Thai Horse

by William Diehl

  That night the Hsong cranked up the little furnace. They mixed ten kilos of gum with water and cooked it in an enormous brass wok until it was a dark, thick mass that looked like heavy molasses. Then they poured it into an ancient wooden press and squeezed the water out. What was left was a kilo of morphine base granules. Mixed with water and acetic anhydride in a small still and dried under grow lamps and pressed again, it produced a brick of pure white powder, which they branded with a stamp: 999. The mark of Hsong and a guarantee that the one-kilo brick of China White was 99.9 percent pure heroin.

  Just after sunrise, the chopper took off from Chang Mai and headed for the village of the Hsong, seventy miles away. The day before, Tollie Fong had sent his Straw Sandal to General Dao to arrange the meeting. The ritual of dealing was a formality, but one they had performed at villages like this all over northern Thailand during the past few months. The emerald-green mountains slipped below them and grew more rugged and less penetrable. Mountain roads twisted up the sides of the lush peaks and ended suddenly at landslides or were simply devoured by the foliage. From the air it was easy to see why the army was frustrated in its attempts to discourage or destroy the poppy crop here.

  Fong sat in the copilot’s seat of the chopper with his three aides in the seats behind him — the White Fan, who was in charge of rituals and for this trip would also serve as Fong’s secretary and financial adviser, and two gunmen, Billy Kot and Soon. The messenger had completed his duties and returned to Bangkok.

  The White Fan, an ancient seer pushing eighty with wispy white hair and the remnants of a white goatee, wore the traditional silk cheongsam of the Chinese and had devoted his life to tradition and ritual. He hated to fly, particularly in this mixing bowl of an airplane, but his inscrutable face gave no hint of his discomfort. He sat with his eyes closed and his small black bag of tricks between his feet. Soon, a reliable executioner, dozed beside him, unconcerned by the flying.

  Economics, as well as killing, was Tollie Fong’s business. Getting the smack from the hills to the marketplace, whether it was Singapore or Marseilles, New York or Grand Rapids, was also his business. Fong had first been introduced to the trade while he was still in his early teens by his father, who had gone to college in the United States and understood Americans. Fong remembered that night well.

  1962. The eve of the Chinese New Year, the Year of the Tiger.

  Outside their window, there were dancers and dragons in the street. Firecrackers rattled in the gutters and the stars over Hong Kong were concealed behind a glittering wall of skyrockets.

  Young Fong, not yet fourteen, wanted to be out there with the rest of his friends, but his father was insistent. He had called his bing yahn, his soldiers, to a meeting and the White Palm executioner leaned toward his five officers and placed his hand on his son’s knee. ‘I have spent several hours with the san wong and it is important that you understand our new plans.

  ‘First, you must understand about Americans. They are very self-indulgent. They are eager to try new things. They are very sociable and they go to great lengths to impress their friends. They tend to do things in great masses. They live on borrowed money and their goals in life are security — and pleasure.

  ‘Now they are becoming involved in a great turmoil over the fighting in Vietnam. There is revolutionary protest by the young people. And’ — his eyes lit up — ‘they have discovered drugs. Marijuana, peyote, the chemical called acid. It is just beginning. The san wong believes these young people are ripe for other drugs.

  ‘Until now, the customers for powder have been mostly beggars, people of the streets, thieves and thugs. There is some trade with the very wealthy, but very few users in between. The Sicilians control the trade.

  ‘So we have three plans. First, it is time to move on the Sicilians. This will not be done easily, but we may be able to supply them and use their people for our own distribution.’

  ‘Can we trust them?’ one of the bing yahn asked.

  ‘Never! Always be wary of them. When it is convenient, we will make our war and destroy them, but that is a long time away. For now, we must help create the demand and make the deals, so we need the Sicilians. Second, the American soldiers in Vietnam and Thailand are at our very door and the war is growing. There will be many more soldiers coming. This war will last a long time, as it did with the French. We will sell them powder at cost plus ten percent.’

  ‘At cost?’ one of the bing yahn said with surprise.

