The Burma Legacy (36 page)

‘I’d want a guarantee of that.’

‘Don’t worry. Tun Kyaw is useful to us, Mr Maxwell. We’ll keep him safe. And Miss Dennis? You surely want to know about her?’

Sam didn’t. He was dreading the thought of what she might demand in exchange for her co-operation.

‘Tell me.’

‘We will deport her to Bangkok and tell her to go to the British Embassy. She can wait there until you make contact.’

‘Fine.’ Sam felt dangerously optimistic all of a sudden. Victory snatched from the jaws of defeat. He pointed at Hu Sin’s fist.

‘I’d like that piece of kit back if you don’t mind.’

The Wa leader’s face bore no expression whatsoever. Then he shook his head.

Sam remembered what Midge had said back on the boat at Phuket.

People who get in Hu Sin’s way tend not to live long
.

Things were still far from over.

Mong Yawn

11.30 a.m.

Jimmy Squires looked terrible. They’d shot him full of morphine to dull the pain for the journey and he looked out of it. He’d lost a lot of blood in the shooting, Sam was told. Pale-faced, eyes flopping about like a cheap doll, it was clear he’d be no trouble. The injured leg was encased in bandages and held out straight in some sort of traction cage. It gave Sam a bitter satisfaction to see the man so incapacitated.

Although suffering from the after-effects of the anaesthetic, Squires was conscious enough to acknowledge Sam’s presence as they loaded his stretcher into the back of a large, green 4-wheel drive, placing the suitcase of heroin beside him. The eyes flickered defiantly and he looked as if he were about to speak, but exhaustion defeated him.

Three soldiers piled in with Sam, a uniformed driver and two others wearing grubby tee-shirts and camouflage trousers that made them look like ravers on a club night. The pair in mufti carried rifles and had belts heavy with ammunition pouches. As they set off from the barracks Sam checked his watch. It
was just before midday. They’d need to make rapid progress if they were to cross the border before dark.

The jeep left the town and began climbing towards the wooded peaks that marked the start of Thailand. Soon it left the metalled road and jolted over a stony track between poppy fields. Sam heard an expletive from the back and guessed the morphine was beginning to lose its effect.

He tried to make eye contact with the man sitting next to him, hoping for some sign of friendliness, but the Wa soldier would have none of it. He was bigger and broader shouldered than the two in the front, and looked as if he spent his free time doing weights. He smelled of sweat.

‘Any of you speak English?’ Sam asked.

The passenger in the front turned round. He had a glass eye. But there was no verbal response. Sam and Squires were no more than cargo to them. Bodies to be moved.

He began worrying about how he would handle things on the other side without Midge being on hand to smooth his way with the Thai authorities. Hu Sin’s refusal to hand over the tracer meant she would have no idea he was there. He visualised the man using the thing as a paperweight or showing it off to his underlings.

To any Thai border patrol that intercepted them, he and Squires would be two Europeans slipping across from the Triangle with a suitcase of heroin. Rich pickings. All the evidence they needed to prosecute for a capital offence. He worried how long
it’d be after they arrested him before the Thais let him contact Midge and the Embassy.

After the best part of an hour the 4-wheel drive bounced into a village of wooden huts, thatched with attap leaves. In the centre was a more substantial breezeblock building with a corrugated roof, the radio masts beside it marking it as a military post. The jeep stopped and the three Wa soldiers got out. Half-a-dozen uniformed fighters gathered around them. For several minutes there was disgruntled chatter. Then an argument broke out, which was suppressed by a man Sam took to be the local commander.

‘Wass goin’ on? Where are we?’ Squires voice slurred from the back of the jeep.

‘Changing cabs,’ Sam answered.

He got out to stretch his legs and avoid further conversation with Squires, but the two plain-clothes soldiers gestured for him to stay where he was. A small crowd was gathering, villagers curious at the arrival of
big nose
foreigners.

Suddenly decisions were being taken. The rear of the jeep was opened and the stretcher eased onto the ground.

Far more alert now, Squires winced at the pain the movement caused him. ‘Would someone tell me wha’ the fuck’s going on?’

Sam heard hooves. A trio of mules appeared from behind the military building, led by a muleteer who looked about fourteen. A couple of the animals had bamboo poles stretched between them, with straps attached.

Squires understood the purpose of the rig at the same moment that Sam did.

