“It’s another one of your biggest nothings, isn’t it?” asked Daeng. “America believing their war was justified. Laos believing we have something to boast about. And this, a young man fooled by a pack of lies.”

“People are basically stupid,” said Siri. “We’re easy to dupe. Nobody asks for proof anymore. A lie told with confidence is indistinguishable from the truth.”

The scent of sweet crepes frying reached their nostrils.

“Any other news from police HQ?” Daeng asked.

“No sign of Dr. Porn’s body,” said Siri.

“I’m glad she wasn’t involved in all this,” said Daeng.

“She kept quiet about her past but now that the files have been released it appears she was in the same business as you.”

“Noodles?”

“Subterfuge, deception, insurgency, revolution, counterintelligence, spying.”

“It’s good for a country girl to have interests other than sewing,” said Daeng.

A strong breeze cut through the embassy garden and Fred Flintstone rocked back and forth.

“See?” said Siri. “Civilai always did appreciate a good joke.”

And as the evening wore on and the warm air currents mingled in the embassy grounds, Civilai danced with his trademark lack of coordination, and Siri smiled in his direction, and they told stories about the old fellow that would have been farfetched . . . were they about anyone else.

The Delightful Life of a Suicide Pilot

Continue reading for a preview of the next
Dr. Siri Paiboun Investigation

The Delightful Life
of a Suicide Pilot

Chapter One

Chapter One

Every Body Has a Story to Tell

There was a myth. Not a ghostly urban legend that might cause little children to wet their beds, but a disturbing notion nevertheless. It was likely begat from the mischievous storytelling of a doctor not unlike Siri Paiboun, the ex-national coroner of the People’s Democratic Republic of Laos, who was known to smudge the lines between fact and fiction. The myth went something like this: after you’re dead, your hair and nails will mysteriously continue to grow. Any qualified physician would snigger at such a thought. But no matter how unlikely the possibility, there were those who swore to have witnessed such a phenomenon. And all those doubting so-called “experts” needed to do was to take the key from beneath the welcome mat at the Mahosot Hospital morgue in Vientiane, let themselves into the cutting room, and slide out the only occupied freezer tray. And once they pulled back the sheet they would see for themselves. Comrade Thinh still sported a fine head of hair that was just a little too long to be called respectable. His nostril hair, on the other hand, had sprouted remarkably since his arrival on the slab. It was currently a good six centimeters long. Mr. Geung, the lab assistant, had already combed it into a neat mustache and was certain that before too long, there would be enough for a goatee.