Black Tiger (47 page)

‘Unfortunate young man.’

‘Foolish puppy! The king has had the good sense to keep his mouth shut, whereas Toom could not have held his tongue. That is the way with these liberals when they imagine themselves injured. They squeal like stuck pigs. He had to be silenced. The earth rises higher.’

‘How long do you expect me to keep that thug here?’ Sunii demanded.

‘He will guard the girl while I attend the official banquet at the Summer Palace.’

‘Ah, yes! The royal recognition of the new cabinet. New lamps for old!’ Sunii laughed mirthlessly. ‘Honouring the gallant officers who put down the Chinatown massacre.’ Her tone sang with the bittersweet sting of ancient resignation. ‘Well, keep your pawn. I wish you success. I hardly think, though, at this stage of the game, that she will succeed in crossing the board and returning as a queen. Once, such a thing might have been possible, who knows? But the end game approaches, Colonel.’

Now it was his turn to demand explanations. ‘Meaning?’ His voice was sharp.

‘Meaning, already the inquisitive have been probing into my financial affairs. Our bank security I regard as impregnable, but somewhere there is a leak. If the provenance and destination of those funds were to become common knowledge…’

‘How could that happen?’ He was patronising her now, as though she were no longer an equal, but a little woman who was overreacting and required soothing. ‘The sums were brought into the country well camouflaged, and introduced through the bank’s Hong Kong branch. I shall be making the agreed withdrawal in the near future.’

‘I am still surprised you need so much money to bribe those people. I should have thought they would have been willing to do anything to prevent our enemies from joining forces—to strike a blow for face, for honour, without the necessity of payment. It is, indeed, a point of honour to prevent this betrayal! It is what the last of the Kuo Min Tang have dreaded all these years: the recognition of Mao’s bandit regime, those communist murderers! After all the fine words spoken by Westerners, all the assurances they have given Taiwan! It is true, they are deceitful barbarians!’

He laughed. ‘Once upon a time, the descendants of the warriors of the last Chinese Nationalist stand would have acted from pure motives. They would have intervened to prevent this unholy alliance with the Western powers.’

‘Yes,’ she said, more matter-of-factly. ‘What does it matter, after all, bribe or no bribe? So long as that aircraft is prevented from taking off and the treacherous
farang
delegation never reaches Beijing.’

‘Indeed,’ he said, ‘my sentiments entirely. So we proceed? ‘

‘We proceed.’ Sunii paused. ‘Of course, to me, you realise, the Middle Kingdom is home, no matter what villains are in power. One’s bones yearn for that soil.’

They moved away from the panel, and Chee Laan heard no more. Trembling with adrenaline and rage, she sank slowly to her knees on the polished floor. Her grandfather was no Chinese martyr, but an East Ocean Devil, a Japanese oppressor. No wonder her father and brothers were ugly, bowlegged creatures! Did she have a sinister Nippon look, too? She had been kept in the dark about her origins, and about so much else. Resentment against her grandmother choked her, even as she recognised that she was Sunii’s creature and creation. Pruned, trained, stunted as a bonsai tree, she would go on living in that shape. She could never learn another way of being.

And her grandmother was in league with the declared archenemy of the Chinese, the Black Tiger, Sya Dam—and had as good as given her blessing for Raven’s murder.

Chee Laan grimaced in the silent room, pondering how such an unlikely alliance had ever come about. But it was clear enough: Sya was an outsider, like Sunii Lee. They were both preoccupied with ambitious schemes, and had recognised the potential usefulness of a powerful alliance. Their cooperation was born of expediency, nothing to wonder at.

And who had Sya commanded to prevent a plane from taking off, the plane carrying a Western peacebroker to Beijing? The ‘broken promises of the barbarians’ must mean the United States was about to recognise Red China. Chee Laan knew Tsu mu would be bitter about that, for her sympathies lay with the nationalists of the old regime in Taiwan. Her hatred of the communists was implacable. Chee Laan realised that this was the information Raven had been waiting for: the secret plot to sabotage the reconciliation mission. She knew she must tell him immediately and warn him of the danger; she would no longer hesitate or wait to examine her loyalties.

But first, there was Salikaa—what had Sya said? A prisoner in the penthouse suite, guarded by a monster? Easily disposed of if the time came? Here, at least, she was not helpless.

