Missing In Rangoon

“What I have in mind is a guesthouse where I can check in without anyone asking for a lot of personal information, like a passport,” said Calvino.

Saxon’s face collapsed as he flipped through a notebook, running a finger down the page, turning it before looking up with a big smile.

“There is a place not far from the Savoy Hotel. But you’ll hate the toilet.”

“I’ll use the one at the Savoy.”

“I don’t think they’d like that.”

Ohn Myint’s face suddenly appeared inside Saxon’s cubicle.

“Ohn, you’re exactly on time,” said Saxon.

“I’ve got a taxi waiting downstairs,” she said. “We should be on our way.”

It was the first time that Calvino had seen her in regular clothes. She wore a freshly pressed longyi and white blouse and had makeup and a light brush of lipstick. Her hair had been combed, parted and tied back in a ponytail. She smelled of perfume and sliced oranges. Her glasses gave her a professional look, like a lawyer or a librarian.

“I phoned her. I hope you don’t mind, Vinny. But I’ve got a ton of work here.”

Calvino was on his feet.

“Let’s have dinner tonight,” Calvino said. “I’m buying.”

It was just like Jack Saxon to phone Ohn Myint and reorganize the money pickup. He hadn’t mentioned Calvino’s name to her directly but said the lawyer going to court was waiting for her in his office. Saxon had assumed the call was being recorded. The link had been made. The MI diehards read the Rangoon Times and were aware of the big changes in Burma. They’d been told to expect lawyers, accountants and bankers to arrive by the planeload. But no one in the chain of command had told the MI agents in the field anything about how that would affect their job. They kept doing it as they’d always done. That was the idea, one that would make Calvino a person of interest independent of Colonel Pratt.

Someone would have asked: Who is this foreigner who has wormed his way into a criminal trial of no particular interest? Why is he interested in four ordinary defendants who are on their way to receiving long prison terms?

“I’ll look after your suitcase, and I’ll see you at the Savoy Hotel at seven.”

“You’re not coming along?” asked Calvino.

“Two white faces at t

he court hearing would be a little too memorable.”

Calvino picked up his briefcase. Inside he had the cash. The plan was to give the briefcase to the Black Cat at the courthouse. He took a long last look at his suitcase under Saxon’s desk.

“I’ll handle it,” Saxon said. He clenched his jaw and looked at the ceiling. “Remind me to thank my brother Paul for making my life so interesting.”

During the taxi ride to the courthouse, Calvino told Ohn Myint the story of what had happened to Jack Saxon’s brother Paul in Bangkok.

“I’m old enough to remember a time when a man’s character was measured by his willingness to lead a mission to rescue a friend. It was something you did. But that was a long time ago, and not a lot of people think like that any more.”

“Does that explain why you came to Rangoon with the Colonel?”

“It explains why you’re here in the taxi with me. Jack’s your friend.”

Calvino looked at the people in the street. He’d been thinking that Saxon had picked good friends, and that that was a good way to judge a person’s character.

“People don’t have true friends in a lot of places. When friends are considered a kind of subprime emotional mortgage, you’re alone. I can’t think of a place where I’d want to be that alone.”

He waited for her to say something.

“What matters is, you’re making this happen,” said Calvino. “That’s not easy. You feel the rope around your neck.”

Ohn Myint had listened carefully but hadn’t said much as the taxi entered the northern outskirts of Rangoon. People walked along the dusty road in longyis and sandals before cramped, rundown buildings and one-story shacks baking in the morning sun. The forest had ended as the need for firewood doomed its further expansion.

“Friends help friends,” she said, taking the high ground.