Deadly Promises (Tracers #2.5)(40)
He needed the booze after getting a glimpse of the horrific conditions of the slave laborers forced to work the ruby mine. He needed it because when he’d spotted the slim figure hunched over a crude flume and she’d lifted her head and met his gaze, beneath the rickshaw hat he had seen misery and hope and blue, blue eyes.
He’d found Carrie Granger.
And with one look he’d felt the full weight of her future on his shoulders.
“Yeah.” Cav nodded when the general offered him another shot. “Absolutely.”
He wrapped his fingers around the glass and smiled again for the general, who had clearly been given advance notice of his arrival by Maung Aye.
Cav’s Burmese was spotty, and given there were about a hundred different dialects in Myanmar, what he did know wasn’t going to help him out very much. The general wasn’t much better equipped to speak English, but it didn’t matter. Their common language was greed and money. The promise of a lot of money.
He extended the letter Maung Aye had provided, then stood in silence, arms folded over his chest, while the general read it. The amount of money that had exchanged hands between Windle and the commerce minister, plus the promise of under-the-table kickbacks, had bought his passage to the Mogok mines. By the time Maung Aye discovered the account on which he’d written a check was bogus, he and Carrie Granger would be well away from here. Or dead.
In the meantime, greed and Windle’s reputation—which the commerce minister had no doubt researched even before meeting with him—had given him carte blanche to explore the mines. The letter instructed the general to allow an up-close-and-personal inspection of the operation, because HI was supposedly contemplating infusing it with millions in investment capital.
Love of money. The root of all evil. And the means to save Carrie Granger from rotting in this hell on earth.
When the general handed the letter back with a nod, Cav breathed a silent sigh of relief. Another hurdle jumped.
The general turned to his attendant, who promptly presented a serving tray filled with an assortment of food.
“Hatamin sa pi bi la?” Have you eaten?
“Mahou’ pabù.” No, Cav said, getting the gist of the offer and knowing enough Burmese to decline. “But later. First, business,” he added in English and gestured, indicating he wished to leave the tent and tour the operation.
His host nodded and said something to the aide, who quickly produced a hard hat and handed it to Cav.
“Chèzùbè.” Cav added a nod to his thanks. After settling the battered gray hard hat on his head and slipping on his shoes and shades, he followed the general out into the sweltering heat.
Even though he was prepared for what he would see, it was all he could do to keep from knocking the heads of the guards and inciting an insurrection. But the guards and the guns and the dogs numbered too many. Even though the slave laborers outnumbered their captors ten to one, in their poor physical condition they were no match for the Junta.
Young men, old men, women, and children, all emaciated and covered in grime, hauled dirt and rocks in rickety wheelbarrows over steep, narrow paths. Others disappeared into the narrow mine opening carved into the mountain, hauling buckets hanging from poles balanced on their stooped shoulders.
Metal clinked against stone as twenty or so people worked the flumes along the edge of an open pit. Carrie was among them, laboring to lift heavy, screen-bottomed trays out of murky water, then balance them on the edge of the flume in order to roll the stones trapped on the screen with their bare hands and search for the precious bloodred rubies.
Even as she worked, head down, Cav knew she was watching him. He felt the desperation of her gaze on the back of his head like a tractor beam from twenty yards away. He wished he could give her some assurance that he was here to help her, but he couldn’t risk blowing his plan sky high. He’d taken enough of a chance mouthing her name just before he’d ducked into the tent.
He played the part of the cold, calculating investor, nodding in approval when the general explained the operation in a surprisingly understandable dialogue made up of Burmese, broken English, hand signals, and a little Indonesian thrown in for good measure. They spent two hours tromping along the edge of the open pits, into the mouth of the cave, and along the assembly line of workers and the dozen or so cages that acted as their sleeping quarters.
The tour served three purposes. It put the general at ease with Cav’s presence in the camp, and it gave Cav an opportunity to do a complete recon. It also left Cav’s scent all over the place, which would slow down the dogs if they used them to track them when they blew this place.
At the end of the second hour the sun was starting to set and Cav had seen what he needed to see. One road leading in. Same road leading out. A lot of thick, mountainous jungle in between.
It was time to put phase two into play and hope to hell he could keep on his timetable. Everything hinged on timing.
“Thirsty.” He tipped his hand up to his mouth to mimic taking a drink. “Hungry,” he added, patting his stomach. “We can finish the tour tomorrow morning.”
The general nodded that he understood and turned back toward his tent.
Cav stopped him with a hand on his arm, then grinned a man-to-man grin, propped his sunglasses on top of his head, and cupped his crotch. His request was unmistakable. He wanted sex.
The general’s smile was lascivious. This man was no stranger to depravity.