Opium (18 page)

“Idiot!' she screamed at the aircraft's retreating shadow. “Idiot!'

***

J
EAN-MARIE was standing talking to a group of CAT pilots when Baptiste landed at Wattay. “Crazy motherfucker,” one of the pilots said. Coming from one of the Air America men, that was high praise indeed, Jean-Marie thought. Bonaventure was there too, standing beside his black limousine, his face beet-red with rage.

“Does he know how much that machine is worth?' he shouted. “That worthless bastard.
Espèce de con
!'

The Beechcraft splashed down and began to taxi across. But Bonaventure's temper would not wait. He marched across the mud to intercept. He pulled open the cockpit door while the Beechcraft was still moving. Baptiste braked to a halt and the two men continued their argument right there under the starboard wing.

A few minutes later Bonaventure jumped back in his car and roared away.

“He was really pissed off,” Baptiste said, later, when he saw Jean-Marie. He gave a cheery wave to the American pilots sheltering under the eaves of their operations hut, smoking cigarettes.

“You know what they call you?' Jean-Marie said. “The Red Baron.”

Baptiste chuckled.

“I thought you'd like that. It's because of the eye patch.”

“The Red Baron didn't have an eye-patch.”

“Rocco thought you weren't coming out of the loop.”

“He was worried about me. I'm his favourite son-in-law.”

“He doesn't give a shit about you. Just his plane.” Jean-Marie shook his head and spat into the rain.

“I know what I'm doing.”

“You misjudged that loop. I didn't think you were going to get out of it either. Anyway, what was that all about?'

“Just call me an incurable romantic.”

“The banner was romantic. The loop and the Immelman were insane. Those things aren't built for acrobatic flying.”

“I wanted to show Noelle how much she would miss me if I wasn't around.”

“She'll never know how close she was to finding out.” The remains of the banner hang in tatters from the tailplane. It had been whipped to shreds by tree branches. “That was nearly you.”

“Nearly is perfect. Nearly is touching death with the fingers, and moving out of reach before he can close his fist around your throat.” Baptiste smiled, powder white teeth in a burned mahogany face. He pulled the Gitanes from his shirt pocket and lit one. He slapped Jean-Marie on the shoulder. “Want to give me a lift back into town?'

Oh, he looks so sure, Jean-Marie thought. But the hand that held the cigarette was trembling just enough to make him wonder. His friend lost more than just an eye at Phong Savan, he thought; he had lost his judgement also. A pilot with one eye had a diminished spatial awareness; Baptiste would never pass a medical for a legitimate airline. There was more than simply family ties between him and the Bonaventure family now. If he lost Noelle, Baptiste Crocé had no career, and no future.

***

Baptiste was disappointed. He had expected to find Noelle on the veranda waiting for him when he got back. Instead, the
boyesse
told him she was in the bedroom, resting. The weight of the baby had tired her, she said.

He found her lying on her back in the darkened room, wearing just a thin cotton shift, her hands resting on her stomach. She appeared to be asleep.

“Noelle?'

She opened one eye. “Is that you, Baptiste?'

It was not possible that she had not seen it! He stood beside the bed and watched her go through the pantomime of waking. “Yes, it's me,” he said.

“What are you doing home? Are the brothels all closed?'

For the love of God! “How long have you been asleep?'

“I don't know. Why?'

“Half an hour? An hour? What?'

“Why all these questions? Is it important?' She frowned and sat up on one elbow. Her breasts were heavy and swollen under the straining cotton of the garment and for a moment he felt a familiar stirring. But she was right, she was as big as a whale.

“Have you been outside at all this morning?' he snapped.

She shook her head.

“The servants did not come to wake you?'

“I told Tao Koo I was not to be disturbed.”

He turned around and went out again, slamming the door. All right then. If that was how she wanted to treat him, he would see if any of the taxi girls were working this morning.

***

Noelle heard the Packard scream out of the driveway towards Vientiane. She threw her pillow at the wall. Could she not have relented just for a moment? Was it so hard to forgive him?

Why did she have to punish him for all those qualities that had attracted her to him from the very beginning?

And why did he have to punish her for carrying his child?

Damn him. Let him crawl. If he really wanted her it would have to be on her terms.

Chapter 32

Saigon

S
AMMY Chen lived on the wide boulevard that linked Saigon to its ugly twin, Cholon. Behind the high, barbed wire-topped walls was a short concrete driveway lined with hibiscus bushes and pruned rose trees.

The house was substantial, solid brick with a red tiled roof and upturned eaves. A pierced breeze-block screen shielded part of the veranda, in the current Saigon fashion.

It was the first time Rocco Bonaventure had met Sammy away from the seedy and threadbare Trung Mai hotel. Logic and reputation told him that Sammy Chen was not a poor man, but this was the first time he had allowed him to glimpse behind the mask.

A white-jacketed servant met Bonaventure at the door and led him inside. The interior of the house was cool, as expensive and tasteful as the Trung Mai was tawdry. There were silk carpets, fine lacquer ware displayed in a walnut and glass cabinet, and a table carved from Burmese teak and inlaid with mother of pearl.

Sammy appeared, wearing a crumpled white shirt and baggy, western style suit trousers. He looked exactly as he did when emerging from his dingy office in his Cholon hotel. The gold eye tooth flashed as he smiled.

