Opium (30 page)

Chapter 53

B
ONAVENTURE tried to think it through. It seemed to him that the first problem was what to do about the American. This Jonathan Dale posed a real threat if his daughter had it in her mind to form a permanent attachment. The idea made him wince.

The second problem was Crocé. The Church did not sanction divorce and arranging an annulment was a long and expensive business, even for a man of means. The prelates in Saigon might let themselves be persuaded, but by the time they had finished they would have squeezed enough out of him to build themselves another cathedral. And even then Baptiste could still make himself difficult. He might even try and take Lucien.

There had to be a cheaper, more effective answer.

It was a pity Crocé had been unable to manage his daughter a little better. He had a lot of potential in the business. But he was clearly now a liability; the trick was how to get rid of him without offending his daughter's sensibilities.

And then it came to him.

***

The servants and their families were playing badminton in the front yard when Baptiste arrived. Bonaventure was sitting on the veranda, drinking
un sundowner
.

Baptiste shouted a greeting as he ran up the steps. He looked relaxed and confident. His linen suit was pressed and freshly laundered, there was a cigarette held between fingers filled with chunky gold rings. A lot of style but little substance, Bonaventure thought.
Quelle domage.

Baptiste sat down and Bonaventure poured some
Pernod
into his glass. Baptiste scooped some ice from the silver bucket with his fingers and dropped it into his glass, and the yellow spirit was immediately transformed to the colour of milk.

They talked for a while, as they often did, about opium shipments, new orders, problems with the Beechcraft. I will miss him, Bonaventure thought with genuine regret. He has taken over many of the irksome details of the business, and proven himself a capable manager. What am I going to do without him? Perhaps it is time to retire.

“There's something I have to talk to you about,” he said, at last. “It's about Noelle.”

Baptiste immediately became sulky.

“Please, Rocco. We have been through this before. This is my problem.”

“She's having an affair.”

That wonderful olive skin actually turned a little pale. He saw the Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he tried to swallow. Poor bastard. He wondered if this was how he had looked when Gates had told him.

“You can hardly blame her. You have not exactly been the model husband.”

“She's my wife,” he managed, in a strangled voice.

“I warned you about this. You should have taken better care of things at home.”

“Don't lecture me!'

“I don't intend to,” Bonaventure went on remorseless. “It's a little late for that.”

Baptiste jumped to his feet. “Who is it?'

“It's an American. His name is Dale, Jonathan Dale. He's one of their agricultural advisers.”

“An American?' Baptiste said with genuine disgust. “She really knows how to rub salt into a wound.”

“I want you to take care of this,” Bonaventure said.

“Take care of it?'

“The Corsican way.”

“I'll cut off his balls!'

“That's the spirit,” Bonaventure said cheerfully.

“It was that Pepin business that did this! She never forgave me for that. But it was your idea!'

“Don't blame other people for your own messes. It should be your first lesson in life.”

Baptiste turned away, and stamped down the front steps. But halfway down he wheeled around and came back. “I never wanted him dead!'

Bonaventure sipped his Pernod. “But you did it anyway. You're soft, that's your trouble. I wonder if you even have the guts to deal with Dale. Or do you want me to do it for you?'

“Damn you,” Baptiste hissed and stalked away.

Bonaventure smiled. Crocé would take care of Dale. Then Gates would come to Bonaventure. And he, with regrets, would pass the problem back to Gates. He could hear himself now:
I'm sorry. He acted without my consent. Do what you have to do. He has gone beyond my protection.

Yes, Crocé would solve the problem of Jonathan Dale. And Gates would solve the problem of Baptiste Crocé.

He would be able to look Noelle in the eye and profess his innocence at both their funerals.

Perfect.

***

Noelle was in the garden with Lucien, throwing a ball. She heard a door slam inside the house. Baptiste shouted something at Chao, then he burst onto the back veranda. She knew as soon as she saw him that her secret was out.

Lucien ran across the grass to meet him. Baptiste scooped him up in his arms but he kept his eyes on Noelle and his expression did not change.

“Why did you do it? Was it revenge?' he said.

Noelle felt suddenly very calm. She had wondered if she might deny, threaten, or justify in the face of his accusations. But instead she knew that she would just tell him the truth.

“Was it revenge?' he repeated.

“At first,” she said. “Then it was something more.”

“You won't take Lucien.”

She stared him down.

“Did you hear me? I won't ever let you go, either of you. I don't care what you do, if you run away to the end of the world, you'll never get away from me.”

“It's over between us, Baptiste.”

“It will never be over! Not until I say so!'

He kissed Lucien and put him back on the grass, then he turned on his heel and slammed back out of the house.

***

She had never been to Dale's room at the Bungalow in daylight, but now there was no more need to hide. She had to warn him.

His jeep was gone.

She banged on the door with her fist. She startled one of the houseboys.

“M
onsieur Jean n'est pas ici,”
he told her.

The door was open. She went in. There was a bachelor's homely sprawl; a shirt thrown across a chair, a pair of hiking boots caked with orange mud, a Princeton beer jacket hanging on a door handle. The familiar smells of his cologne.

It looked utterly different in the daylight, its geography familiar but lurid. The bed had been made, military fashion, the room bare except for the rattan chair by the window and a teak chest of drawers. She found a bottle of Johnnie Walker beside an abandoned letter. She picked it up.