Chee Laan emerged from the staff quarters and glided through the crowded lobby, hoping none of the employees or guests would recognise her. Most of the front desk staff were Chinese, keen-eyed and intelligent. For hostess and domestic work, Sunii employed the charming, malleable Thais, but for bookings, accounts, and discouraging undesirable customs, it was Chinese. Fortunately, the staff was busy, and they hardly glanced at Chee Laan. She moved smoothly, with small steps, keeping her eyes on the carpet ahead of her, forcing herself to conceal her agitation. Her tastes in clothes were simple, inconspicuous; in her white blouse and dark trousers she could pass for a maid, especially walking just so, close to the wall, looking down modestly like small person.

She reached the elevator and stepped in, pressing the button to close the door quickly before anyone could join her. Safely back in her new suite, she slid into the executive director’s chair. She pulled the phone toward her across the desktop, disturbing coloured brochures and stiff invitations still in their envelopes. Fashion shows and soirées tumbled noiselessly onto the thick Chinese carpet. Chee Laan held the phone but did not lift the receiver. She needed to think hard before she spoke to Raven. She curled her bare feet beneath her on the scarlet silk cushions of her carved dragon chair. The double thickness of doors and windows, the hum of the powerful air conditioners, created an enclosed micro-climate. As she urgently clutched the phone, Chee Laan’s eyes roved the rich room, seeking solace. She had chosen the decor herself. The joss sticks she had lighted glowed before the Khmer stone Buddha, hacked off from a wall in Ankhor Wat and smuggled to Bangkok in an infantryman’s backpack. The gilded full-figure Bangkok Buddhas sat gravely in their wall niches. Their calm, static poses were at odds with her disordered state of mind. She was startled when the phone she was holding shrilled loudly with an incoming call. When Salikaa’s voice came through loud and clear Chee Laan almost dropped the phone in astonishment.

‘Is this room service?’ Salikaa’s voice was studiously casual, with a touch of the old hauteur.

‘
Chai, kha
. Yes, madame,’ Chee Laan replied.
She knows damn well this number is not room service, but my private office
, she thought. ‘Salikaa! You’re not alone? You can’t talk freely?’

‘Correct. I wish to order food.’ She still had that distant, imperious tone.

Chee Laan had a sudden inspiration. ‘Our menu is French,’ she murmured. Salikaa drew in her breath sharply but picked up the hint. Chee Laan wondered about the monster reported by Pao—was he breathing down Salikaa’s neck even now? Would some huge hand descend upon the phone set, cutting off this thin lifeline?

‘French. Send me up
une boisson soporifique
—better make it beer.’ In the background Chee Laan heard a growl of approval. ‘There is beer in the minibar. But it is imported beer. I wish for local beer. And bring some rice. You will bring this right away?’ Despite the haughty voice, there was a slight stress in her tone.

‘I will bring it personally, madame. To which suite, madame?’ Chee Laan asked innocently, as though she did not know.

‘Penthouse,’ Salikaa snapped. The line went dead.

Chee Laan pulled open the top desk drawer and extracted the hotel’s master key from its hook at the back. She tucked it into the waistband of her slacks. Fortuitously, she still had the potent somnifers distilled from opium poppies she had confiscated from her brother. There was beer in the office refrigerator, kept for the entertainment of male business associates. Beer and whisky, both Thai and imported, vodka and Bourbon, and also sake. Japanese sake. Chee Laan shook herself. One thing at a time. She would think about her Japanese grandfather in due course, and come to terms with that also.

Probably.

First, she rang Raven. They spoke briefly, in terse, paratactic sentences. She replaced the receiver and took the bottle of liquid opium from her purse. She poured several drops into a clean crystal tumbler. The glass was so deeply incised and embellished that the drops were indistinguishable in its depths. When she added the beer they would blend and mingle, the minute changes in colour seeming no more than the refraction of sunlight in the facets.

Raven

‘Chee Laan!’ I said urgently, but she had already put the phone down. I slammed the receiver down too, and stared unseeing at the wall. I imagined her delicate, oblique face, her eyes merry with laughter, as on the river at the water festival. Then I pictured her now, troubled, wearing a worried frown. I’d feared for her since the Chinatown riots, where her old
amah
had lost her life. There would be more bloodshed; violence lay thick in the air, and there was nothing I could do to keep her safe. I was an inexperienced Galahad, and Chee Laan Lee was a very stubborn young woman.

