The Burma Effect

by Michael E. Rose

  Delaney would have preferred to be left alone. The grief for Ben Yong was bad today.

  “No questions for us today, reporter man?” Stefan said.

  “I get the picture,” Delaney said.

  “It’s a good story, no?” Stefan said, and let go a sharp burst of laughter. “You’ll get a good story out of this. Put us on the cover of Newsweek, like Tom says.”

  “I have to make it back to write it,” Delaney said.

  “Start writing now, my friend. Make a start while you still can,” Stefan said, laughing again. “Someone will find the papers on your body, maybe. Send them to Newsweek. Bingo, you’re famous. We’re all famous.”

  “Dead and famous.”

  “We all agree, Delaney, that alive and famous is better. Every mercenary agrees with that.”

  Stefan called out to Clive and Sam, who were heading in from the pool to the bar. “Hey, my brothers. Delaney the reporter man and I are talking philosophy here. What’s better? Alive and famous, or dead and famous? What do you prefer?”

  “Right now, I prefer a cold beer and one of those tight little schoolgirls over there in the corner,” Clive said.

  “You got it,” Sam said. “In about an hour from now I’ll already be famous around here.”

  That night, before they set out for warlord country, Delaney dreamed this:

  He is an action hero, a soldier, a mercenary, surrounded by an audience of women. He is no longer troubled by doubts or hesitation or regrets. He takes on all challenges, all enemies, with power and grace. There are no failures, no negative consequences, and there is no pain. Usually in his dreams there was Natalia, sometimes Kate. Now, watching him in his manly contests and combats are Natalia and Kate and Mai and Ben’s wife and Aung San Suu Kyi and all women, everywhere, always. They form a wide circle around him, a sacred circle. He lunges and thrusts and gesticulates in this circle, then begins a sacred circular dance. He spins round and round, faster, faster and faster. He drills himself into the very earth, deeper and deeper, until finally, he is completely swallowed up and, yes, disappears.

  Chapter 12

  The next morning, Delaney could not resist using the aging yellow telephone beside his bed to see if he could get an outside line. Even a 30-second call to Rawson’s people in Ottawa could be helpful now.

  Direct dialling was impossible. Delaney hit zero and after a half-dozen rings the desk clerk answered in Burmese. His English was minimal, almost nonexistent, but he seemed to understand Delaney’s request.

  “Overseas call, international call,” Delaney said.

  “No, Burma, Burma,” the clerk said. “Myanmar.”

  “Canada. Canada,” Delaney said.

  “No sir, sorry sir. Burma yes,” the clerk said.

  Delaney hung up. A wasted effort. Risky, he thought.

  He found out how risky a few minutes later. Someone pounded on his door and tried to turn the handle. Pounded again. “Delaney. You scumbag, let us in or we’ll break it down,” someone said on the other side. A South African accent.

  Bobby’s voice. He and Abbey stood outside the door when Delaney opened it. Abbey levelled a .45 at him, glowering. Bobby pressed his way in, pushing Delaney hard with both hands on the chest so he fell back on the bed.

  “You scumbag. I told them you would try to mess us up. We should blow you away right now.”

  Delaney said nothing.

  “You think that clerk man stupid too?” Abbey said. “You think we don’t already wise him up about you?”

  Dima and Stefan rushed into the room, with the rest of the group not far behind.

  “Bad move, Delaney,” Stefan said. “Who were you trying to call?”

  “My editor. Anybody. Nobody knows where I am.”

  “That’s bullshit. Who were you trying to call?” Bobby shouted.

  “What do you expect?” Delaney said.“You expect me to go along on this crazy mission with you just like that? You guys are all going to be killed, you must know that. I’m trying to let people know where I am, for Christ’s sake. You think this regime’s going to let you trail all over the country with weapons and some crazy plan, just like that?”

  “They’re doing it. The ones who know,” Dima said.

  “Come on,” Delaney said. “They’re not stupid.”

  “I told you we shouldn’t have brought this asshole along,” Bobby said.“He’s going to mess us all up good.”

  “Delaney, you are in Burma now,” Dima said.

