Thai Horse

by William Diehl

  Fong stood as Cohen came down the stairs. He smiled a barely discernible smile. His reputation as the most ruthless assassin in the Chiu Chaos was undisputed.

  He and Cohen sat down facing each other. Fong poured each a cup of tea. Nobody else spoke. Not even a throat was cleared. Fong took a sip of tea before starting. Cohen leaned back, sipped his tea and stared across the table at Fong, yen dui yen, eye on eye. The stare could not be broken until the problem was resolved, one way or another — either with forgiveness or with war.

  According to tradition, the two men spoke through their judges, a ritual designed to prevent direct confrontations. Thus sarcasm and tonal inflections were removed from the negotiation. Fong held up one hand and Tung leaned over as Fong whispered in his ear.

  ‘I returned from Bangkok as soon as I heard about the unfortunate incident at your home last night,’ Tung said, repeating Fong’s whispered remarks.

  Sam Chin leaned over Cohen, who whispered his response.

  ‘Mm goi,’ Chin repeated what Cohen had said. ‘I am pleased you have acted so promptly.’

  ‘You understand that this attack was not done at my command? I did not order such an insult to your home.’

  ‘I do now, since you say so,’ was Cohen’s response.

  ‘I have come to offer an apology,’ Fong said through Lon Tung.

  The conversation continued in this vein — Fong whispering his comments to Tung, who repeated them, and Cohen replying through Chin.

  ‘You have violated my house,’ Cohen’s judge replied. ‘A dishonor to the oath of the triads.’

  Fong quickly whispered a lengthy answer, his eyes beginning to glitter in the feeble light.

  ‘It was not me. But it was my Number One, and Lung has paid dearly for his sins. I come to apologize for his stupidity, and to ask that the Tsu Fi forgive me.’ He paused while Tung repeated his comments, then before Cohen could answer, whispered something further. Tung said, ‘And to offer compensation for this insult.’

  Cohen leaned forward, playing the game to the hilt and whispering hurriedly to Chin. ‘I am sorry, I did not hear the last,’ he said.

  Tung said, ‘Tollie Fong has offered to make compensation for the insult to the Tsu Fi.’

  Cohen finally nodded. He took another sip of tea before whispering his retort to Chin.

  ‘Then I accept your apology,’ Chin repeated.

  ‘Mm goi,’ Tung said with a nod of his head. ‘And what compensation does the Tsu Fi feel is proper?’

  Cohen took a sip of tea, his eyes still locked with Fong’s. Then he whispered slowly to Chin. Chin looked surprised, but only for a moment. He stood tip and said, ‘As tribute, you must set aside this feud with the mei gwok Hatcher.’

  The men on both sides of the room were startled by the demand. The judges, Chin and Tung, stared at each other. The demand, they knew, would cause trouble. Anger boiled up in Fong. Hate dilated the pupils in his eyes. By the san wong’s orders, he must grant the demand, but he had to protest to save face.

  He shook his head but still remained yen dui yen with Cohen. ‘I cannot do that,’ he whispered to Tung in a voice thick with hatred and loud enough for Cohen to hear. ‘The mei gwok yahn murdered my father.’

  ‘It is my understanding that the mei gwok killed in self-defense,’ Cohen whispered in a voice just as loud, not waiting for Tung’s translation.

  ‘He dishonored the House of Fong, just as Lung dishonored your house,’ Fong answered crisply, still yen dui yen, but now speaking directly to Cohen.

  ‘Then it is an even trade,’ Cohen quickly answered.

  The response disarmed Fong for a moment. Fong was a killer, not a negotiator. ‘No! Not until Hatcher joins Lung in hell is it an even trade. What you ask is unreasonable.’

  Cohen held his hands out in a gesture of futility. ‘Nevertheless it is the price you must pay for Lung’s dishonor.’

  Fong slowly shook his head, his eyes still locked with Cohen’s, growing more angry with each word.

  ‘I made a blood promise, the oath of ch’u-tiao,’ Fong said slowly.

  ‘Honor is honor,’ said Cohen. ‘I say the feud is over.’

  ‘And I say this thing between Hatcher and me is not your business,’ Fong said, leaning toward Cohen.

  ‘Then I cannot accept your apology,’ Cohen said with brittle authority.

