Black Heart, page 1
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Eric Van Lustbaaettgraerated from Columbia University in
1968, majoring in Sociology. He began a fifteen-year stint in the entertainment industry as a journalist. He then went on to work in production and marketing for Elektra Records, Dick James Music, NBC-TV, and CBS Records.
He is married to freelance editor Victoria Schochet, and divides his time between New York City, Southampton, Long Island, and the Orient.
Eric Van Lustbader is the author of the previous bestsellers, The Ninja and Sirens.
By the same author
TheNinja
Sirens
The Sunset Warrior
Shallows of Night
Dai-San
Beneath an Opal Moon
ERIC VAN LUSTBADER
Black Heart
&
PANTHER Granada Publishing
Panther Books
Granada Publishing Ltd
8 Grafton Street, London W1X SLA
Published by Panther Books 1984
First published in Great Britain by Granada Publishing 1983
Copyright © Eric Van Lustbader 1983
ISBN 0-586-05649-1
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Collins, Glasgow
Set in Bembo
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Author's Note
Researching the recent history of Kampuchea (Cambodia) is somewhat akin to reading Rashomon. No account, written or oral, can be automatically accepted as fact. Incidents and, especially, the motives of the principals involved, shift like sand. There is no one who seems able to provide an unbiased and objective look at that time because the political ramifications of the situation were and continue to be nothing less than explosive, engendering in people rage, fear and what amounts to ideological hysteria.
In sifting through the 'evidence' of the sad and horrifying Kampuchean holocaust it is therefore necessary to try to intuit the truth, for no other method appears to exist.
Whether or not what you read here is the truth is impossible for anyone to say. As for the depiction of the true nature of the Kampuchean spirit, I am at least satisfied with that.
Eric Van Lustbader
New York City
June 1982
Acknowledgements
Black Heart is a work of fiction. However, the research that went into its creation was quite real. I would like to take this opportunity to thank the following people who were so graciously helpful to me. None of the real life people, needless to say, bear the slightest resemblance to the characters in this novel who, without exception, were drawn from my imagination.
Maureen Aung-Thwin, the Asia Society
Richard). Mangan, Chief of Police, Solebury Twp.
Stephen Meredith, patrolman, Solebury Twp. Police
Phra Maha Ghosananda
Merrill Ashley "^
Helene Alexopoulos > The New York City Ballet
Leslie Bailey J
Melina Hung, Hong Kong Tourist Association
Gordon Corrigan, stablemaster, and all at the Royal Hong
Kong Jockey Club and, especially, Sichan Siv, who lived through his nation's holocaust
My thanks to V. for providing invaluable editorial assistance; and to my Father for, as always, proof-reading the manuscript.
Translations: Sichan and Emily
Technical assistance: Dr Bertram Newman, Dr Brian Collier
There is a rose that I want to live for Although God knows I may not have met her 'The Call Up' by Joe Strummer
Hana-no kage aka-no tanin wa nakari-keri
Thanks to cherry blossom in its shadow utter strangers there are none!
Issa (1762-1826)
FOR VICTORIA
my love,
who makes it all seem so easy
Present
New York City
From within the eye of the Buddah all things could be seen. The night sky erupted in a crown of light. A garland of illumination to guide him. The shrouds of night parted and revealed to him the path he must take to remain undiscovered.
The rhythmic sounds of their animal coupling filled the space he had entered like the aromatic scents of a freshly prepared meal. He heard the woman groan and call the man's name.
'Oh, John. Oh!'
Her voice was husky, just this side of out of control. A voice filled with sex and promise. But despite that, he listened with a purely dispassionate ear; that fever was not for him now or ever. It fell on his ears like a litany out of an alien religion. A Christian mass, perhaps. Latin.
He crawled on his belly, silent as a serpent. His mind was cool and detached. Memories, habits, disciplines, all had their carefully nurtured place within. This is what made him what he was. This and, had he understood it, history. But he had no concept of that.
He lay on his back behind the sofa and prepared himself. The snufflings and gruntings pierced the air, built patterns of lust all around him like a web.
From his hip pocket he produced a soft plastic vial filled with a colourless liquid. As a conjurer might, his right hand blurred, the fingers turning in against the hard flesh of the palm, and he produced a steel needle of peculiar design Mizo had taught him to manufacture. It had a slightly curved T-bar base which fitted neatly between the first two fingers of his hand.
With a deliberate twist of his hand, he plunged the needle into the soft plastic vial, worked it around the viscous liquid. When he judged the needle to be completely covered, he withdrew it and stared sightlessly at the ceiling.
For a time, he listened to their gruntings and groanings, like tuning a radio into a distant station. He imagined them
as they were, locked within their tightly spinning world of rising passion.
'Moira. Oh, Moira, I love you sol'
At length, he rose up, emerging over the back of the sofa. The man was on top, raised like a bull over the woman's writhing supine form. Sweat drenched them; the man's face was red with his effort. It would be soon now when he would lose his seed inside her.
Sooner than he thought.
