The Rat Catchers' Olympics

by Colin Cotterill

  They were at their regular table in the Nebesa. Sergei had offered to make them cocktails but they’d settled on vodka over ice. This was work.

  “The important thing is that they know that we know,” said Siri.

  “Who are they?” said Dtui.

  “That’s what we don’t know,” said Civilai. “But we do know they’re monitoring our telexes.”

  “How do we know that?”

  “Phosy’s last telex sent regards to Comrade Daeng,” he said.

  “So?”

  “It’s one our codes,” said Daeng. “He never calls me ‘comrade.’ It means our communication is being compromised.”

  “You and Phosy have codes?” said Dtui.

  “Not many,” said Siri. “We tend to forget them.”

  “Amazing how little a husband and wife know about each other,” said the nurse.

  “Dtui, it’s not an affair,” said Siri. “It’s just a few little tricks we put together when we were on the trip up north last year. But the point is that someone’s been reading our telexes. Everything we’ve shared with Phosy and everything he’s told us are now general knowledge.”

  “Have we completely abandoned the possibility that the cousin misidentified the photo in the newspaper, that Sompoo is actually just a substitute, and that there is no planned assassination attempt?” asked Dtui.

  “The colonel lied about Major Lien’s being sick,” said Siri.

  “Less embarrassing than saying he was arrested for racketeering,” said Dtui.

  “Yes, Dtui, you’re right,” said Siri. “All of that is possible. But the fact remains that someone is reading our telexes and that has probably led to an incident in Vientiane that left a man dead. Even if everything else is of our own imagination we still need to find out what it is we’re onto that’s making everyone so jumpy.”

  “Then if we’re putting together theories, what about this?” said Dtui. “What if someone else in the shooting squad is the assassin? What if they saw Major Lien at the airport and recognized him, or thought that Lien might recognize the assassin? What if he arranged with his people to get the major bumped from the flight and bring in the reserve? That would mean the reserve, Sompoo, is innocent and somebody else is planning a murder.”

  Everyone sipped their vodka.

  “Damn,” said Daeng.

  “Didn’t think of that,” said Civilai.

  “But that would mean . . .” Daeng began.

  “We’d have to follow everyone on the shooting team,” said Siri. “And as there are seven of them and four of us I think we’d be better off enjoying the entertainment and forgetting all about it.”

  They refilled their glasses, snacked on their free herring on toast and looked through the large window at the horrendously beautiful tower blocks all around them alive with electric lighting.

  “I went to visit Manoi Zakarine,” said Siri.

  All eyes fell on him.

  “You did what?” said Daeng.

  “I got his address from Roger and went to say hello.”

  “You said you went to the cinema,” said Daeng.

  “And so I did,” said Siri. “I went after the show.”

  “You really are a maniac,” said Daeng, and pecked him on the cheek.

  “Thank you.”

  For the next fifteen minutes he described his odd house call.

  “Wow,” said Dtui.

  “And a French maid to boot,” said Civilai.

  “The uniform was French,” said Siri. “She could have come from anywhere. But the point is he’s living a very privileged lifestyle in Moscow, presumably on his father’s money.”

  “The Soviets wouldn’t tolerate it unless they were sure he’d be useful for them in the future,” said Civilai. “It looks like they’re nurturing a potential president.”

  “He’s already behaving like one,” said Daeng.

  “And it seems he’s confident in his own invulnerability,” said Siri. “He didn’t shed an eyelash when I said somebody might be after him.”

  “Then we’ve done our duty,” said Civilai. “We’ve warned the target, we can’t watch all the potential assassins, and we have an Olympic Games to participate in. So as there’s nothing else to be done I suggest we order another bottle, relax and stop looking for problems.”

  “What about Phosy?” said Dtui.

  “Ah, yes,” said Siri. “That’s another matter. We’ve dragged him into something unpleasant back home, that’s for sure. I suggest the first thing we do is discover whether the security leak is at our end or his.”

  “How do we do that?” she asked.

  “Find Roger,” he said.

  Phosy’s method of testing the police department for leaks was simple. He had the telex girl transferred to the canteen and brought in his own Sergeant Sihot to man the telex. He then arranged for another old friend, Seksan at the abandoned French embassy, to act as translator. If the leaks continued he’d know they were at the other end.

  The money continued to worry him. Yes, he’d thought about that money a lot. Forty thousand dollars sat locked in the drawer of his desk. He hadn’t yet reported it. He feared that as soon as it became the property of the state it would lose its appeal as evidence and become someone’s travel expenses. Wealth annoyed him. He was angry that influence and power often existed only as a result of the amount of money a man had. He lived in a country where the majority of the population had no ambitions for wealth or power. Their prayers to the respective gods and spirits were not that they might become rich but that their children might be free from disease and have enough to eat.

  The money in his desk was more than any of them would see in a lifetime and it was unfair that someone might consider it a fee. For no particular reason, he’d got it fixed in his mind that the forty grand was put aside to pay somebody off. Very few people in Laos would have that kind of cash to pay for any legitimate service. As money attracted money he decided to step into the inner circle of the unusually wealthy. He went to the telephone office and dialed the number for Grassroots Joint Venture Company Limited. A secretary answered and he asked to speak to Comrade Thonglai Zakarine. The secretary asked who he was and he gave his name and rank. She suggested the director might be able to fit him in the following Tuesday.