  Sam Chin stepped forward and cleared his throat. ‘Deui mju,’ he said, bowing, ‘it occurs to me that perhaps the Tsu Fi might offer a tribute more acceptable to the Tsu Fong so that this dispute may be resolved peacefully.’

  Cohen was adamant. By tradition, Fong was virtually obligated to accept any demand within, reason.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘My home has been compromised. I have a right to this request. It is particularly fitting because Lung made this attack for the purpose of killing the mei gwok, who was my guest.’

  ‘And I, too, say no,’ Fong quickly answered.

  ‘Then I’ll let it be known everywhere that Tollie Fong has violated his oath to the Sun Lee On.’

  ‘I am not of the Sun Lee On, I am Chiu Chao,’ he said.

  ‘We are all cousins in the oath,’ said Cohen. ‘If you betray the house of Tsu Fi, you betray the Chiu Chaos and all triads.’

  ‘So it shall be,’ Fong said, with a sneer in his voice, forcing the issue. He picked up his teacup and smashed it on the table. Cohen leaned back, startled by his outburst. Fong slashed the knife edge of his hand into the broken bits of china.

  ‘You are declaring zhanzheng on the Tsu Fi,’ Tung said, obviously surprised that Fong was taking this confrontation to the limit. ‘The Tsu Fi is right. You will face the wrath of both the Chiu Chaos and the Sun Lee On.’

  ‘Then I, too, must declare war — on the Tsu Fong,’ said Cohen. He stood up and, with disdain, swept the broken cup on the floor. ‘You have one hour to get out of Hong Kong,’ China said.

  Fong stared up at him and his lips curled slightly.

  ‘You may still reconsider,’ Chin said slowly.

  ‘You have guts, Cohen, to threaten the new san wong of the White Palms.’

  ‘This island belongs to me,’ Cohen said with finality. ‘If you have any doubts about that, you’re dumber than I think you are.’

  Fong stood up slowly. ‘You are a fool, Yankee,’ he said, ‘to make blood over this mei gwok spy. He is a liar. He cheats his friends. He kills those who trust him.’

  ‘My kind of guy,’ Cohen answered. ‘Your hour is running out.’

  Fong stared at him for a few moments more.

  ‘All right,’ he said finally. ‘I will not dishonor the san wong of the White Palms. But you humiliate me, mei gwok,’ he said to Cohen.

  ‘It’ll pass,’ Cohen said, and Fong bristled again. He turned to each of the judges, bowing to them in turn, and stormed up the stairway followed by his men. Lon Tung followed quickly behind him. Cohen’s shoulders slumped. He had won. His heart was rapping against his ribs, but he had succeeded and avoided a blood feud between himself and the White Palms.

  Sam Chin touched Cohen’s shoulder. ‘I have never known you to be so difficult in such a negotiation,’ he said.

  Cohen looked over at the elderly man.

  ‘I agree,’ he said wearily. ‘Unfortunately, San Wong, nothing else was appropriate.’

  Tollie Fong stood outside the restaurant waiting for the car to be brought to him. There would be no war between the Tsu Fi and the Tsu Fong. The compromise with Cohen still stung, but it had been necessary. For now he would have to put aside his ch’u-tiao to kill Hatcher, but that was acceptable, in fact, it fit perfectly with his plans.

  He had waited eight years to get Hatcher, he could wait a few more weeks. But in Tollie Fong’s mind, Hatcher was a dead man. It was just a matter of time.

  The shadows outside were growing longer. Daphne lay beside Hatcher, turned and pressed against him, moving slowly until almost every inch of her touched his side.

  ‘I hope you do not cause all kinds o
f hell up there,’ she said. ‘Bad for my business,’

  ‘Good for your business. Maybe ‘we’ll get rid of Sam- Sam for you,’ Hatcher growled, turning toward her, pressing her tighter.

  ‘I may hold you to that promise of Indian cotton you made — how many years ago?’

  ‘A long time,’ he said. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘When are you leaving?’

  ‘As soon as we finish upriver.’

  ‘And you won’t be back.’

  He started to say something, but she put her hand over his mouth. ‘China told me everything. I know it is dangerous for you in Hong Kong. I just want to know this time. I would like to say joi gin properly.’

  ‘You have already,’ his voice growled.

