Missing In Rangoon

“A home invasion,” said Saxon, as he turned to Calvino, his lower jaw dropped, “with a sword?”

“They catch the guy?” asked Calvino.

“Still investigating,” said Saxon.

“After two weeks,” said Ohn Myint.

“I saw the photographs after the attack,” said Saxon. “He had two puffy black eyes. Blood had filled the white bits. The British embassy has put a lot of pressure on the cops to find the attacker.”

“They know who did it,” said Calvino.

“The police are investigating,” said Saxon, muffling a quiet laugh.

One of the expats moaned that Derek, an experienced oil and gas engineer, had offended a local, causing a loss of face. The attacker was angry, wild-eyed, on drugs.

“You’re here to help Derek?” one of the expat runners asked Calvino.

“Don’t know him,” said Calvino.

“We thought Jack said something about how an investigator was coming along on the run, and he might have an idea of how to get things moving for Derek,” said another runner, who periodically raised one knee, grabbed it with both hands, grimaced and then repeated the exercise with the other knee.

“Hey, guys, Vincent’s here to see me,” said Ohn Myint. “Nothing to do with Derek.”

They looked disappointed.

“If you have time, though,” one of them said, “you might do what you can for Derek. He’s one of us.”

Suddenly the runners shot into motion as if someone had fired a starting pistol. They raced to climb inside cars and SUVs that would take them to the starting line. A new white BMW pulled to the side of the road. The window on the driver’s side slid down, and an Asian man in a suit and tie waved Colonel Pratt over.

“My contact at the Thai embassy,” said Colonel Pratt to Calvino.

“Good, he can take us back to the hotel after the run.”

Colonel Pratt pulled Calvino to the side.

“He didn’t come to wait. I’ve got to go.”

That was the Thai way. When an official wanted something from you, waiting was impossible. But when you wanted something from an official, the laws of the universe governing time and movement reorganized themselves into a dark force of molasses that no one could influence or fully explain.

“See you later,” said Calvino as the Colonel ran across the road and climbed into the BMW.

“Come with me,” said Ohn Myint, a.k.a. Swamp Bitch.

She led Calvino over to the British embassy official’s SUV, opened the door and pushed Calvino into the back.

“Looks like your friend’s gone with number three at the Thai embassy,” said the British official.

Burma had only a small network of embassy staff. He used the rearview mirror to catch Calvino’s eye. It was a kind of challenge for him to explain why his friend had abandoned the run. An Englishmen would never think of pulling one of their own out before he’d finished the run.

“The embassy is organizing a performance. Pratt plays the saxophone, and he’s giving some kind of a concert. They must be going over the program.”

The British embassy official smiled in the mirror, one of those English smiles that signals, “You’re full of shit, but it’s okay because I can find out with a phone call.”

“Or he’s part of the master plan for a Thai takeover of Rangoon,” said Calvino. “It’s either the sax or revolution. I sometimes get the two confused.”

“A lot of people have that confusion,” the embassy official said.

On the long drive from the city to the starting line for the race, the conversation turned back to Derek, the battered engineer. The British embassy official explained his theory about how Derek had caused a Burmese, a fellow runner, to lose face. Derek had been a little drunk and angry, and he launched into a smart-ass riff, ridiculing the man’s intelligence, the size of his balls, the legitimacy of his birth and his jungle school education. All of it was good running club banter. But what might play as sport in Scotland or England played on a different frequency in Burma.