Opium (8 page)

Surely she was not still carrying a torch for Crocé?

“I want to give you something.” he said.

“Not advice, I hope.”

“Good God, no.”

A hint of a smile.

He unlocked the drawer of a lacquered bureau and took out a long, black box. He came around the desk, kissed her lightly on the cheek and handed it to her.

“Happy birthday, Noelle.”

She took the box and opened it. A necklace nestled on a bed of soft purple velvet. It was eighteen carat gold, set with diamonds. The centrepiece was a huge Burmese ruby, pigeon-blood red, cabochon-cut.

She took it out of the box. It was heavy and very, very expensive. “Oh papa, it's beautiful.”

“I'm glad you like it,” he whispered. He put it around her neck, and fastened the clasp. Then he turned her to face the gilt mirror on the wall.

“It must be worth a fortune.”

“A small one, I suppose. But you are worth it. I wanted to give you something special.”

“I don't know what to say,” Noelle murmured.

“You don't have to say anything. You know I love you, don't you? Sometimes I suppose you think I am just a blustering old bully, but I only ever want the best for you.”

She put a hand against his cheek. “You know I love you too. Despite everything.”

He had seen the caveat on its way. Despite everything? Did she still blame him then, for the business with that upstart pilot? “We had better go back out and rejoin our guests,” he said.

But the day was ruined for him.
Despite everything.
Perhaps he should have had Ky put Crocé against a wall and shoot him.

Chapter 11

J
EAN-MARIE Pepin thought he knew why Noelle had asked to meet him at the Settha Palace on New Year's Eve, and he was pretty damned sure it had nothing to do with him. He wished he was wrong because Rocco Bonaventure's daughter was achingly beautiful. In the five minutes they had been sitting down to dinner he had made love to her in his mind a score of times. They talked about the weather, and about local politics, and he reminded himself again of his own advice to Baptiste; this girl is bad news.

Sitting this close to her, he didn't wonder that his friend had told him to go to hell. He would have done the same.

He tried to concentrate on the menu:

Settha Palace:

New Year's Eve, 1960

*

Cold consommé‚ with port

*

rabbit roasted with prunes

asparagus vinaigrette

goose with truffles

endive salad

*

Camembert

custard in liqueur

coffee

The dining room had the weary atmosphere of a civil service canteen when all the supervisors were away on holiday. There was a scattering of foreign journalists already in the sleepy stages of drink, a few diplomats with their bored wives and unhappy children. The waiters moved around the room with the dreamy expressions of postal clerks.

One of them approached the table. He took their menus with a deferential smile. “So sorry,” he said in French. “Cannot get.”

“Cannot get?' Jean-Marie echoed. “What? None of it?'

The waiter shook his head and kept a determined smile.

“Not even the soup?

“Very sorry.”'

“What do you have?' Noelle asked.

“Chicken,” the waiter said.

“Then I guess I'll have the chicken,” Noelle said.

The waiter turned to Jean-Marie, who stared back at him in astonishment. “Chicken,” he said finally.

Still, there was always the wine. Jean-Marie raised his glass. “Happy New Year,” he said.

Noelle touched his glass with hers in toast.

“How are things with you, Jean-Marie?'

He shrugged his shoulders. “I get by.” He got by flying for Christian Francisci, one of her father's competitors. It was not as rewarding as owning your own plane, but he could still make up to fifteen hundred dollars a month, perhaps more when the government and the Pathet Lao were shooting at each other.

"Do you still blame me for what happened?'

Jean-Marie shook his head. Her lips were wet from the wine. How long could a man stay angry with you? he thought. “Baptiste knew the risks. We all know the risks.”

“But it was because of me that you lost your aeroplane.”

“Because of your father. Also because of Baptiste. I warned him to stay away from you.”

“I see.”

“Does your father know you're here with me tonight?'

She shook her head. “He had to go to Phong Savan. He said it was urgent.”

Of course. Kong Le's Army had taken Route 7, against all expectations, and moved towards the Plain of Jars. Bonaventure would be scrambling to get all his opium stocks out of Phong Savan before the rebels got there.

“Why did you want to see me? It's about Baptiste, isn't it?'

She nodded.

He felt a stab of jealousy. “Have you heard from him?'

“He writes me letters,” Noelle said. “He is going through hell.”

“I have a friend in Saigon. He smuggles him in cigarettes and money. He'll be all right. You don't intend to wait for him?'

Noelle shook her head and for just a moment Jean-Marie felt a surge of hope. “Of course not. Not five years. I intend to get him out long before that.”

Jean-Marie stared at her. “Get him out? Of prison? That's impossible.”

“I don't think so, Jean-Marie. Not if you'll help me.”

“Help you? How?'

“I want you to fly me to Saigon. I'll pay you, of course.”

Careful, he thought. You don't want to cross Rocco Bonaventure. Sure, he wanted to help Baptiste and Francisci would not object to a paying passenger, if the price was right. He did not have to know who she was. “I'll have to think about this,” he said.

“Sure. Take all the time you want. I'll give you till the chicken arrives. That would be appropriate.”

Jean-Marie felt himself flush beet-red. The little bitch. “How do you plan to get him out?'

