The Burma Effect (25 page)

“I told you to back off, Delaney,” he said.

“Don't you be shaking your head in this house tonight,” Abbey said.

“The chopper can put down right there, beside the lake,” Dima said to the soldiers at the table.

“Tricky,” Clive said. “I'd say the backyard is the way to go.”

Dimitri Prokupchuk, mercenary, sat on the balcony of a decaying concrete apartment block in the northern suburbs of Rangoon smoking a late-night cigarette. The soldier's life had brought him here. From the sadism of Russian boot camps, through dirty wars in Afghanistan and Chechnya and two marriages and a variety of children to here, Rangoon, Burma, Myanmar, in the middle of the world.

His colleagues snored and stirred in alcoholand drug-induced sleep. It might have been tents near Kabul or bombed-out factories near Grozny or any number of uncomfortable, dangerous places. This time the bivouac was mattresses on concrete floors in a bad apartment in Rangoon.

He only felt true feelings, soldier's feelings, when he was in a situation such as this. Calm, smoking a cigarette, men under his command, dangers to be faced, rewards on the horizon. He knew that night, like many other nights, that there was no life for him but the soldier's, the mercenary's life.

He flicked his cigarette off the balcony. It trailed tiny embers through the night, like a tracer bullet seen from a kilometre away. He heard the butt hit and hiss briefly in the parking lot not far below. He would have preferred it if it was distant mortar fire, or distant flares, or distant aircraft overhead that made him feel uneasy that night. Unease was normal. The soldier's life was full of fear and uncertainty and unease.

This time, it was different. With all his experience, all his hard-won experience in battles large and small, he could not shake the feeling that this time something was fundamentally wrong.

Was it because Kellner had gone missing? Not really. Things often went wrong in the days and hours before an operation. There was nothing terribly unusual about that, and a good tactician such as he would know how to allow for such events in the field. No, this time the situation felt fundamentally, irretrievably wrong, as if some basic piece of planning had been forgotten, or not done at all.

He could not think what that might be. He trusted Kellner, had known him for years, valued him as a good contact for freelance work like this.

No, it was not Kellner. And Dimitri Prokupchuk, mercenary, was at ease with ruthless men like General Thein, had had much experience with men like that, whose true motives were never clear, for whom money was one important thing but never, ever, everything, for whom an extra victim here and there was the cost of doing a soldier's business.

No, it was something different this time. Perhaps, Dima thought, as he felt the velvet caress of an Asian night on his skin, it was just a matter of age. He was lucky to have made it to 51, lucky indeed. Maybe this should be his last adventure. Maybe that was what his superstitious Russian soul was telling him that night. Maybe this would be his last adventure.

Delaney couldn't sleep and went out to the kitchen, lit now only by yellow street lights from outside. He saw the glow of someone's cigarette on the balcony, smelled tobacco smoke, but said nothing. He took a beer from the fridge, hoping that this might help him relax enough to doze off until morning.

He saw a red cigarette butt rocket briefly off the balcony and then Dima came in, startled to see anyone else awake.

“Delaney, what is your problem?” he said.

“What is yours, Dima?” Delaney said. They were the two oldest in the group, and stood looking at each other from the vantage of men with no illusions.

“I miss my dacha tonight, Delaney,” Dima said.

“I'm getting old. Maybe that is all.”

“You know that this is all going to go bad, don't you Dima,” Delaney said.

“Possibly,” Dima said. “Yes.”

“Then why bother?”

Dima waited a long time before he answered. Perhaps too long.

“Ask me that again tomorrow,” he said.

N
o one except Dima was in the main room when the knock came the next morning. Delaney was awake, but still lying down in the small back room where they had put him. It was just past seven. He heard Dima call out “Yes, wait” and move to the front door.

Delaney heard the door being opened and the sound of men moving into the living room. A number of men, in heavy boots.

“General Thein,” he heard Dima say. “Welcome to our humble abode.”

Delaney got up, dressed quickly, listened from his open doorway. Down the dim hallway, he could see Dima and the general, with at least three or four uniformed soldiers behind them carrying AKs. The other mercenaries had not stirred yet, or were perhaps listening from their rooms, as Delaney was. There was no apparent reason to think that this morning visit was trouble. They had all been expecting Thein to come that day. But Delaney knew this was trouble.

“You will ask your men to come out,” Thein said. “We will go to the city now. There is a vehicle waiting outside.”

“To the city? Today?” Dima said.

“Yes, now please,” Thein said.

“We haven't discussed our next arrangements with you yet,” Dima said. “We must talk of many things first. And we have not seen Kellner, we have not briefed him on the Mongla outcome.”

“That will not be necessary now,” Thein said.

“Why not?” Dima said.

“Prokupchuk, you take me for a fool,” Thein said. “I have played fool for you for several days and I am tired of it now.”

“I don't know what you mean,” Dima said.

