The Burma Legacy

by Geoffrey Archer

  ‘You come,’ the driver snapped. He got out and opened the rear door, grabbing Sam by the arm as he stepped onto the road. Then he frogmarched him inside. The air-conditioning beyond the doors was icy.

  Sam was propelled along a corridor whose floor was impossibly shiny. Through open doorways he saw desks and banks of phones and all the quiet activity of a military HQ. At the end of the corridor they stopped in front of a portico of polished teak. The soldier knocked. When it opened, he saluted and took a pace back.

  On the far side of the room was a desk, towards which Sam was pushed. The man behind it wore a plain green uniform with no insignia of rank. He looked up, his face square and Chinese-looking, with slicked-back hair.

  Sam had seen it before. In the marina in Phuket.

  Hu Sin.

  He felt the blood drain from his face. Sensed rather than saw the small wooden chair he was being guided towards. Was aware of others in the room, all watching as unseen hands pushed him down onto the seat. His eyes focused on the middle of the desk. An automatic pistol lay there, with a silencer attached.

  The ties round his wrists seemed to tighten, along with the muscles in his throat.

  ‘What is your real name, Mister Steve?’ Hu Sin’s accent was light, his voice softly threatening.

  ‘Stephen Maxwell.’

  He heard footsteps, then his belongings were dumped on the floor beside him. The holdall for his clothes and the small rucksack. Hu Sin went for the backpack first.

  He found the passport. Saw that the name was the one Sam had just given, then dropped it on the floor. He went through the wallet – credit card and driving licence in the same name. A handful of dollar bills and some grubby kyat notes. Then he upended the bag, dropping books, torch, water bottle, medical pack and a few odds and ends on the ground.

  Sam willed him to move on to the holdall, to get stuck into his dirty underwear and not discover the one thing that mattered. But the willing didn’t work. Hu Sin fingered the rucksack flap, opened the small zipped pocket and extracted the tracer Midge had given him.

  ‘Who you work for?’ Hu Sin demanded, holding it up.

  ‘Guess.’

  Hu Sin put down the tracer and picked up the pistol, pulling back the hammer with his thumb.

  ‘You want I kill you?’

  ‘No. But you’re probably going to anyway.’

  The Wa commander glared at him as if he were a piece of meat that had gone off.

  ‘You answer question – then maybe I don’t kill. Who you work for?’

  ‘I’m a police officer. I’m looking for your murdering friend Jimmy Squires.’

  ‘England?’

  Sam shrugged. ‘You’ve seen my passport.’

  ‘A valueless document …’

  It was a different voice this time. From behind him. A voice that was both plummy and oriental, which for some reason made Sam think of Calcutta.

  He turned his head to see who’d spoken. Seated in an armchair behind him and to his left was a soldier in a different uniform. Pips and swirly bits on the shoulders. The insignia of a senior officer in the Tatmadaw. A Brigadier, Sam guessed.

  But why here in a command headquarters of the Wa state army?

  ‘You are a man for all seasons, Mister Stephen Maxwell …’ the officer brayed. ‘Also calling yourself Geoff, I believe.’

  Sam swallowed uncomfortably. Melissa was the only person he’d used that name with.

  ‘Miss Dennis contacted us yesterday,’ the officer explained smugly, smoothing his neatly trimmed moustache. ‘In Yangon. She was worried about Mr Harrison – or Wetherby as he called himself.’ He clicked his tongue mockingly. ‘You English. So many identities. Unfortunately the young lady contacted us too late to stop this savage tragedy from taking place.’

  The officer stood up and glared down at him. Sam felt like a condemned man about to be sentenced. Hu Sin watched with the pistol still in his grip.

  ‘There is only one word that can be used to describe you, Mr whatever-your-real-name-is,’ the Tatmadaw officer declared. ‘You are a spy.’

  ‘Rubbish. I came here to try to save a man’s life.’

  ‘You are in a part of Myanmar which is forbidden to foreigners. You will be charged with spying.’

  ‘I came here in pursuit of the man who killed Harrison and Kamata.’

