Opium (24 page)

“Why? What's wrong with it?'

“The fan belt's broken.”

He smiled. “The fan belt. You wouldn't know a fan belt if it crawled out of the car and bit you on the bottom.”

“Don't be crude. Because I'm a woman doesn't mean I'm useless.”

He shrugged it off. “I'll have a look at it.”

“Papa came by this morning. He's talking about having a big party next week.”

“Special occasion?'

“It's his birthday. He'll be sixty years old.”

“Is that all the old goat is?'

“We have to go.”

“I wouldn't miss it for anything.” He shifted his leg. It ached incessantly. During the wet season it was almost unbearable. Perhaps tonight he would go to the Green Latrine or Amicu's and buy a taxi girl and try and lift this darkness that possessed him lately. Or perhaps he would get drunk and drive his Packard down the main street blindfolded with Gilbert Gondet and Marius Nicoli shouting directions, as he had done on his thirtieth birthday.

But neither the anticipation of a woman or drunken stupidity did anything to lighten his mood.

***

That night he climbed into bed beside his wife. His lovemaking was uncharacteristically rough, almost desperate, but she did not respond. He was making love to a ghost.

Without her passion, be it her love or her hate, he had nothing. She had defined the borders of his character, and he realised that somehow he had come to need her.

Chapter 44

G
ENERAL Rattakone and Phoui Nosovan were two of the most powerful men in Laos. And I'm the third, Gates thought with some satisfaction. They were sitting with Bonaventure on his veranda, talking in French. Everyone was smiling but that could mean anything with the Laos. They might have just told a joke or threatened to kill each other. It was the one thing he really admired about them, their inscrutability, although for them a poker face was not artistry but just good manners.

“Happy Birthday, Rocco,” Gates said.

Bonaventure turned and beamed at him. “Gerry!'' He excused himself from the group, and moved away.

“You're looking well, Rocky. What is it today? Fifty five?'

Bonaventure laughed. “Sixty today. But you know this. You are just trying to flatter an old man.”

“You're looking good for it.”

“When your hair turns white it doesn't matter a damn any more about the numbers. Old is old.” He took Gates by the elbow and led him to a corner. “So, how was Saigon,
mon vieux
?'

“Interesting. Want to talk about this now?

“Why not?'

The afternoon was hot, but it was pleasantly cool under the veranda. There was a shout of laughter from a group of Americans from the Embassy. Several of the Laos looked over, and their eyes registered disapproval. It was bad manners to be so loud.

Gates continued in the same monotone delivery. “Now that Diem has gone the Vietnamese may become a little more lenient on their import restrictions. Especially on the docks.” '

Diem had been murdered in a bloody coup the previous year. The war there was escalating, despite America's best efforts - or perhaps because of them - and the Vietnamese needed more and more money to fund it. So instead of just collecting rake-offs from the
chiu chao
who ran the opium dens in Cholon, they wanted to expand the business and allow them to export through Saigon port as well.

“I had a meeting with Colonel Ky. He feels Saigon might be able to offer you better facilities than Bangkok. Especially if you're thinking of expanding your export business.”

“Maybe,” Bonaventure said.

“Well, I promised him I'd mention it to you.”

“I appreciate your concern. Perhaps there is another favour you can do for your old friend.”

“Shoot.”

“It is about that fat pig, Rattakone,” he said and smiled and raised his glass to the Lao general on the other side of the veranda.

“What's the problem, Rocky?'

“I think he plans to take over my business.”

“Can he afford the goodwill?'

“There is no goodwill in Indochina,” Bonaventure said pretending not to understand the joke. I believe he thinks his air force can do a better job than me.”

Gates shrugged. This wasn't his problem.

“I would like to speak to you in private about the possibility of leasing cargo space on your aircraft should our position in Laos become ... unpredictable.”

Gates raised an eyebrow. “Sure, Rocky. It doesn't hurt to talk. But not here. Drop by the Embassy tomorrow. Right now there's someone I'd like you to meet.”

***

Bonaventure was right of course. Gates already knew through his own sources that Rattakone wanted the entire opium harvest for himself. All he had to do was withdraw the
requisition militaires
and Air Opium would be grounded overnight.

Air America aircraft were already carrying opium out of the Shan states in Burma and the jungles of Northern Thailand for the KMT, the rebel Chinese army. It was better - and cheaper - than funding them directly. If Rattakone threw the Corsicans out of Laos, they might have to work the same deal here. They could use the cash to buy arms for the
Meo
tribesmen who were busy fighting the communists for them in the mountains.

In the end what the hell did it matter who did the carrying? That was the way he saw it anyway. The opium had to get to Bangkok and Saigon one way or the other. Someone had to get their hands dirty for America. And it wasn't going to be any of those idiots and bleeding hearts in Congress.

***

A strange place to stage World War Three, Dale thought, as he looked around the faces on the veranda. It was a comic opera kingdom;
Lan Xan
, the Laos called it, the Land of a Million Elephants. Most Americans would never be able to find it on a map. It was the last place the United States and Russia thought they would have to stare each other down, but it was here among the rice paddies, the snake-roofed temples and the bamboo and thatch stilt houses that the battle was about to be joined.

