Opium (23 page)

Tiger Claw was taking money from the
pang jue
and stuffing it into his pockets. He was wearing a black leather jacket and black sunglasses, just as he had the day of the attack in Half Dog Street. He saw Douglas and grinned.

“The Fei Leung sends cripples out to fight now, they are so desperate.”

“It only takes cripples to fight old women like you.”

Tiger Claw stopped smiling. His 49's pulled cleavers and chains from the backs of their jeans and from their jackets. There were six of them. Almost a fair fight, Douglas thought.

He looked up and shouted: “Let the fragrant rains water the earth!'

It took several seconds. But then Tiger Claw and his
sze kau
were drenched in excrement as the nightsoil women emptied their baskets from the roof high above. It hit the ground with the force of a monsoon. Tiger Claw and his men shouted out in disgust.

The battle was over in less than a minute. Douglas rushed forward, his men right behind him. Their opponents were caught by surprise, staggering around in disgust and outrage. Douglas and his 49's used those precious few seconds to take them down. Choppers flashed briefly, there were muted screams, a lot of blood.

Douglas had told them all a dozen times that morning; Tiger Claw is mine.

Unlike his less experienced soldiers, he had not been distracted by the unexpected drenching. He understood immediately what had happened, and had turned to face the real danger, moving quickly into his fighting stance. Douglas slashed with his cleaver, forcing him back, but Tiger Claw was too canny a fighter to allow himself to be cornered, and kept moving to his left, circling, keeping his back away from the wall.

From the edge of his vision Douglas saw that the battle was already breaking up. Bodies littered the alleyway, blood and ordure lying around in pools. Less than a minute and they had taken out Tiger Claw's best fighters. But he could hear more 14K rushing from the other end of the alley to join the battle. He shouted at his own
sze kau
to retreat.

At that moment Tiger Claw stepped inside his guard and slashed at him, the edge of his knife slicing through his sports jacket. Douglas slashed down with his own weapon, forcing Tiger Claw back, then turned and ran.

Tiger Claw was surprised by Douglas' sudden retreat, but by the tradition of triad fights in the Walled City, it meant the brief battle was now over.

But then Douglas stopped at the corner of Half Dog Street, and shouted: “Ma Shen-Fu, that's my shit on your head!'

Tiger Claw bellowed with rage and ran after him.

Douglas limped along Half Dog Street. His fellow
sze kau
had already fled into the gloomy maze of alleys on their side of the border. Douglas twisted down a concrete tunnel, threw himself on his hands and knees, crawled for five yards, then staggered to his feet and limped on.

He looked back and saw that Tiger Claw had followed him. Douglas knew he was no match for him in a foot race. He remembered what his uncle had told him:
He's too quick, perhaps quicker even than me, and he has two good legs. You'll have to use your brain.

Tiger Claw ran at full speed down the tunnel. Douglas turned to face hm.

Suddenly Tiger Claw was flat on his back. It was as if an invisible hand had chopped him down. The piano wire that had been strung across the tunnel had taken him across the bridge of the nose.

He lay spreadeagled on his back, stunned. A red line appeared across his face, just above the eyes. It filled with blood, blinding him. His knife had been jarred from his wrist by the impact and lay yards away in the filth of the watercourse.

Douglas stood over him, grinning, saw Tiger Claw's arms and legs jerk as he tried to recover.

He did not hesitate. He punched his cleaver into Tiger Claw's stomach. The other man shrieked, his legs jerking at the air. Then he twisted onto his side, both hands clutching at his stomach, the grey-green of his intestines spilling through the massive split in his belly

Douglas stepped back and watched Tiger Claw writhe and kick. But there was no time for play. He moved in again and with great deliberation chopped down at the other man's neck, twice, three times. Blood from the carotid artery sprayed over his white T-shirt.

He looked up. Two of Tiger Claw's
sze kau
had followed to the end of the tunnel. Douglas wiped Tiger Claw's blood from his face with his hand, held it up and showed it to them.

Then he turned his back on them contemptuously and walked away.

It was his moment of sweetest victory. Within hours everyone in the Walled City would know of it. This place might be hell, but at least he was master of it.

Chapter 42

Laos, March, 1964

T
HE Packard was at the side of the road with its hood up. Jonathan Dale slowed the jeep for a closer look. He saw a young woman sitting in the shade of a
pipal
tree, a few yards from the car, a small child on her lap.

It was getting late, the rice fields turning platinum under a falling sun. From a nearby
wat
a booming drum summoned the monks to prayer. The sun glinted on the gilded spire of a stupa.

Well, he couldn't just drive past and ignore her. He stopped the jeep and got out.

***

Noelle buttoned her blouse and stood up. The big American saw what she was doing and looked away embarrassed. He was tall and lean, in his early thirties she guessed, with fair hair and cornflower blue eyes. His skin was tanned dark, so he was not new to the tropics.

Lucien was tired and clung to her shoulder, crying.

“Can I help you, ma'am?' the American said to her in English.

“I do not know,” she said. “Can you?'

He indicated the Packard, unsettled by her attitude. “I thought perhaps you had a problem here.”

She hitched Lucien on her hip. “My car. She is broken.”

“Well, you can't stay here.”