  ‘Spies are executed in Myanmar,’ the officer continued, as if it was the only thing he could think of saying. He fingered his moustache again, then stepped forward, placing himself between Sam and Hu Sin. ‘What do you have to say for yourself?’

  ‘That I’m not a spy,’ Sam repeated. He was thinking fast, a desperate plan developing in his head. ‘And that Myanmar and Britain have a common interest here.’

  ‘The only thing your country and mine have ever shared is an unhappy history,’ the army officer sneered.

  ‘Think about it. The death of Tetsuo Kamata is a terrible setback to your country as well as to mine.’

  The Brigadier pursed his lips and stepped to one side, walking away with his hands behind his back. Behind his desk Hu Sin seethed with annoyance at being upstaged in his own headquarters by a strutting officer of the Myanmar army.

  ‘Setback?’ The Brigadier spun round to give thrust to his question. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because we both stand to lose out in a big way if Matsubara cancel their plans for factories in our countries,’ Sam explained, a little breathlessly.

  The Brigadier studied him with what looked like renewed interest. ‘You have something to propose?’

  ‘First thing is to limit the damage from this tragedy.’ He was thinking as he went along.

  ‘Absolutely. And punish the perpetrator …’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You, Mr Maxwell.’

  Sam’s heart missed a beat as he read their miserable minds. They intended charging him with Kamata’s murder. Concocting some mad motive which might smooth things with the Japanese. And if he ‘confessed’, he’d be rewarded with a jail sentence instead of being shot.

  ‘They were killed by Jimmy Squires,’ Sam growled, ‘the man your soldiers gave chase to last night.’

  ‘Your word against his, Mr Maxwell.’ The Brigadier turned away again.

  Sam digested what he was saying. They’d got Squires. And the bastard had blamed him.

  Hu Sin laid the gun down on the desk and began fingering the tracer device, as if by so doing he might confirm his suspicions about the recipient of its signals. His impatience seemed to be growing. Sam guessed the Wa gangster had his own simple answer to the problem. Kill them both.

  ‘How about if the deaths of Kamata and Harrison could be shown in a different light?’ Sam suggested, suddenly remembering what Melissa had said. ‘Then maybe both of the motor projects could be saved.’

  ‘What sort of different light?’ The Brigadier kept his back to him.

  ‘If we pretend Harrison came to Myanmar to effect a reconciliation with his former enemy instead of taking his revenge on him.’

  ‘I am not following you.’ The Brigadier walked back to where Sam was seated. He leaned over him with his hands clasped behind his back.

  ‘We could say the two old gentlemen met at the Japanese war memorial in Mong Lai with the intention of turning their backs on the past,’ Sam explained. ‘They shook hands there, shed a few tears and agreed to let bygones be bygones. But then, in a dreadful twist of fate, they were snatched by dacoits – this region is famous for them, after all. The bandits took them to a remote place, stole everything of value they had, then beat Kamata halfway to death, before finally shooting the two of them.’

  ‘And how would that help our mutually problematical situation?’

  ‘The British and Myanmar governments could then propose to the Matsubara board that they continue with Kamata’s two pet projects as a memorial to him and to Mr Harrison, and to the great act of reconciliation they’d brought about.’

  The Brigadier perched on the edge
of Hu Sin’s desk and folded his arms.

  ‘Ingenious,’ he said. ‘But there is always a problem when rewriting history.’

  From his icy glare, Sam guessed where the problem lay.

  ‘In this case two problems. You are one. And the other is Mr Squires. You both know the real truth about how Mr Kamata met his end.’

  A vein in Sam’s neck began to twitch.

  ‘One solution would be to kill you both, and burn your bodies,’ the Brigadier added nonchalantly.

  ‘That won’t help,’ said Sam. ‘To convince the Matsubara board you’ll need a witness. Me. I saw the reconciliation, the handshakes, the tears. Even saw the two men being seized by the dacoits. And Jimmy Squires? I agree he’s a problem. Yes, a bullet in his brain might be appropriate, but I’ve a better idea. You give him to me. Then you take us to the Thai border with a couple of soldiers as escort and we cross into Thailand. The suitcase of heroin which he’s carrying as personal baggage will be enough to get him locked away in a Thai jail for the rest of his life. And by doing that, Brigadier, you’ll have shown the world that the government of Myanmar really is ready to do its bit to stop the drug trade.’

