Slash and Burn

16

THE MAN WHO MISTOOK HIS WIFE’S HAND FOR A NAPKIN

Toua, the manager of the Friendship Hotel, greeted the returning trucks by running down the front steps and waving his arms frantically.

“The senator. The senator,” he shouted.

“What about him?” asked Lit, jumping down from the flatbed before the truck had come to a complete stop.

“Somebody shot him,” called Siri, who was sitting at the rattan table on the veranda with what looked like a can of Budweiser beer in his hand. He was looking remarkably cool, considering. Ugly was looking even cooler in the chair opposite.

“Is he dead?” called Phosy.

“No. But he sustained an injury which might end his career.”

“Where was he shot?” asked Lit. Everyone had climbed from the truck. One group surrounded Toua, who was acting out the shooting quite dramatically, and the other stood in front of Siri.

“He lost the tip of the index finger of his right hand,” Siri told him. “He may never shake again.”

“I don’t consider it fitting to take this so lightly, Doctor,” said Judge Haeng, who ran inside with the Americans.

“Where is he?” asked Phosy.

“Dining room, basking in sympathy. I dare say he could use some more.”

“This is getting out of control.” Phosy shook his head.

“And you haven’t heard the half of it,” Siri told him. “Go do your investigating and I’ll tell you the rest when you get back.”

Civilai and Daeng opted to join Siri at his table. Ugly eyed them both and decided to let them sit there.

“I didn’t do it,” Siri told them.

“I didn’t think for a minute you did,” said Daeng patting his hand.

“I wanted to,” he confessed. “I’ve had to put up with his whining all afternoon. There’s never a gun around when you need one.”

“How’s his finger?”

“He’ll live. He bled like a geyser though. Quite impressive.”

“Do you think that was the plan?” Civilai asked. “Just to wing him?”

Siri sipped his beer and Civilai looked around for service. He could barely see the inn door. The murky sky had brought on the dusk an hour early. The generator clunked and rattled and gurgled in the distance and a small pale bulb came to life above their heads.

“I went to the Russian Circus once,” Siri said. “Saw a man shoot the tassel off a woman’s bra. She didn’t even flinch. But in the real world I can’t say I’ve ever seen a sniper good enough to pick off a joint.”

“So they were…?”

“Aiming at his heart? Quite possibly.”

“He let you treat his wound?” Daeng asked.

“Reluctantly. Yamaguchi argued that he was better at cutting them off than stitching them on.”

“Where was the hit?” Civilai asked.

“Just here,” said Siri, pointing to a scrubbed area beyond the table.

“And I assume they didn’t catch the shooter.”

“No.”

They stared out at the dark shadows that lingered between the bushes.

“So, it probably isn’t wise to be sitting here under a lamp,” said Civilai.

“Buffalo dung never lands twice on the same mushroom,” Daeng reminded him.

“Of course.”

Civilai called out for one of the hotel staff without much hope he’d be heard. But a small, rugby-ball-shaped girl in overalls ran out to the balcony. He ordered three beers.

“Did you find the bullet?” Daeng asked.

Siri leaned back and pointed to a hole in the stucco with decorative cracks.

“It’s probably in there,” he said.

“You didn’t have an urge to dig it out?” Daeng asked.

“Phosy would only sulk and ask me who the policeman was in this outfit.”

“And the senator’s finger?”

“Probably in there with the bullet.”

The evening meal, ever different, was this night a sort of grand jury with food. The tables had been pushed together and all those who hadn’t been killed or shot at and those not under the delusion that they’d be next, sat around it. On the menu was spam with local cabbage, and clam chowder out of cans with sticky rice. The liquid accompaniment was Johnny Red on the rocks and tepid Coca-Cola. Those opting for room service included the senator and Ethel Chin, General Suvan, Judge Haeng and his cousin. Also absent was Rhyme from Time who was using his bathroom as a darkroom and had to do his exposures while there was still electricity. Dr. Yamaguchi sat once more with Auntie Bpoo at a separate table. The astounded gossip about them was rampant.

Once he’d skipped lightly and incompletely over the autopsy findings, Siri was happy to give details of the communication tower explosion in Phonsavan and his theories on the slash and burn. At the post office he’d met the regional governor. The man had no idea why there were so many fires lit around the town. Like Siri, he was certain it had nothing to do with agriculture. All the planes had left the airfield so there was no danger of an attack there, and as far as he knew all the rebels were focusing their resources on the defence of the base at Phu Bia. But with the felling of the post office tower, and now the attempt on the life of Senator Vogal, Siri had become more concerned that the target might just be the Friendship Hotel itself, and more specifically, the American contingent.

“Can’t we just put them on a bus and send them somewhere outside the smoke?” Dtui asked.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Commander Lit told her. He gave her a warm smile that Phosy didn’t fail to notice. “Given the current unrest, none of the roads are completely secured,” he said. “None of the truck drivers in Phonsavan would agree to drive us out of the region, no matter how much we offered them. Army convoys are the only things moving. Despite the fact that we aren’t that well protected here, the Americans will be much safer at this place than on the road. And we aren’t certain there’s really a threat.”

“What are you talking about?” Phosy asked. “Someone shot a United States senator.”

“Right,” said Lit. “But as you pointed out, the bullet turned out to be musket shot. We have two musketeers right here at the hotel. There’s a possibility that one of the old guards tripped over his own sandal and dropped his weapon. Muskets aren’t the sniper’s weapon of choice. And the explosion in Phonsavan would seem to be more an act of sabotage than an attempt on the diplomat’s life. If they’d wanted to kill Comrade Gordon they could have done so on the road into town.”

If Lit and the others were to learn that Major Potter’s death was also murder, Siri knew they’d be more inclined to believe that this was an attempt to cull the American population. Siri had briefed Phosy about the autopsy but he wasn’t at liberty to tell everyone. There was a very strong likelihood that the murderer was in their midst and Siri and Phosy knew that capture would be easier if the perpetrator believed he or she was getting away with it. There was, however, a consensus at the dinner table that security was wanting at the Friendship and they would attempt to recruit new guards, professional soldiers from the local garrison, as soon as possible the following day.

Attention turned to the successes in the field. For the benefit of those left behind that morning, Civilai gave a colorful rendition of the day’s events. Both sides agreed that there was a great deal that didn’t make sense. Secretary Gordon told the group that all the documentation related to this mission was already at the consulate in Vientiane. The pouches would be taken on a Swedish forestry helicopter via Luang Prabang to Muang Kham, thus avoiding the smog. From there they’d be put on the local bus to Phonsavan which currently traveled with an armed escort. Gordon had no idea how long this process would take but there were better than even odds that they’d