Priced to Move

And the rutted roads.

The slender Myanma gentleman in a dark blue suit shows us into an inner room. Wood paneling covers all these walls from floor to ceiling. A long, library-style table runs down the middle of the room. Eight dark wood chairs, possibly mahogany, are pulled up to it. The three of us take seats, while Hannah does her thing.

Just as she’s testing the light, the door yawns into our wood-paneled cocoon, and two men walk in.

“Good afternoon,” the one in a tan shirt and khaki pants says. “My name is Mr. Ne Aung, and I have some nice rubies for you.”

The very Myanma-looking vendor speaks excellent English with a British accent. His partner, Mr. Win, opens a square, black leather case lined in white satin. It’s a nice case, but nothing much can compare with the rich, glowing, pigeon’s-blood red rubies that nestle in the satin.

I suck in my breath. “I’ve seen Burma rubies before, but this . . . Wow! Which mine did they come from?”

Mr. Ne Aung points at two round stones. “These came from the one you visited today.”

And how did he know which one we visited? I don’t think asking is a good thing. Not right now.

Instead, I say, “Can I loop them?”

Mr. Win holds out a 10x jeweler’s loop and a pair of tweezers. I pick up the stone. Mr. Ne Aung turns on a pure-light lamp, and the ruby comes alive. You see, Burma rubies do this neat little trick. They fluoresce, and not just under the

“black” fluorescent type of light. Rubies from other locales don’t do it, even though they might show off a body color close to that of the Burmese.

“Nice,” I say. “Very, very nice. Do you have a carat scale I could use?”

Mr. Ne Aung smiles at Mr. Win. “I told you she would want to verify the weight.” He turns back to me. “Mr. Pak spoke very highly of you. Said you knew the business.”

Sadness hits me again. “You have heard he died, right?”

Mr. Ne Aung goes kinda green around the gills. “Dead? How can that be? He was here just two, maybe three weeks ago. He was on his way to see you.”

“Really? Did he tell you why? What did he say about the trip? And why me? Why was he coming to see me, of all people?”

My rapid-fire questions seem to surprise him. “Don’t you know why he came to see you?”

“I wouldn’t have asked you if I did. What did he say about his trip?”

Mr. Ne Aung glances at Mr. Win. The look they exchange makes me uneasy; the vendor’s answer even more. “Only that he would see you after he left here. Didn’t he tell you his reasons when he arrived? Or did he not reach his destination?”

“He came to the network studios, but someone killed him before I even knew he was there. We never had the chance to get together. I found him dead. In the vault.”

Mr. Ne Aung and Mr. Win swap looks. “Did you receive what he had for you?”

“I did. The police found the invitation from your government to come and film the Mogok mining operations. How else would we have received permission to enter the country? Oh! And I got Rio too—the parrot.”

“Parrot? A bird?”

I nod.

He shakes his head. “Then that must be that.”

“He was dead by the time I found him. Sure that’s that.” “Unless,” Max says, “the gentlemen are referring to something other than the parrot or the invitation.”

The men trade looks—yet another time. “There’s nothing else,” Mr. Ne Aung says, his eyes cast downward. “What else could there be?”

Before I have a chance to speak, Max jumps in with another good question, to my surprise. “Aren’t you the one who saw him last? Shouldn’t you be the one to tell us what else there could be?”

Mr. Ne Aung takes a sharp breath, blinks, then puts on a smile, one that feels just a tad sad. “I’m sorry. I don’t suppose there’s anything more one can say or do now that he’s dead.”

“What do you mean, there’s nothing more to do?” Miss Mona asks with way too much oomph. I appreciate the effort. “I thought we came all the way ’round the world to buy us some great rubies. We haven’t bought a one, and I need Andie to sell rubies for me.”

“We can help you, madam,” Mr. Win says.

He speaks!

While Miss Mona and Mr. Ne Aung haggle back and forth, I can’t shake a funky feeling. Something in the cobwebby back corners of my mind screams: that vendor knows more than he’s sharing. About Mr. Pak.

And then some.

But what?

I keep my eyes and ears open as I pick out the one-only stones I think we should buy. I nod or shake my head when Mr. Ne Aung talks price; I don’t want Miss Mona to pay more than a decent value, where the vendor can make a living and where the network can make a profit.

Then we go on to the parcels we will divide to sell the similar stones in volume at a more reasonable price.