“Yes,” she said, and her tone indicated that this much was obvious. “But Lucien he is crying. So I must care him first. He still like the breast, you see, when he is upset.” To her amazement, the American actually blushed. “Now I wait for taxi. This heap, she is my husband's problem now.”

“I can give you a ride into town.”

“Merci beaucoup
.”

He hesitated, and jerked a thumb at the Packard. “Want me to take a look first?'

“You understand about
mechanique
?'

“A little.”

She shrugged.

He looked under the bonnet. His hand accidentally brushed the radiator. “Shit! ... Excuse me, ma'am.”

“In French we say
merde
, is okay, we say all the time.” She was intrigued. He behaved like an awkward schoolboy, yet he was the size of a mountain.

“Fan belt's broke,” he said.

“This is bad?'

“Well, it's not major.”

She realised that he was looking at her legs. She felt a glow of pleasure and alarm. “You like my legs, monsieur?'

He couldn't look at her. “No. Well yeah. They're great legs.”

“I am married,
monsieur
.”

She found such confusion charming in such a good looking man. She wasn't used to it, had certainly not encountered it often in Asia.

“Are you wearing stockings?'

The question threw her off balance. She held Lucien tighter in her arms. The boy sensed her fear and started to cry again. They were four kilometres from the city. Perhaps I should throw him my underwear now, or do I bluff him out? Nearby some children were attempting to shoot down coconuts with a slingshot, and two village women were returning from market, their baskets of pumpkin and sweet potato slung across their shoulders on poles. They were within shouting distance. But would they be any help her against this giant American?

“I mean, if you're wearing stockings I could fix your fan belt. Nylon's very strong. You just wind it around the pulleys on the pump and the alternator. Kind of makeshift, but it will get you back home.”

She laughed, relieved, and he looked even more uncomfortable.

“I mean, I have some water. If you haven't already cracked the head. It's worth a shot.”

She thrust Lucien into his arms. “Here. Hold him please.” Incredibly, Lucien quietened immediately. He would not even do that for his father. “What a talent,” she said. She hitched up her skirt.

Dale was staring at her. “Sorry, ma'am,” he said and turned around.

She unhitched one of her stockings and handed it to him. She took Lucien back and he went over to the Packard and bent over the engine.

She watched him work. A droplet of sweat worked its way down his cheek. He was wearing an olive drab shirt and drill trousers. He looked fit, and his hair was cut very short. “You are a soldier?' she asked him.

“No, ma'am. I'm attached to the United States Embassy. Agricultural adviser.”

“Ah, you are a spy then.”

He banged his head against the open bonnet. He looked stricken.. “Hell no. Who told you that?'

She laughed. “How long you have been in Vientiane, monsieur?'

“Two weeks.”

“Some advice, then. If you do not want people to think you are a spy you must tell them you are ...
journaliste
.”

He seemed bewildered. He finished hitching the nylon around the pulleys. There was grease on his hands, which he wiped on the legs of his trousers. “Just need to top up that radiator. Got some water in the back of the jeep.” He came back with a large plastic container. “Are you on your way back to Vientiane, ma'am?'

“I went out to Tha Deua. They have a market there. I wanted to buy some bear.”

“Excuse me?'

“Lucien has the cough. Every night he bark like a seal. The doctor gives me medicine but it does not work. Then my
boyesse
tells me she can make me better medicine, but she needs oil, they make it from the fat of a bear.”

He grimaced. “I think if I was Lucien I'd hang tough with the cough.” He finished refilling the radiator and stood back. “Should be okay now. Start her up and let's see.”

“Thank you,
monsieur
. You are very kind.”

“It's nothing.”

She put Lucien in the car and jumped behind the wheel. The engine coughed back to life.
“Merveilleux
. You save me. I don't even know your name.”

He slammed the bonnet down. “Dale. Jonathan Dale.”

“Thank you,
Monsieur
Dale.” She reached out of the car, took his hand and shook it. It was huge, twice the size of her own.

“My pleasure, ma'am.”

She gave him her best smile. She would remember this one; powerful, polite, good with children. What a discovery. Perhaps there was hope for America yet.

Chapter 43

B
APTISTE watched Noelle from the veranda. She was sitting in the garden, a leather-bound book in her lap, Lucien playing at her feet among the fallen mangoes. Her face was serene. She toyed with a curl at her cheek. Adorable. He longed for her now as much as he had when he first met her. The most exotic and unattainable woman in Vientiane was his own wife.

A large beetle, with metallic green wings, slowly climbed the white veranda post. He drew back viciously and smashed it with its fist.

***

They ate in silence; rice, serpent-fish,
laap
- vegetables tossed with lime juice, garlic, green onions and chillies - and fresh mangos. There was a pitcher of citron
pressé
in the middle of the table.

Lucien ate some of the mango, but there was more rubbed into his red cheeks than had gone into his mouth. Halfway through the meal he started to cry. Noelle took him out of his chair to nurse him.

“He's a fussy eater,” Baptiste said. “You encourage him.”

Noelle ignored him. Baptiste lit a cigarette and tapped impatiently on the edge of the table with the packet while she tried to quieten their son.

“You're choking him,” she said.

“It's my home. I'll smoke if I want to.”

She returned her attention to her son. “You have to fix the car,” she said.