Authors: Jennifer Kewley Draskau
‘But you will be here for it?’ van Hooten asked sharply.
Waddle groaned. ‘Unfortunately. Now, let us break bread together.’ He brightened. ‘I warn you, I live simply—I share the people’s deprivations.’ Patsri now clattered noisily onto the table a selection of Thai hors d’oeuvres: toad mun, fried fish paste, the pink labia-shaped roots of ginger, and
kai yu maa
, black petrified eggs.
‘Horse-piss eggs,’ van Hooten translated, to Waddle’s discomfort. ‘Notice that special mouldy-leather consistency? Cure ‘em in horse piss!’
Patsri, who, when not watching us eat, stared out of the window, now proclaimed: ‘Ong he come! You want Patsri tell him you busy,
Nai
, huh?’ Waddle jumped guiltily.
‘Ong? Who in hell is Ong?’ demanded van Hooten testily.
‘Numbah ten lazy Burma-man,’ the big woman said contemptuously. ‘Bring ruby,
Nai
like.
Nai
like plenty!’ She chuckled. The sound was fat but not cosy. She looked at Waddle. ‘You want Patsri tell Ong,
Nai
got plenty satang, now friends come?’ At his look of indecision she shook her large head from side to side derisively and stalked with massive dignity through the mosquito screen.
‘Twinings. That’s right, isn’t it?’ Van Hooten took from his pocket a small, square tea canister. He handed it to Waddle, who cheered up, but said cautiously, ‘Never can tell till you get the lid off.’ I half-expected the missionary to open his gift there and then, in view of the old-maidish fuss he had kicked up about tea earlier. I wondered about the canister, and would have liked to examine it more closely. I also wondered what it was van Hooten wanted to show me, and why he couldn’t just spit it right out and have done with it.
The woman came back. She shook her head. ‘Ong say frontier guards more tougher. Pick up de-fec-tor and pang!’ She illustrated gunfire. ‘Pigeon blood more rare.’ I was surprised to find Burmese refugees and ruby smugglers so openly discussed.
‘Ong is a prey to the sin of covetousness,’ Waddle reproved pettishly. ‘I shall not be held to ransom. Tell him he’ll have to peddle his wares elsewhere, if he can’t be reasonable.’
‘Tell him he no-good greedy heathen bugger,’ Patsri nodded complicitly. Waddle flinched.
When she had gone again, sighing mightily, he opened a small writing desk with a key, removed a sheaf of letters, and handed them to van Hooten. ‘Post these for me when you get back to town. Up here, one might as well be sending despatches in a cleft stick!’ He batted his eyelids, his mouth twitching with disapproval of godless inefficiency.
‘You got it!’ The big man threw a heavy arm about his neck. ‘I’ll leave you to your precious gems! I’ve got something Dr Raven ought to see.’
At last! I was suddenly reminded of the Mad Tea Party in Wonderland, where Alice exclaims: ‘I’m glad they’ve begun asking riddles!’ Except that there had already been too many riddles asked and unanswered. I rose and followed van Hooten through the looking glass.
The local police station in Mae Sod resembled a shack. We perched uncomfortably on tin folding chairs, which the officers had set out for us with many courteous gestures. We were witnessing the statement of a young Burmese defector. He was darker than the Thais, scrawnier too, but he stood his ground as he declared his reasons for fleeing a totalitarian regime.
‘In Thailand, the Land of the Free, human rights are safeguarded! I renounce communism and all running dogs of Peking!’ he recited confid-ently. He had been taken into custody, but he had not yet been chained. Indeed, he had been offered a chair, a rather grubby towel, and a cigarette, which he had prudently tucked behind his ear. He now sat dabbing his damp face and scanning the faces of his Siamese interrogators, occasionally darting covert glances at van Hooten and myself. His papers he had thoughtfully preserved from the waters of the Myawaddy in a waterproof tobacco pouch tied around his head.
‘Good man!’ van Hooten breezed. ‘Now, there’s an interesting story, eh, Raven? I guess you’d like to stick around, get the lowdown straight from the mule’s mouth?’ He gave a quirky smile, as if pleased with his attempt at irony, and left.
I knew he had his own agenda for the afternoon. So the Thai police were to babysit me while they interviewed the defector! However, I’d heard my fill of coached recitations of well-rehearsed statements in my time; I planned to embark on a few investigations of my own.