“It's better you don't know. Just get me to Saigon, Jean-Marie.”

Jean-Marie gave his assent, an almost imperceptible nod of the head. When the food arrived he found he had lost all appetite, and the wine tasted acid in his mouth. A formidable young woman, this one. Perhaps Baptiste Crocé had met his match after all.

He drank to the New Year without his customary enthusiasm and was at home in bed by eleven. He had an early flight in the morning.

Chapter 12

Saigon

N
OELLE had not been back to Saigon since the French defeat at Dien Ben Phu in 1955. She remembered it as a city of bicycles; it had changed utterly in the five years that the Americans had been there. Now it was a city of Vespas and Lambrettas; of crew-cut, red faced men in bright Hawaiian shirts; of huge, finned Chevrolets with red white and blue stickers on the chrome bumpers showing an American and Vietnamese handshake. What had not changed was the barbed wire around the US Embassy, the sandbagged machine guns outside the Doc Lap palace and the tanks in the streets.

***

They met in the Vieux Moulin beside the bridge to Da Cao. After sunset the jungle on the far bank of the river was a rustling nest of Viet Minh guerrillas. There was iron mesh on all the windows to keep out grenades and there was no glazing so diners would not be inconvenienced by flying glass in the event of an attack.

When she arrived Colonel Tran van Ky was already waiting for her at a table overlooking the coffee-coloured river. The night was redolent with the aromas of roasting capons and melting butter. He ordered a
pastis
for her, a cognac and soda for himself. He chose from the menu for her; Chapon duc Charles.

And then he settled back to decide how best to deal with her.

***

So this was Rocco Bonaventure's daughter.

Ky was impressed. She was everything he had anticipated; statuesque, elegantly dressed, exquisite as fine porcelain. There was no plumpness about her, which the thing he detested about most Western women. She had all the svelte qualities of an Asian, but with the wonderful roundness of her eyes and paleness of skin that made her a delectable prize.

This should be a very interesting evening.

“Your father did not tell me you were coming to Saigon,” Ky said. “I would have prepared a more formal welcome.”

“My father does not know I'm here. Nor do I wish him to know.”

Ky took a packet of Lucky Strike cigarettes off the table. “Do you smoke?'

Noelle shook her head.

“This is a great surprise. I am most honoured that you should have thought to contact me. I am a great friend of your father's, as you probably know.”

“Of course.”

She returned his stare, had none of the deference he was accustomed to in Asian women. It made him uncomfortable. He had the feeling that he, too, was being assessed. “What can I do for you, Mademoiselle Bonaventure?'

“I want your help.”

“As a friend and business associate of your father's, I will do all within my power, of course.”

“Let's be clear, this must have nothing to do with your relationship with my father.”

Ky allowed himself a moment of reflection. He wondered what it was the girl had to trade, if she had not come at her father's request. He leaned forward and allowed his eyes to drop insolently to her body. He exhaled a long stream of cigarette smoke and smiled. “Perhaps you had better tell me what you want.”

“It's about a man called Baptiste Crocé.”

“I've never heard of him.”

“He's a pilot. Last year, before the monsoon, he was arrested by your men at Ban Me Thuot and his plane was impounded.”

“Had he broken the laws of the Republic of Viet Nam?'

“He had a certain amount of opium on board his plane.”

Ky shook his head. “Very bad. A great evil in our country, Mademoiselle Bonaventure. A great evil.”

“He was sentenced to five years imprisonment.”

Ky made no comment.

“I want to know what I have to do to get him released.”

The Colonel drew on his cigarette and raised an eyebrow. “And you say this request is not from your father?'

“It's from me.”

Ky shook his head. “Impossible.”

Noelle reached into her purse and withdrew the black box her father had given her. She opened it. Ky stared at the ruby glinting in the nest of velvet like an ember in a slow fire. He picked up the necklace with the fingers of his right hand, felt its weight.

Nothing is impossible, Colonel Ky.”

“You're serious?'

“I would not want to waste your time. I realise you are a busy man.”

Ky sighed and sat back. He would have to think carefully about this. “This is a very unusual situation,” he said.

“Unusual?'

“Your father does not like this man very much.”

“So you do remember him?'

“Perhaps.” He replaced the necklace in the velvet-lined box. She took it back and it snapped shut between her fingers.

“Was it my father who arranged for him to be arrested?'

“Your father is a citizen of another country. he has no influence on the internal affairs of the Republic of Viet Nam.”

“Of course he has!'

The drinks arrived. Ky raised his glass in toast but Noelle ignored him. “I am not at liberty to discuss my conversations with your father. Even with you.”

“All right then, I'll ask you a much simpler question. What do you want in return for the release of Baptiste Crocé?'

Ky looked at the black case and wondered what the necklace was worth. Was it enough to risk the friendship of Rocco Bonaventure?

“If you should find a way to get him released, I would be happy to present you with this gift as a token of my appreciation. For your wife perhaps.”

“It's not enough.”

Noelle bit her lip. “Then how much do you want?'

“It might perhaps serve as a down payment, but you should understand, I am already a rich man. What would I want with more jewellery?'

“So what do you want?'