Zero Days, page 10
Then Drayton opened a message from Schoenberg. It was short, just the address of the Yangon International Business Association and a local cell phone number.
Drayton called the number.
The first thing he heard was the noisy background hum of a bar or restaurant. Then a familiar voice said, ‘This is Morgan.’
‘Tony,’ said Drayton. ‘This is Chuck Drayton, how you doing?’
There was silence for a few moments before Morgan said, ‘Chuck Drayton. What a surprise. What have I done to deserve a call from you? Or possibly not done?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘It usually is.’
‘I’m visiting. Thought we might get together. For old time’s sake.’
‘Old time’s sake? I doubt that. And in any case I’ve been doing my best to forget about our old times. What do you want?’
‘Can I tell you when we meet?’
There was another long silence. Then laughter.
‘Well, why not? Let’s do lunch tomorrow. At my club.’
*****
Shortly before noon the following day, Drayton’s taxi pulled up outside an elegantly restored three-storey mansion, set back from the road, opposite Rangoon’s main port. Morgan was waiting for him, smiling. Looking a good deal happier than Drayton expected, considering what had happened the last time the two of them had met, in China.
Morgan greeted him wearing a white linen shirt and long dark trousers, carefully pressed. He was tall and tanned, with closely cropped grey hair and designer-stubble. The familiar tortoiseshell frame glasses, eyeing the mess that was Drayton climbing from the taxi in a blue short-sleeved shirt and khaki shorts.
‘Is there a dress code?’ said Drayton.
‘There is,’ said Morgan. ‘And you’re breaking it. Only, as president of the Yangon International Business Association, and this being my club, I am prepared to give a waiver on this occasion. What brings you to Rangoon and how did you find me?’ Morgan used the old name for Yangon.
Drayton ignored the questions, and they climbed together up broad steps into the club’s main reception area, all marble and teak, chandeliers and fans hanging from a high ceiling. Tall pillars. A concierge in a smart white suit and gloves greeted them with a tray on which sat two chilled face towels.
Morgan had ripened his accent, a more cultured air of upper class English pomposity than Drayton remembered from China. Maybe that played better in a former colony.
‘You’re looking well, by the way,’ Drayton said. ‘Lost some weight?’
‘That’s what happens, Chuck, when you stop feasting on Chinese banquets.’
He didn’t return the compliment.
‘So how did you end up here?’ Drayton asked.
The last time they’d met, Morgan was hiding out in a twenty-four-hour massage parlour in Macao, running from the triads, while the Chinese secret police had kidnapped his son and were blackmailing his wife, all on account of work he’d done for Drayton, gathering information on suspected hackers.
‘I got out of China, though it was expensive,’ Morgan said. ‘The Caymans at first, since I had a place there. Found it a little boring, frankly. Banks are extremely accommodating, of course, but not too much else to offer, especially after Andrew went back to boarding school in England and my wife returned to China to care for her sick mother. Going back there wasn’t an option for me, even if I’d wanted to. Which I didn’t. And in business terms, this place is the new frontier.’
‘How’s that?’ said Drayton.
‘After decades under military misrule, it’s opening up. This should be a rich country, Chuck. Oil, gas, precious stones, metals. It’s got the lot. There’s huge natural wealth here. It’s the place to be.’
‘And what’s your role?’
‘I’m a facilitator, Chuck.’
‘Which means what?’
‘Which means everything, but nothing. And how about you. Still working for the American government?’
Drayton gave him a business card.
‘Well, nice to meet you Andreas,’ Morgan said, reading the card and not looking the least bit surprised. ‘Global solutions, what are they?’
‘Everything, but nothing.’
They climbed a long spiral staircase to a lounge and dining area, where a server led them to an enclosed balcony, air conditioned and overlooking the port, where they sat in two big leather seats, a table between them, silver cutlery carefully laid out. Morgan ordered a large gin and tonic. Drayton said he’d have the same.
‘So things are changing here?’ Drayton said.
