The Burma Effect

by Michael E. Rose

  “I am going to make it my mission in life to kill you. I’ll kill you slow. You’re dead,” the mercenary said.

  Delaney looked at his watch and stood up. Conversation was not what the South African military man wanted at this stage.

  Suddenly, from out at the main road, Delaney heard the sound of car horns. Several long blasts, followed by a much more feeble short blast from another car. Ben’s car. Then two bursts of gunfire. One burst, almost certainly an automatic rifle, then another. Then silence.

  “My Christ,” Delaney said and started running for the driveway and the trees.

  “You’re dead, you’re dead,” the soldier shouted after him. “My buddies are back and you’re dead. You’re both dead.”

  After he left Delaney, Ben decided he would walk down the driveway instead of going through the trees. Eventually, he would have to come out to the road anyway, he thought, and into possible danger. So there was no use trying to prolong things by creeping through the trees. He walked slowly, enjoying in an odd way the quiet of the drive, as if it were an oasis of safety in some way.

  He trudged slowly, carrying the pistol at his side and wishing he could be out of this now, back in the quiet of the hotel, sipping beers and talking quietly with Frank or, better still, sitting in his own crowded living room in Bangkok with his wife and children, sipping beers and talking quietly. Quiet was one of the things Ben valued most in life, despite the crazy job he had done for years with foreigners. Sometimes there had been bad times and even dangerous times. But he tried to avoid them now, more than he ever had.

  Getting older now, he thought. Driving for these guys is a job for a younger man, maybe.

  Songbirds were still in voice despite the rain.The birds stopped as he moved under their trees, and then started again as he passed on by. Ben had birds in a cage at home, small yellow and green finches that he and his son would feed together. He wished he could be there now, instead of in this difficulty in the rain.

  His feet were soaking wet and his old leather sandals squeaked and squelched as he walked. When he got to the car, he put the gun on the passenger seat in the front. He walked farther out into the middle of the road and looked carefully south to where he and Frank would be heading very soon. Nothing. We will get out of this, he thought.

  He backed his car out from where he had left it under the trees and stopped it, facing Mae Sot. He backed it down the road a little farther and then shut it off and left the driver’s side door open. He wished he had some lunch. He wished he could be opening one of the nice lunches his wife always made for him before he left on a long drive. He wished he could open one of the fizzy orange drinks she always packed for him and sit there having a nice little picnic in his car, maybe with the radio on low. With no troubles. Why have troubles? he thought.

  Suddenly he sat up very straight. He was sure he heard a car in the distance, maybe more than one. The noise grew louder fast, something coming. Now there was no doubt; at least two cars were coming fast toward him on the bad road.

  Two grey vans swung into sight up ahead, slipping and sliding in the mud and gravel. Headlights on in the middle of the day. The driver of the first one must have spotted Ben’s car because he gave a loud blast of the horn. The vans came closer and the lead driver leaned on his horn again, again, again.

  Maybe they want to come straight through, Ben thought. Maybe they are not going to Khun Nathan’s at all. He reached for the gun and put it on the dashboard. Just let them know I have one, like Khun Frank said, he thought. For some reason, he decided to sound his own horn. He wasn’t clear even in his own mind why he did that. He started the engine and waited as two tough-looking men in American-style T-shirts got out of the front of the lead van, carrying rifles.

  Ben reached for the pistol with his right hand, and then held the gun and steering wheel with that hand as he shifted gears with his left and looked back over his shoulder to reverse away from trouble. “Gun!” one of the van men shouted.

  The first burst of their gunfire smashed out Ben’s new windshield and tore into his left shoulder and side. His pistol went off as his body stiffened involuntarily and slammed back against the seat. The second burst from a stranger’s rifle ended his troubles forever, put him somewhere still and quiet forever.

  Delaney ran straight toward the trees, not taking the driveway. The rain had made everything slick, slippery. Sweat and rain poured into his eyes. He brushed clumsily through undergrowth and vines, keeping away from the driveway but heading toward the entrance as best he could. He heard two cars powering up the driveway now, obviously slipping around in the mud but moving fast. He thought he glimpsed one of them through the trees before he hit the ground. A grey van.

