Chapter Nineteen

Without warning the canopy of tall Asian Rosewood trees cleared to reveal a small camp, tucked into a clearing with expanses of rye grass separating the dozen or so huts. One end housed a chicken coop and farrowed earth, with rice and fruit competing for space along the irrigation ditches. The furthest side captured much of the sun, the dry earth holding up wooden frames holding cut-out targets and swinging sacks for bayonet charges. Some of the buildings were wooden, with corrugated iron roofs holding out the elements, though most were put together from blocks of baked mud. Mike imagined that the mud blocks would have a welcome cooling effect against the torrid heat and keep out much of the monsoon. They looked like the solid forts he had once seen in North Africa, good for keeping out marauding tribesmen and Europeans for a few centuries. Most buildings lay haphazardly around a central long-house, finished off with a covered wooden veranda. This looked to be dual purpose, perhaps both community hall and school, given the variety of people coming and going through the double doors. Doubtless it doubled up as their parliament as well. The roof was adorned with netting, a feature many of the outbuildings sported as a necessary addition to save being spotted from the air. Shallow pits, probably filled with flammable liquids to ward off predators from both the animal and human worlds, guarded the few paths that carved their way into the camp from the thick jungle. Security was a key ingredient in the make-up of the Hmong’s jungle home.

Pin led the small group towards the central long-house. As they closed in, Mike could see another westerner, in his mid-twenties with pale skin and thin arms. He was lounging in a canvas hammock and had not seen them approach. Mike could make out the scraggly stubble of a dark beard woven with tufts of ginger. He wanted to ask Louise more about this unexpected character, but thought better of it. She had barely spoken to him since their encounter beside the stricken Cessna. Partly it would be due to her doggedness and stubborn temper, though she too would have sunk deep in thought, mulling over the ramifications of the day’s events.

Pin vaulted the wooden fence enclosing the long-house and clapped his hands for prompt attention. It was clear that he was a man used to authority. Most of the camp villagers were already gathering. Hushed voices accompanied a charged excitement of expectation and nervous anticipation. They would have seen Pin leave the camp earlier in a bid to investigate the explosions and smoke from up on the main road. To them this was their main BBC news bulletin, their own cable bringing the big event of the day fresh to their neighbourhood, person to person. The news today though was likely to be a bit too local for most stomachs.

As he began to speak, a gathering of around twenty of the villagers huddled together, taking the bad news in their stride. They waited until he finished. There were no raised voices, no interruptions and no outward sign of panic. Mike could not understand a word of what Pin was saying, but he knew the gist of it. In all probability he would be detailing the bus hijack close to their home, telling them that the Hmong would be blamed. There was the serious chance that an army might be whipped up into a fury and dispatched from Vientiane to obliterate all trace of them. An official in a plain green suit would then tell the world that the terrorist threat was neutralised and that the bad-boy bus burners were six feet under and would not trouble anyone any more. Mike tried to imagine a similar scene in his native Portishead. If the good citizens were told that total destruction was imminent unless they fled and deserted their homes to become desperate refugees, there would be panic and near certain riot. Around him the villagers simply hung their heads in mutual sympathy before calmly dispersing to collect their belongings ready for a long journey. Perhaps it was their mind-set, or perhaps their downtrodden history and culture. They took the news bravely and were strong enough to move on to their next challenge with a minimum of fuss. Fuss killed time and lives.

As Pin was finishing telling his flock of Hmong the bad news, the guy with the thinned-out beard slowly made his way towards where Mike and Rusty were standing. He looked fairly unsteady, a sure combination of minimal daytime activity and heavy stoned sleep. After mimicking an army salute he held out his hand and awaited formal introductions.

Louise looked embarrassed as she made the introductions.

“This is John,” she said. “We hooked up on Koh Chang. He’s helped watch my back and gets me out of trouble. He carried me back worse for wear after our first encounter, though mostly now the roles have become reversed. Generally you’ll find he prefers night to day, so you’ll find him enjoying the hammock much of the time. He calls it daytime hibernation, though he doesn’t exactly go running around burning up energy at any time.”

“Hey guys.” The pale stranger made to flap his hand high-five style, deciding at the last moment to swipe at a pestering mosquito. “How come you ended up here? Not the sort of place you’ll find in the glossy travel brochures! Kind of hard to find, isn’t it? The trees mask our little holiday camp well. If you’re after picture postcards you’ll be disappointed. This place is way off limits. ”

“The way we ended up in your holiday camp is a bit of a story,” Mike replied. “It’s centred around our friend Louise here.”

“So you’re out looking for this ancient Buddha too then?” John quipped, totally unaware of the bombshell he was letting go.