‘Yes,’ said Morgan. ‘But not as quickly as we’d want. If I’m honest, there’s a lot of disappointment at the pace of change. And the generals are still pulling a lot of strings, still controlling a lot of businesses. Having the son or daughter of a top general as your business partner still goes a long way.’
The server delivered their drinks, and Morgan waited for him to go before saying, ‘Then there’s the Rohingya situation, the army driving Muslims out to Bangladesh. They’re getting away with murder. Literally. Like in the past. But everybody shrugs. The so-called democrats, because they’ve turned out to be Buddhist chauvinists first and democrats second. The West because they are terrified of driving this country into the arms of China.’
‘Sounds like a mess,’ Drayton said.
‘A mess requires patience and a mess can give rise to great opportunity,’ said Morgan. ‘And investors are still arriving – at least the more intrepid ones.’
‘And naturally you sell them on the opportunities?’
‘Naturally,’ said Morgan, smiling. That confident, anything’s possible smile that Drayton remembered from China, relishing the atmosphere of the new Burma. Where others saw trials and trouble, Morgan saw challenges and opportunities. Though mostly he saw money.
Morgan pointed out two government ministers, a pair of journalists, and group of diplomats. ‘This club is where deals are done, Drayton, doors opened, the wheels of commerce greased, all with a good dose of gossip.’
Morgan stood as four men passed the table, champagne in hand, wearing the uniform for business in Myanmar – linen jackets, open neck shirts and a breezy air of entitlement. They greeted Morgan with firm handshakes and bland words, spoken in a range of English accents, about the incessant rain, the traffic, and the country’s poorly misunderstood leader. How she was being judged too harshly – ‘She’s a political leader now, not a human rights icon, for God’s sake,’ said an Australian. A sing-song Singaporean agreed – ‘And as for these Rohingyas, they’re not proper Burmese.’ Nods all round. Moving seamlessly to bribes, or ‘gift inflation’, as it was called by an American. ‘Gave the minister a car and I still didn’t get the contract. There’s dishonesty for you.’ Heads shaking. That got them to the shifty Burmese – ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against all this human rights stuff, but there’s no respect any more. I’m not defending the military, you understand, but in the past you had discipline,’ said another in what sounded like a Thai accent.
‘Businessmen?’ asked Drayton, after they had moved on.
‘In a sense.’
‘What sense is that?’
‘Your fellow American, he was a banker to the generals. Speciality was money laundering. Used to take cases of cash down to Bangkok. But now that sanctions are over, that’s no longer necessary. Our generals and their families are perfectly capable of laundering their own cash through their own banks.’
‘Too bad,’ said Drayton. ‘What does he do now?’
‘He still smuggles. Works with the Singaporean. Mostly precious stones. Jade usually, which the military still controls. To the markets in Hong Kong and Singapore. The man on his left, the Thai. He’s in business with the son of one the top generals. Used to smuggle drugs. Speed. What they call yaba. It means crazy. They had factories near the Thai border, which made the stuff. The Golden Triangle. Everybody knew, but they were untouchable. Still are.’
‘And what does he do now? Business must be good, judging by the champagne.’
‘These days? Wildlife mainly. And logs. This country has a very rich natural habitat. Though probably not for much longer.’
‘Tigers?’ said Drayton.
‘No, the tiger trade’s mainly controlled by the Chinese. This gentleman is mostly into teak and rosewood. And elephants. Smuggling baby elephants into Thailand, where they are prized by the tourist industry. Very lucrative, but incredibly cruel.’
Drayton was no longer listening. He was watching a man standing at the bar on the far side of the dining room. Throughout his journey from Berlin, Drayton had tried to imagine how this moment would feel, seeing that face for the first time in more than a decade. Whether he’d even recognise it. He’d expected to feel hatred, fear, disgust. Instead, he felt nothing. The man wasn’t tall, perhaps five-eight or five-nine and had filled out a little, a pressed white linen shirt hanging over blue cotton trousers. Tanned. His hair still a dark brown. His manner was the same, he could see that from a distance. The slightly agitated, fidgety way he stood, his face giving little away. Lean and set in stone, small eyes scanning the room, then glancing at a cell phone held in his left hand, while his right flicked mechanically at his hair each time it flopped down in front of his eyes, a barman asking Mr Dmitry whether he would like his usual champagne.