  “We have General Thein and his people behind us. There’s no place for you to go in this region. When we eventually get to Rangoon, you’ll have no passport, no media clearance, no money, nothing. We tell Thein you’ve pissed us off, and you’re finished. They’ll whip you into Insein Prison faster than you can turn around. Reporters aren’t welcome in this country at the best of times.”

  “Not welcome anywhere,” Bobby said. “Not here, not Rangoon, nowhere. You in particular.”

  “You better hope Kellner backs you up, man. You’d better hope he tells us Delaney his friend,” Abbey said.

  Bobby came over to the bed and slapped Delaney hard across the side of his head. He was about to deliver another backhanded blow when Dima stepped forward. “Easy, Bobby,” he said.

  “This guy is trouble. We’re crazy to have him along. We don’t need this scumbag.” “Easy,” Dima said again. “Easy.”

  General Thein stayed behind when they went to Mongla. They rode this time in a small Toyota bus, as if on a tourist outing, Delaney in the rear seat, with the Bedford following. The road out of Kengtung was bad, but the closer they got to warlord country, the better the roads became. The proceeds from drugs, gambling and women were being liberally spent it seemed.

  The Burmese soldier driving the bus seemed to get more nervous as he approached Mongla. Delaney could see why as they got nearer. At the Nam Loi River, they stopped at a Burmese police checkpoint. Their driver went inside. When he climbed back into the bus he drove slowly over a bridge to a more military-looking checkpoint manned by Burmese troops in battle fatigues. The guards waved the bus and the Bedford through.

  The next checkpoint told the story of the region. The soldiers there did not wear Burmese Army uniforms but National Democratic Alliance Army gear—they were Lin Mingxian’s private militia. Their driver got out and a NDAA man got in and took over the wheel.

  As they drove on toward Mongla itself, paddy fields and grazing water buffalo gave way to cleared areas and parked earth-moving equipment. The last few kilometres of road were international standard blacktop, the best Delaney had ever seen in Asia. The better to carry busloads of Chinese tourists and gamblers from Yunan Province, just a short drive away.

  Mongla was a sprawling town set in a valley surrounded by dark hills. Even in the old town centre there were small nightclubs and girlie bars and transvestite bars and brothels. As the bus headed outside town on the northern side, they passed more nightclubs, bigger ones, and a hilltop casino with a parking lot jammed with Chinese registered minibuses. Small crowds of middle-aged and elderly Chinese climbed in and out of the vehicles. The mercenaries’ destination was a modern walled compound of tidy townhouses and other buildings set among bougainvillea and high whitewashed perimeter walls. It could have been an upscale expatriate community anywhere in Asia or Africa where serious money was being made, where big deals were made. They stopped at a low building that looked like a community hall: white stucco with stained wooden window frames and smoked glass everywhere.

  Inside it was ice cool, over air-conditioned and spotless. A Burmese girl in a long skirt offered them a tray of cool fruit drinks in tall frosted glasses with straws. An Asian man, looking more Chinese than Burmese, in a white shirt and tan slacks approached them accompanied by an NDAA soldier.

  “Welcome my friends, welcome to Mongla,” he said. “I am Pao Yuqiang. How was your j
ourney?”

  They sat for a time making small talk, the mercenaries on their best behaviour, sipping juice like schoolboys on an expedition. As usual Dima and Stefan took the lead.

  “Perhaps we could see our Australian clients this morning,” Dima said eventually. “It would be good if we could head back to Kengtung today.”

  “Yes, yes of course. They are waiting for you,” Yuqiang said.

  They were led into a meeting room with rows of tables arranged in a square. Again, a room that could be anywhere in Asia where deals were made. Bottled water and glasses were set out on stainless steel trays. A basket of fruit sat on a sideboard.

  Yuqiang came in shortly afterward with two tall, slim, ruddy-faced Australians in identical dark blue golf shirts and tan slacks. On each shirt were a small crest and the words Great Southern Investments Pty Ltd. The men were in their early forties, Delaney thought. All smiles.