  She put a long leg over his hip and pulled him even closer with it.

  ‘I’m not through yet,’ she said huskily.

  SMOKE

  A pale, dyspeptic, extremely nervous young under-under- under-secretary named Lamar Pellingham, Jr., greeted Sloan at the entrance to the embassy and immediately confided that this was his first experience with death on a foreign shore.

  ‘It’s impossible, absolutely impossible. Forms, forms, forms,’ the pasty-faced man groaned. ‘I’ve never seen such red tape.’

  ‘Yes, I know what a problem these things are,’ Sloan agreed solicitously. ‘You’d think they’d be glad to get rid of the remains instead of making it so difficult.’

  ‘Yes. Right. Of course,’ the diplomat answered, somewhat startled by Sloan’s nonchalance. ‘Uh, the maids packed up everything — that is, everything but what was in his desk. We sealed that room, left — the desk, I mean — alone. You know, in the event there was, uh. . . classified material there.’

  He spoke every word as though it were a hot coal he was spitting out of his mouth. It was obvious he found the entire matter repellent.

  ‘Excellent decision,’ said Sloan. I’ll check it out.’

  ‘Have you seen the police?’

  ‘Not yet. I came straight here after checking into the hotel. Do you have the police reports?’

  ‘No, the investigator, a major, Ngy, wouldn’t give anything up. A real mean one, he needs it for the investigation,’ Pellingham stammered quickly. ‘But I have the other things. Come with me, please.’

  The nervous junior diplomat led Sloan back through the ornate passages of the Thai embassy to his office, a cheery but small cubicle near the back of the building. He riffled through a stack of folders in his ‘Hold’ box and handed Sloan an envelope marked, ‘Porter . Final Papers. Confidential.’

  ‘Everything’s in there,’ Pellingham said. ‘All the forms, his insurance papers, even his last expense report.’

  ‘Interesting. I’ll just take these along,’ Sloan said. ‘Perhaps I should, uh, make a copy?’ Pellingham stammered, rubbing his cheek with the palm of a sweaty hand and turning what started as a statement into a question.

  Sloan smiled his reassuring smile. ‘If it would make you more comfortable,’ he said, ‘a copy will be fine.’

  ‘They say it’s, uh, a case of innocent bystander, killed more or less by accident, if ‘ possible for someone to be murdered by accident.’ He hesitate and, when Sloan made no response, added, ‘Not exactly a hero’s death. But I suppose it’s best for our purposes. I mean acceptable under the circumstances.’

  ‘Acceptable,’ Sloan said. ‘An excellent way of putting it. I can see why you picked the diplomatic service.’

  ‘Well, thank you, sir,’ Pellingham responded. ‘I meant for the family and all.’

  ‘Of course. I know exactly what you mean, and I agree,’ Sloan said, trying to put the young man at ease. ‘Look here,’ he went on, ‘no need to worry about this any further. I’m here now. It’s in my hands.’

  ‘But...’

  Smiling, Sloan handed the envelope back to Pellingham. ‘Why don’t you make your copy while I check out Porter’s things.’

  ‘Yes, yes, good idea. You, uh, know where to ship the remains and his effects?’

  ‘It’s all arranged.’

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ the neophyte diplomat said with relief.

  ‘Just show me Porter’s suite while you’re copying the report, hmm?’

  ‘Right, right.’

  The young man watched as Sloan entered Porter’s suite, wondering whether he should accompany him. But Sloan closed the door and he stared at it for a full minute before scurrying off to the copy machine.

  An hour’s search produced nothing .of value to Sloan but a five-by-seven leather-bound, three-ring notebook. Porter’s diary, a veritable autobiography f the man beginning in January of that year. Sloan stuffed it in his briefcase. He checked over everything else and found nothing else related to the Cody-Wol Pot case. After getting the copy of the Porter documents, he headed back to his hotel.

  He peeled off a soggy shirt, pulled a table under the ceiling fan and spent the rest of the afternoon going through the diary. Porter had certainly been keeping a wary eye on the little Thai. The notebook was complete up to the day Porter died. The expense account meticulously included fifty cents for a Coke at a place called the American Deli in Patpong ‘while performing surveillance.’ Porter had turned into the ultimate bureaucrat.

