Opium (7 page)

Sammy Chen looked out of the porthole window and imagined himself down there. He had been born in Dao Yung in the Swatow province of China. His father had made a living as a street hawker, his mother as a charwoman. He wondered if anyone else in the cabin had experienced the same crushing poverty. Dao Yung was over forty years ago but he could still remember the open sewers and the sticky rice with nothing to flavour it except a few roots and some pieces of cabbage.

It was the triad that saved him from that life. His half-brother ran errands for the Fei Leung, and when he was fourteen he had encouraged Sammy to join him. They had both worked as look-see boys at an opium den.

When Sammy's family emigrated to Vietnam in 1938 the first thing he had done was identify himself to the local
hong
of the Fei Leung. He had a quick brain and he rose quickly though the ranks. For the last five years he had been the
486
, which was what they called the chief of the Fei Leung in Cholon, His personal wealth was now close to half a million dollars.

None of Sammy Chen's fellow travellers would have identified him as a man of means. His black western-style suit was shiny from wear, and the white open-necked shirt he wore could be bought for a handful of coins in any street market in any city in Asia.

Sammy Chen considered any form of ostentation dangerous. It was better to blend in, look like everyone else. A wise man did not want to look like the sort of person people would remember.

The two landing strips at Kai Tak looked like two tiny chopsticks in the folds of the Kowloon hills. There was a press of sampans and junks in the harbour. That was the key to the future, right there, the trail that started in the mountains of Northern Laos ended here among the maze of islands where
chiu chao
fisherman smuggled his opium to his triad friends in Aberdeen and Mongkok. From there it disappeared into the maze of alleys around Kowloon, for the opium divans or factories where they cooked it into low grade heroin.

It was just a simple import and export business, and for years it had been a steady, if unspectacular, part of his interests. But two separate events had changed everything; first, Sammy's brother had become Incense Master and deputy chief of the Fei Leung in Hong Kong; and second, President Diem had finally abandoned his hard-line stance against opium, making the trade easier and far more profitable.

Like any good businessman, he knew an opportunity when he saw one.

Sammy Chen's only concern was the instability in Laos, where most of the opium was grown. If the communists took over, his business would be ruined. The Americans only had to keep them out for a few more years, and Sammy Chen and the Fei Leung would make a fortune.

Just needed was a little
joss
- good luck.

The 707 dropped alarmingly over the city, then the engines roared as the pilot groped for the concrete apron. The road crossed the end of the runway and Sammy Chen saw some coolies, backs bent under their loads, risk their lives to duck under the red and white striped barriers and race the aircraft across the tarmac as it taxied to the terminal.

They could not wait for it to pass, not even for a few seconds. There was a living to be made. Every minute was precious.

It was a philosophy he understood only too well.

***

That afternoon Sammy Chen thought his destiny was in the hands of a few Pathet Lao rebels in the hills of northern Laos. But he was wrong. His nemesis was actually about to enter the cold waters of Mirs Bay, just a few miles to the north.

***

At the narrowest point of the Bay the People's Republic of China is just fourteen hundred metres from the New Territories of Hong Kong, just north of Starling Inlet. Ho Kuan-ling was confident of his ability to swim far greater distances than that. But when he had originally planned his escape, he had not counted on the strength of the current that day. Freedom was not as close as he had imagined.

He had set off just before sunset, but the current soon carried him away from the far shore, and as night fell he was still struggling in the water, a few hundred metres from land. He had by now drifted south of Robinson Island into Crooked Harbour, almost four and a half kilometres from where he had set off. He was a strong swimmer, but cold and fatigue had sapped his reserves.

For the first time, he realized that he might not make it.

Several times he passed tantalisingly close to the land. But each time he got within a few hundred yards of the beach, the currents swept him on again.

By now there was no direction to his strokes. It was all he could do to keep his head above the water. His leg and arm muscles were cramping. He could make out few lights in the gathering gloom and those he could see were so far away they might just as well have been stars.

He tried floating on his back, conserving his strength for one last effort. He prayed to Kuan Yi, Goddess of Mercy, Goddess of the Sea.
Save me,
he promised.
Save me and I will build a thousand incense in your honour. I will build a whole temple ...

Just save me ...

Then he heard it; the rumble of boat engines, carried to him on the still night. It grew louder. Where was it coming from?

He flapped at the water, searching the darkness. He did not see the fin in the water, heard only a splash close by as the great fish made its first pass.

What was that?

Then he saw the red and green navigation lights on the cross trees of a motor launch, perhaps no more than two hundred yards away.

“Help me! He shouted.

He felt something swim past him in the water, very close. Then something hit him very hard, just above his left knee, and he felt himself being dragged below the surface.

***

It was a small one, no more than five feet, a hammerhead. A larger one would have taken his whole leg.

He had no idea what was happening to him. Choking, he scrabbled desperately at the thing that held his leg, trying to tear himself free. The fish shook him like a dog with a bone, tore a chunk of meat from his thigh and veered away. He bobbed back to the surface like a cork.

It was his shrill scream of panic that attracted the attention of the duty watch on Police 48.

***

Sergeant David Tarrant was one of only three white officers aboard police launch 48 that evening. Their work involved the random interception of junks and sampans to search for contraband. The chances of coming across a lone swimmer at night were remote, but the launch passed within less than twenty yards of Ho, and his screams carried clearly to Tarrant on the bridge. He ordered the patrol boat about immediately and within minutes the searchlight had picked him out in the water.