  He lay still, listening. In the distance, near the house, he heard shouting. Ahead, from where Ben had parked, he heard nothing. His heart pounded in his chest and he fought the panic that gripped him.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said quietly.

  He stood up cautiously, dripping wet, covered in mud and leaves. No matter what his next step, no matter what he might find, he had no choice but to head to the road to find out what had happened to Ben.

  Suddenly he heard shouts again. Then voices in the trees behind him. The mercenaries were coming back after him from the house. He began to run clumsily toward Ben’s car. When he got to the edge of the woods, he stopped, looking out from the heavy shadow into the clear area at the start of the driveway.

  Ben had parked the car at the side of the narrow road, almost blocking it, but about 25 metres past the driveway so that cars coming from Mae Sot could still turn in toward the house. He hadn’t tried to hide his car. He had just moved it out of the way and positioned it so he could speed off down the road past the driveway when ready.

  The windshield was shattered on the right-hand side. Ben’s body was still upright behind the wheel but slumped back against the driver’s seat. Head way back. His mouth was open. His chest and one shoulder a glistening mass of ruby arterial blood.

  “Ben, Ben,” Delaney shouted out as he ran for the car. “Ben.”

  A burst of gunfire kicked up mud and stones in front of Delaney’s feet and he stopped running and turned, not even thinking of raising his own gun.

  “Stop there or I’ll kill you,” shouted a tall black man with a West African accent. He pointed an AK-47 directly at Delaney. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt stretched tight over his muscular shoulders and chest. Rain ran from his shaved head. He shook droplets from his eyes. “Get rid of that pistol,” he said. Delaney dropped it on the ground.

  “My driver,” he said. His heart was pounding and grief was gripping his guts.

  “Gone,” the West African said. “He’s gone. Move here toward me now.”

  Delaney instead moved toward the car, wanting a closer look at Ben. A burst of gunfire tore up earth in front of his feet.

  “Last chance,” the gunman said. “Move here toward me now or I’ll kill you. You’ll go where your driver’s gone.”

  Delaney stopped where he was, turned to face the gunman. A group of four other men now emerged from the driveway, all running, all carrying assault rifles. All were wearing jeans and T-shirts; none in military fatigues.

  “I got him, I’ve got him, no qualms,” the West African said. “Under my control.”

  The small band of gunmen lowered their rifles and stood staring at Delaney in the rain.

  “Check him out, Abbey,” said one of them in a heavy Afrikaner South African accent. “Get his gun. I’ll give you cover.” He had spiky blond hair and wore one small loop earring. There was a small spiderweb tattoo on his neck, just below his left ear. “OK, Stefan, you watch him good.” The black man walked warily toward Delaney as Stefan pulled the AK-47 expertly to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel. The three others who had run with him from the house stood by, guns cradled downward.

  “You killed m
y driver,” Delaney shouted, numb with grief and shock. “Why would you kill my driver?”

  “Shut up, shut up,” Abbey said. “What you got on you, man? You kneel now, we check you out.”

  He shoved Delaney to his knees, picked up the pistol from the road and put it on top of Ben’s car.

  “What else you got?”

  “Nothing,” Delaney said.

  “I find another gun on you, I’ll beat you good,” Abbey said. “You got a knife?”

  He shoved Delaney over into the road, pushed him flat on his face and kicked his legs apart with a foot. He began to pat him down, looking for weapons. Then he pulled Delaney’s wallet out of his pocket and began looking through it as the others watched.

  As he pulled out credit cards and papers and Thai and U.S. banknotes, Abbey called out to his colleagues who stood watching and waiting.

  “Gold American Express card, Francis J. Delaney. Green Am Ex card, corporate. Francis J. Delaney.” Abbey dropped both cards into the dirt. “Quebec driver’s licence, looks like, all in French. Monsieur Francis Delaney. Canadian Red Cross Society blood donor’s card, Francis Delaney, Blood type B Positive. That’s good to know.” He pulled another card out.