  Sam glowed with the ingenuity of what he’d come up with. The Brigadier swung round to look at Hu Sin. Then the two men got up and walked to the window, talking in low voices. Hu Sin still had the tracer in his hands, fiddling with it as if it was a cigarette lighter.

  It was a couple of minutes before they turned back towards Sam.

  ‘You would make your testimony to Matsubara jointly with Miss Dennis?’ the Tatamadaw officer asked. ‘She would be an important witness as to Mr Harrison’s intentions.’

  The idea of doing anything with Melissa filled him with horror, but Sam agreed. ‘One other thing. Jimmy Squires won’t go willingly with me.’

  ‘On the contrary, he won’t give you any trouble. One of my soldiers put a bullet in his leg yesterday. The femur is shattered. The UWSA have an excellent hospital here, but they don’t have the experience for such a fracture. They have made him comfortable, but he should be treated by a specialist as soon as possible. In Bangkok they have such people.’

  Sam felt euphoric. A chance to salvage something from the catastrophe of yesterday and make Midge happy too. Now all he had to do was cut her in on it. He stared longingly at the tracer which Hu Sin was playing with. When the drug baron saw his interest, he closed his hand round it.

  ‘Everything can be ready very quickly,’ said the Brigadier briskly. ‘A car will take you twenty kilometres towards the border, then it will be by mule over the mountains. The main crossing is closed, you see. There has been some fighting.’

  ‘How long will it take?’

  ‘By nightfall you will be in a village in Thailand.’

  ‘What about Tun Kyaw, the man who drove me here?’

  ‘He will be looked after. They will fill his car with petrol and give him an escort out of Mong Yawn district.’

  ‘I’d want a guarantee of that.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Tun Kyaw is useful to us, Mr Maxwell. We’ll keep him safe. And Miss Dennis? You surely want to know about her?’

  Sam didn’t. He was dreading the thought of what she might demand in exchange for her co-operation.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘We will deport her to Bangkok and tell her to go to the British Embassy. She can wait there until you make contact.’

  ‘Fine.’ Sam felt dangerously optimistic all of a sudden. Victory snatched from the jaws of defeat. He pointed at Hu Sin’s fist.

  ‘I’d like that piece of kit back if you don’t mind.’

  The Wa leader’s face bore no expression whatsoever. Then he shook his head.

  Sam remembered what Midge had said back on the boat at Phuket.

  People who get in Hu Sin’s way tend not to live long.

  Things were still far from over.

  Twenty-eight

  Mong Yawn

  11.30 a.m.

  Jimmy Squires looked terrible. They’d shot him full of morphine to dull the pain for the journey and he looked out of it. He’d lost a lot of blood in the shooting, Sam was told. Pale-faced, eyes flopping about like a cheap doll, it was clear he’d be no trouble. The injured leg was encased in bandages and held out straight in some sort of traction cage. It gave Sam a bitter satisfaction to see the man so incapacitated.

  Although suffering from the after-effects of the anaesthetic, Squires was conscious enough to acknowledge Sam’s presence as they loaded his stretcher into the back of a large, green 4-wheel drive, placing the suitcase of heroin beside him. The eyes flickered defiantly and he looked as if he were about to speak, but exhaustion defeated him.

  Three soldiers piled in with Sam, a uniformed driver and two others wearing grubby tee-shirts and camouflage trousers that made them look like ravers on a club night. The pair in mufti carried rifles and had belts heavy with ammunition pouches. As they set off from the barracks Sam checked his watch. It was just before midday. They’d need to make rapid progress if they were to cross the border before dark.

  The jeep left the town and began climbing towards the wooded peaks that marked the start of Thailand. Soon it left the metalled road and jolted over a stony track between poppy fields. Sam heard an expletive from the back and guessed the morphine was beginning to lose its effect.

  He tried to make eye contact with the man sitting next to him, hoping for some sign of friendliness, but the Wa soldier would have none of it. He was bigger and broader shouldered than the two in the front, and looked as if he spent his free time doing weights. He smelled of sweat.

