Free Six and a Half Deadly Sins by Colin Cotterill Page A

experience, Siri knew that once the glass door was opened, there would be a mad rush for the plane, and the first twenty would get on. It was socialism’s way of culling the elderly and unfit.
    Siri went to the large window and surveyed the taxiing area. The official responsible for putting people on the plane was guarding the door and palming what they called “the small petals of persuasion”: envelopes whose owners hoped would help get them passage ahead of the others. It had worked in the days of the old regime, but this new generation had the audacity to keep the money but continue to give lousy service. Good corruption was something perfected over decades. Siri knew it would be back.
    By the time he returned to Daeng, his smile was broad and confident.
    “Plan?” she asked.
    “Follow me,” he said.
    They left the departure shack by the front door, which was now unmanned, and walked slowly along the side of the building, Siri taking most of his wife’s weight. They went directly to the area where the three remaining embarkation steps were parked. He placed Daeng and their bags on the second step of one of them, released the brake and cast off. It was remarkably easy to push, well-oiled and pneumatically tired.
    The pilot of the cargo transporter had his head out the cockpit window, watching the angry frenzy of erstwhile polite people fighting for the right to sit on an onion sack for an hour. The copilot, checking dials against a typed list, looked up in surprise at the knock on the cockpit door. He was even more surprised to see the elderly couple smiling through the window. “Yes?” he shouted above the sound of the propellers.
    “Open the door, there’s a good boy,” shouted Daeng.
    The copilot nudged the pilot, who squinted as the rising sun broke free of the horizon. He pulled the sunglasses from his top pocket and put them on. It was then that he recognized the face of his favorite noodle seller.
    “Madame Daeng!” He smiled. “What are you doing out there?”
    “Trying to get in,” she shouted.
    “Well, come on, Phot,” the pilot said to his copilot. “Don’t leave our passengers out there in the cold.”
    After a little ladder-shuffling, the couple was warmly ensconced on a stack of some unidentified powdery substance just behind the cockpit. Daeng promised the pilot a triple number two noodle special on the house just as soon as her house had a roof and walls.
    Phosy awoke with a stiff back and fleabites. He’d been booked into a building on the main street that was scheduled to become a hotel. Currently it was an unsubscribed restaurant with a large empty second floor. Xiu Long and Mrs. Loo had slept at a Chinese business office in the old town, which was one of the many addresses labeled “Chinese Liaison Enterprises.” In Vientiane they had started to call them spy nooks.
    The manager had brought the former consul and his interpreter to Phosy’s hotel at seven. The former was a Lao caricature of a Chinese right down to the horrible accent and the long hairs dangling from a mole on his chin, enough to outnumber those on his head.
    Xiu Long spoke to Mrs. Loo, who passed along the offer of this Mr. Woo’s help, should the need for it arise. Phosy couldn’t imagine a situation when that offer might be accepted. Like Comrade Civilai, Phosy was wary of Chinese influence. From three thousand in the national census of 1931, the Chinese population in Laos had risen to fifty thousand in 1960. He’d worked out that at such a rate, by the turn of the century, whatever Lao were left would have to be fluent in Chinese to get a job in their own country. Every town had its Mr. Woos, and they were breeding like rabbits. Phosy ushered Xiu Long and Mrs. Loo into his jeep and watched in the rearview mirror as Woo waved them off.
    Their first stop was to the small hospital where the two bodies had been left. There was a concrete room behind the administration hut which the visitors had been able to