
“Any names or dates?”
That was Siri’s moment. That’s when he should have given the shooter’s name and let the man sort it all out for himself. But there was something about the situation that made him fear, not for the life of the student, but of the assassin.
“Well, comrade,” said Siri. “You know what rumors are like. Nobody wants to commit themselves to a name.”
They waited for the second glass to be filled before Manoi said, “Exactly. But I want you to tell the committee that I am grateful they should be concerned for my safety. And I especially appreciate you coming here this evening. I feel more than ever the love and kinship of my brothers and sisters across the globe. We will never be intimidated by external threats because the Lao heart beats more strongly than that of any of her foes. To Laos.”
They threw back their drinks and Manoi stood to signal it was time for his visitor to leave.
Chapter Eleven
It’s How You Play the Game
Sompoo was scheduled to compete in the small bore rifle event in the morning of day three. Following advice from the Red Army minders, shooters would be confined to barracks the night before their event. Colonel Fah Hai didn’t actually lock his soldiers in their rooms but he did order them not to leave and he checked on them from time to time. They ate their evening meals in their room kitchens. Fah Hai had gone to the Nebesa Milk Nook to explain this to Civilai. The old politburo man took the opportunity of this rare encounter to once again bring up the matter of the discrepancy in the shooter’s names.
“It was a last-minute thing,” said
Fah Hai. “There was nothing we could do. The major was taken ill at Wattay Airport and our first reserve was there for such an eventuality. Of course we didn’t have time to change the passenger manifest or the names on the list of participants. But you’ll see the problem has been sorted out and we have his correct name on the Games’ register.”
Civilai knew the major hadn’t been taken ill. He’d been taken out. And the name on the register was not Sompoo.
“Are you sure you’ve got his name right this time?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just checking. I am the team manager, you know.”
“I know.”
“Then why didn’t you explain all this to me on the flight here?”
“I wasn’t made aware of the change myself until after we got here,” said the soldier.
“And why are you only telling me now?” Civilai asked. “We’ve been here for two weeks.”
“With respect, comrade, this was an administrative matter that I dealt with directly through Soviet military channels. As your position is somewhat . . . ornamental I didn’t see it necessary to trouble you.”
Civilai had reached his limit. “Lad,” he said, “did you notice the flag I was carrying yesterday?”
“Of course.”
“Well, as long as you march behind the colors of our country and as long as I am the representative of that country you will tell me everything, no matter how troubling you might consider it to be. Is that clear?”
The colonel put on a stony face, saluted but said nothing.
“So the assassin is officially shooting under a false name,” said Daeng.
“So it seems,” said Civilai. “I’m sure we’re breaking all kinds of laws and rules.”
“But the name had to check out,” said Siri. “Everything would have to match—the passport, the personal ID card, the Games pass. Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble.”
“I suppose the same people who stopped Major Lien from getting on the flight could have stolen the documents of the first reserve,” said Daeng. “Then all they’d need to do is change the photo.”
The Rat Catchers' Olympics Page 10