  ‘Plus ten percent, to create the need,’ Fong corrected. ‘And they will take this need back to the States with them and pass the need on to their friends and they will all grow old with the demon. These will be our customers. They will be accustomed to pure China White and will not be satisfied with the Turkish and Mexican brown shit the Sicilian sell. Finally, we must encourage the hill people to grow more poppies, for the demand will be greater than any of us realize. All other business in which the White Palms are involved must come second to this.’

  That was the night he had assigned his five captains, who called themselves the Dragon’s Breath, to open the markets in Saigon and keep them supplied.

  ‘We must plan this move most carefully and then wait,’ he said, ‘for it will be two or three years before we make our move, but it is a good plan and it will work.’

  When his captains had left, the older Fong turned to his son. ‘You must understand the economics of this business,’ he said softly but firmly. ‘There are millions, perhaps billions, of dollars at stake, Right now your destiny is to follow me as Red Pole of the White Palm Chiu Chao. But this business will open things up for you. The more you know, the more important you will become. Who knows how far you can go. . .

  The Red Pole had prepared his son well. Tollie Fong’s mentor was Joe Lung, who would later be the only member of the Dragon’ Breath to survive Hatcher’s brutal massacre on the Mekong. Lung guided a vigorous training program. A year with the Ninja in Tokyo, six months with the SAVAK in Iran, another six months with thuggee Sikhs in Bombay. And another year spent with a master of tai chi and karate on Okinawa.

  But always there was the business of the trade to learn, and Fong learned it from the experts by interning in the business offices of the Chiu Chaos in Hong Kong, Bangkok, Singapore and Seattle. Before he was twenty he was in New York learning the business of the street and had already killed three times , for his main role in the hierarchy of the White Palm was still to take his father’s place as the Red Pole executioner.

  As the new san wong of the White Palms, Fong would have made his father proud, for he had become an expert at the economics of the trade. Now the profits were so enormous that police could be bought and whole nations could be corrupted. Dope smuggling had become the most profitable business in the world, and a fifth of all the heroin sold in the United States came from the Golden Triangle in northern Thailand. And despite his ch’u-tiao, his blood oath to kill Hatcher — the man who had executed his father and now Joe Lung — the business of powder had to come first, for he had stretched his authority by setting up deals with the most productive hill tribes in the Golden Triangle.

  Each year he had spread his empire farther, moving more deeply into the Triangle, taking dangerous risks with the suspicious and volatile mountain bandits. Every time the government burned out a field or coerced a hill tribe into planting coffee or mushrooms, Fong went deeper and found new tribes willing to cultivate the lucrative poppy.

  His gamble had paid off handsomely. Fong now controlled the flow of Thai heroin for all the Chiu Chao families, and that was almost 5 percent of all the heroin that came out of Thailand. And in secret conclave, the Chiu Chaos were at that very moment, confirming him as san wong, master of all the families.

  Fong needed someone to take his place as enforcer, someone he could trust. He decided that someone would be Billy Kot.

  Handpicked from among the many assassins who served the White Palms, Kot was bright, clever, awesomely ruthless and, in Fong’s eye
s, the most efficient killer in the world, next to Tollie Fong himself. Kot was only twenty-six, but he was a college graduate, and now it was time to move him up.

  Leaning over the back of the seat, Fong began a dialogue with Billy Kot, who leaned forward with his ear close to Fong’s mouth.

  ‘You must learn this part of the business because you are going to be the next Red Pole.’

  Kot reared back in surprise, for the news was totally unexpected.

  ‘It is more than just the business of the Red Pole,’ said Fong. ‘You must not only enforce the rules of the Society, you must also control negotiations up here as well.’

  ‘I understand,’ Billy Kot said, trying to control his excitement at the news. ‘I promise to be worthy of your trust.’

  ‘You must learn the ways of each of the hill leaders. To us they are like arteries to the heart. They must learn to trust you. And they are all different.’

  ‘What of General Dao?’

  ‘General Dao has been head of the Hsong tribe for fourteen years, since he was twenty-two,’ Fong began. ‘For three hundred miles in every direction, the tribes fear the Hsong.’

