Pagoda, page 12
“Yeah.” Gall pitched his cap at a chair and sat down.
“They poured into Dan’s house about daybreak.” Varley stroked his unshaven chin. “Must have been a hundred of them, but in spite of that Marino made a break and got away.”
“I can see it now.” Gall reached for a cigarette. “Just like a circus tent tiptoeing away.”
“No kidding. He broke out the back porch and through a hedge into the next yard. They searched for two hours and couldn’t find him.”
Gall got up and pushed the room service button. He was wondering how a man as fat as Marino could elude anybody. Then he remembered how light the big man was on his feet, and decided that perhaps it was possible. When William didn’t answer the bell, he rang again.
“That thing’s busted,” said Varley idly. “I been trying to get some action out of it all afternoon.”
Gall cranked the telephone and told the switchboard operator he wanted some food. She said, “Yes, Captain, right away,” and in a few minutes William entered with a loaded tray.
“Where have you been?” asked Gall. “Out defending the barricades?”
“No, master.” The servant smiled as he put the tray down. There was a sudden shouting from the street below the hotel, and Gall walked to the balcony. A garish sound truck was rolling slowly along the waterfront. It was obviously a movie advertising truck, but now its horn clusters were blaring harsh Burmese phrases over and over.
“Ask your boy what they’re saying!”
William’s head lifted toward the sound. “That all persons must stay in their houses, sir. That anyone found with a weapon will be shot immediately.”
Gall came back to the couch and picked up a sandwich. “They’re making it stick, too,” he commented. “I didn’t see a soul on the way to town.”
Varley was very nervous. He pawed at his balding head, and his glass shook so that the ice cubes rattled. “What do you think they’ll do to us?” he asked. Gall wiped the crumbs from his mouth, and glanced up.
“What do you think they ought to do?” he asked, and Varley snorted.
“Big help, Pappy,” he commented, and was on his way to the sideboard when someone rapped peremptorily on the door. Seven officers came stalking into the suite, and most of them seemed to be colonels. Must be the brass, thought Gall. He stood up and watched the officer in the lead come to attention and salute.
Startled, Gall glanced at Varley. Since when did the victims receive military courtesy, he wondered. Varley was puzzled too; he stood with the glass in his hand as the other officers stiffened and saluted. A wild suspicion swept over Gall, and he whirled around.
William was in back of him, returning the salutes with a brief waving motion of his own right hand. Then he stood listening while the colonels reported, speaking swiftly in Burmese. I should have known, thought Gall. He always talked too well, knew too much about everything. But Varley was slower to understand. He kept glancing in bewilderment from William to the officers and back again.
When the reports were completed, William ordered the officers to stand at ease. They relaxed and stepped aside as the servant removed the white and gave an order to the soldier guarding the door. There was a slight commotion in the hall, and four other soldiers walked in, flanking Dan Marino. The fat man’s jacket was tom and there was a purpled bruise on his right cheek, but he seemed in fine spirits.
“Rum go, isn’t it?” he blustered, beaming at Varley. “Who’d have thought the beggars could pull it off—”
“We are not beggars, Mr. Marino,” said William coldly. “I realize it is a figure of speech, but you will be silent until you are addressed.” All the deference was gone from his voice; it crackled with authority.
“Your show, eh?” Marino nodded. “Right you are.” Winking at Varley, the fat man teetered on his toes like a monstrous pouter pigeon. “But Colonel Hla, here, knows me. We very nearly did some business together.”
One of the Karen colonels stepped forward. “It is true, sir. He offered to sell us some ammunition, but Captain Gall would not agree to it.”
“I know.” William’s glance swept over the three white men. “Take them in the other room.”
The soldiers escorted Varley, Gall, and Marino toward the bedroom. Just before they reached the door, Marino turned to William again.
“British subject, you know,” he drawled. “Also, you will have knotty administration problems here, and I could be Of tremendous help. We might dicker on it.”
