by John L. Hart
Fortunately, the black-coated one was curled away from me, napping beside a tree after its meal. I tried to control my trembling as I so very slowly crept closer and closer to the sleeping killer. I could barely breathe by the time I knelt down and reached out, my heart pounding so hard I feared it might wake the panther as I gently stroked the lush fur.
The huge cat exploded from the ground, whirling in midair and landing so it faced me. The green eyes burned and the snarling jaws were all I could see as the cat prepared to pounce, its haunches bunched and—
The cat sprang sideways and up into the tree. I sank to my knees in relief and joy and wanted to shout, “I did it!” I had tracked and touched one of the greatest predators of the jungle, and scared it! My heart was bursting with pride. But pride can be a dangerous and blinding thing, and it robbed me of my focus and awareness. Of my chi. Too late I realized that I had not frightened away the big cat. Something much more dangerous than myself had done so. The low growl came from behind me. I slowly turned my head and, standing only feet away, was a full-grown male tiger. I was paralyzed with terror. I dropped my blade. All birds were silent. There was no movement in the grass or leaves. The world held its breath. The massive animal moved and I knew there would be no escaping the true Lord of the Kill.
Then a man rose up from the high grass not far from the tiger and spoke with his hands in the silent language we were taught in the monastery, instructing, Just glance at his eyes. Lower yours in respect. That’s it. The tiger took a step closer. Now he wants to scent you. Let him. Let him smell your breath. The tiger raised its face, sniffing at me, so close I could see its nostrils moving, hear it breathing. My own breath was shallow as I crouched there, immobilized, allowing the tiger to make what he would of me, and praying I did not smell like his next meal.
The tiger turned and walked slowly away.
Zhang moved from the high grass and came to lift me from the ground. Even the panther, if it was still in the tree, could not harm me with my brother there to protect me. My fear melted away, while any pride I had stupidly enjoyed before dissolved into shame. I tried very hard not to embarrass myself further by crying, but I did not quite succeed.
“You did well, little brother,” Zhang said kindly, rather than taking me to task for my frailties and my fears.
My gratitude was immense. My loyalty would never waver. He seemed taller and wiser than any other man I had ever known. Even the old abbot, who was very, very wise, but quite small in stature, unlike Zhang.
“I was so afraid he would kill me,” I confessed. “I felt like a little mouse he could eat in one bite. But you saved me.”
Zhang braced both my shoulders with his strong hands. He wore a silver bracelet on his left wrist.
“I only stood in the shadows and provided direction behind the lord of this land. Now you will always remember that it is to one’s advantage to remain unseen, whether you are dealing with mice or men.” He chuckled and made me feel better, assuring me that, “You had the courage not to act on your fear. Had you done so, he would have chased you down, even if he was not hungry. The tiger had eaten already. You were simply of interest to him because you did not run. That is what saved you, not me.”
This lesson from Zhang on that fateful dawn was one of the most valuable I would ever receive: that running will get you nowhere because whatever is chasing you will eventually catch up and, once it does, it will take you down.
35
Kate sat at an enormous round table of highly polished teak wood, inlaid with ivory. It must have weighed tons. The table only added more gravity to the sumptuous room and the assemblage of heavyweights gathered around it, who were introduced one by one, congratulated on becoming part of the new Golden Triangle team, then graciously dismissed to the increasingly louder celebration outside, until only the principals, and their handpicked supporters, remained.
She and Phillip sat across from The Poppy King. Behind him was his ever-present group of guardians who had arrived with him at Madam Nhu’s palatial retreat several days earlier for negotiations. To the left was The Pale Man, who insisted on having his phalanx of South Africans and snake-tattooed mercenaries—minus the leader that had ditched her and Mike Gallini—standing guard behind him, with Mike fidgeting in their midst. To their right was the man who, apparently, maintained the very formidable Hmong armed forces of The Poppy King—the renowned General Vang Pao. Phillip leaned over and whispered, “He has been our chosen Company man since the beginning, very important to the war.”
