Colin Cotterill - Anarchy and the Old Dogs

“It has to be,” Phosy agreed.

“But this is enormous,” Dtui said. “What do we do? Who do we tell?”

“Good question, Comrade Dtui,” said Siri, staring at the list on the board.

“Well, obviously the Security Division,” Phosy said. Unconsciously, their voices had dropped to whispers. “They’re responsible for things like this, aren’t they?”

“It isn’t that easy, Phosy. Look at the list. They have generals. We don’t know how high this thing goes. If we disclose what we think we know to the wrong person…”

“They’ll find the three of us tied to rocks at the bottom of the Mekhong. There’ll be river crabs living in our…”

“Thank you, Nurse Dtui.” Siri smiled. “A little dramatic but the drift is there. The fact is we don’t know whom to trust. And, to be honest, we don’t have any hard evidence that what we’ve found here is actually what it seems to be.”

“Come on, Doc. What else could it be? Birthday invitations?”

“I admit it looks ominous, but I think we should go at this delicately.”

“So what do you propose we do?” Phosy asked.

The policeman was still swaying like a palm tree in a strong breeze. Siri looked into his friends’ faces, ceramic with fatigue.

“The first thing I suggest is that you two go home and get some sleep. We need all our wits about us and there’s no urgency. If the note is to be believed, we have until the thirtieth. That’s two weeks. Inspector Phosy, perhaps when you’re refreshed we could take another trip out to Dong Bang tomorrow to see whether the dentist’s wife has kept any of her husband’s notes. Comrade Civilai should be back from Moscow later tonight. I want to run all this by him before we do anything rash. He’ll know how to handle things and he can put us in touch with his inner circle. If nothing else, he knows which people are on his side.”

There were no objections from Phosy or Dtui. They collected their belongings and trudged to the door. Dtui stopped in the doorway and looked back at Siri.

“You know?” she said. “I don’t understand how you do it, Doc. Look at you. Older than Angkor Wat, up all night boozing, and you still look as frisky as a prawn on a hot plate. What’s your secret?”

Siri considered telling the truth, but only briefly. “What can I say? A life without impure thoughts,” he said. “Look and learn, Dtui.”

It was an odd afternoon. The thick, puffy clouds squatting low over Vientiane weren’t particularly convincing. They were like stage scenery clouds that could be pushed aside at any time to reveal the sun. What Laos needed was rain, not the promise of it. Siri had stopped by Civilai’s office and been told by his typist that he’d be arriving at some unearthly hour the following morning. Siri figured it would be at least lunchtime before his friend was in any fit state to quash a coup. So he scribbled a quick note to say he’d made a lunchtime booking at their riverside log for 12:30- and Civilai should bring enough packed lunch for both of them. He added, “This is urgent so don’t come up with any lame excuses.”

Siri’s next stop was the Department of Justice, where he was hoping he’d be able to drop his reports on Manivone’s desk before her boss, Judge Haeng, could railroad him into his office for a quick burden-sharing tutorial. There was no love lost between Siri and his much younger boss. Siri didn’t take orders and Judge Haeng didn’t do much of anything other than give them. The national coroner was the only man in the country remotely qualified to do the job, so dismissal wasn’t a threat Haeng could wield with any conviction. Siri dreamed of retirement, of inactivity and peace. He would have loved Haeng to kick him out and the young man would have been delighted to do so. The judge, with his iffy Soviet qualifications, was consumed by the need to maintain face-and Siri had smashed that face to smithereens once or twice. But, as of this week, a shadow even darker than Siri had been cast over Haeng’s department.

In July, Laos had signed an agreement of friendship and cooperation with the government of Vietnam. Although it was packaged as a way to facilitate trade and exchange information, in fact, it gave the Vietnamese a green light to station military units on Lao soil and to have an even greater influence over Lao policy making. Vietnamese “advisers” had been billeted at Lao government departments, some even being bold enough to have their own desks moved into the offices of the department heads. Such was the case at the Department of Justice, and Judge Haeng didn’t like it one little bit.

His office mate was a toothless but ever-smiling man who wore his hair greased flat on his head like a matinee idol. Although he sported a large, charcoal gray suit rather than a uniform, he was a colonel in the People’s Army of Viet nam and a senior lecturer in law at the new institute in Hanoi. To Haeng’s chagrin, he could read and write Lao, and under the agreement, every document that passed over Haeng’s desk, “in” or “out,” had to pay a visit to Colonel Phat. Although the colonel hadn’t yet made any direct comments, Haeng watched him out of the corner of his eye as the man shook his head and tutted repeatedly as he pored over the reports. As a result, the judge concentrated doubly hard on his grammar and spelling. He also tried to be out of his office whenever Phat was in, which was most of the time.

So, to make a long story no less long, that was why Haeng bumped into Siri at Mrs. Manivone’s desk in the typing pool that day.

“Ah, Siri,” Haeng said, as if he were actually glad to see the coroner.

“Judge Haeng.”

“What are you doing?”

“Just delivering my reports for the week. I was on my way to-”

“Good. Glad I caught you.”

“You are?”

“Absolutely. There’s a little matter I might get you to take care of for us.”

“That depends. When?”

“‘When?’ That’s hardly the reaction we expect from a soldier of the revolution, Siri.” Haeng cast a glance toward the clerks sitting around the room. He seemed to know instinctively they were hungry for some homegrown socialist wisdom. “A true warrior would say, ‘Let me at it.’’’

“He would?”

“Yes, Siri. A dedicated socialist plunges headfirst into the troubled waters without testing the depth.”

“Isn’t he likely to bump his head on the bottom?” Siri asked.

“What?”

“If it’s too shallow.”

“I don’t… No. He wouldn’t care. He would-”

“What if he can’t swim? Like me.” Siri and Haeng both heard a muffled chuckle from behind them.

“It’s not literal, Siri. It’s a… Look, never mind. Come with me. We have something to talk about in private.” He headed off toward the exit. Siri knew why.

“Isn’t your office this way?”

“Yes, but it’s… occupied. We can talk outside.”

As he led them toward the door, Haeng grabbed a small red book from a large pile beside the souvenir cabinet. He didn’t stop till he reached the edge of the basketball court. Once a happy after-work recreation spot for the American imperialists, the concrete rectangle was now in the process of being reclaimed by nature. Undernourished ivy and morning glories crisscrossed the backboards and curled wreathlike around the rims.

There came a belch of thunder from overhead that rolled languidly across the stodgy clouds.

“Looks like rain at last,” Haeng said. It was the first decorous comment Siri could remember hearing from the spotty young man. He was too surprised to respond. “But, anyway,” Haeng continued, “we’ve had a bit of an embarrassment in the south.”

“Souths are notorious for embarrassing their northern neighbors.”