“I am a soldier. You are a soldier, but I think now not a very good one. Please do not insult me.”

Dima now apparently decided to say as little as possible. He was silent and waited for the general to speak again.

“Did you really think we would let you interfere with Suu Kyi and put this revolution at risk?” Thein said.

Dima still said nothing.

“Did you?” Thein asked again. “And did you really think you could persuade a general in the SPDC to take part in any of your other little business plans? Did you think we would let you interfere in our business in the north, or anywhere else? That you could buy me like that? Do you think we would put an important investment arrangement like the one in Mongla at risk and anger some international partners for a few dollars from a band of mercenary soldiers like yourselves? You Westerners think we are fools. We are not fools. All of these little schemes of yours, and Kellner's. You are the fools to think that Myanmar is just a target for people like you.The SPDC watches and learns and we wait and then we strike back at all our opponents. Like today.”

“Where is Kellner?” Dima said.

“Kellner is dead,” Thein said.

“Dead,” Dima said.

“He was uncooperative and then he cooperated and now he is dead,” Thein said. “He was a rash man, and inside he was weak. Two things dangerous in combination.” Dima was silent.

“Wake your men,” Thein said, drawing his side arm. “We will go now.”

Bobby burst from a bedroom between Delaney and the scene in the living room. He was shirtless, but carrying an AK-47.

“Down Dima,” Bobby shouted. Dima hit the floor rolling to the right. Bobby opened fire, two brief bursts. The noise was deafening in the enclosed space. General Thein was not even able to raise his pistol. He and the four Burmese soldiers were flung back against the wall and the entrance door, smearing blood as they slid to the floor.

Dima was instantly on his feet again, professional, in charge again.

“Bobby, secure that stairwell,” he said. He reached for his .45, which was on the kitchen table. The other men raced into the main room, shrugging into shirts, zipping combat pants. Clive and Sam carried AKs, passing them to colleagues.

“Tom, secure that back doorway,” Dima said. “Clive and Sam, take the front balcony and pull down those shutters.”

Delaney could hear shouts in Burmese and children's voices coming from other apartments now, above them and from the adjacent buildings.

Clive took a short look over the low concrete wall of the balcony before pulling a metal rollerblind almost all the way down.

“Army van, one driver, at the wheel. Two men with AKs moving this way,” he shouted back inside. “And a Mercedes, tinted glass, can't see who's inside.”

“I got the stairs,” Bobby said from the outside hallway. Delaney heard him shout, apparently up to the landing above. “Back, back, back, go back inside.” Burmese voices. A door slammed.

Delaney moved into the living room area, keeping low.

“Out of the way, Delaney, stay down,” Dima said. Delaney squatted to one side, back against the living-room wall.

“Get the hell out of here, man,” Abbey said. “Back in that room.”

“Leave it, leave it, leave it,” Stefan said. “Watch that window on the left side.”

Abbey moved fast to the left-hand-side window. Stefan moved into the side covered balcony, to the right, looked briefly over the wall and pulled the rollerblind down most of the way as Clive had done.

“Clear on this side,” Stefan said.

“Back stairwell clear,” Tom shouted out.

Dima and Sam put down their assault rifles and pulled the five bodies over to the corner of the living room between the two exterior balconies.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam said, sweating heavily in the morning heat and humidity. He had a Glock tucked into his back waistband. He took the side arms from the dead Burmese soldiers and placed them on the kitchen table in the back corner of the living room. Then he gathered up the soldiers' AKs, pushed plates and glasses to the floor, and laid them on the table as well.

“What's up?” Tom called out from the back stairwell after the crash of plates. “What's up?” “OK, OK, we're OK in here,” Sam shouted.

“We're going to have to get out of here and take that van,” Stefan called out from the side balcony.

“And before anybody else comes,” Clive said from his lookout on the streetside balcony. He peered through the horizontal gap in the shutters. “Driver on radio, driver on radio,” he shouted suddenly.

“Take him, Clive,” Dima said.

Clive rolled the shutters up slightly and let go a burst of AK-47 fire into the street. Then another. He rolled the shutter almost all the way down again and crouched below the wall. “He's out,” Clive said.

Through the entrance doorway, Delaney heard shouting in Burmese. The other two soldiers had clearly seen the driver go down. They fired up into the stairs. Bullets ricocheted around in the concrete well on the first floor. Bobby took aim downward and fired off a long burst of his own.

“Cocksuckers,” he shouted out. He let go another burst.

“Easy, Bobby,” Dima shouted. “We've only got limited ammunition in here. Short bursts, short, short.”

“We have to get out of here before any others come, Dima,” Stefan said.

“We'll go, we'll go,” Dima said. “Sam, get what gear we'll need, get it ready. Bobby and I will clear the stairs and then we're out. Head for the van. Delaney, you stay with Stefan.”

“We're not bringing that piece of shit with us, no way,” Bobby said from the stairwell.

“No time for this now, Bobby,” Dima said.