Kate nodded and tried to project a façade of poise she hadn’t felt since JD indelibly impressed on her the full ferocity of his expectation that she would advocate for his brother, influence Phillip as much as possible—both of them knowing how convincing she could be when it came to men—and let him take care of Gregg and Izzy since he no longer trusted Phillip. She was to be his eyes and ears behind the scenes during the inevitable negotiations and, until he decided otherwise, she was to keep her mouth shut about his being alive.
Her mouth was still tender from his last punishing kiss. She was still pleasantly sore from his retribution behind the bamboo. When he was finished with her she’d hardly been able to scale back up to her room, regretting then, and regretting it still, that when he said, “Now we’re finished, and that will never happen again,” she knew he meant it.
He meant all of it. Including the directive that she was to ensure Mike Gallini returned with her. Upon that return she had actually seen Missy hug him. It made her wonder if Missy had become genuinely attached to the man Paulu had taken to keeping so close he could have been a Shih Tzu trotting beside his owner on an invisible leash.
Kate’s attention swung to The Pale Man as he abruptly announced, “And now that the agreements are signed, Mr. Poppy King, you will hereby consider yourself my deputy. You will continue to oversee and manage all your operations under my direction. We will want a fifteen percent increase in crop production this season and another fifteen percent next year. We will waste no time in growing our business.” He laughed at his own wit. “Pun intended, Mr. Poppy King.”
Kate stood and could see the surprise on every face as she confronted The Pale Man.
“As the emissary who delivered our invitation to The Poppy King to meet and come to fair terms, I must protest your attitude now that the agreements have been reached—agreements that did not include The Poppy King’s demotion in title, nor apply pressure for more aggressive production. I believe you own him an apology.”
The Pale Man was nearly apoplectic. He banged his fist.
“You say what? You believe what? I am in charge here now! This will be my operation! That is the plan! That is—”
Phillip cut him off with a simple raise of his hand. “That is enough, Paulu. Let us not get off on the wrong foot.”
The Pale Man shook his shoulders as if actually smoothing his ruffled feathers. But he speared her with a glint that radiated from his dilated pupils to irises turned nearly blood red, leaving no doubt between them that he would cut out the heart of his own sister to achieve his goals, and her status was nowhere near that of a sister.
In that moment Kate knew she was not a player here. She was not a Pirate, much less a Big Pirate. She was a Whore who had served her purpose and might only be alive right now because of Phillip.
The Poppy King rose from his chair. He nodded at Kate, dismissed Phillip with a glance, and narrowed his eyes on The Pale Man. “Indeed, I will continue to oversee and manage all the operations that were, and will continue to be, under my direction. That is the agreement, along with the distasteful percentages you will receive as a result of your blackmail and greed. If you must have a title, then you may hereby consider yourself my deputy. Not the other way around.”
The tension in the room, which had been high, went silently nuclear.
The silence lengthened.
The Pale Man rose to
his feet. To his South African he very quietly said, “Mozambique.”
Two rapid tap shots tore open the chest of The Poppy King. One more exploded his head.
There was no return fire with no ruler to protect. As The Poppy King’s guards held up their weapons, The Pale Man smiled.
“Good. Then it is understood. There can only be one King. General, I believe we can rely on you for all the ground operations to continue smoothly, and the Hmong people will continue to answer to you. Actually, everything is to continue exactly as before while we facilitate our expansions under my direction.”
The general stood and nodded. “Exactly as before,” he said. “Absolutely.”
The Pale Man’s aged tiger’s teeth glistened. He opened his spindly arms as if he were a conductor holding court before his orchestral players. “And now, as our lovely British have said so often: The King is dead. Long live the King!”
*
Alone, after all the marvelous excitement died down, The Pale Man examined the very nice and very large topo map that showed him the mountains and rivers and streams and forests of his new game board—The Golden Triangle, where he would now be King of the Poppy. He placed a small elephant figurine made of ivory next to the Mekong River. He picked up the to-scale miniature helicopter and placed it next to the elephant. He couldn’t stop smiling at his map. That’s right, his map, and all that was in it was his, his, HIS! He had made sure of it today and there was nothing Phillip could do about it now that the deed was done. As for Phillip’s precious dear Katherine, she had made a grave mistake by overstepping her bounds with him. He would not forget, or forgive, her demand for a public apology. And yet . . .
