Slash and Burn

had been a team effort. If the latter was true, nobody could be excluded.
    Siri drew up a mental list of anyone in the Lao team he couldn’t personally guarantee with total certainty. He came up with four. Reluctantly he had Commander Lit in fourth place. Siri had known him briefly and believed him to be hard working and intelligent. But he was a loyal cadre of the security division and a very serious party member who would not question Politburo orders. Auntie Bpoo would have been delighted to hear that he had her at number three on his list. He knew nothing about her background, especially why it was she spoke fluent English. At number two was Cousin Vinai who had come on the mission under false pretences. And in the top spot was Judge Haeng. Siri knew, of course, that the judge wouldn’t have the spunk to commit the crime himself but he would certainly have been able to recruit a killer. Haeng was a devious character with a number of agendas and he’d been acting suspiciously since they arrived. He’d insisted on searching the major’s room that morning and not told anyone why. There was also the added bonus that Siri just plain didn’t like him.
    There was something about the sophistication of the crime that suggested this wasn’t some local killer with a grudge against Americans. Sinister groundwork had been laid and they agreed that motives beyond the political should be investigated. In order to do so, they needed to fill in some of the gaps that existed in their information about the mission. There were still questions as to what possessed the missing pilot to go to pieces on the night he disappeared, and then the matter of Potter’s comment to Civilai that this MIA venture wasn’t as clear-cut as it seemed. Secretary Gordon took one of the ponies back into Phonsavan. He had a close friend at the embassy who could copy the documentation they had concerning the mission. He promised they’d find a way of getting the information up-country if it was humanly possible.
    The depleted MIA teams had already left for the crash site. General Suvan slept in his room and was hopefully not dead. Senator Vogal was going through papers on the veranda with Ethel Chin. The hotel staff members were attending to their duties. Dtui decided it would be a useful ploy for her to stroll into the kitchen and engage them in idle girl talk. There was a lot to be learned from gossip. Her departure and the mysterious absence of Auntie Bpoo left Siri and Yamaguchi with no means of communication other than the experience that comes from a joint hundred years of medicine. Bpoo never seemed to be around when there was physical labour to be done. Geung helped them carry the body to the rear of the complex where they laid it in a huge cluster-bomb casing lined with straw and natural tobacco leaves. The other half of the casing completed the sarcophagus. They cleaned up their impromptu morgue and shook hands.
    Siri, Ugly and Mr. Geung took advantage of Auntie Bpoo’s disappearance and walked unchaperoned to Phonsavan. The sooty air had become even more solid. The exercise didn’t help Siri’s breathing but there was no available transportation. Geung wasn’t suited to the cold. His nose and eyes had been running from the moment he’d arrived. They were a sorry-looking pair. They passed the airfield, currently the second largest in Laos. Until two days before it had been home to a large fleet of Russian Antonovs and Migs. The logic of this placement was brought into question for three months every year when the fires began and the site was cleared.
    The new town of Phonsavan was a ramshackle place of hurriedly erected wooden shops and slow-moving building sites where more permanent structures were being assembled, it seemed, one brick a day. Once the decision was made to abandon the old ruined town of Xiang Khouang and move the capital to the village of Phonsavan, a wait-and-see attitude had pervaded. Would people come to live here or would they, through nostalgia, return to what had once been a beautiful town? The reconstruction had begun in 1973 and was progressing apparently without planning. It was as if anyone turning up with a wheelbarrow of wood and roof tiles could erect himself a hut anywhere he fancied. There was variety but not colour. Like Vientiane, the dust had turned everything into a sepia photograph. It coated the walls and the strays who slept on the unpaved streets and powdered what humble plants grew in the