On the Rutted Road from Mandalay
Chapter 12
The rickety bus barely made 40 kilometers per hour as it wound its way through the mountainous, switchback roads of north central Myanmar. Amar found its lack of speed frustrating, but had little choice in the matter. This was the only safe mode of transportation to his destination. He also understood that going any faster would have meant suicide for the occupants—people, chickens and one kid, a goat in this instance. Even if the old, converted school bus could do so.
He’d caught the bus in Mandalay for the last leg of his journey to Yangon. He preferred traveling at night to keep a lower profile, but that wasn’t always possible. It was also dangerous and the last thing he wanted was to draw the attention of the authorities in the event of an accident or some other incident he couldn’t anticipate. So, a slow, third-class, daytime bus it would be.
Amar looked forward to his meeting and had prepared well for it. All of the details were stored in his head and nothing reduced to writing for security purposes. Why give the local cops an excuse to arrest him on suspicion of something or another? Allah forbid, they should discover his true identity!
He tried to relax and think good thoughts as the bus continued on what seemed to him to be an endless journey. Many of the sights were interesting, he thought, but all monotonously much the same. Yaba occupied his mind at the moment, more specifically how he could profit from its exportation to India. He smiled to himself at the thought. He’d have to get Puneet’s blessing of course, but that should be easy. Puneet could smell the sweetness of an illicit Rupee or buck from a kilometer away. Truthfully, he had an unerring nose for money in any hard currency.
The method of shipping the drug from Laos would be the same, load the innards of a corpse with 10 kilos of the pills and trust the plan would continue to work. Kilo for kilo, opium commanded a much higher price. However, poppies and their byproduct were seasonal, unlike yaba. Adding yaba to his product line would fill in sales gaps and provide a steady flow of income on a year-round basis.
He thought his idea was brilliantly clever and he’d pitch it to Puneet the next time they met. He never told Puneet where he sent his share of the profits and he’d never asked. He thought keeping mum on the subject was best for all concerned. He then flashed on his mother and became depressed. Kris leaned back into his uncomfortable seat and tried to sleep, but kept thinking about his senile mother and whether he would ever see her alive again.
The bus made an abrupt stop and jarred Kris from his fitful, twilight sleep. He looked out his window and saw they’d been stopped at a police checkpoint. That meant they were close to entering greater Yangon. He knew the Myanmar national police had established a cordon around the capital to intercept illegal immigrants and the occasional, stupid drug mule trying desperately to smuggle product of one kind or another into the city. It was a routine, perfunctory inspection that all travelers had to endure these days so he wasn’t worried.
A uniformed officer boarded the bus and demanded to see each of the passengers’ identity documents. The locals knew the drill by heart and had them ready for presentation. Kris took that as a good sign that the stop was simply a pro forma inspection. The unsmiling cop walked down the center aisle, stopping to ask questions in Burmese which Kris didn’t understand a word of, but supposed it was a routine exercise and nothing more.
Kris handed the officer his Lao passport. It was a damn, good forgery and would stand-up to close scrutiny. The cop took a close look at it and looked at Kris’s face for comparison. He then asked a question that Kris didn’t understand. Kris then went into his mute shtick that he’d practiced to perfection. The officer didn’t buy it and waggled his finger, indicating Kris should follow him. Damn it to hell, he was being removed from the bus! Kris was now worried and wondered if his stretch of good luck had finally run its course.
The officer pointed to the doorway of the modest teak hut with a corrugated metal roof that served as the border control office. He then waved to the bus driver indicating he could proceed. Kris watched as the decrepit bus rumbled to life and slowly moved forward, spewing dark clouds of diesel fumes as it chugged off to its final destination.
It was now clearly evident to Kris that he was in big trouble. Something had piqued the officer’s interest in him, but he didn’t know what. What had he missed? His passport was impeccable and his mute act flawless. So what could it be? He soon found out.
Another officer sat at a makeshift, wooden table, nothing more than a slab of wood held up by two sawhorses. Behind him, tacked on the wall, were a variety of notices and wanted posters and Kris caught his image among them on an Interpol Red Notice.
The two officers spoke in Burmese and Kris was at a loss as to the meaning of the discussion. That was until one of the officers pointed to the Red Notice. It wasn’t a good likeness of him, but maybe near enough for government work as they said. Kris always wondered who they were. However, it was time to act and not ponder such stupid trivialities.
Kris had already removed the knife from its sheath secreted beneath his robe. With his right hand, he thrust its blade deeply into the side of the cop standing next to him. He then quickly rounded the trestle table and stabbed the seated officer in the throat before he could remove his gun from its holster.
Neither man was dead, so Kris administered a coup de grace by garroting each with his strand of prayer beads. He’d restrung them just for this purpose by using a high tensile, monofilament fishing wire. It was a powerful, silent weapon in experienced hands and his pair had been blooded many times before.
He dragged the bodies into high brush behind the office. They’d be found, of course, but not before he reached Yangon some 30 kilometers distant. He began to relax, feeling safe for now.
Kris stood along the side of the road with his thumb out. No one would dare deny a ride to a Buddhist holy man and expect better in their next incarnation. The next vehicle stopped to pick him up, continuing his journey to the famous pagoda.