  ‘Any of you speak English?’ Sam asked.

  The passenger in the front turned round. He had a glass eye. But there was no verbal response. Sam and Squires were no more than cargo to them. Bodies to be moved.

  He began worrying about how he would handle things on the other side without Midge being on hand to smooth his way with the Thai authorities. Hu Sin’s refusal to hand over the tracer meant she would have no idea he was there. He visualised the man using the thing as a paperweight or showing it off to his underlings.

  To any Thai border patrol that intercepted them, he and Squires would be two Europeans slipping across from the Triangle with a suitcase of heroin. Rich pickings. All the evidence they needed to prosecute for a capital offence. He worried how long it’d be after they arrested him before the Thais let him contact Midge and the Embassy.

  After the best part of an hour the 4-wheel drive bounced into a village of wooden huts, thatched with attap leaves. In the centre was a more substantial breezeblock building with a corrugated roof, the radio masts beside it marking it as a military post. The jeep stopped and the three Wa soldiers got out. Half-a-dozen uniformed fighters gathered around them. For several minutes there was disgruntled chatter. Then an argument broke out, which was suppressed by a man Sam took to be the local commander.

  ‘Wass goin’ on? Where are we?’ Squires voice slurred from the back of the jeep.

  ‘Changing cabs,’ Sam answered.

  He got out to stretch his legs and avoid further conversation with Squires, but the two plain-clothes soldiers gestured for him to stay where he was. A small crowd was gathering, villagers curious at the arrival of big nose foreigners.

  Suddenly decisions were being taken. The rear of the jeep was opened and the stretcher eased onto the ground.

  Far more alert now, Squires winced at the pain the movement caused him. ‘Would someone tell me wha’ the fuck’s going on?’

  Sam heard hooves. A trio of mules appeared from behind the military building, led by a muleteer who looked about fourteen. A couple of the animals had bamboo poles stretched between them, with straps attached.

  Squires understood the purpose of the rig at the same moment that Sam did.

  ‘No way,’ he croaked. ‘They’re not putting me on that.’

  Ignoring his protests, four soldiers in fatigues picked the stretcher up, one on each corner, and lifted it ove
r the first mule’s back. Squires howled as fresh pain shot through his leg.

  ‘Jesus … I can’t take this. Steve, or whatever your fucking name is. Tell ’em I need another shot.’

  Sam turned to the village’s military commander, a thin-faced man with bloodshot eyes.

  ‘You have any morphine?’

  The man stared straight through him.

  ‘Sorry Jimmy.’

  Squires began slurring in pidgin Burmese, but the soldiers affected not to understand.

  ‘Looks like you’ve run out of friends, old son,’ Sam breathed.

  The baggage from the jeep – Sam’s holdall and the case of heroin – were balanced on the third mule’s back and strapped in place, together with a water carrier and some stores.

  Sam hoisted the small rucksack onto his shoulders. The local commander slapped the rump of the nearest mule and they were off, led by the two men in tee-shirts from Mong Yawn. The muleteer walked by the head of his pair of animals, Sam a few paces behind. Three uniformed soldiers brought up the rear.

  The path climbed steeply out of the village. Sam glanced back at the palm-thatched roofs below. An ordinary agricultural settlement. Children playing. Chickens pecking in the dirt. Women grinding seeds and pulses. But instead of sugar cane or tea, this little community’s export crop was opium.

  As they moved on up the slope he watched Squires brace himself against the rolling of the beasts.

  ‘How much of this have I got to take?’ he gasped.

  ‘Thought you’d know the answer to that,’ Sam responded. ‘Must have come this way before.’

  ‘Spare me the clever stuff. I’m in fucking agony.’

  ‘You mean you didn’t use this route to get your gear out?’

  Squires took hold of a loose end of webbing and clamped his teeth on it, like a soldier from an earlier century awaiting the surgeon’s knife.

  Soon elephant grass was towering above their heads. Then a little later the path opened out and followed a rocky ridge, the ground falling away on either side. A thin veil of cloud dulled the heat from the sun. Over the not so distant peaks through which they would have to pass, thicker clouds gathered.