Madame Daeng had enjoyed no more than four hours with her husband between jail and the airport. But she'd found the time to ask whether somebody along the trail might take objection to the writings of a man who had converted from communism and proceeded to argue heatedly about its futility. Before attempting to steal an hour or two of sleep, Siri had assured her that nobody would dream of looking in his bag. He was a representative of Laos: a makeshift ambassador, and, as such, he would have makeshift diplomatic immunity.
Their parting words, which both of them would later come to rue, had been;
Siri: "See you in a few days."
Daeng: "Don't forget your noodles for the flight."
No pledges nor confessions of emotion. No hopes. No fears. Just noodles and an imprecise calculation of time.
The only thing of substance in Civilai's shoulder bag was a wad of five hundred dollars rolled into a secret compartment in the thick handle strap. He always travelled with it 'for emergencies' and it was no secret to Siri. To date they hadn't had cause to use it.
They were scheduled to spend the night in Peking before their onward journey. The hosts really outdid themselves. A permanently smiling Lao-speaking cadre, who appeared to have no idea who Civilai and Siri were, had been assigned to look after them for the evening. They were stuffed with food and drink and given little time to burn it all off between courses. In the car back to their ostentatious hotel — the Sublime — the cadre had asked whether they might enjoy fourteen-year-old girls before they slept. Neither Siri nor Civilai could envisage what they might do with a fourteen-year-old girl other than a quick game of badminton. It was late and they were tired so they had returned to their adjoining suites alone.
Civilai knocked on the common door at exactly the same time as Siri.
"I feel like a hastily put together tractor on an assembly line," Civilai said. He went to sit on Siri's trampoline-sized bed. "Is it my imagination or has the world speeded up considerably?"
"I'm still dizzy," Siri confessed. "It's as if we've just been given the next month's intake of food and drink and we'll have to live off it till June."
"I certainly could," Civilai agreed. "We were five plates in before I realized we hadn't yet seen the main course."
"Do you think there's a point to it?"
"Absolutely. Stick with the Chinese and you can have all the food, drink and virginity you can handle. They think we'll go back and push for a bilateral trade agreement. Maybe hand them a province or two in thanks."
"But we aren't anybody. We couldn't push for a hand cart."
"They don't know that. They assume that if our country has selected us they'll listen to us when we go home. They're canny, the Chinese. They know when it comes down to it, it really has little to do with policy or diplomacy. When a politburo member makes a casting vote, at the back of his mind is the night he spent with identical triplets in a tub of honey. We're men and it's a proven scientific fact that eighty per cent of the decisions in our lives are made with our stomachs and our sexual organs."
Siri thought back.
"I don't — "
"Of course, I'm not including you and me, Siri. We're men of integrity. Our lives have been complicated by the burden of conscience. But we are freaks. Ninety-six-point-three per cent of males are born without."
"That's what I admire about you politicians. Figures at your fingertips. Debates won at the drop of a made-up number."
He found his hand caressing the silk coverlet.
"I really had been expecting something more austere," he confessed. "You know? A wooden cot in a concrete room. That strikes me as more fitting for Chinese revolutionaries."
"That really wouldn't have achieved anything, would it?"
"Do you suppose we're being…?" Siri mimed headphones and a microphone.
"Probably. And…(Civilai mimed the use of a hand-cranked movie camera) no doubt."
"So, then romance is out of the question?"
"Wait, I'll turn out the lights. Our love cannot be denied."
Both men laughed at the thought of the poor translator reaching this point in the tape and rewinding, and rewinding. Were the two old men speaking in code or were they actually…?
Sobering up, Siri finally managed to describe his meeting with mass-murderer Neung.
"Very impressive. He's either a very very good liar — and don't forget, psychopaths can convince themselves to believe what they're telling you, even fool lie detectors — or…"
"Or somebody really did set him up."
"And you believe the latter."
"I didn't say that. But I convinced him…at least I think I did, to tell his story to Phosy exactly as he'd told it to me. He was reluctant. I think Phosy had given Neung short shrift during the interrogation. But I told him Phosy was a friend and a good policeman. Then I woke Phosy and told him to shut up for half an hour and just listen to Neung's version of events."
"Too bad we won't be back in time for the trial."
"No, but we'll only be away for four nights. We should be back in time for the execution."
"Mm. Something to look forward to."
"No, I mean it gives us time before the execution to follow up on some of Neung's claims. I'm hoping Phosy's sense of fair play might push him to reconsider whether this is a closed case and take another look at the facts."
"Good. That's settled then. And, in the meantime we enjoy a little holiday, drink a bit too much, embarrass ourselves and our country, and take lots of nice tourist shots as evidence that we actually went."
"Hear, hear to that."?
The enthusiastic Lao-speaking guide who'd offered Siri and Civilai fourteen-year-old badminton partners the previous night knocked on their doors at six a.m. He forced them into partaking of a full morning of breakfast, sightseeing, meeting people who didn't want to be met, and early lunch. The meal was another eight courses with fruit wine which left the Lao delegation so bloated they were certain they'd exceed the baggage allowance on the afternoon flight. Scheduled to leave at three forty-five, the airplane left at three forty-four and, as far as they knew, nobody was left behind at the airport.
Their fears that Civilai might embarrass the Chinese delegation, and himself, were put to rest when it became apparent the Chinese diplomats were all in the front section of the plane, separated from Siri and Civilai and a number of state media representatives who had the rear all to themselves. A red curtain — polyester rather than bamboo — had been drawn between them even before take-off. The members of the media spoke amongst themselves. They'd brought their own dinners on plates clamped together and tied in cloth. They seemed to know there would be no service, no meal, and certainly no in-flight film. All three lady air cadres were busy in first class.
When they landed on the bumpy tarmac at Phnom Penh airport, the Chinese left the plane first. Civilai watched through the window. Five jet-black limousines had driven out to meet the plane with their headlights blazing. Three heavy-set Chinese-looking men and two dowdy Chinese-looking women were at the bottom of the portable steps to shake hands and hug the delegation. They hung limp mimosa lei around the visitors' necks and smiled a good deal. On the short walk to the cars, the Chinese either handed the smelly necklaces to their aides or surreptitiously dropped them on the runway. The cars consumed the guests, turned in formation, and headed in a direction that appeared to contain nothing but the beams of the limousines.
"Is this our stop, do you think?" Siri asked.