‘No way,’ he croaked. ‘They’re not putting me on that.’

Ignoring his protests, four soldiers in fatigues picked the stretcher up, one on each corner, and lifted it over the first mule’s back. Squires howled as fresh pain shot through his leg.

‘Jesus … I can’t take this.
Steve
, or whatever your fucking name is. Tell ’em I need another shot.’

Sam turned to the village’s military commander, a thin-faced man with bloodshot eyes.

‘You have any morphine?’

The man stared straight through him.

‘Sorry Jimmy.’

Squires began slurring in pidgin Burmese, but the soldiers affected not to understand.

‘Looks like you’ve run out of friends, old son,’ Sam breathed.

The baggage from the jeep – Sam’s holdall and the case of heroin – were balanced on the third mule’s back and strapped in place, together with a water carrier and some stores.

Sam hoisted the small rucksack onto his shoulders. The local commander slapped the rump of the nearest mule and they were off, led by the two men in tee-shirts from Mong Yawn. The muleteer walked by the head of his pair of animals, Sam a few paces behind. Three uniformed soldiers brought up the rear.

The path climbed steeply out of the village. Sam glanced back at the palm-thatched roofs below. An
ordinary agricultural settlement. Children playing. Chickens pecking in the dirt. Women grinding seeds and pulses. But instead of sugar cane or tea, this little community’s export crop was opium.

As they moved on up the slope he watched Squires brace himself against the rolling of the beasts.

‘How much of this have I got to take?’ he gasped.

‘Thought
you
’d know the answer to that,’ Sam responded. ‘Must have come this way before.’

‘Spare me the clever stuff. I’m in fucking agony.’

‘You mean you
didn’t
use this route to get your gear out?’

Squires took hold of a loose end of webbing and clamped his teeth on it, like a soldier from an earlier century awaiting the surgeon’s knife.

Soon elephant grass was towering above their heads. Then a little later the path opened out and followed a rocky ridge, the ground falling away on either side. A thin veil of cloud dulled the heat from the sun. Over the not so distant peaks through which they would have to pass, thicker clouds gathered.

As they trudged on, Sam found himself daring to believe the operation was almost over. Barring some disaster, he’d soon be handing responsibility to others. Midge, Waddell and the machinery of diplomacy would take over. Yes, he would talk to the Matsubara board, to give substance to the ‘reconciliation’ story. Even hold Melissa’s hand if he had to. But then he could go home.

Before long they were amongst trees, the well-worn path climbing ever higher. Gibbons screeched in the branches and unseen birds gave mocking cries.
Squires had his eyes closed and the strap had fallen from between his teeth. A drift back into unconsciousness had eased his pain.

After a while the path became steeper however, and the mules began struggling for a footing. Jimmy Squires came to with a jolt. Then one of the animals fell, pulling the stretcher and the other beast down with it.

‘God … Oh Jee-sus!’

The muleteer hissed at the creatures, trying to encourage them back on their legs, but it was clear they’d have to unload the cargo if they were to get them moving again. The straps were undone and the stretcher lifted onto the ground.

Sam crouched down. Despite his loathing of Jimmy Squires, he could see the man was in excruciating pain. And he did have a means of relieving it, he realised. But there’d be a price to pay.

‘I could help you.’

‘
yes
…’

‘The smack in that suitcase …’

‘Yes …’

‘I could make a solution and inject it. I have a syringe.’ It was in the medical pack in his rucksack.

‘Do it …’ Squires’ voice was barely audible.

‘But first you tell me what I want to know.’

‘Oh God! Anything …’

‘What route were you using?’

Squires panted like a birthing mother.

‘This …’ he gasped. ‘This was the route.’

Sam stood up again, shaking his head. ‘It isn’t going to work.’

‘Waddya mean?’

‘You’re fucking lying.’ He began to walk away.

‘
Steve
… Come back.’

Sam glared over his shoulder. ‘What’s the point?’

‘I’ll tell you everything. Just get the gear outta that bag.’

Sam walked to the third of the mules and began unstrapping the suitcase. The tee-shirted soldier with the glass eye rushed over to stop him.

Sam pointed at Squires, then at the bag and mimed making an injection with a syringe. The soldier shook his head, but the wail from the stretcher persuaded him to relent. They lowered the case to the ground and opened it.

The heroin was packed in thick polythene bags, each the size of a pound of sugar. Sam picked one up and walked it back to Squires.