  Phosy laughed.

  “That’s a terrible shame,” he said, “because I’m on my way to your office right now on police business. I’d sooner speak to your director but if he isn’t available I’ll interview the employees one by one, starting with you. We’re short staffed here so it might take a few days to get around to everyone. I hope that won’t interfere with your day-to-day business. And, before you ask, yes, I have a stamp of permission from my superior because I’m investigating a murder.”

  He hung up without waiting for a reply and sighed. There was nothing at all to connect the Zakarine family with events in Moscow or the murder of the old soldier. Everything hinged on the opinions of a group of old patriots who drank coffee together and had a problem with rich and influential folk. If Phosy ever did put in a request for a warrant he knew with certainty that it would be refused. Some individuals were politically inaccessible. But, regardless, he climbed on his lilac Vespa and headed out to Tanaleng. He was already way out of his depth.

  Apart from one as-yet-unreported murder, day three at the Olympics went rather well. Over breakfast, Roger solved the mystery of the leaked telexes.

  “It’s nothing sinister,” he said, enjoying a runny fried egg with puffy white bread. “If someone phones home, a record of the call, the time, duration, and called number is sent to the National Olympic Committee of the respective country as a courtesy. Or perhaps it’s to show the participating country how generous we are to provide free telecommunication services. In the case of a telex, the official merely prints out a copy and sends it to your
chairman.”

  “Otherwise known as General Suvan,” said Siri.

  “Exactly,” said Roger.

  They knew the general’s habits only too well. He was notoriously untidy. He’d leave all that unfathomable printed data lying around, since he’d have no idea what to do with it. When the piles got too high he’d throw them in the trash. And then there was his issue with “companionship.” Wherever he traveled he had an open door policy. All the Lao competitors were obliged to pay him regular visits at his suite. He was particularly fond of young men, although there was no evidence that this partiality was of a sexual nature. He adopted young people and had them make his tea or run errands for him. So every man and woman in the Lao squad and any number of outsiders would have had access to Civilai’s telexes. It was time to fall back on the telephone.

  There were two Lao boxers in action on day three. Dtui, Daeng, the other boxers, the runners and the walker returned to the Olympiisky arena to cheer them on. And their enthusiasm was contagious. The first fighter was Prathip, a light flyweight who wore his temple tattoos proudly. The Lao cheered his every punch, inciting others in the audience to join in. As Marx had apparently said, “it’s how you play the game,” and Prathip bowed out with dignity. His smile earned him a particularly loud cheer as he left the ring, delighted it was all over.

  Before the second Lao took to the ring, they had to withstand a blow-by-blow account of conceited Maen’s seduction of a beautiful blonde Russian the night before. They had to listen to Chom the rat catcher’s disappointment about his meeting with Yusov the Soviet vermin eradication officer, who seemed far too dependent on poison and wasn’t prepared to give any advice to the two Olympic rat catchers. In fact he wasn’t a very likeable character.

  The second fighter, Khampet, was the light welterweight and the eldest man in the squad. He lasted far into the second round, which was every bit as good as winning the world title. The Lao were on their feet screaming even when the referee lifted the hand of the winner. Khampet had come second and his supporters wanted the world to know how great that was.

  Civilai was at the shooting range in Mytishchy, not to tail an assassin but because everyone else had opted to watch the boxers and he felt obliged to give support to the shooters. Sompoo, shooting under the name Nokasad, was competing in the small bore rifle. Civilai had to admit that shooting was not the quintessential spectator sport and small bore was a very apt description. The competitor lies down or stands up and shoots. Nobody dies, no bottles explode, there’s no sideways glance at an opponent as you race for the tape. Civilai watched with no enthusiasm as Sompoo lay on a green mat, concentrated and began to squeeze the trigger. When it was over the soldier stood, shook hands with his opponents and went for a Pepsi. Like Dtui before him, Civilai had seen no homicidal leanings. But in his mind was the other theory, that any one of the Lao team could be the killer.

  Siri would have loved nothing more than to watch the boxing or the shooting live but as he was passing the cultural center he’d noticed a poster advertising Knife in the Water, a Polanski film from 1962. He knew how the day would end: a lot of enthusiasm but no medals, no assassinations, and no medical emergencies. So he stepped into the air-conditioned cinema and was still there three feature films later.

  In 1980 there was little opulence in Vientiane beyond the extravagant but unoccupied palace at the end of Lan Xang Avenue and one or two glittery temples. And to be honest none of these would have caused a ripple of envy in the minds of any visiting European royalty. Outward demonstrations of wealth in Vientiane were discouraged and considered in poor taste. The government was still hanging on to the pretence that all men were equal. Yet beyond the ferry at Thadeua, where the boats now sat idle, awaiting a change of heart from the Thais, there was forested land with no signposts. And one might pull onto a dirt track there and drive to a gate that was latched but not locked. Beyond it, one might come to a paved road that led to a lushly landscaped property.