  “G’day, g’day, thanks for coming up here, it’s a bugger of a drive,” one said. “I’m Rod Foster and this is my partner Dave Hilyard.”

  They took the time to shake hands with each mercenary in turn, getting all their names, with nonstop smiles all around, before sitting down.

  “Now gentlemen, I reckon you want to get straight down to brass tacks,” Foster said. “We all know why we’re here, so let’s get on with it. Great Southern, that’s my lot, are working as you know with the local authorities here and some Chinese partners on a very exciting casino and road project. And as you know, we’re keen to beef up our security operation, for our senior staff.”

  Hilyard broke in: “Now that’s not to say we’re not happy, very happy, with what our local friends here have been doing for us from Day One. We just want to have that little extra, for the wives and some others when they come up here from time to time. Just for the compound and driving around. Like that.”

  He smiled over toward Yuqiang, who bowed his head slightly.

  “No worries generally, Pao, right? Just that little bit extra for the wives, right?” Hilyard said. “Make the insurance blokes happy back down in Perth.”

  “Understandable,” Yuqiang said.

  “So we welcome the opportunity to work with you lot here, and some others who’ll come in later, I understand, to make that happen,” Foster said, looking at Dima and Stefan.

  “We have experience in all parts of the world. We have done this many times before,” Dima said. “On similar projects.”

  “Right, right, we know that. Your mate Kellner told us all about you lot,” Hilyard said.

  “Where’s Kellner anyway?” Foster said. “I reckoned he’d be coming up this way with you.”

  “He’s been delayed,” Stefan said. “We expect to meet up with him in Rangoon.”

  “Ah, too bad, mate. He’s good value, Kellner is. He’s good fun, he is,” Hilyard said. “We had some times in Bangkok with that one.”

  “He sends his regards,” Dima said.

  “Well now, we’re probably about done,” Foster said. “No use mucking around. Maybe we could have a little look at what you lot brought along, have a fast look at some of your gear and then we can do business, right?” “Of course,” Dima said.

  They went out into the blinding sunshine. It was intensely hot. Stefan and the two Australians went around to the back of the Bedford and climbed up inside. Delaney could hear the sound of a crate being opened, and some other movement. The driver stood looking in as well. The rest of the mercenaries stood in the shade, drinking yet more iced fruit drinks. It was all very civilized.

  “Impressive, impressive. No worries,” Foster said as he got down from the back of the truck.

  “Very good, fine,” Hilyard said. “Always good to have your own gear.”

  Yuqiang looked on in silence. Delaney couldn’t read his face, couldn’t tell whether he approved the arrangement the Australians thought they were entering into or whether he, too, knew it was a charade.

  Everyone except Foster went back inside. He went off with the NDAA soldier and came back into the meeting room a few minutes later carrying an aluminum attaché case. He placed it on the table in front of Stefan and Dima.

  “For you, sirs. Down payment. Great Southern Investments looks forward to working with you,” he said.

  “In cash as agreed,” Hilyard said.

  Dima opened the case. Neat stacks of U.S. hundred-dollar notes lay inside.

  “Nice,”Tom called out from the side of the room.

  “Very nice,” Dima said.

  “You want to count it?” Hilyard said. “Half a mill.”

  “That won’t be necessary, I think,” Dima said.

  “Kellner told us you lot would be all right,” Hilyard said. “Straight shooters.” “Exactly,” Dima said.

  As with all business deals in Asia, toasts were drunk. Their tireless waitress struggled in to the meeting room under a huge circular tray of iced Victoria Bitter beer in cans. “Direct from Oz,” Hilyard said.

  Yuqiang said: “To future cooperation.” He raised a glass of beer.

  “Here, here,” Foster said.

  “To mutually advantageous arrangements,” Dima said.

  “Right on,” Hilyard said. “Mutually advantageous arrangements.”

  “And U.S. dollars,” Tom said, raising his beer can.

  That raised a hearty laugh from the Australians. Yuqiang nodded and smiled. They all drank beer and stood amicably around for a few minutes. Dima eventually made the move to go.

  “We’ll see you fellas back here in about a fortnight then,” Foster said as they boarded the bus.