“Welcome to my humble house, Mister Bon Van Chao.”

“My pleasure to meet you again, Monsieur Chen.”

“Please, come and sit.” Sammy led the way to a small room at the back of house. There was an antique wooden platform in the middle of the room, and Sammy and Bonaventure sat down on either side of the platform, their legs curled beneath them. Sammy clapped his hands for
yum cha
, and the servants poured green tea and brought plates of candied fruits and lotus seed buns.

From the open doors came the
tonk-tonk
of a goldbeater bird.

Bonaventure's business relationship with Sammy Chen went back to the days of French colonial rule. Despite his unprepossessing appearance, Sammy had become the leading opium trader in Cholon after the fall of the Binh Xuyen.

The plump pleasant little Chinese in front of him was not all that he seemed.

They made polite conversation as they sipped their tea and Sammy inquired politely after the health of Bonaventure's family, as he always did. It was just after noon, and Sammy's houseboy brought bowls of rice dumplings filled with shrimp and vegetables, and morsels of barbecued pork.

“The opium harvest is good this year?' Sammy asked him.

“I believe so,” Bonaventure answered cautiously.

“I have a brother in Hong Kong. He wishes to perhaps sell some opium for himself. But he has difficulty getting good supplies.”

“Hong Kong?' He must have triad connections there, Bonaventure thought. His brother might be an actual family member, or he might be referring obliquely to a colleague from his own triad.

“You think you can guarantee twenty ton, okay?'

Bonaventure tried to keep the excitement out of his voice. “To Hong Kong?'

“I have another brother in Bangkok. One hundred per cent reliable. If you can deliver to him in Bangkok, he can deliver to Hong Kong.”

Bonaventure pretended to think about this. Bangkok! He already moved over a ton of base - equivalent to ten tons of raw opium - into Thailand for Rivelini, who transferred it to ocean freighters for members of a Corsican syndicate in Marseille.

“My cousin has trawler boat,” Sammy went on. “Many. Maybe you prefer to make delivery to his boat in Gulf of Siam.”

Bonaventure experienced a frisson of alarm. What was Sammy trying to tell him? “On the same terms, I assume,” he said.

Sammy Chen appeared to think about this. A little juice from the pork ran down his chin. “I talk to Fran Chee Chee. He says he can do for two thousand baht less than you.”

Francisci! That was why he wanted the second plane, another pilot, he was trying to chip away at his market! He actually wanted to challenge him! Even if Bonaventure was able to fend him off, a price war would still bite deep into his profits. He managed a cool smile, and a slight bow of the head. “Sammy, I'm sure we can do better on price than Francisci.”

After I've killed him and smashed his peasant bones to dust.

Chapter 33

Vientiane

B
ONAVENTURE had summoned Baptiste immediately on his return from Saigon, and now they sat alone on the balcony of his villa with a bottle of
pastis
on the table between them. The silence was strained. Baptiste wondered what the hell he wanted. He lit one of his Gitanes and waited.

“How are things between you and Noelle?' Bonaventure asked him, finally.

“Fine,” Baptiste‚ said, wishing the old goat would mind his own business.

“That is not what Noelle has told me.”

Baptiste tried to hide his annoyance. “What happens in our home should be our affair.”

“Not when your wife is the daughter of Rocco Bonaventure,
mon vieux
. Now, do you want to tell me what is wrong?'

“Nothing we cannot put right between ourselves.”

Bonaventure raised one grey brush of an eyebrow and sipped his
pastis
. “Very well,” he said.

“How was Saigon?' Baptiste asked him, trying to turn the conversation around.

“Worrying.”

So this was why the old bear was in such a lousy mood. “What went wrong?'

“It's Francisci. He is starting to get on my nerves.”

“What can we do? The Americans don't care, and Francisci has too many connections in the government here. We have more planes, more resources. We'll squeeze him out over time.”

“But it will cost me a lot of money to do it. Look, a good war doesn't last long, and you have to make the most of it. I don't intend to waste this opportunity fighting off competitors by discounting to all my customers. Like I was a grocer, or I don't know what.”

“Francisci's a minor irritation. Like a mosquito. He doesn't deserve our attention.”

“Mosquitoes carry fever. What if other people get the idea they can start up in business against me? Something must be done about him.”

The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started. In the twilight of the storm Bonaventure's eyes assumed a strange luminosity. Baptiste‚ was uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken. He kept his silence.

“You know, I was wondering about you,” Bonaventure said.

“Wondering what?'

“Whether you have the guts for this business. I know you have courage to fly a plane, you have demonstrated that clearly enough. But I'm talking about power, and having the balls to use it. There are men who can fight a tiger but won't wring a chicken's neck for their dinner. You know what I'm talking about?'

Baptiste felt sticky and hot, his own sweat mixing with the juice the monsoon squeezed out of him. “We don't need to kill him.”

“You can think of a better way?'

Baptiste was silent.

“We can fix their plane,” Bonaventure said. “A little
plastique
should do it.”

“Francisci will buy another one.”

“Not if he's inside it when we blow it up.”

Baptiste lit a cigarette. The smoke tasted foul in his lungs and he suddenly had a headache. “You can't just kill a man like that,” he said, and even as the words left his mouth he knew how ridiculous they would sound to
un vrai monsieur
.