*****
‘We certainly have some of our more colourful members in today,’ Morgan said, ordering lunch, some sort of baked fish he said was a speciality. Washed down with a bottle of New Zealand sauvignon blanc. Another speciality.
‘Tell me about the man at the bar, right side. The one in the white shirt with the floppy hair.’
‘That would be Dmitry Gerasimov. Russian, and one of our newer members.’
‘And what does he steal, smuggle or launder?’
‘Do I detect a little cynicism, Chuck?’
‘Only a little. What business is he in?’
‘He’s helping to connect Burma. Internet. Telecoms. That kind of thing.’
‘I’d like to meet him.’
They finished the last of the fish and wine and crossed to the bar, which was filling, and where Morgan was greeted with more smiles and outstretched hands. The American jade smuggler ordered another bottle of champagne and two more glasses, complaining about the tax on the bubbly – ‘You’re not paying off the right people, Tony.’
A French woman, a jewellery exporter, complained about the quality of the precious stones at the latest auction – ‘And believe me darling, I know.’ Dmitry was in the group, but not really part of it, not really joining in. Looking around the room again. Looking bored. Checking his phone. A few whispered words with a Chinese-looking man beside him.
Morgan introduced Drayton as Andreas Fischer, looking for opportunities in the computer business. More outstretched hands. Dmitry registered him for the first time, but blankly. Not speaking. Those small sunken eyes impossible to read. Flicking his hair from his eyes. There were grunts of approval from the others. General agreement that more computer skills were needed. Grumbles about importing high-tech gear being an issue. Morgan said the association had raised it with the minister in charge.
‘Dmitry here is helping build a digital Myanmar. And God do we need it,’ said Morgan, placing a friendly hand on the Russian’s shoulder. ‘There’s been an absolute explosion in cell phone ownership and internet use. Isn’t that so, Dmitry?’
Dmitry just shrugged, barely acknowledging the question.
‘Perhaps you have a few tips for a novice in business here,’ Drayton said, smiling.
‘It’s all about having the right product,’ the Russian replied blandly.
‘Any advice on partners? Good to keep the military sweet, I guess. Avoid any issues.’
‘We don’t have any issues. We get what we need.’
Then the Chinese man stepped in. He introduced himself as Ken Tsang, from Hong Kong. ‘I think the authorities here recognise the importance of what we’re doing.’
There were more grunts of approval from around the bar, all agreeing that internet speeds had improved dramatically, especially in Yangon. Then Dmitry said, ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ and left the bar with Ken Tsang close behind him.
Morgan ordered two more drinks, large gin and tonics for him and Drayton, and together they walked towards an open balcony, from which the bustling port of Yangon spread out in front of them. Morgan told Drayton that the club used to be a customs building. That it had been in a terrible state. Literally crumbling, like much of old Yangon, before his business association had bought the place and refurbished it.
‘A man of few words your Dmitry Gerasimov,’ Drayton said.
‘He is a rather inscrutable character.’
They watched cranes unloading a row of cargo ships. A ship’s horn reverberated along the quayside, though it was hard to tell whether it signalled an arrival or departure. Ships were lined up, sitting low in the water and waiting for a berth.
‘Chinese, mostly,’ said Morgan. ‘They’re pouring money into this place. I thought I’d escaped China, but it turned out to be wishful thinking.’
‘The new Great Game. The battle for the wild east. America in retreat,’ Drayton said.
Morgan sipped thoughtfully on his gin and tonic. ‘I’d say no more than twenty to thirty per cent of the economy is what we might call visible.’
‘Legal, you mean?’