‘Most interesting.’ I stopped scribbling and waved my notebook at the Burmese and his guards. They nodded cordially. They had removed their caps and belts and sent out for noodles. They had ordered a bowl for the defector, too. Outside the station stood an army jeep, the key still in the ignition. Smiling, waving my notebook, and nodding toward the wooden guardhouse as if I were taking the vehicle by arrangement with the authorities within, I leapt into the driving seat, fired the engine, and set off along the single dirt road in what I hoped was the direction taken by van Hooten ten minutes previously.
The road ran red through the jungle like an open wound. The jeep jumped about the uneven track, roaring and skipping like a speedboat breasting a heavy swell. Suddenly the trees and road came to an abrupt stop. I slammed on the brakes just in time.
There was a tarmac landing strip, an incongruous scar across the bumpy clearing—sufficiently wide to accommodate a light aircraft, or the bulky helicopter that now occupied centre stage. I was congratulating myself on finding the jungle airfield when the blow came from behind, out of my line of vision. It was professional, a blow intended to incapacitate, not kill. It felt as if it cracked my skull like an eggshell and drove the sharp edges of bone into the soft centre of my brain. I pitched face-forward into the grass and lay still.
For several minutes I thought the darkness had swallowed the sun. I was sure the back of my head had caved in. Only later did I put an exploratory hand up to my nose. I felt it had been torn off my face in the fall, but when, eventually, I tweaked it gingerly, it appeared to be all in one piece. I lay motionless, the pain pulsating through my head, and feigned unconsciousness as I thought out my next move. From a dizzying height came the sound of van Hooten’s voice, no longer lazy and cordial, but sharp with anger.
‘Who in hell’s responsible for this? This is not what I wanted.’
‘But, sir…’
‘Are you arguing the toss with me, soldier? Now help me get this man on his feet. And if he’s sustained serious damage, you will wish your momma had remained intacta all her life, you hear me?’
His voice was close to my ear now. The tone was social, concerned.
‘Raven! Dr Raven! Are you okay? What happened? Did you trip?’
Trip, hell! I was mugged! By some goon that did your bidding.
But if an accident was to be the storyline, I would follow the script. I sat up slowly—very slowly—and put a hand to my head. I gazed up in the direction of the general’s voice, straining my eyes, looking puzzled, which was not difficult, under the circumstances.
‘I-I guess I must have done!’
‘Well, you surely did not fall on your feet this time! Let’s get you aboard, then. Can’t leave you here!’ Strong arms assisted me, not ungently.
The Chinook’s rotors were already whipping up a gale; it was heavily armed and painted in camouflage. The uniformed Thai military escort stood by impassively as I was helped aboard. Van Hooten followed. The Thais were armed. The olive green of jungle fatigues seemed to my dazed eyes to echo their complexions. I must have been looking pretty green myself. They laid me facedown with my head half out the open door. They could have tipped me out like a bale of cloth without much effort, and this fact was not lost on me. As the helicopter roared and swung, parting the jungle’s hair with its bluster, I ran through what I knew of the Golden Triangle. As well as practising my squiggles and singsong tones for Iolo’s Thai language class, I had read up on the area. I knew its chief cash crop provided 12,000 tons of opium a year. It was cultivated by the tribesmen: the Meo, the Lahu, and the Akha, and across the Burmese border, by the Shan, at altitudes of over 3,000 feet. Even at 4,500 feet, where no other crop would grow, the Meo could coax poppies from the dead earth. The semi-nomadic Meo were gypsies and, like gypsies the world over, traditionalists at the same time; they still cultivated the land by the immediately effective but ultimately wasteful
ray
method—slash, burn, and move on. The ashes of the ruined forests, relentlessly cleared and set alight, provide ideal fertiliser for the next opium crop. The bulk of the opium was intended for export to the American market, systematically expanded by enlisting the bargirls of Asian cities, who encouraged their soldier clients to opt for a little skullpop in place of bourbon and rye.
In the area’s half-dozen processing plants, the base morphine and acetic acid bubbled away for six hours in a double boiler at 85 degrees centigrade. Base morphine was obtained by allowing the raw opium to simmer in water. After separation, processes utilizing quicklime isolated the morphine and codeine. Any impurities visible to the naked eye were eliminated by straining, then ammonium chloride was added, and presto—base morphine, crystallized powder the colour of milk chocolate.
The processing plants were rigorously supervised. Accidents might trigger explosions, resulting in loss of life, or worse, the destruction of valuable equipment—or, worst of all, the loss of valuable heroin. Besides, the American market accepted only eighty per cent pure products.