Dale had been in Laos less than two weeks, and he was still bewildered by the internecine politics. High society in Laos was an exotic blend. As he looked around the room he saw Lao generals, Corsican gangsters, British diplomats and Swedish engineers as well as others like himself, Americans in civilian clothes seconded from other branches of the military for special operations. They mingled on the veranda, holding glasses of imported French champagne, while pretty Lao girls in bright silk
pao sin
brought delicacies such as prawns and pâté, especially flown in from Bangkok for the Westerners in Bonaventure's own planes; while the high-born Laos enjoyed pig's blood and bat wings and roasted sparrow.

He spotted Gerry Gates coming towards him. Gates was Dale's immediate superior, about ten years older; a lot of experience in south east Asian affairs, they had told him in Saigon. A good Company man. He had searching, quick eyes and always liked his hand to be on top when he shook hands.

At his side was a massive, grey bearded man in a white tropical suit. Their host. Dale knew him only by reputation, one of the Corsican
milieu
,
un vrai monsieur
, one of the biggest gangsters in Indochina. An opium smuggler, among other things.

“Jack,” Gates was saying, 'someone Id' like you to meet. This is Rocco Bonaventure, one of Vientiane's leading citizens. Rocky, this is Jack Dale. I was telling you about him. He's going to be helping me teach the locals how to develop their agriculture.”

They both laughed at that.

Someone called to Gates from across the room. “Tomorrow,” he said cryptically in Bonaventure's direction, and moved away, a smile frozen in place.

Bonaventure turned to Dale. “So, how do you enjoy Laos, Monsieur Dale?'

“I've haven't seen much of it so far.”

“You come here from America?'

“I spent a little time in Manila and Saigon.”

'“For myself I have been a very long time in
l”Indochine
. Nearly twenty years. No doubt you see already that we do things here a little different.
L'argent sous la table
is not a crime here, like home? It is just a way of doing the business.”

Dale had the impression he was being lectured, as if he was being inducted into a club. He decided it was time to turn the conversation around. “How's the air freight business?' he said.

“I am not so big as my American rivals, but I survive.”

Dale knew he was referring to CAT - Civil Air Transport - or Air America as the locals called it. They had a fleet of Dakotas and Cessnas out at Wattay. Everyone in the Embassy believed it was a wholly owned subsidiary of the CIA.

“Aviation is a growing business,” Bonaventure was saying. “Without aeroplanes, no one goes anywhere, especially in the monsoon. There are only two jeeps in all of northern Laos. Last year they collide, head on,
boom!
Can you believe?' Bonaventure was amused by this notion and gave a raucous laugh. “We carry rice, engineer and diplomat, the Laos as well.” He lowered his voice. “Sometimes we carry a little hard rice also.”

“Hard rice?'

“You have not heard this expression? Hard rice,
Monsieur Dale
: guns. It is hard to fight a war without them.”

“What about opium?'

“Some more champagne?' he said, and he took two glasses from a tray held for him by a diminutive Lao hostess. “You have no idea how much trouble I have to get a few bottles of a Veuve Cliquot.” Someone put another record on the gramophone inside the house and he held up a hand. 'Écoute!
La Vie en Rose
. This song always makes me sad. But then, I am a sentimental man. Do you like Piaf?'

“She's a little shrill for me. But we were talking about opium.”

“You are not going to lecture me about opium,
Monsieur Dale
? When you Americans do everything but collect the sap yourselves?'

“Because we look the other way does not mean the United States government approves of it.”

Bonaventure laughed. “Look the other way? Without you there will be no opium business in all
l”Indochine
! We will have no airfields to fly the opium out of Laos and no one in Saigon to sell it to! And you tell me that all you do is hide your faces in your hands and count to ten.”

“It's a question of priorities'

“Of course.” Bonaventure sipped his champagne.

“We are engaged in a battle between good and evil in Indochina, between freedom and the darkest, most oppressive regime the world has ever known. We have a choice between fighting that evil and stopping a little opium smuggling. I think that choice is obvious. It doesn't mean we have to like it.”

“I can live without your approval. But if you think this evil you fight is so terrible, why don't you Americans fight the war properly, and not just send us agricultural advisers? I do not criticise you, of course. It is against my interest to see you lose.”

“We can't run a full scale war in Laos. It's logistically impossible.”

“Then you must learn to live with men like me, as I must learn to have men like you as my guest on my birthday. It is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Dale. I hope your stay in Laos is a big success.”

***

Well, he won that round, Dale thought. The old fox had a point. It was a contradiction he had tried not to think about ever since he had arrived in South East Asia. He tried not to think about it.

He had hoped to see
her
again. And there she was, on the other side of the veranda, making conversation with a Lao diplomat and an American engineer. She was smiling, but her eyes were fixed on the middle distance. She seemed bored.

She looked very different from the day he had met her by the river. She was
en tenue de soir
, there was no child on her hip, and instead of the pony tail her hair fell in curls around her shoulders. There was a high gloss on her lips and her eyes, as they turned in his direction, were coal and sapphire. She looked like a princess.

He felt his pulse quicken. She's married, he reminded himself. Look the other way.

But he couldn't because she had seen him and was smiling back at him with genuine pleasure. He watched her excuse herself, and cross the veranda towards him. “Monsieur Dale.”

“Ma'am.”