Slash and Burn

much the same. Cultural terrorism.”
    “I hope you had a chance to say all this to the embassy fellow last night,” said Siri.
    “Obviously he did,” said Peach. She’d snuck up on them from the American team. “Major Potter was asking whether you might join him at his table for dinner this evening, Uncle Civilai. He’s very interested to hear your theories.”
    “Just me and him?” Civilai asked.
    “Well, unless you pick up English in the next six hours, or him, Lao, I guess I’m going to have to be there too. Sorry. But I’ll try to be as gecko-on-the-wall as I can. What do you say?”
    “Your dream has come true,” Daeng laughed. “One on one with an imperialist tyrant.”
    “Tell the major the match is on,” said Civilai.
    “That’s good,” said Peach. “In fact, if the guys from the embassy get through to Bangkok you might even have a state senator to play with too. He’ll stay in Vientiane tonight then fly up here tomorrow. I’m sorry we can’t get you the president.”
    “Wow, a real senator,” said Dtui in her best American accent.
    “Why’s everything suddenly moving so fast?” Daeng asked.
    “The discovery of the tailplane, I guess,” said Peach. “The scent of a photo opportunity? The helicopter wreck and a whole bunch of ethnic people gathered around. In a day or two he might even have a skull to put on his lap. All powerful stuff.”
    “Wall Street,” Civilai mumbled.
    Just a little beyond the village, Auntie Bpoo had laid out her grass mat, changed into her bathing suit, and was attempting to catch some rays. The villagers came to look at her. Some of them believed their sorceress was right. The sky had opened and all the misfit angels had fallen down upon them. But they had nobody to blame but themselves. They should have buried the dragon’s tail while they had a chance.

10
    le plain des alambics
    The best part about being the only living burglar in Vientiane was the fact that the population had become so certain they’d never be robbed that they’d stopped locking their doors. Admittedly, very few had anything worth risking your neck for. These were frugal times and valuables had long since been exchanged for foodstuffs. Eg missed those nights when he’d have to pick a tricky lock or climb into a precariously situated window. He was built for burglary, was Eg. Forty-something with a face so bland nobody could ever identify him. Not even people who’d known him most of his life. He was slim and knotty with muscles, quick and light on his plimsolled feet. His eyes became used to the dark rapidly so he didn’t use a torch, the downfall of many a burglar. Testament to his skill was the fact he’d never been caught. Whereas all the villains with records languished in the prison islands on the Nam Ngum reservoir, Eg had been left to ply his trade in peace. He had to be careful, of course. The PL patrolled with guns and shot at anyone out after curfew.
    Some householders made life so easy for him he wanted to chuckle. Take this morning, for example. A padlock on the shop’s metal grille a four-year-old could open and an advertisement, “Madame Daeng will be away until August 31 st . Apologies to our regular customers.” Shops on both sides closed. Nothing but the bloated Mekhong opposite. It was 2:40 A.M. and the street patrols, if they could be bothered, were on the hour. A piece of cake. Eg walked to the side street, hopped over a low wall and crossed the yard abutting that of Madame Daeng. He peeked over the wall. There were a dozen chickens and some big peculiar-looking bird that he imagined would look good on a spit. Obviously somebody came in during the day to feed them all. No dog. No alarm. No problems. And, would you credit it? Leaning against the back wall was a ladder. They wanted him to rob them. It was a community service he’d be providing.
    The birds barely squawked when he dropped silently into the yard and edged the ladder across to a window. In seconds he was up and sliding a chisel between the wood and the frame and the window popped open like an old clam. Seconds more and he was inside. There was a musty, schoolroom smell to the place. He closed his eyes tight, counted to five, then opened them. And there they were, all around him—books. More books than they had in the national library. And not just books these, but foreign books with raised lettering he couldn’t read. He sat cross-legged in the middle of the room and grinned. It was his