  “Fuck, man,” Abbey said. “We got trouble here, my friends.This guy’s a fucking reporter. International Federation of Journalists, Member in Good Standing, Frank Delaney, The Montreal Tribune. My sweet Jesus, we got a reporter here.”

  The others walked over to where Delaney lay in the dirt. Abbey pocketed the cash from Delaney’s wallet, had a quick look through the rest of its contents and threw everything into Ben’s car through the side window.

  Stefan walked up to Delaney, put a stylish Reebok trainer on the back of his neck and pointed the AK at his cheek.

  “What’s your deal, reporter man?” he said.

  “I’m a friend of Kellner’s,” Delaney said. “From Montreal.”

  “Who’s Kellner?” Stefan said, grinding his shoe harder into Delaney’s neck.

  “You know damn well who Kellner is,” Delaney said. “You’re living in his damn house.”

  “Are we now?” Stefan said. “Well, maybe we are at that, reporter man. You seen your friend Kellner recently?”

  “I’m looking for him.”

  “You’re looking for him,” Stefan said.

  “For Jesus sake, Stefan,” said one of the other mercs, a short Brit who looked like a weightlifter. “Let’s get in out of the rain. Let’s question this cunt inside somewhere instead.”

  “This be British weather, Clive. You used to this British weather,” Abbey said. “The hell I am,” Clive said.

  “OK, let’s do this inside,” Stefan said. “Clive’s right. Why should we stand here getting soaked because some reporter man has come to see us? We’ll let Bobby find out what’s he’s up to, inside. Bobby’s not too happy with reporter man right now. You realize that, Francis J. Delaney, reporter man? Bobby tells me you hit him over the head with a metal chair. He is not the sort of man who likes that sort of thing. He’s not used to that. He is going to have an attitude meeting with you, Francis J. We are all going to watch.”

  Stefan prodded Delaney with his gun barrel.

  “Up,” he said.

  “What about my driver?” Delaney said.

  All five of the mercenaries laughed as one.

  “That is a dead man in the car,” Clive said. “He won’t be needing anything.”

  “You can’t just leave him there,” Delaney said.

  “We bury the dead. Usually,” Abbey said. “We are civilized people. When the rain stops, we get civilized and bury the dead.”

  Stefan, the man in charge, said: “Tom, Sammy. One of you get a tarp over that car. Get a tarp from the barn.”

  “After the rain,” said one of the mercs in an American accent. He was wearing a red baseball cap.

  “Now, Tom,” Stefan said.

  The small group headed back down the driveway to Kellner house, Delaney going first. He took a last look back at Ben, sprawled backward against the seat of his car.

  “That man dead,” Abbey said.

  Chapter 10

  When Delaney emerged from the driveway into the clear area in front of the house, Bobby was sitting on the porch steps, despite the rain. Inside the doorframe stood another mercenary, this one also tall, sporting an oldstyle, flat-top, military haircut. He wore wirerimmed glasses, military issue.

  Bobby now had small bandages on his head wounds. He spotted Delaney and let out a roar. He leapt up, rushed off the steps and tackled Delaney hard, sending both of them flying into the mud and gravel. The other soldiers formed a loose circle around them.

  “Lucky we got a medic with us,” Clive said.“Hey, Dima, come down out of there and watch that no one gets hurt.”

  The bespectacled soldier in the doorway moved out and down the stairs. His faded khaki T-shirt had Cyrillic writing on it and an elaborate military crest.

  Bobby was sitting astride Delaney’s chest, pummelling him with his fists. There was no real defence against an enraged attack like that. Delaney only tried to shield his face with his hands and forearms.

  “Move your arms out of the way, you little faggot,” Bobby shouted. He pulled Delaney’s arms back and began slapping him in the face, slapping methodically back and forth.

  He jumped up and started kicking Delaney in the side, legs and arms with his military boots. Delaney rolled around trying to protect himself, trying to protect his head and neck. Bobby stomped on Delaney’s chest with a boot.

