Eric van Lustbader - China Maroc 02, page 55
“No,” Jake said so fiercely it frightened her. Then to White-Eye Kao, “Tell me what you know.”
“I’ve told you. Ohhh!” He vomited, retching dryly at the aftermath of Jake’s liver kite.
“Jake.” Bliss put her hand on his shoulder. “Maybe he’s telling the truth.”
“Listen to her,” the Chinese gasped, on his knees. His forehead was pressed against the threadbare carpet. “Buddha, what do you want from me?”
“You’ve got a smart mouth,” Jake said, bending down over the Chinese. “I want to know who trained you.”
“Bluestone.”
Jake lifted his head, looked at Bliss, “He’s got the same answer for every question.” Saw that look on her face as she shook her head in a negative. The Chinese was lying.
“A mi tuo fo, it’s your questions, not my answers!”
“A master,” Jake said seriously. “I told you he had been taught by a master.”
He left the Chinese curled on the floor, watched over by Bliss, and rummaged around the kitchen. He returned with a small knife and, bending over, took White-Eye Kao’s sweat-slick hair in his fist, pulled back his head. “Since you’ve got a smart mouth we’re going to do something about it.”
‘Wha-what d’you mean?”
Jake grinned down into his face. “You’ve got a lot of teeth.” The grin was fierce and utterly merciless. “They’re going to come out one by one.”
“Dew neh loh moh, are you crazy?” White-Eye Kao’s gaze was fixed hypnotically on the shining point of the blade. He smiled then, canny as a fox. “That’s good. Very good. You know what? You almost made me shit my pants. But I know you wouldn’t—”
“Jake, for the love of Buddha, no!”
White-Eye Kao screamed as Jake stabbed the knife downward, digging into the soft pink gum beside a lower molar. Twisted the blade, scraping against the enamel, levering the tooth out.
“Jake, what’s gotten into you?”
It popped with a gush of blood. White-Eye Kao gagged and gurgled. His fists beat at his own head to stop the pain.
“Oh, oh, oh,” he moaned. “He didn’t tell me it would be like this,”
“Who didn’t tell you?” Jake was very close to him.
“He said I wouldn’t get hurt. I wouldn’t… Ah, Buddha, it hurts!”
“Imagine how much worse it’ll be when I go in on the other side of your mouth,” Jake said, getting the blade set.
“A mi tuo fo, no!” White-Eye Kao tried to crawl away but fake held him fast. Tears were in his eyes and he spit out more blood. “It’s not worth it! Nothing’s worth it!”
“You weren’t trained by Bluestone,” Jake said. “Who then? Daniella Vorkuta?”
“A fornicating woman?” White-Eye Kao said with some contempt.
“Buddha, no.” It was the pride that stopped the flow of tears. “I was trained by Chen Ju.” Jake laughed. “That old bastard has more legends about him than anyone else I know. Now you’d better come up with the truth.” “It is the truth! Buddha, do you think I want any more of that?” “Easy to talk about Chen Ju,” Jake said. “The old man’s long dead.” “Dead?” Now it was White-Eye Kao’s turn to laugh. “What do you think this is all about? Bluestone?” The Chinese spat again. “The loh faan is the only one who believes himself so clever.” He wiped blood off his face with his sleeve. “Who came to the tai pan with the thought of penetrating to the heart of Southasia?” Jake took the Chinese up by the front of his jacket, already stiff and stinking with dried blood. His knuckles were white with tension because Bliss, able to intuit the truth, had passed her knowledge silently on to him. “What are you saying?”
“If Chen Ju is dead,” White-Eye Kao said, “then I have come face to face with a ghost.”
Mandalay, the Golden City, was the center of the world. At least the Royal Palace that the Burmese king, Mindon, had built all of solid teak in 1857 was its site: the mystical Mount Meru so dear to the Brahmin-Buddhist cosmology.
By Burmese standards, Mandalay, just over a mere century old, was a recent city. Yet, lying athwart the upper Irrawaddy in the north, it had quickly become the center of all trading, being in the midst of the rice-growing districts. Still, its climate was often so dry that the sky was turned ochre by plumes of dust kicked up by ancient vehicles.