Dear Susan,

I don't know where to start. There's so much I have to tell you ...

Dear Susan?

She opened the drawer on the bedside table, slowly, as if she feared there might be a live snake inside. There was a paperback biography, dog eared, on Kennedy, another on Tom Paine. She threw them on the bed. Underneath the books was a pile of letters, tied with a rubber band. She snapped it off, and a photograph fell out of one of the envelopes.

She held it in trembling fingers: a beach, somewhere. A smiling woman, smiling children, in the middle a man, in bathing trunks. Jonathan Dale, family man.

Dear Susan.

The photograph slipped from her fingers onto the floor. What did it matter? She was not in love with him and he was not in love with her. She had been lonely, and she had wanted to make Baptiste bleed. That was all. He had meant nothing to her at all. She turned and walked slowly out with the regal bearing of a queen.

Chapter 54

B
APTISTE walked into the Hotel Constellation holding a loaded revolver. It was a Smith and Wesson with six rounds in the chamber. He appeared to be drunk. He looked around the bar and fired one shot over the barman's head, shattering a bottle of Byrrh. It exploded and rum and shards of glass sprayed across the room.

Now he had everyone's attention.

“Where's Dale?'

Gerry Gates was sitting with two crew cut men in short sleeved shirts, near the door. He nodded and they casually rose to their feet and slipped out.

“I thought Buffalo Bill was dead,” Gates said.

Baptiste swung around and pointed the gun at Gates' head. “Where is he?'

“Why don't you put the gun down and we'll talk about this?'

“Just tell me where he is.”

“So you can blow his head off?'

“I intend to start much lower down.”

Gates folded his hands on his belly, looking relaxed. Men had pointed guns at him before. “I got a feeling you don't understand the Big Picture, Baptiste. Let's go somewhere else and we'll talk about this.”

“Fuck somewhere else,” Baptiste said. “Just tell me where he is.”

Gates shook his head. “If you're gonna shoot me, it will have to be in the back.” He stood up and walked out.

Baptiste let him go. The revolver moved in an arc around the circle of shocked and silent faces. He knew most of them. One of them, a French journalist, managed a sheepish grin.

But no Jonathan Dale.

He swore, lowered the gun, and followed Gates into the dark and rain-slick street.

The Americans were waiting for him. They each grabbed an arm, and Gates swung out of the shadows and hammered his fist into Baptiste's stomach. The air went out of him and he sank to his knees, the revolver dropping into the mud.

Gates picked it up, emptied the bullets out of the chamber and signalled to his colleagues that they were to bring Baptiste with them. He swung open the back door of a Chevrolet that was parked across the street and Baptiste was bundled in between the two men, doubled over and gasping for breath.

Gates got behind the wheel and drove away.

***

They parked by the river, at the southern end of the town. out of sight of the road.

Gates swung around in the front seat. “I'm going to do you a favour,” he said.

Baptiste was pinned between the two Americans. His eyes were black and ferocious, like a cornered animal. If he gets smart this boy is going to be dangerous one day, Gates thought.

“I do not need any favours.”

“Shit, sure you do. You just been set up, boy.”

Gates saw a flicker of doubt in the other man's face.

“Who told you about Dale?' Gates went on.

Baptiste just stared at him.

“Okay, let's do this your way. You don't have to say nothing till I've finished. That square with you? Okay, then try this for size. It was your daddy in law, wasn't it? Old Rocky himself. He told you. And you know why he told you? Because he wanted you to do just what you're doing now. Think a minute. What if that bottle of rum you took out back there happened to be Jack Dale? What do you think we would have done? Wrung our hands and taken up a collection for the funeral?'

Baptiste didn't answer. But Gates could see he was getting through.

“It was Rocky, wasn't it? Just nod your head, yes or no.”

Baptiste nodded.

“Okay.” Gates smiled, pleased they were getting somewhere. “Let me read it to you how I see it. He wants you out. Only he doesn't want to do it himself. He wants us to do it for him. He's a smart man. You don't get to be
un vrai monsieur
doing charity work, right? The guy plays hardball, Baptiste. You should have worked that out by now.”

Baptiste closed his eyes and sighed. Yeah, he was getting the picture, the dumb fuck.

He played you for a sucker, boy. You don't want to start a vendetta with us. You'll find yourself without a friend in the world. And the first guy who'll cut you off is Rocco.” He tossed the revolver back at Baptiste‚ who caught it in both hands, staring at it as if it was an incriminating photograph. He tucked it into the jacket pocket of his suit.

“You want to test my theory you go fire that thing at a member of the United States mission in Laos. Jack Dale is a coming guy in agriculture in our country. We don't want to lose him.”

Baptiste's one good eye met his, black and angry once more. But he understood.

“Jack Dale won't be giving you any more problems. He'll be gone by the end of the week.”

Baptiste nodded.

“Now I'm sorry for the punch. It's not my usual style. Maybe one day you'll thank me for it. You want a lift back to town?'

“I think I want to walk. I need time to think.”

Gates nodded at his guys. One of them got out and opened the door to let Baptiste out of the car. The Corsican leaned in the passenger window. “Are you married,
Monsieur Gates
?'