The Burma Legacy (27 page)

Then he saw a face that looked startlingly familiar.

The man it belonged to was a European in his early forties, but wearing a
longyi
. Talking with an unusually tall and burly Burman. Curly hair. A small v-shaped scar on his left cheek, which Perry Harrison happened to know was from a knife wound inflicted during a skirmish in the Omani desert.

He rose to his feet as if propelled by springs. The miracle had happened. His prayers, such as they were, had been heard after all.

As he walked, his hands reached out in greeting.

‘Rip …’

The European turned to him and gaped.

Then, very slowly, a smile spread across his face.

Yangon

The following evening, Thursday, 13 January

Sam checked into a city centre hotel just before 8 p.m. His rendezvous with the SIS rep was in thirty minutes.

The guidebook had described the place as recently built, Chinese-owned and good value at twenty dollars a night. It was on nine levels and when he left the lift he found the floor sloping alarmingly.

He had a quick wash, then studied a street map. The 49th Street Bar and Grill was five blocks away. The SIS woman he was to meet there gloried in the name of Philomena and had been described by Waddell as frighteningly bright.

It was a sultry night. The tea shops and food stalls were busy. Walking amongst these slight, brown-skinned people, he was the only European, yet there were few of the hostile stares that would be normal in many parts of the Orient. The avenues he passed along had been given Burmese names after independence, but some of the old street signs persisted – Fraser Street, Godwin Road, echoes of Empire and the Raj.

He turned into 49th Street, an alley whose
darkness was punctuated by a scattering of feeble lights. On one side of the road were businesses repairing motor bikes or selling household goods. On the other, tenement blocks reminded him of the Peabody Buildings which dotted the east end of London. Windows were wide open in the hope of catching some movement of air. TV screens glowed inside and clothes hung on lines suspended over the street. Here and there children played, delaying the moment of bedtime.

A familiar tune caused him to slow his pace for a moment. Lillibullero. At the side of the street, squatting on the ground by a parked car, was an elderly man listening to the BBC World Service on a small short-wave radio. The wizened face turned to look up and smiled graciously. Sam smiled back and went on his way.

The 49th Street Bar and Grill was a brown brick warehouse conversion. Inside, its rough walls were hung with posters and photographs of colonial Rangoon. A horseshoe bar filled the centre of the space and a broad, iron staircase led to an upper floor. The staff were both European and local, but the few customers were ex-pats and male. Three sat on their own at the bar and a few more hugged a billiard table. They glanced briefly at Sam, then returned to their preoccupations.

He perched at the counter and ordered a beer, placing a copy of
Time
magazine beside him.

‘Here working?’ The woman’s accent gave her away as Australian.

‘No. Just visiting for a few days. I was in Bangkok on business and thought I’d take a look.’

‘Hope you enjoy it. Are you planning to eat here tonight? Lake to see a menu?’

‘Er, no. I’m meeting someone. Daughter of a neighbour of mine back in England. Works at the British mission. Said I’d get in touch when I was here.’

‘That’ll be Phil. Been here about a year. The only female at the embassy – amongst the ex-pats anyway. Popular girl.’

‘Sounds about right.’ In truth he knew nothing about her. He glanced at his watch. Three minutes to go.

The manageress turned to deal with another customer and Sam began flicking through the pages of
Time
. But his mind had flipped back to Bangkok, the woman’s accent making him think of Midge.

She’d turned up at his hotel that morning. He’d been on the point of leaving to take his passport to the Myanmar Embassy and had told her jokingly that if it was sex she’d come for, her timing was lousy. But she’d been deadly serious. Pressed a small black box into his hand, the size of a cigarette lighter. Told him it was a satellite tracker.

‘In case you bump into Jimmy Squires. Plant it in his luggage or whatever. It has a strong magnet too, so you can stick it to a car.’

He’d told her she was out of her sweet little mind, but took it anyway.

‘The conference I’m going to is at the Empress Hotel in Chiang Mai,’ she’d said. ‘The tracking of
that thing’s done back in Oz, but I can dial into it through the net from my PC.’

‘So you can check what I’m getting up to.’

‘Well I did say I don’t know you well enough …’

He’d packed the device in a pocket of the small rucksack which he carried as hand baggage.