Mike was about to answer - he knew of a few temples and historic Buddhas, and there were a couple of famous ones back in Vientiane, but this wasn’t a reason they ended up in a Hmong jungle camp. Louise quickly cut in. She held a scornful look in her eyes and Mike knew better than to interrupt her when she became angry in this manner. It was a controlled anger, one where her wit and sharp brain remained switched on, able to beat down an opponent expertly.

“What are you, a complete moron or one still studying for the certificate? We’ve talked about this before, all of us, and I thought you had at least picked something up. You’re a prize idiot. You’ve probably won it every year for a decade. This isn’t some game - there are lives at stake. It’s above me, John, and I’m afraid to say it’s way above you as well.”

John looked to say something, but thought better of it. Instead he sheepishly grinned and prepared to meld into the background, presumably to retake his position in the hammock. Mike figured him to be the type to take a rebuke badly, though felt little empathy or kinship towards the pale figure. Perhaps he needed to get to know John better, though there was an element of mild jealousy he was surprised to feel. A few illicit memories wafted through his head. He half wondered what kind of history John and Louise held together. If there was any previous relationship between them, it looked to be long gone.

“What’s this about some Buddha anyway?” It was Rusty who posed the question, his face alight with child-like curiosity. The whole issue about lives being at stake still lay hanging in the air like a dark mystery waiting to be explained. Mike was fully with him in wanting to know more. Finding Louise had only been the start of things it seemed. There was a lot of unexplained friction drifting just below the surface. It then occurred to him that they must put Jean top of their agenda. One missing person search had just been replaced by another. Perhaps he should persuade Louise to talk with her friends, the Hmong. They would surely have a few ideas on what to do in the wilderness when it came to missing westerners. Before that, Louise needed to satisfy a few questions regarding some ancient archaeological quest.

They were not able to witness Louise’s response. Mike’s attention followed her focused gaze. It was hard to read her expression, though it was no longer one of anger. An image was walking towards them with Pin in tow. The sun distorted many of the features, though from the stride it was clear he was a tall man - anything approaching six feet was a rarity within the tropics. When dust and haze allowed Mike to peer closer, the weathered features confirmed his suspicions. He could see the thinning grey hair of a westerner, darkened dry skin from years of exposure to a relentless sun. His lean frame and leathered exterior matched that of an ex-pat strolling the suburbs of Chang Mai seeking out his next business opportunity. An exposed arm below a cotton shirt revealed long whitened scars, testament to a long healed accident. What struck Mike most were the eyes. They held the same piercing grey intensity as those he had known so well in Louise. Partially mesmerised he waited for the newcomer to draw up and offer his introductions. Seeing a fellow westerner walk into a scene so far from the circuit of guesthouses and bars would intrigue him enough. This guy was up another level though. If he walked into an amusement arcade your eyes would jump to seek him out amongst the crowd. His whole demeanour not so much hinted as shouted that there was one hell of a story to be told. There was that well-worn awe that Mike knew could hold him all day long. This would be a man worth listening to, not simply with traveller’s tales but with insights smitten with humour and deep observations. Mike could tell all of this the second he looked him over. He wondered if the others felt the same. The trick was in keeping it to himself, not allowing the stranger to detect any glowing respect. He was in a very alien country surrounded by unfamiliar people. His whole world had become temporarily unstuck. He would find it hard, but until he heard the entire story he would need to keep the weathered veteran in a box labelled ‘possibly dangerous’, being sure to log it in bright red.

As the man approached, Louise immediately ran to him, a reaction causing Mike instant confusion. Surely he was too old for her? He couldn’t possibly be her type! The man broke through Mike’s confusion with an outstretched arm. He accepted the handshake, all the time working things through.

“Welcome aboard, guys.” Mike immediately picked up a faint North American accent, possibly Canadian. It was both deep and craggy, signs of a life spent smoking strong tobacco and weed between lungful gulps of humid jungle air. “Feel free to call me Dan. If Louise here has kept herself pretty quiet then I’ve got some explaining to do. Now, the first question is - will you be in on this no matter what? This is a secret you’ll have to keep and protect. When I tell you you’ll understand just what I mean.”

Both Mike and Rusty nodded their heads in unison. There was no place for walking the sideline. Putting their thirsty natural curiosity to one side, they had a recently acquired problem that required a lot of help. What to do about the now-missing Jean? Things weren’t looking too simple for her predicament back at the bus, despite Rusty’s initial take on the situation. Chances were that they might need logistical aid and local knowledge at the very least. If any further help of a more military nature were required, most resources would surely be on tap, given their immediate company. The firepower surrounding them was enough to mount a guerrilla war on a ferocious scale. With nervous anticipation and eagerness they sat down to hear what Dan was about to tell them. The gravity of what they were taking on was well beyond any possible appreciation they had for the situation.