“Leave him, fuck it,” Bobby said.

The soldiers below fired blindly upstairs again. The ricochets pinged all around.

“Christ,” Bobby said, firing downward again.

“Sam. We'll need a smoke grenade in that stairwell,” Dima said.

Sam raced into a bedroom and came back with two smoke bombs. Dima tossed them to Bobby outside the main door.

“Stand by, Bobby,” he said.

“Vans, vans,” Clive called from the front balcony, peering through the shutters “Troops.” “Jesus Christ,” Dima said. “Bobby, hold back, hold back. Tom, you clear? Clear at the back?”

“Clear,” Tom called out.

“Van at the side,” Stefan called out from his balcony. “Troops out. Six, eight in the alley.”

“Van this side, van this side,” Abbey called from his window.

“Christ,” Dima said. “Stefan, what do you think?”

“The back way,” Stefan said. “No choice.”

“Blind here, no window,” Tom said.

“It's got to be the back, Dima,” Stefan said.

Suddenly they heard a voice on a loud hailer from outside, shouting something in Burmese.

“What are they saying for Christ's sake?” Sam shouted.

“They don't know who's here,” Clive called back.

“They know, they must know,” Dima said.

“They know five Burmese came in here and they haven't come out yet, that's all they know,” Stefan said. “They know someone's killed a driver from the balcony up here and someone's firing at their guys from the stairwell. That's it so far. They don't know what's going on.”

The amplified shouting continued. No shots were fired from the street.

“They've got to figure some of their guys are still alive in here,” Bobby said. “Yeah,” Clive said.

“If they are professionals and they think some of their men are still alive in here, they'll go with tear gas,” Dima said. “That is how it is done.”

“Right on,” Bobby called inside. “And I hate tear gas.”

“We got no masks,” Abbey said.

“No masks,” Dima said.

“Back door,” Stefan said. “Has to be. Tom, you think there might be an alleyway back there for vans?”

“Can't tell, Stefan,” Tom said.

“It's got to be the back,” Dima said. “We'll go out whatever door there is downstairs and take one of the vans from the alley on the right-hand side. The right side as we go out. OK?”

“OK,” said Stefan. “Everybody got that? Down the back, we cover each other and take a van in the right-hand alleyway and we go.”

“Bobby, we'll need those smoke bombs for the back now,” Dima said.

Bobby tossed them in to Sam, and Sam ran with them to the back of the apartment. There was more shouting in Burmese from the loud hailer outside. Clive pulled up the rollerblind on the front balcony to have a look and immediately there was heavy fire from the street. Bullets ricocheted inside the enclosed space.

“Christ,” Clive shouted, pulling the blind all the way back down and slumping to the ground. Blood gushed from his face. “I'm hit,” he said.

“Go Delaney, check him out,” Dima said. “Everyone else stay in position. Stay where you are.”

Delaney moved quickly to the now-darkened balcony. Clive had been hit by bullet shrapnel and bits of concrete in several places in the face. Not a direct bullet wound but deep shrapnel cuts, all bleeding profusely. One eye socket was gushing blood, too.

Clive was lying quietly, conserving energy, a professional soldier with a wound.

“I don't think it's bad, Delaney,” he said.

Delaney looked around for something to wipe Clive's face.

“Is it bad?” Dima called out.

“Face,” Delaney said. “Shrapnel, I think. There's a lot of blood.”

“I'm OK,” Clive said, trying to sit up.

“Can you move, Clive?” Stefan called out.

“Yeah,” Clive called out. “Can't see too good, though.”

Everyone went silent for a moment. Then Stefan said, “We've got to go.”

Suddenly there was a whoosh and a clattering from the front stairwell. Bobby cursed and fired downward. “Tear gas, tear gas,” he shouted.

He grabbed a canister from where it hissed and whirled at his feet and hurled it back downstairs. Two more canisters rocketed up and landed nearby, pouring out stinging billows of fumes. Bobby kicked at them and tried to fire down the stairs. Bursts of AK fire ricocheted around him from the soldiers below. He raced coughing and gagging inside the flat and slammed the door.

“I need a mask,” he shouted, falling to his knees and coughing.

The stout entrance door did not appear to be letting fumes inside.

“This getting hot now, brothers,” Abbey said from his vantage point at the left-hand window.

The closed metal blind in the front balcony clanged like a big out-of-tune cymbal; once, twice, then again.

“They're firing tear gas canisters at the fucking blind,” Sam called out from the back. “Delaney, get Clive out of there.”

“Everybody stay in position,” Dima said. “Delaney, get out of that area, get Clive out of there.”

Now AK fire hammered at the front balcony rollerblind. Some bullets pierced the slats, letting in slim tracers of sunlight. They heard the sound of a helicopter hovering above.

“Chopper,” Clive said as Delaney helped him into the centre of the living room. Blood still flowed from his cuts and his left eye was closed.