‘Hello.’ A woman’s voice right beside him.

He looked up from the magazine.

‘Philomena?’

‘Yes.’ She was a big girl, dressed in a linen skirt and jacket. In her twenties with a jolly face. ‘Recognised you immediately from my dad’s description. Nice to meet you.’

‘Get you a drink?’

‘A coke thanks. Then we can go over there and natter.’ She pointed to a small round table next to a hearth which Sam suspected had never been lit.

‘Was that a coke, Phil?’ the manageress checked.

‘Please.’

As they ambled to the table Sam remarked on the cosiness of the place.

‘A haven for lonely Europeans,’ she murmured, nodding a greeting to the group round the billiard table.

‘Many Brits amongst them?’

They sat down.

‘Not a lot. Most UK companies respect the trade embargo and don’t do anything in Myanmar. A few blokes are here with Premier Oil – there’s a new gas pipeline operating. And a handful of others who don’t reveal what they’re up to.’

Sam leaned forward. ‘Any luck with finding Perry Harrison?’

Philomena leaned in too. ‘’Fraid not. We know where he
was
staying but he checked out on Tuesday. The hotel said he’d gone to Bagan, but I’ve rung all the main hotels there and there’s no trace.’

‘Bagan’s where all the temples are.’

‘That’s right. Thousands of them. It’s the jewel in the crown for tourists.’ She had big round, guiltless eyes. A good card player, Sam guessed.

‘No Burmese officials who could help? They must keep track of tourists.’

‘They do, but it’s not exactly done in real time. Anyway our policy is not to collaborate with the regime in any way. The Tatmadaw are illegally in charge of this country as far as UK government is concerned. The State Protection and Development Council tolerates our presence here, but we’re highly suspect because we’re always rattling on about freedom of speech and democracy. Our phones are bugged, our domestic staff are paid to inform on us. It’s not the easiest country to work in.’

‘So where was Harrison staying in Yangon? Sounds like my only starting point.’

‘And not much of one, I’m afraid.’ She handed him a scrap of paper with the address on it. ‘I doubt you’ll get any more joy than I did.’

‘Is this your first posting?’

Her self-confidence cracked, but only momentarily. ‘Does it show?’

‘No, but “father” said you were only twenty-five. So I assumed …’

‘Rightly, as it happens. It’s an interesting brief, if of limited significance.’ She spoke with the dismissiveness of someone who was highly ambitious. ‘I’d have preferred Beijing, I must admit.’

‘This place where Harrison was staying …’ He glanced down at the piece of paper. ‘Tell me about it.’

‘Small. Off the beaten track. Not doing much business. God knows how they survive, these places.’

‘How long to get there in a taxi?’

‘At this time of night? Ten or fifteen minutes. You’re thinking of going now?’

‘Unless there’s somewhere else. You’ve no other information for me? On Harrison’s ex-wife for example?’

‘Nothing. Sorry.’

‘And London hasn’t messaged you with Tetsuo Kamata’s vacation plans?’

‘Negative again.’

He leaned back in the wooden chair and drank from his glass. There was a desultory sociability about the bar. People came here because they had nothing else to do. He was keen to leave it.

‘You get much of a social life here?’ he asked.

‘Pretty limited. Mostly with the other ex-pats. The Americans keep to themselves, but the Australians are fun. Fortunately our ambassador here and his wife are both great characters.’ There was a girlish enthusiasm about the way she said it.

‘Any Burmese friends?’

‘A few. But you don’t get very close. They’re too
scared of being arrested for consorting with foreigners.’

Sam finished his beer.

‘You’ll want to be on your way,’ she ventured.

‘It’d make sense if we left together,’ he told her.

‘Of course.’ She abandoned most of her coke. ‘Look, if there’s anything else I can do … You’ve got my numbers. Just ring and say where you want to meet.’

As they moved towards the door, she gave a wave to the woman behind the bar.

Outside, Philomena guided him to the right.

‘You probably won’t be watched while you’re here unless you do something that catches the attention of MIS, the Military Intelligence Service, but it’d be worth keeping an eye open. They’re sometimes obvious, sometimes not. Rickshaw drivers are quite often informers for the Tatmadaw. Beware the ones who speak English well.’