The surgeon's eye and the practised hand came together and he lifted the needle up to a level with his ear. He felt the strength flowing through him like a shower of silver.
The man jounced up, down, up, riding the woman's damp powerful thighs. Her eyes were squeezed shut in ecstasy. She groaned deep and long.
Up again and the needle shot out, white in the lamplight, embedding itself as if of its own volition at the base of the man's neck.
The reaction was instantaneous even though the needle was with-drawn in a flash. Muscles bulged and the man began to gasp. At that moment, the woman's eyes opened; they were misty with desire and focusing was difficult. She grasped him more firmly as her orgasm began to grow, suffusing her lower body, spreading like a fire.
She cried out but not in ecstasy. Something was dreadfully wrong. She began to scream as her lover's sweat-soaked torso flopped down on her with the weight of a hammer. She saw his eyes, filming, staring sightlessly at her. He was still deep inside her, hard as a rock.
She went on screaming.
10
BOOK ONE
The Cockatrice
July, Present
New York City/Kenilworthf Bucks County/ Washington
'Just what the hell d'you think you're doing to me, Johnny-boy?'
Tracy Richter, prone on the meticulously polished wooden floor, did not pause While the figure of Detective Sergeant Douglas Ralph Thwaite loomed over him, blotting out the streaming sunlight from the smallpaned skylight windows that illuminated the dojo in cloudhke patches, he continued with his knuckle pushups
'I'm talking to you, Johnny-boy You'd better be listening '
Tracy was already up to sixty-five and he wasn't about to stop for Detective Sergeant Thwaite, not for anyone There was a lot of anger and frustration to get out this morning, little more than forty-eight hours after John Holmgren's death
'Johnny-boy, I haven't got all day You'll be answering all my questions '
Seventy-seven, seventy-eight The rest of the sensei's class was inquisitive but too well trained to stop their exercises This was, after all, the most advanced class in karate and aikido given at the dojo
Eighty-one, eighty-two The sensei had taken one economical move towards the stranger but Thwaite had flashed his badge That said it all The sensei knew Tracy well But even had he not, he would have understood the nature of the detective's presence Everyone here had known John Holmgren Up until approximately 10 p m the night before last, he had been the Governor of New York State
'My mother, God keep her, used to tell me I had no patience whatsoever ' The figure of Detective Sergeant Thwaite leaned over slightly, the edges of his light raincoat brushing the ridged muscles along Tracy's back 'But my friends know better '
U
He was in the high nineties and working up quite a sweat His pulse rate had accelerated, the effort he was expending sen
'Your time's run out'
Tracy reached a hundred and got to his feet A spasm of rage ripped through him
'What d'you want7' His tone was curt Td've thought you'd gotten it all at the Governor's brownstone You kept us there long enough '
'The only thing I got outta you, Johnny-boy, was a lot of doubletalk As the late Governor's media consultant, I kind of expected that But the Monserrat woman was already partially sedated '
'She'd become hysterical She was with him when it happened '
A flicker of a smile tinged the detective's large face 'Yeah,' he said with a certain amount of calculated cynicism, 'Holmgren's heart attack '
Tracy knew he was being baited but somehow he did not care anymore This went far beyond the normal grief at the loss of a friend, his entire life had been rendered meaningless by John's death 'That's right, his heart attack '
Now Thwaite's eyes were alight, he knew he'd made contact 'Oh, please, Richter Come off it The old boy was fucking the shit outta the Monserrat woman ' Again his words were calculated, this time with the vulgarism 'He died in the saddle '
'He died of a massive myocardial infarction -' Tracy said with a considerable amount of venom -'as the preliminary Medical Examiner's report stated and if you plan to say anything to the contrary in public I'd think twice if I were you I'll see to it you're cut down to my shoetops '
'Now, see, Johnny-boy, that's just the thing I came here to see you about' Thwaite's lined face had darkened in real anger now He was a raw-boned, wide-shouldered man with a great deal of physical strength But his inner forces, Tracy could tell, were in a state of turmoil Tracy knew he could take the man
14
without serious effort. That did not mean that Thwaite could not be dangerous; Tracy knew he'd have to guard against such thinking.
Thwaite's great mastiff's head with its wide-apart eyes and lined cheeks swung around and fixed Tracy. 'You've already done it to me, Johnny-boy. I just came from a meeting with my captain and d'you know what he told me?'
'You're going to tell me anyway, Thwaite. I think I can wait until you get around to it.'
Something seemed to snap within the cop and he took a abrupt step towards Tracy. His face was flushed. 'You high-and-mighty bastards're all alike, know that? You all think you're above the law. You know goddamned well what my meeting with Flaherty was about 'cause you were the bright spark set it in motion.
'As of now, I'm officially off the Holmgren case.'