Mandalay nevertheless held a magic incomparable in the Burmese heart. It was said that it was to Mandalay that Gautama Buddha journeyed in order to announce that on the twenty-four-hundredth anniversary of his death the world’s largest center of Buddhist teaching would spring up at the foot of Mandalay Hill.
This legend was the kind of thing the British dismissed out of hand as so much Asian mumbo jumbo. When they took over the city in 1885, they renamed the Royal Palace Fort Dufferin and made barracks of the sacred chambers. Mustachioed batmen diligently polished their officers’ boots in lemon-scented corridors where, before, holy voices had echoed. The commandants unsheathed their Wilkerson swords, touching tips and shouting Hallelujah! Another outpost of the Empire had been secured.
In the early spring of 1945 the British shelled the fortress—then defended by a handful of Japanese and Burmese soldiers. The gunners did such a thorough job that today only the outer walls and the moat remain.
This is what Tony Simbal was thinking of as he looked down upon the ruins of the Royal Palace, a perfect square whose walls faced in the four cardinal directions. He was studying the spot he knew to be the Lion’s Room, the central throne room where the British general Prendergast led his horse when King Thibaw was forced into exile in the winter of 1885. The nervous animal’s steaming droppings soiled a carpet many hundreds of years old brought to Mandalay from the ancient capital of Amarapura. The general thought it just as well. The weavers’ detailed depiction of the Theraveda arhats or saints made him uneasy and he had it burned without a pang of remorse.
If one faced the Royal Palace today, Simbal thought, one could still catch a whiff of burning material.
To the east, the umber sky withheld its promise of rain. The achingly dry ground was cracked beneath a glaring sun, so many mouths crying silently for moisture. Simbal, in white sea-island cotton shirt, bush shorts and sturdy, high-topped leather hiking shoes, waited while Max Threnody laboriously climbed the hill.
The heat was intense and by the time Threnody made it up, his khaki shirt was soaked through. He wiped at his brow with an oversize handkerchief already darkened by many such moppings.
“Christ,” he said, “but this is a godforsaken place.”
“On the contrary,” Simbal said, still staring at the palace ruins, “it is quite near the place where God dwells.”
“And where might that be?” Threnody said sarcastically.
”There.” Simbal pointed to the northwest, where the purple mountains rose upward from the vast Irrawaddy plain.
“The Shan?” Threnody snorted, shifting on his feet. He wished desperately to get out of the sun. “Christ, the only thing worth anything up there kills people.”
“Really?” Simbal was in no mood for his former boss’s monodirectional thinking. “There’s power up there. Real power. The kind people like you can only dream of, The mountain knows that secret better than any of us.”
“I suppose,” Threnody said, “that people like you don’t covet such power.”
Simbal turned to look at him. The heat somehow made his eyes seem to pop even more. As a child, Simbal had once had a tropical fish tank. His uncle had brought him a pair of beautiful velvet-finned goggle-eyed goldfish. Simbal had loved them but one night he had gone out and inadvertently left the grow light on over the tank. When he returned, the goldfish were dead, bloated grotesquely, parboiled in the heat. Threnody reminded him of those fish now. “I’m surprised you came.”
“Frankly, you didn’t leave me any choice.” Threnody thrust his hands into his trousers’ pockets. “By the way, the Cuban’s pissed as hell at you.”
“I’ll try not to cry,” Simbal said. “He’ll get over it.” Threnody peered at him through his thick glasses. “Do I detect a bit of hostility, Tony?”
Simbal reached into one oversize shirt pocket, deposited three photographs into Threnody’s hand. They were black and white with the kind of grain brought about by blowing up a section of a negative. Also, they had the absolutely flat aspect produced by a long lens. They were surveillance photos Simbal had taken of a handsome man in his mid-thirties with clear, intelligent eyes, an all-American nose, a sensitive mouth. The bit of slightly out-of-focus background made it clear that the subject was photographed just outside the Royal Palace. “So this is where he is,” Threnody said.
“Just like you, Max,” Simbal said shortly. “Not, ‘My, he’s still alive.’ ” His eyes burned bright.
“What earthly good would that serve,” Threnody said. “The fact is, Peter Curran is alive.” He glanced down at the photos Simbal had handed him. “We’d better put whatever surprise we may feel behind us. I want him and you’re going to get him for me.” “Just like that?”
