Colin Cotterill - Slash and Burn

“So how do you think he got here?” Gordon asked.

“Well, either he didn’t actually do anything wrong and it was just a ruse to get him out of Nam and into this specific role in Laos for some reason, or he did do it and he had mighty big friends in high places who found him an easy well-paid job up here.”

“Which makes you wonder whether all this is about drugs,” said Dtui.

“Oh, I very much doubt they’d need clandestine operations for drug dealing,” said Civilai. “It was hardly a secret the CIA were buying up all the Hmong opium and selling it as heroin on the streets of Saigon. They had regular scheduled flights from Long Cheng to Vietnam full of the stuff. The pilots used to land upside down just from the fumes.”

“All right, so not drugs,” said Yamaguchi. “What else could he have been involved in?”

“I’m afraid war gives you a lot of scope for profiteering,” said Madame Daeng. “There’s no end to the possibilities.”

“Then let’s start with something we know,” said Gordon. “Boyd was carrying something he shouldn’t have been that night.”

He held up a sheet of typed foolscap.

“This is the official manifest for Boyd’s cargo when he left Udon,” he said. “Pretty standard stuff for those milk runs: rice, blankets, nails, canned food. But here, tucked away at the end is twenty tengallon containers of cooking oil. It was all destined for the refugee camp at Sam Tong.”

“You think there’s something suspicious about it?” Siri asked.

“I do. Air America flights stopped doing overnights in Long Cheng in sixty-seven. They had their own dorm in Sam Tong right next to the refugee camp. If all he had on board was refugee supplies, what was he doing parked at Spook City drinking with his buddies with a full aircraft?”

“And I can’t recall anyone mentioning cooking oil in any of the in-service courses I took on incendiaries,” said Johnson. “And I can’t see two hundred gallons of Crisco permanently destroying two acres of jungle, nor lighting up the night sky with fireworks.”

“Then what did they talk about on that course of yours?” Siri asked.

“A lot of stuff. Magnesium can be nasty,” said Johnson. “I’ve seen a whole village burned down with one canister. I guess most commonly used would be the defoliants: Agent Orange, napalm. They can both do untold damage.”

“Aren’t there any rules for … I don’t know, fair war?” Dtui asked.

“Not for this kind,” Johnson told her. “You can put together any cocktail of benzene, polystyrene and gasoline and rain it down wherever you please and you haven’t broken any international regulations. Nobody cares, except maybe the kids that took shelter under the trees when they saw the bombers pass over. I thought I’d seen it all. But I haven’t ever witnessed anything that leaves a permanent scar on the landscape like that no-man’s-land at Ban Hoong. Napalm just burns the leaves off. Whatever Boyd was carrying destroyed the trees, permanently.”

“How would you send down something like napalm?” Daeng asked. “I mean, I doubt you’d just fly over in a helicopter, take off the caps and sprinkle it.”

There was a legend that extended far back beyond the Lan Xang era six hundred years before. One that could be read of in palm-leaf documents as far away as Lanna in Siam. It was the belief that the spirits of the dead may make a plea before passing on to whatever lay beyond. The spirit had the right, so it was told, to return to places once treasured in life, there to collect old footsteps. Once gathered, those footsteps became a memorial of all the happier times on earth. But the Party made it quite clear that such legends were ridiculous. Like the stories of religion and the fables of the ancient tribes it was all balderdash. No self-respecting socialist would be gullible enough to fall for any of them. But where did that leave a man who has seen the spirits of the dead and traveled to the Otherworld of the Hmong?

Siri sat on the major’s bed looking at the weathered parquet. He knew now why he’d come to this room on the night of the major’s death. The spirit of the king had summoned him here. They’d met, briefly, in life and as far as a man of royal blood and a bloody communist could ever find common ground, they’d developed a mutual respect. They’d shared two bottles of home-brewed rice whiskey and discussed issues as only two wise old men can through to the early morning. Siri had liked the man and, if this invitation to a late night seance was any proof, the king had found a fondness for the doctor. Siri knew the old man would find many a pleasurable footstep in his old fruit orchard in Luang Prabang.

If they’d talked while the king collected his footsteps from this room, Siri had no recollection. He didn’t know how he’d died or why he’d chosen to pass through this inn. Perhaps it was the last place he’d been shown respect. Perhaps he’d come to leave a message for the doctor. It was all a mystery. But the only thing for certain was that the last regent of the Kingdom of Laos was gone. Siri was no stranger to death, nor to the afterlife, but his feelings as he looked around the musty room were mixed. He felt sorrow for a friend. But he could not deny a sense of relief, perhaps even elation. In his own mind, this vindicated him from any and all involvement in Potter’s murder. He doubted the “locked in conversation with a dead king” alibi would gain him much ground in a court of law, but in his soul he knew he was innocent. A great weight was lifted from his shoulders. Despite the fact they hadn’t seen the sun in all its glory for three days, the room seemed brighter. The world offered up new opportunities. This, he decided, was a cause for a toast and a celebration.

The whiskey supply in the kitchen was down to one or two fingers of depth in a few remaining bottles. But below the bed was Major Potter’s own personal stash. Siri was sure the old soldier wouldn’t begrudge them a taste. He got to his knees and slid out the crate. It was of a good old-fashioned wooden variety but the partitions between the eight remaining bottles were cardboard. It was a snug fit between each one. He prised a bottle out and held it aloft. No common Johnnie Walker this. Glenfiddich single malt Scotch whiskey, 12 years old read the shiny silver and gold label. Potter was a connoisseur. Siri wondered whether eleven o’clock might be too early for a celebratory snort. But then he remembered how close he was to the end of his days and could think of no better way to go than with the taste of neat Scotch whiskey on his lips. The crate weighed far more than the bottles so he removed the pillow case from its pillow and started to load them into it, being careful not to clink them together too violently. When he pulled out the fourth bottle, the cardboard partition came away with it and Siri immediately understood. Major Potter hadn’t been asking Civilai’s help to untie his laces. He’d been pointing to the crate. And disguised as lining for that crate were three large manila envelopes.

As an herb, marijuana adds a certain aromatic charm to cooking. It’s particularly compatible with aubergine. If the Americans hadn’t made such a fuss about it, marijuana would be dried and diced and in its rightful place in a little bottle on the spice and herbs racks around the world. Fried or boiled it is no more criminally liable than oregano or thyme. But steeped in saturated fat and served in sweet hot water it becomes clear why the director of the United States Federal Bureau of Narcotics once called it: … the most violence-causing drug in the history of mankind which produces in its users insanity, criminality, and death-makes darkies think they’re as good as white men and leads to pacifism and communist brainwashing. Which makes you wonder whether he’d ever tried it.