‘I will.’

‘To find a taxi you’ll do best in Strand Road. That’s where our embassy is. Don’t pay more than 600 kyat to get to the Inya Lodge and make sure you fix a price first.’

‘Thanks. Can I drop you anywhere?’

‘That’s kind, but I have a car and driver waiting for me.’ She smiled grimly. ‘And there’s a cook/housekeeper and a gardener back at the place where I live. When I was at Cambridge I never dreamt my first job would come with three servants.’

Twenty minutes later the battered taxi dropped Sam at the Inya Lodge. Lights were on but the place seemed deserted. He opened the glass-panelled door to the lobby. Behind the desk a young man woke from a doze and leapt to his feet, staring at Sam expectantly.

‘I’m looking for a friend. I think he’s staying here.’

The boy stared uncomprehendingly.

‘Mister Wetherby?’

Mention of the name propelled the youth into a back room. He reappeared a few seconds later with an older man who spoke English.

‘You look for Mister Wetherby?’

‘Yes. I believe he was staying here.’

‘He gone sir. Day before yesterday.’

‘D’you know where he went?’

‘He say he go to Bagan, but I think maybe he gone back to England. Mister Wetherby very sick. Another English person ask for him today.’

Sam tensed. ‘You know his name?’ His first thought was that this was the mysterious ‘Rip’ whom Harrison had hoped to meet in Bangkok.

‘A lady, sir. She arrive from England this afternoon. Very unhappy that Mister Wetherby not here.’

‘A lady?’ Could Rip be a
woman
? ‘What’s her name?’

The man scrabbled amongst the papers behind the counter.

‘Miss Dennis, sir. Her name is Miss Dennis.’

Sam gaped in disbelief. Melissa was here.

‘You know her, sir?’

‘Met her a couple of times.’ And on the last of
which she’d claimed not to know where Perry had gone. ‘Is she here in the hotel?’

‘No, sir. Gone to restaurant.’ He pointed towards the main road.

‘What’s the place called?’

‘Music Café. Very nice. I tell her, because a lot of young people go. She can talk with them. Make her feel less lonely.’

‘She’s by herself?’

‘Yes. So, so unhappy.’ He shuttled his head with the misery of it.

Sam thought of asking whether she’d been clutching a duty-free gin bottle when she set off, but restrained himself.

‘You need room tonight sir?’

‘Already have one, thanks.’

He saw the man’s disappointment and felt sorry for him.

‘How do I get to this restaurant?’

The man explained. Sam thanked him and left.

The thought of another misleading conversation with Melissa filled him with dread, but there were questions he needed answers to. The fact that Perry had moved on the day before Melissa turned up here suggested she hadn’t told him she was coming. Unless she
had
and the old man had done a bunk to get away from her. Whatever, if she’d ventured all the way out here to be by Perry’s side, she had to have good reasons and he needed to know what they were.

The main road was unlit. He’d had the foresight to bring a small torch. Traffic was light and he crossed to the other side where there was some sort of
pavement. Using the flashlight to pick his way over broken stones and drainage gullies, he passed bungalows set back from the road, heading for a cluster of neon lights. As he got nearer he heard the thump of a woofer and a high female voice.

Twenty paces from the café, he stopped to rally his thoughts. He wasn’t ready for this. And neither would she be.

Melissa sat alone at a corner table. She’d finished eating but was delaying her return to the hotel room because she knew its smell of stale insecticide would remind her how alone she was.

The band had been playing familiar tunes from the seventies, which had had a soothing effect on her – a lifeline from home in a place that felt incredibly alien. Dark faces, dark eyes staring all the time.

She’d arrived at the hotel that afternoon full of anticipation and in a high state of anxiety after having her bag taken at the airport by some native insisting she use
his
taxi rather than anyone else’s. The price to the hotel had been much more than that quoted in the guidebook but she hadn’t had the nerve to argue with him. The Inya Lodge had seemed an oasis of calm when she’d arrived. But when they’d told her ‘Mister Wetherby’ had gone, she’d wanted the ground to open up. Things worsened when they took her to her room. There’d been a lizard on the ceiling.

For an hour she’d sat on the bed and cried. If someone had offered to take her straight home she’d have leapt at the chance.