“Thank you.” William watched as the fat man turned again and walked into the bedroom. For nearly an hour the Karen leaders held a caucus in the front room. Their conference was interrupted every few minutes by messengers reporting from different parts of the city. Gall was leaning back against the head of the bed when a soldier came to the doorway and called for Marino.
The fat man went swaggering into the front room. Listening, Gall and Varley heard William say that he was free, that he could go.
“Oh, no!” the fat man replied. “Not healthy out on those streets for Europeans, not today.”
“Very well,” answered William quietly, “we will give you an escort.” He murmured something in Burmese, and the guard left the door. He stood before William with his Bren gun at port.
“Goodbye, Mr. Marino.” It was a curt dismissal.
“I’ll hear from you?” Marino’s tone was relieved. “Perhaps be of value in negotiating with the government, eh?” The fat man came back to the connecting door, waved at Varley, and walked out of the suite. The two Americans sat listening to his diminishing passage down the hall, and then the soldier was speaking to them.
“Please,” he said, and waved at the other room. Gall followed Varley through the doorway. They stood side by side, waiting, as William dismissed the officers. The Karen leader was seated on the couch, and the low table in front of him was strewn with maps and papers. He was wearing hornrimmed glasses, and they gave his dark face a studious look.
“Mr. Varley,” he said, when all the officers had departed, “I want you to walk to the balcony and stand on it for a few minutes.” His voice was low and pleasant. “While you are there, you will observe the reward for traitorous action in a war.”
“Sure.” Varley’s voice was shaky; he moved past the couch and out onto the balcony.
“Am I permitted to watch, master?” asked Gall.
William smiled faintly, glancing down at the papers again. “Yes, Captain,” he said, and Gall joined Varley. There was nothing in sight. The steamers along the waterfront were deserted; the streets were empty. Rangoon was like a city stricken by plague and abandoned.
Marino’s black Packard sedan was parked across from the hotel entrance, and sunlight winked off its chrome fittings.
“Cigarette,” mumbled Varley, and his voice broke. Gall handed him one and steadied his trembling wrist as he lighted it. Behind them there was more murmuring as messengers continued to pour into the suite.
On the street below, Marino came out of the hotel entrance briskly. He stepped off the curb, the soldier trailing him, and went toward the big car. He reached out for the door handle, but he never got it open. The soldier had halted, and his shoulders vibrated as he opened up with the Bren gun. The slugs sprayed across Marino and whirled him halfway around. His broad back fell against the car door, and he slid to a sitting position.
The Karen soldier stepped forward a pace and gave him another burst. Marino jumped like a huge mechanical doll, and Sopped forward on his face in the dusty street. Two of the slugs ricocheted off the car and went whining away. Varley turned and tried to grope his way past Gall, but Gall held him by both arms.
“Damn your soul,” he whispered savagely, shaking Varley, “you priced this pudding. Now stand up and eat it.”
Varley looked up, his mouth working. He nodded, freed his arms, and stepped into the room. Gall could not tell if William had overheard the muttered remark. The dark man removed the heavy glasses, and glanced up.
“Now, Mr. Varley,” he said conversationally. “It was not a nice thing to see, was it?”
“No.” Varley was standing erect against the wall.
“I know you are not technically a traitor,” continued William, as calmly as though he were discussing the weather. “You came into Burma to make money. You furnished planes for both sides, and if you had been luckier it would have been good business. So it is possible we might not kill you.”
“I would appreciate that,” said Varley. His tone was wry. William glanced at him, in partial admiration and partial annoyance, and was about to speak again when the guard advanced from the door.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “It is time.”