I scrambled to a sitting position. As they had not yet thrown me out of the helicopter, I assumed I was safe for now. I estimated we were flying some twelve miles inside Thailand, west of the Burmese border. Van Hooten pointed down at a cluster of rooftops. We circled above a small village. ‘Know who lives down there?’ the colonel yelled, his face straining manically against the noise and the vibration. ‘Remnants of Chiang Kai-shek’s gallant counterrevolutionary forces. Settled here back in 1949, after they were kicked out of Red China. Overpowered the local chieftains, took their women, settled the place.’
I wondered how much more he would confide, confirming what I knew already. Surely not how the warlords-turned-businessmen had been offered, and gratefully snatched, a sponsored airlift, relieving their major headache: the safeguarding, difficult even with five hundred men, of the ponderous trains which began their progress down from the mountains in March and June, transporting twenty tons of opium. Those twenty tons represented a mere seventh of the Meos’ total crop. Now, the finished product could be flown to Vientiane in Laos by a special subdivision of Air America, and thence to Saigon aboard military aircraft. American aid programmes promoted the traffic by providing Thailand with ninety-one new airstrips. All arrangements for the financing, processing, and collection of the crop lay in the hands of Chinese racketeers, whose activities were protected by the shadow of the eagle’s wing—the American military command.
If the public conscience pricked a little, the ritual offering of symbolic victims was periodically arranged: pawns in the game, drug mules, scapegoats, gullible, greedy Western backpackers—easy sacrifices. The lucky ones had their fifteen minutes of fame when their executions were broadcast on national television. The others…
The helicopter swung south again. Van Hooten wanted me to think he really trusted me. But the Agency didn’t trust its own shadow. The less reassuring alternative was that it no longer mattered what I knew. I would never be able to tell; I had become expendable.
Van Hooten and I grinned at each other without cordiality.
Whatever the reason, someone didn’t want there to be any waves in Northwest Thailand. Suddenly, and with absolute certainty, I knew there was more afoot than the opium trade.
The helicopter landed in a clearing and van Hooten and I climbed out and walked to where he had left the Chevrolet. I saw that in our absence it had been polished, the red dust scraped off hubcaps and radiator grill. A small group of men stood round it, grinning proudly in anticipation. Van Hooten duly brought out his wallet and dispersed largesse, received with many bows and expressions of appreciation, and we got in. Before he fired up the engine, van Hooten rooted around under the dashboard and produced a large cigar, which he lit. Its aroma was chokingly powerful in the closed car. I coughed pointedly.
Van Hooten laughed. ‘How’s the head?’ he asked.
‘I’ll live.’
He grunted, not wasting his time on sympathy. ‘Get that Waddle!’ He shook his head. ‘Him and his precious letters! You know what’ll be so all-fire important? A strongbox rental for the precious rubies he’s salting away. And, no doubt, one to our mutual friend Siegfried, the Queen of Spades. Siegfried arranges special entertainments for his pals. Nice little side line.’ He began to croon a sentimental country ditty.
Neither of us saw the car coming before it slewed across our path. We almost hit it before the big Chevrolet fishtailed off the road and into the scrub, coming to a halt with its bonnet rocking over the canal.
‘Ambush!’ shouted van Hooten. ‘Run for cover!’ He threw open his door and tumbled out with more haste than dignity, and disappeared from view. Before I could follow suit, my own door was flung open and I found myself staring down the ugly, businesslike barrel of a gun I recognised and identified as the assassin’s favourite, the Hecht 567. The gunman wore a rally driver’s crash helmet and an orange flameproof suit, but I knew who it was. A pale blue eye glared through the goggles.
I trawled deep for some conciliatory words and came up gasping and empty. I steeled myself in anticipation of the gun’s report, but a blind man couldn’t have missed at that distance, so it was ridiculous to worry about the report—I’d never hear it. I shut my eyes. The gunman grunted, as if in surprise. I heard the car door slam, and as the security of the enclosed space cradled me, I opened my eyes warily. The gunman had disappeared. Behind the scrub I heard the full-throated scream of a highly tuned engine, the squeal of tyres.
I became aware of a thud against the window. A groping hand appeared, and then van Hooten’s face, mouthing inaudibly. He forced the door open, thrust his head in, and shouted: ‘Jeez, Raven—you okay? I thought you were dead!’ He heaved his bulk into the seat and leaned back, breathing heavily. ‘Fucking bandits!’