“Don’t take that righteous tone with me,” Threnody said sharply. “What kind of business do you think you’re in, Tony? Do you suppose we’re all gentlemen here, meticulously saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and not getting in each other’s way?”
“You used me.” Simbal’s tone was accusatory. “You used Monica and Martine to keep track of me.”
“Congratulations,” Threnody said, “you’ve deciphered the language of your trade. Better late than never, Tony. Yes, I had a job to do. I used all the resources—you, Monica, the Cuban—at my disposal. That’s what the government pays me to do.” “A fucking dirty job it is.”
“Should I say, ‘But someone’s got to do it’? It’s true.” He put the photos of Curran away. “You have no legitimate complaints, you know. It’s your job, as well.”
“But you’re DEA, Max,” Simbal said. “In case you’ve forgotten, Martine is a SNIT. That’s CIA. The Company and the DEA are always miles apart on everything. You’d better tell me what I’m missing.”
“All in good time,” Threnody said. “Now that we’re both here you’ll hear the whole nine yards.”
Simbal watched a line of saffron-robed monks moving slowly past one of the palace’s twelve gates. Their shaven heads gleamed in the dusty sunlight. He thought of what the British had done to the Golden City, shit all over the rug from Amarapura.
“The Burmese,” he said after a time, “practice a certain form of Buddhism. In Theraveda, there is no all-powerful god. One cannot even pray for the benevolence of Buddha. There can be no divine intervention. Salvation is entirely in the hands of the individual.
“All life is suffering, the Theraveda Buddhists believe. Life and death are opposite sides of samsara, the rebirth. There is only one way out of the perpetual cycle of misery and that is strict adherence to Buddha’s sacred teaching, the Dharma. One must diligently follow the paths laid out by the arhats, the saints and the boddhisatvas, the Buddhas-to-be. Only then may one reach nirvana.
“Today, even here at the center of the world, perhaps it is only the monks who practice such a pure form of Theravada Buddhism.”
“And you are one of them, aren’t you, Tony?” Threnody wiped at his face again. “You’re high above the masses. You’re on the Shan, on the mountainside, looking down at all the pathetic little ants crawling slowly along, going about the daily routines by which they must live.”
“Is that what you think of me?”
“Oh, come off it, Tony. You’re a goddamned elitist. Do yourself a favor and admit that much, at least.”
The monks were turning a corner. They were all in step, the many with one mind.
“Do you know who Peter Curran came here to meet at dawn?” Simbal said.
“Surprise me.”
“Edward Martin Bennett.”
“Well, well,” Threnody said, “there’s something the vetting department failed to turn up.”
“What does the diqui want with them?”
“Are you kidding, Tony? With what they stole from the DEA computer the diqui will have clear drug runs for months until we rearrange all our Asian networks.”
“I don’t think this has anything to do with drugs, Max.”
“I don’t care what it has to do with,” Threnody said. “Terminate them and be done with it.” He waited for Simbal’s head to swing around, the eyes to contemplate him. One thing you had to say for the bastard, Simbal thought, he had great timing. “It’s time for us to have a little talk, Tony. Heart to heart, so to speak,”
“I don’t think Chen Ju is our most immediate problem.”
Three Oaths lumbered across the teak deck of his new junk, delivering tea that Neon Chow had made.
“As of this morning Bluestone has increased his share of InterAsia to just over forty percent.”
“I wonder where he’s getting all that capital?” Jake said as he took a meditative sip of the steaming tea.
Three Oaths recited the list of investors given to him by Bent-Nose Su. “There’s enough money in there to buy all of Hong Kong if necessary.”
Jake was aware of the anxiety in the other’s voice. “Bobby Chan, Six-Toe Ping, Sir Byron Nolin-Kelly, Dark Leong Lau. Impressive. Still,” he mused, “there has got to be a limit to the amount of liquid assets even Bluestone’s combine can sink into one project.”
“They only need nine percent more to gain control,” Three Oaths said.
“That would make it thirteen million shares, give or take. What’s the current price on the Hang Seng of InterAsia?”