William nodded, and the soldier crossed the room and turned on the radio. It hummed for a few seconds, and then a crisp British voice came pouring out of it:
“Karen troops occupied Rangoon early today. In a sudden coup the insurgents seized Mingaladon Airdrome, a few miles north of the city, and were reportedly being reinforced by air from one of their strongholds in the Shan States. A BOAC flying boat was diverted to Calcutta by wireless, just before landing, and her crew sighted several fires in the city of Rangoon. The prime minister, who escaped to Bangkok before dawn with several members of his cabinet, issued a statement at noon. In it he maintained that the Karen forces could not hope to hold the city for more than forty-eight hours. Government reinforcements under General Tha Din were reported en route to the captured Burmese capital from Lashio, where military strength has been concentrated recently. The BBC monitoring station in New Delhi announced that Air Burma stopped broadcasting at 7:10 this morning and has not resumed its schedule. Hong Kong had reported earlier that its radio-telephone contacts with Burma ceased shortly after midnight.”
William nodded, and the soldier switched the set off and resumed his place at the door. The Karen leader put his glasses back on, gave several rapid orders in Burmese, and the soldier saluted and went out, closing the door behind him.
“You have made nearly $2,000,000 here,” he said to Varley, as if their conversation had not been interrupted. “We need the money.” Varley started to speak, but the dark man waved a pencil irritably and stood up. “Don’t try to deal with me, Mr. Varley. A great many of my men have died because you deal so well. We will tell you what is going to happen.”
Gall was leaning back against the wall, and he noticed the easy use William made of the word “we.” He did it almost indifferently, as if the habit of command was an old thing to him. The Karen leader riffled through the papers on the desk and picked out an envelope. From it he drew several papers and three checks. Even from where he was standing Gall could recognize the ornate Bank of Australia markings.
“You will sign these,” William said, “and Captain Gall will see that the transfer of funds takes place according to the instructions I have here.”
Varley came forward and examined the three checks. His expression was sour. “You got a good bookkeeper,” he said.
“Yes, the amounts are correct.” William put the three checks down on the table. “You will be our guest, Mr. Varley, until the money has been transferred. If it is done properly and swiftly, by Captain Gall, I promise you safe conduct into Calcutta. If it is not, we will shoot you.”
Varley scrubbed at his stubbled jaw. “And my planes?” he asked.
William smiled distantly. “You have an indomitable business instinct, Mr. Varley. Would you like to walk back to the balcony and say hello to Mr. Marino? You gambled with your planes and lost.” Turning, the Karen leader faced Joe Gall. “You will fly Victor to Hong Kong and arrange this transfer,” he said.
Gall’s hands trembled as he straightened. He had been waiting with detachment until the small fry could be attended to. This did not seem logical. “Am I to come back, as a hostage?” he inquired.
“No.” William shook his head. “I do not care where you go, Captain. But I would suggest that you do not return to Burma unless you can stay on one side or the other.”
Gall shoved away from the wall. “Why do me any favors?” he asked, and the dark man hesitated, scratching at his chin with the glasses.
“You would not allow the government to mount machine guns on the planes. You would not sell us ammunition. A few little things …” William was almost frowning, a handsome man with very dark skin and graying hair. “Most of all, I suspect, because you treated me rather well, thinking I was a servant.”
Gall inclined his head.
“You’d better go now,” said the Karen leader. “The plane is ready.” Varley was signing the checks. When it was done, William put them in the envelope and sealed it.
“It is a great imposition,” said Gall. “But could I take Miss LeBlanc with me, if she can travel?”
“Yes, it is an imposition.” William put the glasses back on, and his eyes were severe behind them. “What do you want with her?”
“I’d like to take care of her,” said Gall.
“Yes?” Williams voice was irritated and skeptical. “I’ve seen a number of Britons and Americans take care of native girls. These attachments increase our already unwieldy population, but they don’t last long.”
“This one is different,” answered Gall patiently. William shook his head, as if at some absurdity, but called out an order, and a soldier stepped in and saluted. Gall put the envelope in his pocket and shook hands briefly with Varley.
“Call my wife in San Diego, will you?” asked Varley. “Number’s in the book.”
“I’ll go down and see her.” To William, Gall bowed and salaamed. As the Karen leader returned the gesture, the American said, “I wish you luck with your war, sir.”
