Opium (29 page)

“Can you get me back to Saigon or not?'

“Maybe. But this is where the action is, Jack. You're not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on.”

Dale leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “It's kind of personal.”

“No such fucking beast in the Company, Jack. You can't have anything personal. Everything is business.”

Dale stared at the floor.

“What the fuck is it, Jack? If you got a clap, we can fix it right here.”

“Jesus, Gerry.”

“So what is it? You getting blackmailed by the Russians? They find you in bed with your cookboy or something?'

“Just get me back to Saigon.”

Gates groaned. “Wait a minute. It's a fucking woman. Right?'

Dale' didn't say anything.

“Let me guess here. It's not a taxi girl, because they don't count, and anyway, I never seen you with a taxi girl. Somebody's wife? Who? Not the Ambassador's she's bigger than a B-52. Christ, Jack, none of them are worth ...” The pieces suddenly fell into place. “Not Noelle Crocé? Oh Jack, not her. Tell me it ain't true.”

“So can you get me to Saigon?'

Gates rubbed his temples. Migraine coming on. “If you've upset the Bonaventure family, Saigon is not going to make any damned difference. We don't want to start a vendetta with the Corsicans. How far has this thing gone?'

“Far enough'

“Jesus H. You been screwing her, Jack?'

Dale gave him a look of such dangerous intensity that Gates looked away. He thought about it for a long time. “Forget I asked you that. Leave it with me, okay. I'll see what I can do.”

Dale got up and went to the door.

“Jack.”

Dale turned.

“Be careful.”

Dale laughed and shook his head. “If I cared about being careful, would I be in fucking Laos?'

Chapter 52

T
HERE was a handful of journalists in the corner of the bar at the Constellation drinking through the colours. They had started with milky Pernod and water, and were noisily working their way towards black Byrrh rum. They had survived the yellow
pastis
and green
creme de menthe
, but were stuck on blue.

One of them wondered aloud what colour lighter fluid was.

Gates arrived on time for his rendezvous with Rocco Bonaventure. Bonaventure, exercising a lifetime's habit, was five minutes early.

Gates nodded a greeting and sat down. Bonaventure raised one finger from the arm of his rattan chair, and a Lao barman hurried over with a cognac and soda, and another
pastis
for the
monsieur
.

“Hello Rocky. Quiet in here tonight.”

“You cannot blame these gentlemen for that,” he said, indicating the group of French and British journalists.

“Well, all in the spirit of international goodwill.”

“There's no such thing,” Bonaventure grunted. He took out a pack of Gauloises and offered one to Gates, who shook his head.

“Trying to cut down, Rocky.”

“You don't think you're going to live a long and happy life?'

“I guess not. But no anyway.” He took a long swallow of his cognac.

“You look nervous,” Bonaventure observed.

“Maybe.”

“You said on the telephone that you had something important to discuss.”

“Important, but not pleasant.”

Bonaventure's face darkened. “Rattakone?'

“No. It's personal.”

The Corsican passed a hand over his eyes. “It's my son in law, isn't it.” He said it like a man being called in by the school headmaster to discuss his teenage son.

“Sort of.” Gates leaned forward and lowered his voice. A theatrical gesture, Bonaventure thought, as no one could hear them with the racket the journalists were making in the corner. “It's Noelle. Did you know she was having an affair?'

Bonaventure felt the blood drain out of his face. So this was why she wanted to leave her husband. Daughters, he decided, were a curse. They were the devil's invention, to stop a man enjoying the serenity of old age. There were a thousand questions. “Who?' was all he could manage.

“Jonathan Dale.”

Bonaventure drained his
pastis
and hammered the empty glass on the table. The Lao barman scurried over from the bar with a replacement. The old Corsican smoked and drank for a little while, as he tried to refocus the world through this new perspective. “How long has this been going on?' he said at last.

Gates shook his head.

“When did you find out?'

“Today.”

Bonaventure took a series of deep breaths like a man preparing to dive off a cliff. “Why are you telling me this?'

“Because I want you to help me resolve this. I'll make sure it doesn't continue. Dale will be out of here by the end of the week. I'll get him back upcountry where he can't do any more harm. But I thought maybe you'd care to explain the realities of this situation to Noelle.”

“Perhaps I might also like to have a word with this Dale.”

“You take care of yours, I'll take care of mine. The important thing is to make sure Crocé doesn't find out. I don't want anything to happen here that might embarrass me at the Embassy.”

“You mean like him blowing your
Monsieur Dale's
brains out.”

“Something like that.”

Bonaventure felt himself start to shake. First she had defied him and married a man he had warned her would only cause her heartache. Then when she tired of him, she had humiliated him in front of everyone by whoring herself with an American. Did she have no shame, no self respect? If Gates knew, how many other people in Vientiane knew? Perhaps tomorrow it would be on the front pages of
Lao Presse
:
ROCCO BONAVENTURE”S DAUGHTER IS A SLUT.

“Thank you for your information,” he said, and got up suddenly, spilling his
pastis
.

“Just take it easy, Rocky,” Gates said.