  Then the need began gnawing at Sloan. He became distracted and finally closed the file folder and the notebook. As the sun began to set he stared out the window at the city of golden spires and domes, shimmering in the dying rays of the sun, watched as they got dimmer and dimmer until finally they winked out like dying candles. The need was in him and the night lured him out of the room, down to the crowded main street.

  A two-seater with a wiry, energetic little driver waited near the entrance of the hotel, ‘Sir, sir,’ the little fellow said, trotting beside Sloan as he walked toward the row of taxis at the door. ‘Got good tuk-tuk, best price in town. Very fast.’

  Why not, thought Sloan. There were hundreds of the noisy machines in the city. It would be impossible to trace his movements.

  ‘All right, lead on,’ Sloan said.

  ‘My name is very complicated,’ he said. ‘You can call me Sy, my American friends call me Sy.’

  ‘Right,’ Sloan said, settling back in the somewhat uncomfortable seat, and gave him an address in the waterfront district.

  The trip across town took only fifteen minutes, but Sloan’s heart was already a thundering drum in his chest by the time they got there.

  The place had not changed, would never change. The tart smell of the river gave way to a much sweeter odor. It attacked his brain and intoxicated his spirit as he went down the narrow stairs, which creaked and groaned underfoot. As he descended the odor got stronger, headier.

  The master waited as usual at a desk near the door. This one was new, but they all looked alike. Wrinkled, bowed old men with faded eyes and sunken faces, they were the dream masters, the killers of nightmares and assassins of pain, and the guides to the Elysian Fields. As he followed the old man back through a narrow passageway, Sloan began to feel a little light-headed. They entered a long narrow room lined with drab canvas cots. Silk screens stained by age and misuse separated the beds. A gray veil of smoke clung to the ceiling. It was like walking through hell.

  Sloan followed the dream master to the third cubicle. He lay on his side on the bed, got comfortable, watched as the old Thai tamped the black cube into the bowl of the long pipe, lit it with a taper, and sucked fire into the cube until it glowed. Then he held the thick stem against Sloan’s lips. The colonel took a deep breath, felt the oily smoke as it surged into his lungs, invaded his bloodstream, streaked up to his brain.

  As the opium took effect, Sloan felt electrified. His body hummed, then became numb. Old bruises and wounds were healed. Pain vanished, stress evaporated. The doom diminished. The old Thai shrank before his eyes and slowly vanished in a golden mist.

  Sloan groaned and rolled over on his back.

  He let the haze envelop him, embraced it, walked throu
gh to the other side.

  To a place of green fields and flowers -

  A deep blue sky was overhead and the sun warmed him.

  Somewhere nearby, the sea crashed on rocks.

  He lay down in cool grass.

  His anxieties were washed away by the caressing breeze that wafted over him.

  Here there was no death. No cries of pain, nor enemies nor dirty jobs to be assigned. No nightmares.

  There was only tranquility.

  It was the only place left where Sloan could find peace.

  THE TS’E K’AM MEN TI

  Hatcher and company left two hours before dawn, sneaking past the harbor patrols and customs boats in the Bujia Ngkou, the bay at the mouth of the Beijiang River that becomes Hong Kong harbor, and then heading west into south China along one of the many tributaries of the jungle-choked Xijiang River. By the gray wash of dawn they were thirty miles upstream.

  They came in two boats. The first was a long, narrow snakeboat, heavily powered, with a thatched cabin near the rear. Behind it was a thirty-foot 600 hp Cigarette boat, capable of skimming the water at sixty miles an hour. Hatcher, Daphne, Cohen and Sing, who doubled as helmsman, and another gunman, Joey, were in the first. There were four Chinese gunmen in the second, on ‘loan’ to Cohen from a friendly Chiu Chao triad known as the Narrow Blade Gang, as backup in the event the Tsu Fi got in trouble. They all felt comfortable, since Daphne’s intelligence had reported that Sam-Sam was farther upriver and was not expected back to the Ts’e K’am Men Ti stronghold until the next day.

  Early in the trip, before they got to the river, everyone had been tense and wary, on the lookout for harbor patrols and customs boats. Now they relaxed as the long wooden boat cruised quietly along the river, hugging the bank to avoid being too obtrusive and followed by the impressive Cigarette.