  “Yes, exactly,” Dima said. “You can now count on our services right through to completion of the project.”

  “Two years, minimum, that’ll be,” Hilyard said.

  “Yes,” Dima said.

  “Look after that gear for us now, won’t you?” Hilyard shouted as they pulled away.

  “Of course. We are professionals,” Dima called back.

  “Too right,” Hilyard said.

  Delaney half expected the Australians to wave at them as the busload of mercenaries pulled away from the compound. They did not wave, but watched until the bus had turned out of the drive way and out of sight behind the perimeter wall. The mercenaries immediately let out wild whoops. Even Dima was grinning broadly.

  “Rip-off!” Tom shouted. “Assholes!”

  “Party time!” Bobby said. “Tonight we party.”

  “Kellner’s a fucking genius,” Clive said.

  The bus driver looked grave, trying to steer and watch them in the rearview mirror at the same time.

  General Thein was waiting for them at the Burmese checkpoint on the Kengtung side of the river. Dima climbed into his Mercedes with the aluminum case. The little convoy bounced back down along the winding road to Kengtung, the mercenaries launching into rowdy soldiers’ songs and drinking cans of VB liberated from the meeting room.

  At the hotel, Dima got out of the Mercedes and walked over to the group where they waited in the parking lot. General Thein got out, saluted them and went inside with his driver.

  “Did he take his cut right away?” Stefan asked.

  “He did,” Dima said gravely.

  “One hundred thousand?”

  “Yes. As agreed.”

  “And now he has to produce,” Sam said.

  “He will produce,” Dima said. “And then we will produce, and our people in Mae Sot will produce for us, and we will be taken out of there and back to the farm and this operation will be one for the history books.”

  “And a story for reporter man, eventually,” Stefan said, looking over at Delaney. “If we can keep him with us on this thing.” “We shall see,” Dima said.

  General Thein took them that night to an officers’ club on a hillside outside town. Delaney had been in many such police and s
oldiers’ clubs before, on assignment in Nigeria, in Philippines, in El Salvador, elsewhere. They were all designed to do the same thing. They were to leave no doubt in the minds of those lucky enough to use them that being a senior man in a particular army was so beneficial, so lucrative, had such pleasant fringe benefits, that lifelong loyalty to the soldiering tribe was the only sensible, the only consistently rewarding course.

  Delaney was invited along, if only, apparently, because it was easier to watch him there than at the hotel. And also, he started to realize, because this mercenary band really did want a scribe along with them, someone to witness their lifestyle and their heroics. He drank and ate like the others that night—exhausted, resigned, he saw no sense in any further futile acts of resistance.

  As always at such officers’ clubs, the food, the liquor, the surroundings, the women, were top of the line. In this one, there were tables laden with Western and Asian dishes, heavy on imported beef and other expensive protein sources required for fighting men. Waiters in white jackets grilled and barbequed and sliced for them. Wine was opened, and beer, cognac, creamy liqueurs—in no particular order, for no particular meal course.

  Eventually, in such situations in Asia there was karaoke—in this instance on long, curved sofas in a small private low-ceilinged lounge. General Thein in civilian clothes, a floral-patterned shirt, casual trousers and immaculately polished black Gucci loafers. Young, very young, Thai girls in cheap Western-style party dresses were shown in.

  “Singing partners, choose one, choose one each gentlemen please,” Thein said.

  The girls, exuding perfume, sat with their soldiers, snuggling close and calling out the names of songs as they came up on the karaoke screen. General Thein and his girl, who was no more than 18, delivered the first duo, a heartfelt rendition of “Feelings.” The general drank from a large tumbler of Remy Martin cognac, and nibbled at small skewers of barbequed chicken.

  “Congratulations, congratulations my friends,” Thein called out again and again. Sweat poured from his face, despite the blasts of air conditioning on all sides. His girl kissed him repeatedly on his weathered cheek and whispered in his ear. Soon, Delaney knew, Thein and the others would begin to disappear from the karaoke room with their girls, some for longer than others depending on what services they required elsewhere in the building.