“Let me check.” Three Oaths went down the companionway. Jake took a look around. He saw Bliss talking with Neon Chow. Both were engrossed in their conversation but every now and again he saw Neon Chow glancing in his direction. Out of the corner of his eye it was impossible to decipher her expression. He made a mental note to ask her what progress she had made with Bluestone.
“Twenty-two-and-a-quarter,” Three Oaths said, returning. “We took a terrible beating when we were forced to close Southasia.”
“They’ve still got to put up, what?, two hundred ninety million dollars,” Jake said, “What have they anted up already?”
Three Oaths did some fast calculating. “I’d say close to three-quarters of a billion. To do that they’ve had to liquidate some holdings, of course. But what’s the difference? As soon as they take control of InterAsia, they’ll have effectively sewn up the entire Crown Colony. A billion dollars is a cheap price to pay for all of Hong Kong.”
“Cheap only if you can afford it,” Jake said thoughtfully.
“So what shall we do now, Zhuan? How are we going to prevent the gwai loh tai pan from taking everything from us?”
Again Jake was aware of the edge in the other’s voice. He knew that he was being shut out of momentous business decisions and he resented it. This had not been his relationship with Zilin. But Jake was not the Jian; he was Zhuan, and these were different times. Trust no one with this, Jake, his father had told him. No one. Not until you find Bluestone’s conduit into the yuhn-hyun. Jake said, “I want you to tell Sawyer to call our broker and float the du Long bonds.”
“What?” Three Oaths cried. “Those are junk! High gain—triple the interest available on the market—for high risk. They’ll increase InterAsia’s debt tremendously. And for what? Yes, they’ll drive up the price of the stock but for now long? And for the piddling amount of cash they’ll add to our depleted supply of capital, they’ll make us liable to pay back sums that could break our backs.”
“If we’re still here, we’ll be glad to pay,” Jake said evenly.
Three Oaths turned thoughtful. “A moment. Are you doing this for Bluestone’s benefit? That added debt would make InterAsia less desirable for a takeover as well.”
But not enough, Jake thought. Not nearly enough. “How much do you think the stock will rise?”
Three Oaths considered this. “Seven points. Ten, if we’re lucky.”
Will even that be sufficient? Jake wondered. So close to the ultimate abyss now, he could feel the edge of the sword Bluestone, Daniella Vorkuta and Chen Ju had manufactured hanging over him. He wondered whether he had been right to trust so completely in his father. Zilin had been merely human, after all. He was prone to making mistakes. Trust sometimes could not withstand the rigors of time.
But, he knew, it had been he, as Zhuan, who had made the final decision. It was, in the final analysis, his judgment. No good to blame the dead if it all fell apart now.
Three Oaths’s fist enclosed his tiny teacup. “Zhuan I was against going public with the new company from the first.”
“I am aware of that, Elder Uncle.”
“By the Spirit of the White Tiger, if you had heeded my advice, none of this would have been possible! I would not be watching everything I have worked for since I journeyed here from Shanghai being taken away from me by a fornicating loh faan!”
“Do not forget, Elder Uncle,” Jake said, “how it was you came to Hong Kong in the first place. My father sent you here in the employ of Andrew Sawyer’s father, Barton, to begin your work for the yuhn-hyun. The decision to go public with InterAsia was made by me with my father’s blessing.”
For a moment, Three Oaths did nothing. He peered into Jake’s hooded copper eyes. “I wonder where my nephew has gone to?” he said softly. “Where is the young man who used to confide in me, with whom I shared secrets, I wonder?”
“That was a long time ago, Elder Uncle. The difference is day and night.”
“I can see as well as anyone,” Three Oaths said. “I am not yet that old.”
“Please do as I have asked,” Jake said gently but firmly. “I want those bonds on the market before day’s end.”
He stood by the railing for a long time. He preferred not to watch the old man’s painful progress down the companionway. Beyond the junk’s berth, walla-wallas were busy taking wide-eyed, camera-laden tourists to and from Jumbo, the gargantuan, multitiered floating restaurant that, along with two others, was permanently anchored in Aberdeen Harbor. The riders took in the teeming waterfront with a mixture of fascination and apprehension, as if they anticipated coming across a real-life smuggler or Triad assassin.