  ‘Is he a warlord?’

  ‘He does not start things, but be does not bow down either. They have not waged war on anyone for at least ten years.’

  ‘So he is a tough guy,’ Billy Kot said.

  ‘Very. The army is afraid of him. Two years ago he threw out the nai amphoe, and Bangkok never even replaced the man. He is not like some of the others, always crying about the federals burning their fields, trying to gouge a few extra dollars for every joi.’

  ‘Is he friendly?’ Kot asked.

  ‘He smiles,’ Fong answered with a shrug, ‘but he is cautious. The secret is to treat him with respect, never threaten him. An insult or threat, even an unwitting one, could be mistaken as an act of war. His bing yahn would drop us all on the spot. At the very least he would end our arrangement. So be careful.’

  ‘I will just listen this time.’

  ‘No, do what your spirit says. If you make a slip, the White Fan will warn you. He will stand or sit between us and Dao and to the side, partly facing us. If he shakes his head, stop talking, and he will handle the problem.’

  ‘How much gum does the Hsong produce?’

  ‘He is not a big producer, but the powder is as pure as it gets and he does it all, including the refining. Each year he has increased his production. I don’t know what the yield will be this year.’

  Below them they saw a village, not large, perhaps a hundred hooches, forming neat patterns on a high, lush mesa. Beyond it was Powder Mountain, its poppy fields denuded by the harvest. The pilot jockeyed the chopper around and put it down beside a dirt road at the foot of the mountain.

  ‘This is the main village,’ Fong said as they crawled out of the plane. ‘There are three or four smaller ones around. And the Hsong bing yahn live in the jungle. They are everywhere, do not underestimate them.’

  ‘How many soldiers?’ asked Billy Kot.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Fong answered. ‘Three hundred maybe.’

  ‘Weapons?’

  ‘Everything. Subguns, M—14s, grenade launchers, a lot of small stuff. Very well armed.’

  A battered antique of an army truck was waiting for them. They crawled in the back and sat facing each other as it rattled and rocked up the barely passable road to the village, thirty-five hundred feet above the valley floor.

  ‘He can use a new truck or two,’ said Fong, nodding to the White Fan. The old man made a mental note of it. He never wrote anything down.

  Kot watched as the truck climbed the dusty road. He spotted a momentary flash of sun on steel in a tree, saw movement in another.

  ‘His bing yahn are everywhere,’ he said.

  ‘Hai. Real monkeys,’ Fong answered with a nod.

  When they reached the crest of the hill, the truck stopped in front of a small hooch, a box of a house with one door and one window, which sat apart from the rest of the village. An armed guard stood at the side of the door.

  ‘Just watch how it is done,’ Fong said.

  The formalities dated back to the time of the Opium Wars in China, almost a hundred and fifty years ago. Fong posted Soon on the opposite side of the door and entered the hooch with the Fan and Billy Kot.

  It was a small room with four mats on the floor in the center, two facing each other, two stretched between them, forming a square in the middle of the room. Dao stood in front of one of the mats with two of his troopers posted in each corner of the room behind him. Beside Dao stood the fai thaan, a man whose face was etched with the crevices of time and whose teeth were stained dark brown from chewing betel nuts. The fai thaan was the cook and chief refiner of the Hsong tribe. At his feet was a small package wrapped in flat green leaves.

  Fong walked casually to the center of the room and, facing Dao, pressed the palms of his hands together and bowed in a wai to show his respect for the Hsong leader and the brewer of magic powder. Dao answered the wai and then the Fan took his place facing the old cook and put his black bag at his feet. Kot stood behind Fong.

  ‘I would like to introduce my bing yahn, Billy Kot, to the general,’ Fong said. ‘He will soon take my place as White Palm Red Pole.’

  A look of concern crossed Dao’s face. ‘Is something wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘No, no,’ Fong answered hurriedly. ‘I am to become san wong of the Chiu Chaos. From this day on, Billy Kot will be my eyes and ears and voice. He will speak for me and he will negotiate fairly with all the tribes that supply us with powder.’