  “Lie still, scumbag,” he shouted.

  “Don’t kill him, Bobby,” Stefan said.

  “Why the fuck not?” Bobby said, pausing for breath. Delaney was bleeding from various cuts and almost unconscious in the dirt. “Why not?”

  “We’ve got to talk to the cunt, that’s why,” Sammy said, another stocky Brit.

  “Nothing to talk about. We don’t need this guy,” Bobby said, panting heavily. He delivered another kick to Delaney’s ribcage.

  “Don’t kill him, Bobby,” Stefan said. “That’s enough.”

  “Payback time is over,” Tom said.

  “Fuck off,Tom. I’ll tell you when payback’s over,” Bobby said.

  “It’s over,” Stefan said. “Dima, see if you need to fix this guy up. Some of you guys help Dima put him in the barn.”

  A couple of mercenaries pulled Delaney to a sitting position. He was barely conscious. They halfcarried, half-dragged him to the barn. The two vans were parked outside. The men pushed him into a sitting position in a space clearly used as a garage. Two motorbikes stood on their stands to one side.

  Dima peered at Delaney through misted glasses, holding his head up with one hand and pulling an eyelid up with the thumb of the other hand.

  “He’s OK,” Dima said in a heavy Russian accent. “He’s not nearly dead yet.”

  Dima grabbed an old rag from a shelf and wiped blood and rain from Delaney’s face. “You will live, my friend. You are not even nearly dead. You are a lucky man. Bobby would kill you if we let him.”

  The others stomped up a staircase. Through the haze of pain and shock, Delaney could hear them moving around on the wooden boards overhead. He heard the sound of bottles clinking, cupboards being opened and shut. Someone turned on a radio to a Thai music station. He heard cutlery and plates.

  Dima the medic gave Delaney some water to drink from a bottle and pulled him into a corner to prop him up. Then he went back toward the main house. Delaney rested his head back against the garage wall, knees pulled up, forearms on knees. The room swam before him. He could not see clearly through one eye.

  Dima came back, carrying a syringe. He pulled up Delaney’s sleeve, wiped a spot expertly with a swab and jabbed him quickly with the needle. Instantly, Delaney’s pain evaporated. He felt a warm glow and all was well.
He was floating on a lovely gentle summer breeze. All was well. Then everything went warm and dark.

  *

  Delaney dreamed about Ben and about Natalia:

  Even the drug could not mask the pain he felt about how they had died, how they had died because they had been somewhere dangerous with him. As always, Natalia lay under a thin blanket of Quebec snow. Ben was partly covered in leaves and humid Asian earth. In the impossible logic of dreams they were in the same woods, in a climate that allowed for snow and tropical heat at the same time. The bodies lay still, not far from each other, and Delaney thought his heart might burst with grief and guilt. He called out wordlessly to them but they did not stir. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, he said to them, over and over again. The words made no sound. He wanted them to hear. He wanted to bury them both properly, with proper gravestones and epitaphs and flowers. He looked in vain for a shovel, for caskets, for stones. But there was only the deep woods and the leaves on the ground and the heat and the silence and the snow. Even the drug could not mask his pain.

  When Delaney woke up it looked like morning. Brassy sunlight was streaming into a small window. He was lying on a bottom bunk bed, naked under a rough blanket. Somehow he had ended up on a bunk bed somewhere in the barn. Someone had taken off his wet clothes and put him into a bed.

  He was dazed, groggy and incredibly stiff and sore. He lay looking up at the slats and mattress above him. He raised one hand to a series of small bandages that had been taped to the worst of the cuts on his face and head.

  Someone said quietly: “The sleeper awakes.” A South African accent.

  Delaney turned stiffly on his side. Stefan was sitting on a lower bunk on the opposite side of the room, drinking coffee from a large mug.

  “Dima always gives a very large shot when he’s playing medic. The Russians don’t play around when they’re giving people needles,” Stefan said.