‘How much do I use?’

‘No bloody idea.’ His face was in permanent spasm by now.

‘So tell me,’ said Sam. ‘The route. Names, places, the lot.’

‘Jee-sus … Just give me a shot, for pity’s sake.’

‘Tell me about Yangon.’

‘Okay. Okay. There’s a furniture-maker. 39th Street. Name of Myo Tin. The smack gets concealed inside the containers he uses to ship the stuff abroad.’

‘And it was Major Soe Thein who got the gear to Yangon for you.’

‘
Yes
. Shit, man! Just give me a shot will you?’

Sam took a water bottle and the medical pack from his rucksack.

‘Can’t vouch for it being sterile,’ he commented. Squires grunted non-committally. ‘Still … that’s not a detail you’ll have given a second thought to, in relation to your customers.’

With a knife he cut a corner off the polythene and poured a small amount of the powder into the cap of the water bottle. Then he added some water.

‘I’m guessing on the dose. This may kill you.’

‘Right now I don’t care.’

‘Keep talking.’

‘I’ve told you …’

‘Next to nothing.’

‘Jesus! What else …?’

‘The shipping on from Yangon. Your contact in Oz.’

‘Okay, okay. It goes by boat to a furniture distributor in Port Klang, Malaysia. He ships it on to Sydney. That’s all there is.’

Sam clicked his tongue. ‘This is going nowhere.’

‘Wha’ you mean?’ Squires gibbered.

Sam tipped the heroin solution onto the ground.

‘Fuck …’ Squires bit his lip.

Two uniformed soldiers bent to lift the stretcher.

‘No-oo!’ Squires yelled. ‘Jesus, Steve. What are you made of?’

‘Same as you, Jimmy. Same as you. Your last chance. Tell me about Australia.’

‘Man, there’s nothing to say.’

‘Try. Who gets the stuff when it’s removed from the furniture shipment?’

‘Not my area. I don’t deal.’

‘Who does?’

‘I honestly don’t know.’

‘You couldn’t be honest if your life depended on it.’ Sam backed away.

The soldiers bent to lift the stretcher, but Squires’ howl stopped them in their tracks.

Sam looked down at his prisoner.

‘Two names, Jimmy. The furniture-dealer who strips out the heroin and the man who cuts and pushes it. Two little names, then I’ll give you a shot that’ll put you onto a nice pile of cotton-wool clouds …’

‘The pusher’s called Marty. He’s ex-army.’

‘Hebble,’ said Sam, remembering the name Midge had emailed him back in London.

‘Jesus! You knew …’

‘Wanted the pleasure of hearing you say it. And who’s the furniture man?’

‘Bartholomew. Runs a warehouse in Newcastle. Now help me for fuck’s sake.’

Sam was being hassled by the soldiers but persuaded them to wait a few minutes. He poured more of the powder into the bottle cap and swished water around until the solution became clear. Unpeeling the sterilised wrapper from a syringe pack, he dipped the needle into the liquid and drew it into the chamber.

‘Never done an intravenous before,’ he cautioned, easing up the plunger to expel the air. ‘But I’ve watched “Casualty” a few times.’

Squires stretched out a forearm in eager anticipation. Sam removed a shoelace from one of Squires’ boots and used it as a tourniquet.

‘Nice veins.’ He punctured the blue line of skin
and slid in the needle. Then he pushed the plunger home.

Gradually, the tension eased from Squires’ face. Sam withdrew the syringe and pressed a finger on the dribble from the vein.

A few minutes later the convoy was ready to move again, its cargo drifting back into unconsciousness.

‘Just don’t die on me, Jimmy,’ Sam muttered as he fell in behind the mules. ‘You’re a present for someone, so just don’t fucking die.’

It was another two hours before they reached the pass through the mountains, the soldiers’ increasing jitteriness indicating their proximity to Thailand with its hostile army and police.

Evening was drawing in and the insects were starting to bite. Sam watched a mosquito settle on Jimmy Squires’ forehead, idly wondering if the heroin in the man’s blood would make the creature incapable of flight.

The path began to descend. Ahead of them, some way down the valley, a vertical smudge of brown suggested smoke from a village. Sam pointed and asked if that was their destination, but got no response. He felt increasingly uneasy, sensing the men had an agenda which involved more than simply delivering him and Squires to the other side.