Three Chinese crewmen used a gaffe to pull the exhausted man aboard. Ho Kuan-ling was shaking from hypothermia and shock and there was a dark and jagged tear in his trousers at the level of his left thigh muscle. Watery blood poured onto the deck. The ship's medical officer covered him with blanket and put wound dressings on his leg to staunch the blood flow.

“Another poor bastard trying to get away from Mao's utopia,” Tarrant muttered.

Tarrant's commanding officer emerged from below decks. “Will he live?' he said.

“Looks like the sharks have been havin' a go at the poor bleeder. I doubt it.”

Police 48 turned about and headed for Northern Division base at Tai Po Ko. Tarrant radioed ahead for a helicopter to take Ho to Kowloon. Perhaps, if they were quick, he might make it.

Chapter 10

Vientiane

December, 1960

I
T WAS the day of her twenty third birthday, and the scene of Bonaventure's traditional nativity celebrations. She had been born on Christmas Day, 1937 - hence the name, Noelle - and every year Bonaventure invited
le tout Vientiane
to his home, an occasion that had become one of the city's great social gatherings. As Noelle looked around the lawns, she recognised some of the tiny nation's most prominent leaders; King Savang Vatthana, his huge frame draped in the uniform of the Commander in Chief of the Army, looking more like an admiral from a comic opera; General Ouane Rattakone, resplendent in his white uniform, emblazoned with so many decorations Noelle wondered that he didn't topple over onto his face; the Prime Minister, Phoui Sananikone; and General Phoumi Nosovan, an American in a seersucker suit clinging to his heels like a bird-dog. Rumour had it that Nosovan was the CIA's man in Laos.

A red silk pavilion had been erected on the lawn, with food laid out for the guests in hand-wrought silver bowls. For the Europeans there was chicken cooked in coconut milk with fennel, cinnamon and mint; and diced raw fish marinated in lemon juice and herbs. His Lao guests had their choice of pig's feet, bat's wings, buffalo steaks, and
lao
, a strong white spirit distilled from rice.

Many of the French guests had taken shelter from the heat inside the pavilion; French diplomats and their wives mingled with members of the Corsican
milieu
from Bangkok and Saigon, who had flown in especially for the occasion. Marcel Rivelini was deep in conversation with Rattakone's sister. When he saw Noelle he excused himself and came over.

He kissed her hand in greeting. “Bon Noël, belle Noelle.” She had heard that joke more times than she could count.

“Thank you, Marcel.”

“Your father spares no expense.”

Noelle forced a smile.

“I hope you liked your present,” he said.

Noelle remembered. Some trinket of jade. “I cried over it,” she said, and looked around, searching for an escape.

“Perhaps we might talk later.”

“Of course.” She was about to move away.

“How is your friend? The one with the car. Is he still a guest of the Vietnamese?'

“I think you know the answer to that, Marcel.”

“It was very bad luck. But then, no man is above the law.

“Whose law, Marcel?'

“You look beautiful,” he said, as she turned away.

She hesitated, turned back. “You know your trouble, Marcel?' she whispered.

Rivelini gave her a mocking smile. “Tell me.”

“You were born.”

***

Rocco Bonaventure watched the celebrations from his study window. Even a week ago such a gathering would have been unthinkable. Four months before a captain in the paratroopers, a man named Kong Le, had staged a coup, citing corruption as the reason for making his move. Phoumi had fled to Savannakhet with his American advisers. His army was still deployed against the Pathet Lao in the north, and he had not been able to move against Kong Le until late November. It was only a week ago that government troops had finally retaken Vientiane, after three days of street fighting.

And it's not over yet, Bonaventure thought. While Phoumi's officers celebrated their victory in the brothels, Kong Le made an orderly retreat north with all the trucks and artillery he had captured in the coup, as well as the supplies the Russians had flown in. The Americans still expected him to take route 13 towards the ancient royal capital of Luang Prabang. But what if he took route 7 and headed north to the Plain of Jars? If he captured the air strip at Phong Savan, his opium supplies would be cut off.

Communists. May they all rot in hell.

Noelle's entrance tore him from his brooding. She looked glorious,. The rich blue silk blouse set off her eyes. There was an ivory Buddha at her throat and her hair was braided and hung in a coal-black stream down her back. Sometimes when he looked at her, all he saw was her mother. She had been a beauty too; but what a bitch she could be when she set her mind to it. He understood why Rivelini wanted her so badly; he and every other eligible Frenchman in Vientiane, bachelor or not. Another problem to be solved.

“You wanted to see me, papa?'

“Come in,” he said, and gave her his most indulgent smile. “Are you enjoying your party?'

“It's lovely,” she said, in such a way that he understood she was hating every minute of it.

She had changed somehow, ever since the Crocé business. She was always pleasant to him, but also a little vague, as if her mind was somewhere else. She showed no interest in any of the distractions he arranged for her. All right, he understood how she felt about Rivelini, the man was too old for her. But he had arranged introductions to any number of very suitable young diplomats from the Embassy and while you could not say she had been rude, she had treated them with a casual indifference that made sure none of them came back for more.