  Dao looked at Kot for several seconds, studying the young man’s smooth features. He had eyes like his boss’s, hard and glazed with abstract menace.

  ‘So he is learning?’ said Dao.

  ‘Hai,’ Fong answered.

  The general appraised Kot once more and nodded curtly with a smile.

  ‘Ho,’ Dao answered, slapping his right fist into the palm of his left hand, a sign of acceptance. They did not shake hands, because to touch another in Thailand is considered an insult. He sat cross-legged on the mat in front of him. Fong did the same, followed by the Fan, the new Red Pole, and the fai thaan. It was only after they were seated that Dao acknowledged the Fan.

  ‘Are you well, Phat Lom?’ he asked. The old man nodded and smiled faintly as he opened his bag and took out an abacus. He placed it in front of him.

  ‘Hai, hai,’ Dao said, nodding briskly. Then he slapped his hands together and smiled broadly. ‘So, now it is time to deal,’ he said, arid nodded to the fai thaan, who carefully unfolded the leaves from the package. The white brick branded ‘999’ gleamed on the mat before them. He picked up the snow-white square with both hands and offered it to the White Fan, who took it, held it in one hand, and weighed it by feel, first holding it on its side in the palm of his hand, then turning it on end. He nodded once, curtly, indicating the weight was proper. He stood and walked to the window and held the brick in the sunlight and studied it for several minutes, blowing gently on the surface. He scraped up a fingernail full and, holding it to a nostril, slowly inhaled it. He waited for another minute or two for it to take effect, then he scraped up another fingernail full and put it in his mouth and tasted it. Finally he returned and placed the brick in front of General Dao.

  He held up three fingers to Fong.

  Khuna-phaap di thi soot. First quality.

  ‘Excellent as always,’ said Fong. ‘How much did you get this year?’

  ‘Ninety hundred and thirty-five joi,’ Dao answered, obviously proud of the yield. Fong, too, was delighted. Almost fifteen hundred kilos of gum, a hundred fifty kilos of heroin.

  ‘That is fifty kilos more than last year,’ he said.

  ‘A very good year,’ answered the general.

  On the previous buy, Fong had paid nine hundred dollars per kilo. He looked over at the Fan, whose fingers were shooting the small colored balls of the abacus back and forth. The Fan held up two fingers, then thr
ee, then one, then a fist. It was a simple code, which only Fong and the Fan understood.

  Although Kot did not understand the code, he made some quick calculations in his head. Not bad, he thought. A mere $135,000 for 15 keys of pure smack.

  Fong turned to him and asked him what he thought the price should be. It was an unexpected test. Actually the price was immaterial. Considering the Chiu Chao profit margin, they could easily afford to pay Dao four or five times the normal price and hardly feel it. But this was business, and a dollar was a dollar.

  Kot tried to think like the Red Pole. He had to weigh two things: first, whether to raise the price at all and, second, if so, how much to raise it without spoiling the general. Upping the price fifty dollars a joi would not hurt them that much. It would be significant enough to impress the hill chief and still not appear overly generous.

  ‘Fifty more a joi,’ Kot answered.

  Kot knew from the slight twinkle in Fong’s eye it was a good answer. Fong turned back to the general. ‘My bid would have been twenty-five,’ he said with a smile. ‘The new Red Pole is more generous than I.’

  General Dao was obviously pleased. The Fan showed no expression. His fingers were busy working the colored marbles on the abacus. He held up another combination of fingers.

  The entire package would cost $142,500, or 2,850,000 bahts.

  ‘How does two million eight sound?’ Fong asked. ‘I am most pleased,’ Dao said, slapping his fist into his palm. The deal was concluded. Fong reached into the black bag and took out several packets of purple baht notes and stacked them neatly in front of Dao. When he had stacked the entire two million plus, he did a wai.

  ‘The entire amount as agreed. When can Mr Kot expect delivery?’

  ‘Will three days be satisfactory, starting in the morning?’ Dao asked.

  ‘Excellent.’ And he, too, smacked his fist in his palm. ‘And if it will not offend the general, I would like to make the Hsong a gift of two new trucks, to celebrate the new Red Pole.’