Blinded by my own selfishness, I had never felt especially protective of my fellow human beings. I’d pretended my lack of gallantry was a reformed chauvinist pig’s respect for the independence of modern women, but if the truth be told, I’d just never cared enough before.

I recognised that Chee Laan was an independent woman, as independent as any I’d ever met—yet she appeared more vulnerable, her bright courage merely the prideful recklessness of youth. Legionnaires see a lot of that; it leads to many needless deaths.

I had told her little about myself, to protect her from becoming embroiled in an enterprise, which was certainly not devoid of risk. Neither had I elaborated on my relationship with Angel Fleischer, for some things are best forgotten.

But the conversation she had overheard between Colonel Sya and her grandmother must have indicated to her the extent of my involvement, and the dangerous man I was dealing with. Much had now become clear to me. The image of the lonely airstrip in the northwest, where I had gone with van Hooten, flashed into my mind. Methodically I made an attempt to piece together what I knew.

Even then I had suspected, through van Hooten’s edginess and the occasional veiled reference, that the airfield was to be used for a secret mission of enormous significance, but it was impossible to guess by whom, or for what purpose.

It was evident that any mission from that desolate place could not be military in nature. The U.S. Air Force operated five major bases in Thailand, all of which were closer to the theatre of hostilities and more favourably situated to strike across the Cambodian border into Vietnam.

If the mission was not military, neither was it likely to be related to the opium traffic, for van Hooten was clearly not concerned that I was aware of those peculiar local activities. Even before Chee Laan’s phone call, I had already concluded there was only one other possibility. The operation planned had to be a top-level diplomatic mission involving major players. It was self-evident that, if the Americans had determined to open a dialogue with Mao Zedong and Zhou Enlai, they must bring in a statesman of the highest rank.

It was the only logical conclusion: the Americans wanted to break down the door to Mainland China at last. The more I thought about it, the more certain I became that the only person who might be capable of achieving such a coup, in the terms of international diplomacy, was the Secretary of State, Henry Kissinger.

They would have to bring Kissinger in to broker a deal with Red China. They would need to fly him out at night from an obscure rural airstrip in a friendly country, in deadly secrecy. There could be no preemptive rumour-mongering. If the operation was to succeed, the world must be presented with a
fait accompli
. As I followed this line of reasoning, I surmised that even the State Department was probably kept in ignorance of the plan. It reeked of the CIA acting alone. I had no proof, but I had long suspected that the CIA had been backing the Kuomintang-controlled opium convoys from the Golden Triangle for decades. After all, they knew the area like their own backyard and had numerous operatives on the ground, as well as invaluable local contacts.

At last I began to understand as well why I, rather than an American citizen, had been entrusted with this mission. If the State Department were as yet unaware of the planned operation, deploying U.S. citizens would have been a risk. My mission was to report on signs of instability within Thailand, any turbulence which could endanger Kissinger’s delicate diplomatic endeavour, and I was to make my reports to London, where the information would be assimilated and digested, and then relayed—as much of it as was deemed politic—to the Americans.

I had filed my account of the Chinatown riots and the shooting of the demonstrators, but there had been nothing to link those events with the kind of general unrest that the grey men in London feared. I had been kept in the dark about who would reap the benefits of what information I gleaned, as well as about the true nature of the mission I was supposed to carry out. This made me feel mistrusted and marginalised, even while I told myself that this was a well-known characteristic of such cloak-and-dagger endeavours. At least now I too was alert to the fact that their great master plan was known to dangerous people who would seek to thwart it, at whatever cost. I could not suppose for one moment that Sya Dam and his underlings would hesitate at sabotage, or even murder.

Like many of my generation, I had a healthy distrust of the whole breed of politicians and diplomats as a matter of course, but Kissinger commanded my grudging respect. Time was of the essence. There was no mistaking the urgency in Chee Laan’s voice. I thought of her, and I knew the sooner all this was over, the sooner I could pick up the threads of my real life again, and discover what I had to offer a young and beautiful heiress, and what, if anything, she would accept from me.