Morgan ignored the question and said, ‘I take it Chuck that you didn’t come all the way here to lecture me about business ethics. What do you want?’
‘What more can you tell me about the inscrutable Mr Dmitry Gerasimov?’
‘Not a lot, frankly. He’s a very private individual and like most of our members, he values discretion. Which of course our association respects.’
‘I’m sure you do. All the same I would value a little insight into what makes Mr Gerasimov tick.’
‘And how much would you value that insight?’
‘It depends, Tony. On the quality of the insight.’
They walked back downstairs and into Morgan’s large office, which resembled a craft emporium. Carved wooden elephants and Buddha heads. Traditional musical instruments. Puppets hanging in glass display cabinets. Colourful paper umbrellas. One wall was lined with photos of temples; another was hung with a series of paintings of buffalos wallowing in a river, cleverly drawn so the heads of the animals emerged from the canvas as if they were peeping out of the water.
Morgan locked the door and from from a filing cabinet behind his desk he pulled a small brown file containing Dmitry’s membership application from six months earlier. It gave his place and date of birth as Yaroslavl, Russia, the 23rd of August 1980. A space for listing previous business experience and places of residence was blank. He gave as his last residence an address in Kiev, Ukraine. The name of his Myanmar company was given as Digital Futures, with an office address as 50th Street, Yangon. No building number.
Drayton pulled out his cell phone and photographed the page. ‘Pretty thin,’ he said.
‘He pays his dues,’ Morgan replied.
‘What does ‘Digital Futures’ do exactly, and with whom?’
Morgan sat behind his desk. ‘Exactly, I’m not sure. Broadly, as I said, internet, cell phones.’
‘I’d appreciate a bit more digging.’
‘Give me a few days, and I’ll see what I can do.’
‘I don’t have a few days. How about twenty-four hours?’
‘Leave it with me,’ said Morgan, locking the file away. ‘And 50th Street is ten minutes’ walk from here, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
*****
The road beside the port was lined with decaying old colonial buildings, some with balconies looking as if they may fall at any moment. Many already had, leaving dark scars in the wall. Some buildings were still in use; others were abandoned, with vegetation growing from open and crumbling windows, colonised by flocks of pigeons.
Away from the port, in old Rangoon, crowded narrow streets were lined with tall tenement blocks, their walls dotted with blue satellite dishes. Washing hanging from windows. Drayton heard singing, possibly from a school and then the muffled chants from a small temple. At street level, there was a mess of food stalls and small shops. The smell of spices.
A group of children followed him down the road, trying to sell him postcards and fading pirated guide books.
Some of the old buildings had been renovated. Others were being demolished. One corner was a construction site, where a soulless new apartment block was taking shape. But he could see nothing that looked like it might house Digital Futures.
Then he spotted a bar next to an e-sports centre at the foot of a newly renovated building. The renovation looked like it had been carried out in a hurry. It seemed to stop just below the top floor, as if they’d run out of paint. Up there, small trees were still growing out of disintegrating windows. There was a sign on a balcony, two storeys up. ‘Digital Futures.’ Another sign, a fading red billboard right at the top, amid the greenery, said, ‘The army and the people cooperate and crush all those harming the union’.
He ordered a beer in the bar below. The place was quiet and bigger than it looked from the street. A tall ceiling with whirling fans. Just five customers. Twenty-somethings he reckoned. Geeky-looking foreigners. Two were playing table football to one side of a long bar that ran down the centre of the place, surrounded by stools. Another sat at one of several tall tables around the edge of the room, working on his laptop. One was in a poorly lit annex, the e-sports section, sitting and staring at one of a line of six gaming computers, wearing headphones. He looked intense. Grimacing. It was hard to tell what he was playing, what evil empire he was trying to destroy or conquer, but it didn’t seem to be going well.
The fifth was on his own at a pool table, practising his break. Drayton asked if he wanted a game. He said yes, though with no great enthusiasm and in an accent that Drayton couldn’t immediately place. He tidied up the balls in the rack and offered Drayton the first shot.
