Slash and Burn

quite fearsomely, however.
    “They’ve probably heard about you two,” Daeng said. “Who’s going to volunteer to come to this table to be victimized?”
    “We’d be very pleasant, wouldn’t we, Siri?” Civilai protested.
    “Why does everyone else get one and not us? They’ve obviously had orders to mingle, to make us all feel like family. It’s all been orchestrated to lull us into a mood of love and peace. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve put something in the beer.”
    “Hmm. This is a Civilai conspiracy theory I haven’t had the pleasure of hearing before,” Daeng laughed. “While the Russians and Chinese and Vietnamese are attempting to conquer us with money and consumer goods, the Americans sneak in under the radar and win us over with love and tourism.”
    “They’ve tried everything else,” Civilai reminded her.
    “So, if that’s true, why aren’t they here wooing us?” Daeng asked.
    “Exactly. They’re damned clever. They know that I know their plot so they’re holding back. It’s a double … something or other. I’ve a good mind to go over there and crash their meeting and show them some assault hospitality of my own.”
    Siri laughed. “If I didn’t know you better … and I obviously don’t, I’d say you were just miffed ’cause we haven’t got an American to play with. You’re jealous.”
    “And I bet you half a dozen cans of free beer that you don’t dare go over there,” Daeng added.
    “You won’t find the word ‘dareless’ in the Civilai dictionary, madam.”
    He rose majestically, grabbed three unopened cans of beer from the metal tray table beside him and marched to the neighboring table. Without missing a beat, Secretary Gordon pulled out a chair for their invader and they all shook hands.
    “He seems to have done it,” said Siri.
    “And they’ve apparently found a common language somewhere between them,” Daeng noticed. “They’re laughing.”
    “Well, you wouldn’t catch me selling out to the other side,” said Siri.
    “Me neither.”
    “There isn’t enough water in the Mekhong that would make me talk to one of them.”
    “I’d sooner run head first into a bramble bush.”
    “I’d pull you out.”
    “Thank you.” She looked around as she sipped her beer. “Tell me, the farang with the shiny head and glasses, he’s a journalist, isn’t he?”
    “Yes. Why?”
    “Well, don’t look over your shoulder now but he’s coming this way.”
    “Fight him off, Daeng.”
    “It’s too late.”
    Rhyme from Time stood over them—only a little over them—and produced an irresistible smile. His blue eyes were magnified to double their size by his thick lenses.
    “Wow!” he said, and then, in fluent French, “Madame Daeng and Dr. Siri Paiboun in the flesh. This is very exciting for me. A great honor I can’t tell you how much I’ve looked forward to meeting you two.”
    Siri leaned across and pulled out a chair.

9
    THE DRAGON’S TAIL
    Day two of the mission began very much as had day one. The choppers landed at the site, the teams carried their equipment to Vang Pao’s house and set up the folding tables. Upon the arrival of Saint Siri, Ugly wagged his stub of a tail so frantically he threw himself sideways. Siri had saved him some breakfast so the relationship was cemented. The food, the newspaper it was wrapped in and a few mouthfuls of dirt were gone in ten seconds.
    Whether the queues had remained in place overnight was hard to say but there appeared to be no changes in the lineup on the second day. The teams split into their groups and began to investigate the claims. An impressive array of objects was collected: tin ration trays, bootlaces, a complete arsenal of Zippo lighters, and, remarkably, a Charley Weaver mechanical bar tender without batteries. Where it actually came from nobody knew, although its owners claimed a pilot had given it to them as he was escaping a burning helicopter. You had to admire them for trying.
    An hour had passed and still nobody had found a verifiable link to Captain Bowry. That was until the arrival of a group of old men and young boys dressed in black with spare sarongs worn as turbans. They had fashioned some sort of litter out of bamboo. On it, tied down with rope, was the tailplane of a helicopter with its directional rotors still attached. They carried it solemnly, like pallbearers, lowered it respectfully onto the ground in front of Vang Pao’s house, and stood back.
    “My word,” said