“Thank you. I’m afraid we’ll need it.” As Gall left the room, he had a sudden, strong conviction that the Karen leader was a great patriot.
The soldier was waiting at the door with his bags, and he knew that was William’s doing, too. It would have been very simple to make him carry his own baggage. In the hall he settled the battered flight cap firmly on his head and started down the marble stairs for the last time.
The major was waiting in the black Fiat. Gall got in beside him, and the car rolled swiftly across the paralyzed city. At the hospital, Gall walked in and asked for Dr. Sakalin. The little nurse went pattering off down the hall, and after a few minutes she came back with the surgeon.
“I’m leaving the country, Doctor,” said Gall. “They have given me permission to take her with me. Is she in condition to stand a plane ride?”
“No.” The doctor looked deflated; he shook his head morosely.
“There are no other passengers,” insisted Gall. “I could make her very comfortable, give her any medicine—”
“No,” repeated Dr. Sakalin. “I’m afraid not. She died an hour ago.”
Gall stared down at the little doctor in the tweed suit and the incongruous turban. His glance shifted and ran down the long hall, toward the room where she had been. He shifted on his feet, took his cap off, and put it back on.
“I’m sorry,” said the doctor.
Without answering, Gall nodded and turned around. He was still nodding, as if some rhythm of sorrow had unbalanced his head and left it rocking, when he got back in the car. The Karen major started the motor and drove back down the driveway to the street.
McCarl was waiting in Dakota Victor. He twisted around in the copilot’s seat and mopped at his forehead with a handkerchief as Gall came through the cabin.
“For Christ’s sake,” he fumed, “what goes on? You tell me to take off, then you order me back. And these gook soldiers have had me sitting here for three hours.”
“Tell you later.” Gall crawled into the left seat and put on his earphones. He pulled the window back to see if the engine was clear. “You got a break, you know,” he said, as he reached for the starter switch.
“Yeah, sure. Let’s get out of here,” grumbled McCarl. “I’ve lost ten pounds already.”
That’s the Navy for you, thought Gall. When both props were ticking over, he whirled the trim tab. He tested the magnetos, and the right engine was a little ragged on the left one. He glanced at McCarl, who shrugged. They taxied forward.
As he rolled out, Gall saw a group of soldiers break out of the administration building. They were running toward the Douglas. Now what, he wondered. Maybe William found out I had my own dough stashed in the States. Instead of turning onto the long runway, he gunned her and blasted straight ahead. When he said, “Gear up,” she didn’t quite have it, but McCarl jerked the lever. The plane settled dangerously as the wheels whined up, but it was enough, after all. As they rose slowly, Gall heard small-arms firing from the ground.
Circling at five thousand feet, he passed over Rangoon and set a course for Haiphong, trying to keep the plane in cloud cover because they might send one of the Spits after him. The city below his wing was burning in several places, and irregular pillars of smoke framed the huge mushroom of the Shwedagon Pagoda. Easing the throttle knobs into synchronization, feeling them vibrate in the heel of his hand, Gall reflected that the plane was out of style.
He stared down at the burning city; dried sweat streaked his face like snail tracks. The match flared yellow as Gall swiped it across his thigh. And I’m as outmoded as the plane, he thought. Ugette could have been the difference, maybe. Given some point to my life. Or maybe men like me don’t have enough stamina, and one world war burns them out.
He took a deep drag, corrected slightly on the compass heading, and told himself that it would have taken at least a year to get her into the States, even as his wife. And since he didn’t know the quota for her native place, it might never have happened. Which would have left him in Hong Kong or Manila or Calcutta, sniping away at off-color flying jobs. Little week-end special smuggling deals that would eventually have gotten him killed or at least jailed. And even if their luck had held, if they had lived in a cliffside apartment in Hong Kong and gone swimming in Repulse Bay, one day close enough to number the Chinese volcano would have erupted again and blown them out of that swanky life. Probably best the way it happened, he thought wearily, gazing unseeingly at the shimmering air stream sluicing back from the left prop.