  And that was where Phosy found himself that afternoon, staring at a luxurious two-story house and a separate office block. On the deck of the house sat an old man in a rocking chair that wasn’t rocking. Phosy recognized his face from official functions. This was Thonglai Zakarine, financial adviser to the politburo. His was a face whose features had to compete with a tract of liver spots and whose hair was plastered to a broad skull.

  Phosy stepped off his Vespa and walked up the concrete steps to the concrete balcony.

  “How did you find the place?” asked Thonglai.

  “I’ve been here before,” said Phosy.

  The old man didn’t offer his hand and Phosy didn’t bother to nop.

  “I don’t remember you,” said the old man.

  “You weren’t here. Some of the Thadeua kids had broken into your outhouse and stolen some motorcycle parts. My director ordered me to come and investigate.”

  “It doesn’t sound like you were too pleased about it.”

  “I’m a detective. I have better things to do than chase juveniles.”

  “And why are you here now?”

  Phosy sat on the balcony wall. “I’m sure your secretary told you,” he said.

  “Something about a murder?”

  “A man named Pinit,” said Phosy. “He’d just made comments about you and your son before he died.”

  As the man was dead, Phosy didn’t see what harm a small lie might do.

  “What sort of comments?” said Thonglai.

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”

  “You can’t tell me what a dying man says about me? Am I implicated in some way?”

  “We’re looking into a number of possibilities.”

  “And by ‘we’ you mean you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The chief of police knows nothing about this inquiry. I phoned him after your rather rude call to my office. I have his number because we play boules together.”

  “It takes a long time for ongoing case reports to make it to the director’s desk,” said Phosy.

  The chief of police knew as much about police work as Phosy knew about offshore oil exploration. It didn’t surprise Phosy at all that these two might be boules buddies.

  “Why would you be so sensitive about a police inquiry?” Phosy asked.

  The old man glared at him. “As a tax payer I expect minor public officials such as yourself to contact me through the appropriate channels.”

  “I didn’t have two weeks to wait.”

  “I have more important things to do than meet policemen.”

  “Then why are you here waiting for me?” asked Phosy.

  “What?”

  “You’re a busy man. You know my boss. You could have told him to call me off. You could have pretended to be overseas. You don’t want visitors without an appointment yet here you are waiting for me on your rocking chair. Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

  The man smiled and began to rock.

  “Perhaps,” he said.

  “Then I wouldn’t mind a glass of water.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Enter Elvis

  Day four of the Olympics had promised to be the most relaxed for the Lao squad. They had no events and no teammates to cheer so it was every man and woman for him or herself. A lack of surveillance on the shooters had not, as far as anyone knew, led to a spate of killings. Civilai had postulated that given the bubble of happiness the Soviets had created around the Games, there could have been a massacre of epic proportions but news of it would not make it to the general public.

  Despite the feast of sporting events going on everywhere the old boys had thought they might step into the cinema to see Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin.

  “Ah, you have a friend now,” said Avgusta, the Ukrainian projectionist. She spoke several languages, one of which was French. She was a sturdy lass
in her twenties and she had kindly explained the plot and nuances of the movies Siri had watched for the past two days.

  As Civilai often boasted—with no empirical evidence—French was his language of seduction.

  “I’d much prefer to be sitting in the dark with a pretty girl like you,” he said.

  Siri sighed.

  “It would remind me of the days my grandfather took me to the cinema when I was little,” said Avgusta.

  Siri laughed. “Well done,” he said.

  “I’ve been married to the same woman for fifty years,” said Civilai.

  “Then you should be ashamed,” said Avgusta, flicking the projector switch and dimming the lights. “Flirting with an innocent young girl in the dark.”

  “That told you,” Siri chuckled.

  The countdown flashed onto the screen, followed by the credits, then all at once a grubby ship’s crew was seen but not heard complaining about maggots in their meat. Already the Lao were lost in the magic. It was a shame they couldn’t read the English subtitles, but not a catastrophe. They’d allow full rein to their imaginations, then have Avgusta fill in the gaps when it was all over.

  But they were only twenty minutes into the story when the door opened at the rear of the room and somebody shouted to Avgusta in Russian. At first Siri and Civilai didn’t allow themselves to be distracted, but there was nothing they could do when the film suddenly stopped and the house lights came back up. It was like being dragged from the arms of a loved one. They turned to see Agvusta standing beside a Soviet police officer in a stiff collar.

  “Sorry,” said the girl. “You have to go with this man.”

  “Why?” said Civilai.

  “He won’t tell me,” she replied.

  Lao legs were apparently too short for the liking of the guard because he kept stopping and gesturing for the old men to keep up. As they had no idea where they were going or why, Siri and Civilai elected to keep a more leisurely pace. They arrived at the Village Security Office located on the ground floor of the women’s block. The guard led them directly to a back room where they found Daeng, Dtui, Roger and General Suvan surrounded by a gang of serious looking characters in suits and uniforms. Siri immediately felt guilty because he normally was.