' What Holmgren case?' Tracy said as calmly as he could. 'The Governor was working late with his personal assistant, much as he did almost three hundred and sixty days a year. We were just beginning our run for the presidential nomination. I think he
'I don't give a fuck what you think.Johnny-boy,' the detective said nastily. 'If that's all there was to it, then why all this fast footwork. I managed to get a semi-coherent statement from the Monserrat woman that night. Then I find she's been spirited away. By whom I ask? By Tracy Richter, I'm told. I want to go after her but a signed statement from the Holmgren family doctor assures my captain that the Monserrat woman is in no emotional condition to be "badgered by interrogations", I remember that phrase well.
'Now I'm told to forget it all just like it never happened.' His thick forefinger came up, pointing. 'You know what I think, Johnny-boy?' He smiled thinly. 'Oh, not think. Know. You composed that letter and had the doctor sign it. You controlled the death scene - 'cause by my reckoning there's about forty minutes unaccounted for in the Monserrat woman's story. Forty minutes when I just know she called you to clean up the mess.
'And now the pressure put on from upstairs to put the clamp on the case. My captain doesn't want to know anything except
IS
that I'm reassigned. Now that's either Albany or the AttorneyGeneral's office.'
'The request,' Tracy said, vowing this would be the last civil answer he'd give this man today, 'came from Mary Holmgren, John's widow.'
'Well, here we got a third source you're hooked into, Richter,' Thwaite said, still needling. 'But one thing I know for sure. It's not anyone but you orchestrating this thing and, like I said before, you can twist the commissioner around... Captain Flaherty, too, 'cause he's got no balls whatsoever underneath his dress blues. But me, now that's another story entirely.'
'Listen, Thwaite,' Tracy said with an edge to his voice, 'I'm tired of your threats. They don't mean anything. My best friend has just died. By natural causes. That's it. I think you've been on the streets too long. You're seeing bogeymen where there's nothing but shadows.'
Thwaite laughed nastily. 'Yeah. That's just what you are, Johnny-boy. A bogeyman. You're like all politicians. Nothing better than the stinking dead cat put out with the rest of the garbage.'
Thwaite jabbed his finger at Tracy's chest. 'Wherever you've put the Monserrat woman, it doesn't matter. I'll find her. And when I do I'll get it all out of her. I'll crack her, Johnny-boy.'
'You've been ordered off, Thwaite. Stay away.'
The detective's eyes opened wide. 'Crack her, Richter.'
'Don't make me laugh, Thwaite. You're between a medical hands off and an official cease and desist order. If you even go near Moira Monserrat you'll be yanked off the force am/hit with a civil suit for harassment. Just forget it. It's dead and buried.'
Thwaite came closer still. 'I wish it was, Johnny-boy. I wish the Governor had been buried, 'cause then sure as I'm standin' here I'd find a way to bring him up again.'
His forefinger pointed again and this time it shot out, poking Tracy in the ribs as if he were a side of beef. 'But you saw to that as well, didn't you, you bastard. You had Holmgren cremated immediately after the preliminary autopsy.'
'That was Mary's wish.'
'Oh, yeah, tell me about it, big shot. But I know the little voice
16
put that bug in her ear. You flushed him down the toilet on us, Johnny-boy, just so there'd be no way anyone could attempt a full investigation ' The forefinger jabbed out again.
Tracy had had enough. He felt the rage in him again, the seething lava flow of frustration and he was close again to doing something irrational. He had actually set himself, moving fractionally in the attack stance. Only his intensive training saved Thwaite. Still Tracy's muscles jumped in galvanic response.
Thwaite sensed what was happening. 'Come onjohnny-boy,' he said, lifting his fists. 'If it's a fight you want, that's what you'll get. You've caused me too much grief over the last coupla days.' His shoulder muscles bunched. 'On the Holmgren investigation or off, you've got big trouble '
'I'm not the guy to fuck with, Thwaite.'
'You think I'm afraid of you and your candy-ass class?'
Tracy ignored him. Til let you in on a secret. There's nothing I'd like more right now than to take you down hard. All I'd need is a tenth of a second. I think it'd make me feel a whole helluva lot better. But it would solve nothing
'I spent almost ten years working with John Holmgren. First by putting the presidential seed into his mind, then by personally mapping out his campaign for the nomination. We had a fight on our hands, especially from Atherton Gottschalk but I'm convinced we had it nailed down tight And now this.
'If you think I'm going to allow some vindictive cop to smear our names all over the New York Post you're sorely mistaken Whatever John was doing with Moira Monserrat that night is none of your business or anyone else's but theirs. And God help you, Thwaite, if you do anything to jeopardize John's good name.'
The sensei was looking at him and he knew it was time He went away from Thwaite without saying another word. He took up his position in the centre of the dojo, opposite the sensei They bowed formally to each other then there was stillness.
Thwaite turned, was about to leave when the sensei exploded into motion He pointed four times and four students left their positions
'Form a circle around Richter-san,' the sensei said His voice
I?
was soft and dry as sand It was more commanding than a
shout
As the students took up their new places a sound lifted in the room as if it were a wind It made the hair on the back of the detective's neck stand up, his scrotum tighten It was something animal, of that he was certain, not unlike a great predator's warning growl It seemed to penetrate right to the centre of his brain, rooting him to the spot
