“You okay?” she asked. “If you want, I can have a truck come and pick you up.”
“No need,” said Calvino. “Just stopping to admire the view.”
In the distance behind him he saw the walkers—never a good sign if you’re a runner. Only it soon became clear that one of them wasn’t a member of the club. The man, who approached on a motorcycle, was a military intelligence agent—what the Burmese shortened to “MI.” As common as village dogs, only they were never tethered.
“We have a visitor,” said Ohn Myint.
The MI agent, in his crisp white shirt and longyi, who’d been sent to spy on the Rangoon Running Club—no doubt investigating Derek’s case—rode up the narrow path toward Calvino and Ohn Myint. Stopping near them, he got off and strolled over.
“Have you been up north?” the MI agent asked.
“North, south, I can’t say which direction I’ve been,” said Calvino.
“The northern part of the country.”
“You think I should go?”
“What do you think of the situation in the country?”
Calvino smiled. “Friendly villages. One of the village women gave me a peeled orange. And I can’t figure that out. Why did she give me an orange?”
The MI agent grinned, his sunglasses covering his eyes.
“Why are you in our country?”
“I’m a tourist. I spend money. I’m hoping to meet a couple of friends. Isn’t that a good enough reason? The situation in your country is none of my business. I couldn’t care less if you murder each other in your beds.”
“Passport,” demanded the MI agent.
Calvino nodded. “Runners don’t carry passports.”
“It’s the law. You must have your passport at all times.”
“In the shower?”
The MI agent took out his cell phone and talked for a couple of minutes, watching Calvino. When he finished, he lowered his sunglasses. There was a look of absolute hate in his eyes. His boss had told him to let Calvino go. His motorcycle was parked a few feet away in the field where he’d left it. It was orange. All MIs drove orange or gray motorcycles that had the number 4 or 5 on the special license plate.
“Isn’t riding a motorcycle on the 10K run against the rules?” he asked Ohn Myint.”
“MIs have their own set of rules.”
He’d been trailing Calvino through a hamlet and likely had been on his tail from the start of the run.
“He’s done nothing wrong,” said Ohn Myat.
“What’s your name?” he asked Calvino.
“Kiss My Trash. And this my friend Swamp Bitch.”
He wrote down the names in his notebook.
“Where are you going?” the MI agent asked her.
“To the beer truck at the finish line.”
The MI agent stared at him. “Why are you running?”
“Exercise,” said Calvino. “It’s good for your health.”