“If God had wanted me to take it easy, he would not have given me a daughter!' he said and left.

***

Noelle sat by the window and watched the moon rise over the Mekong behind a bank of ominous black cloud. The night was cool and she had slipped on one of Dale's olive-drab woollens. The fibre was rough against her bare skin.

Dale was sprawled on his back across the bed. She watched him as he slept. Next to her, he was a giant, his chest and arms layered with muscle, yet when he was asleep, his face relaxed and his hair tousled, he looked like a small boy.

He stirred, rolling dreamily on to his side. His eyes blinked open. “How long have you been awake?' he drawled, his voice husky from sleep.

“A long time.”

“What are you doing?'

“Just staring at the moon. Thinking.”

'... What were you thinking about?'

“I am wondering what I am doing here. I am crazy, I think.”

“Not your fault. I planned the whole thing from the beginning. Crawled up to your house one night and sawed through the fan belt on that monster you drive around in.”

“This is what they teach you in agriculture school?'

She heard him laugh. “I got a confession, Noelle. I don't know a whole lot about agriculture.”

“I am so shocked.”

“I guess you saw straight through me, huh?'

“What is it you really do when you go up into the mountains?'

“We meet with the Hmong mostly. Give them advice.”

“What advice? How to fight wars?'

“Well, everyone has to know how to fight. If they want to stay free.”

“So you are a soldier?'

“Kind of.” He hesitated: she knew he was deciding whether to tell her the truth. “End of the Pacific war, I was a greenhorn Lieutenant in the Marines. Came back with a Silver Star and a Purple Heart.”

“Very colourful.”

“Purple Heart's a citation you get when you take a wound for the Old Glory.”

“Another scar you do not tell me about?'

“This one's a little more private. Grenade fragment in the butt. Want to feel it?'

“I bet you say that to all the girls. If this scar is so bad I am sure I will have noticed by now.”

“I got a cosmetic surgeon straight on to it. It's my best feature.”

“Second best.”

He laughed at that. “Anyway, after that I got a desk job for a while. Guess it was kind of a novelty sitting down again. But I soon figured I could be in the Army a long time before I went up the scale. The air force was a younger service, there was more opportunity. I took some written tests, then got myself transferred to air force intelligence.”

“What kind of tests?'

“Two and two plus spelling your own name right two times out of three. I just slipped in.”

“And then?'

“Then that's all I'm allowed to tell you, ma'am. The rest of my life is classified.”

“Except for when Magsaysay shot you in the shoulder.”

“He didn't do that. I was just working for him at the time.”

“You drive his car, take dictation, what?'

“Classified.”

Even in the darkness she could see he was grinning at her. It was hard not to smile back. She often found herself laughing when she was with him. She tried to imagine spending twenty four hours a day with this man. What would it be like? Don't be an idiot and fall in love with him, she told herself. You don't jump out of one big mistake into another one.

The rain began again, slapping on the leaves outside the window

“Your turn,” he said.

“My turn?'

“To tell me all about you.”

“I am born in Moscow. I am sent here by Stalin to prise secrets from lonely American spies. The rest is classified.”

“Three things. One: I'm not a spy. Two: Stalin's dead. And three: I didn't realise I was lonely until I met you.”

“You see. I am not a very good spy.”

“I really do want to know about you,” he said, suddenly serious.

“What do you want to know?'

“Well, for instance - how do you get on with your father?'

“Why?'

“Just something that puzzles me about you. I mean, you know how he makes his money, right?'

“Every businessman trades in a little opium in South East Asia. No one thinks it is bad. In Laos, the opium is like the motor car to Detroit. He is perhaps a
mauves character
. But he is not bad.”

“A loveable rogue? Like your husband.”

“Yes, like Baptiste.”

“Only you don't love Baptiste.”

She did not answer.

“What are you going to do, Noelle?'

“About what?'

“About us.”

“Nothing,” she said. “I told you that.” All right, she knew that tonight, tomorrow, soon, it would be over. She just did not want to think about that right now.

A loose shutter rattled somewhere in the house. “If I went away, would you come with me?' he said.

“Come with you? Where?'

“To Saigon. I've requested a transfer. You can get away from Baptiste and your father.”

“No.”

“Why not?'

She shook her head.

“But you don't love him. You can't stay with a man you don't love. It makes a mockery of everything.”

“But how do I know I love you?'

“I'm offering a you a way out.”

“I do not want your favours!'

“I didn't mean it that way ...”

“Anyway, I have a son!'

He sat up in bed. “Please, Noelle. Think about it.”

“No! It is easy for you. You come to a foreign country, you help people you don't really care about shoot at people you don't know, and you fall in love with women you can't have. For myself, my life is much more complicated.”

“I don't want to live without you now.”

“Living is easy. You just breathe in and out and remember to eat. It's making promises and not hurting people - that is what is hard.” She threw off his jersey and scrambled in the darkness for her clothes. She could almost feel his hurt and bewilderment.

She left without another word.

Papa had always told her she was reckless. Perhaps he was right. But this time she would try and learn from her mistakes. She would take stock and think. She would not be made a fool of twice.