Suvan stretched out on beach chairs together waiting for us to come back from the dig with parts.”
“I don’t believe that for one minute,” said Siri. “The consulate people have been stuck in Vientiane for three years. This is their first chance to get up-country and see what’s happening. I think they’d choose their personnel very carefully. There has to be a good reason for Potter being here.”
“To blow us all to hell, by the looks of it,” said Bpoo. And with no invitation, she launched into a poem.
“Interesting,” said Civilai.
Unable to comment further, everyone else washed out their mugs, collected their plastic wrappers and headed back to join the Americans. They’d spent the first hour marking out fifty-meter grids across the supposed crash site with pink nylon string. They only had the second-hand word from a sorceress that this was where the craft had crashed. Even though the villagers had led them confidently to this valley just to the east of the village, they’d encountered no debris. Still they persevered.
Mr. Geung was walking a little too close to Dtui as they reached their allotted square.
“What is it, pal?” she said, turning to him.
“I….”
“Yes?”
“I … wrote a letter. I wwwwant you to check it.”
Dtui was surprised, given the fact that just a month before, Mr. Geung couldn’t write. Or perhaps it was fairer to say he could write little more than his name, the names of Dtui and Siri, Daeng, Malee and Foremost ice cream which he was particularly fond of. Hardly enough material with which to compose a letter. Despite the fact that they’d been teaching him for three years, his reading was marginally better.
“Who’s it to?” she asked.
“A friend.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Yes.” He smiled, reached into his back pocket and produced a wad of lined pages rolled into a cone. He handed it to her with some hesitation. Dtui unrolled the cone. The pages were all full. On the first line of the first sheet was the word “Tukda.” He’d obviously been practicing. This was followed by what looked like line after line of suet balls. He’d filled every page with them, every space. On the very last page was his name, beautifully written.
“OK?” he asked.
“Do you think she’ll know what they are?”
“Th … th … they’re hearts.”
“Ah, of course. I knew that.”
Dtui turned back to the beginning and looked again. Sure enough, some of the dumplings did resemble hearts. She grabbed hold of her friend and pulled him to her.
“Hug,” said Geung, with his arms straight down at his sides. “Is it good?”
“Can your friend Tukda read?”
“No.”
“She’ll love it.”
He pulled away.
“Are you c … crying?”
“It’s the smoke, honey. The smoke.”
It was four thirty on day three and they’d found nothing. Fourteen people had been scouring the earth for the best part of the day and they’d found not a shard of metal, not a bullet, not a tooth. Not a damned thing. They’d walked the grids with their machetes and grass hackers then covered them again on their knees. They’d had to trust the word of Ar the headman who swore that area had never been bombed and no villagers, buffalo or dogs within a twenty kilometer radius had ever been blown up. Even so, the teams were reluctant to dig too deeply into the hard earth. Auntie Bpoo, not a paid member of the team, had spent most of her time in a hammock watching Siri, waiting for his untimely death. She assured him that once his time came she’d know how to deal with it. He hoped it wouldn’t come during one of her snoozes.
At one stage, Siri had found himself foraging beside Second Secretary Gordon. The American had a working knowledge of the Thai language which was close enough to Lao to make a conversation possible. Siri had begun with personal questions because he knew the visitors liked to have their ice broken. Gordon was single, a career diplomat with sights on an ambassadorship some day.
He’d been posted in Ho Chi Minh City-then still called Saigon-for four years during the war. He was born in the year of the horse, a fact that seemed to be very important to him, as was learning that Siri was a dragon. At last, Siri got around to the point.
“Did you get a chance to read Captain Boyd’s service record?” he asked.
Gordon hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Were there other blips in the pilot’s past?” he asked. “Was he a habitual drug and alcohol user?”
“From what I could tell there was just that one occasion,” Gordon told him. “I’m not even sure he liked to drink that much.”
“And no other disciplinary problems?”
“He didn’t have one black mark on his record.”
“But the Air America people covered up the true events of his disappearance that night. They could very well have ignored other such lapses.”
“You know, Doctor? Despite its obvious CIA and government connections, Air America was a company. They had regulations and standards. If any of their pilots screwed up they had no problems about kicking them out. There was always a supply of young men in search of adventure to replace them.”
“So what happened? What happened that was so drastic that our perfect airman suddenly lost control?”
“I have no idea.”
“Do you have access to the interview documents?”
“The people Air America interviewed after the crash?”
“Yes.”
“They have a copy at the embassy in Vientiane. I didn’t get to look at it in any detail. I do remember they spent a long time talking to the Filipino mechanic and one of the pilots, a Raven. That’s what they called the crazy forward air command guys. The pilots who flew in and guided the bombing raids. They were the three getting stoned together that night. The Raven got killed in action a few weeks after Boyd disappeared.”
“Is there any way of getting a copy of the interviews up here?”
“That looks less likely with every passing hour. They don’t have a fax at the post office and we can’t have it flown here, for obvious reasons.”
“Do you know if anyone on this mission has read the complete report?”
“Major Potter went through it in detail before we left. He could probably tell you what the witnesses said.”
Siri’s instincts were kicking in. Something told him the current search wouldn’t yield any clues to Boyd’s disappearance. But there was something odd going on. He could really use a little supernatural intervention on this one. Since his arrival in Xiang Khouang, Siri had become aware that there’d been very little contact from the spirit world. In many respects it was a blessing. Before his departure his dreams had been overcrowded with disgruntled Khmer souls stuck to his subconscious like moths on drying paint. They’d exhausted him to the point that his waking hours were more restful than sleep. Here in the north he’d slept nights and had no recollections of supernatural