He had to admit her silly show of support for the old Poppy King had facilitated matters, and all to the good. He would have killed him eventually, but sooner was better because here he was, examining the kingdom that was now his to rule.
The Highland mountains with their various ethnic villages, tribes. The rivers snaking through Burma, Laos, Cambodia, Thailand and North and South Vietnam. The mighty Mekong moving through it all. He loved it. It was his domain now, his own kingdom with his own army and with even the monstrous military might of America on call . . . for him.
The American military had only been waiting for the word and the coordinates to bomb The Poppy King into hellish, napalm, fiery oblivion, and The Poppy King had been smart enough to take the deal upon realizing his fields and his people were only an airstrike away from being immolated.
Alas, he had not been smart enough to stay alive himself.
Phillip had initially been aghast by the unexpected move. But he would get over it. He would realize this made things so much easier since he already had the CIA and their myriad of cohorts on board. Yes, thanks to Phillip, completely. The CIA was thrilled, of course, to inherit a major stake of control over the opium trade that the French had once enjoyed. A pity for them, really. The French had laboriously developed their intertwined connections among the Hmong that had served The Poppy King for years and years, but they had given it up too soon, and now the CIA, with endless cash resources from the purest of pure heroin, could further its agenda without Congressional oversight or budgeting worries. “The Company,” as they loved to be known, would continue to pull the strings for transport with Air America. They would help with ocean freight transport overseas to dear old Marseilles, where his own traditional Corsican allies had networked throughout Europe—even prior to French colonial times.
As for the American Mafia, they were all set to upscale everything in their own drug operations from the east coast to the west, ready, willing, and most able to accommodate the new #4 Heroin.
The Pale Man giggled. The Mafia had also provided him with a rich source of entertainment, his very own court jester, Mr. Mouse. To go with the throne he was getting enlarged. It was all so medieval in its delicious way. And now that the board was set, tomorrow he would personally inspect his new kingdom and the subjects of it. They would soon realize that their previous ruler had been too soft and paid the price for it.
Being king was good. Being a feared and respected king was much, much better.
36
“We have to get out of here. Immediately.”
The urgency in JD’s voice, accompanied by an abrupt nudge, startled Gregg awake. It was a helluva way to be woken up after a week of R&R in what was basically an underground spa, compliments of The Poppy King who was hiding them.
“What’s wrong?” Gregg tried to shake off the residuals of their libations and cannabis consumed the night before. And man, oh man, the food. They had eaten like kings.
“He’s dead.”
“Oh God.” Gregg accepted the hand JD held out to help him off the mat. Until that touch-and-go moment, when he dove deep into the Mekong and found JD already had his handcuffs off—enabling him to briefly communicate the critical details in sign language, inches in front of his eyes since the water was so murky—Gregg never would have believed he could trust JD more than Kate, or that his loyalties had been misplaced. Her reaction to the bracelet JD had shoved into his hands with a quickly signed, Give to Kate. Say I’m dead. Check out her nicely painted toenails, confirmed the whole shady setup she was in on.
She had always been an ambitious girl, something Gregg admired, but sleeping with the enemy that had apparently just killed The Poppy King made him want to puke.
Izzy, coming awake after a similar summons, felt around for his glasses while JD brought him up to speed.
“I’m so sorry, JD, really, truly sorry.”
“Thanks, Izzy. I appreciate the condolences, but if the new guy who thinks he’s in charge here finds us, the next funerals are ours. My intel is from the inside and reliable. He’s already on his way. I don’t know how much time we have, just that it’s not enough. Let’s go.”
“Where?” Gregg wondered. “Do you think we’ll be safe if we can make it back to Nha Trang? Go to the 99KO, or maybe the mission, or . . .?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure if there is a safe place until I can manage some leverage with Phillip. Kate might want to help. I’m sure she does when it comes to you, but she can beg and plead all she wants and it will do you no more good than it’s doing a dead king now. All I know is we’ll be trapped like rats if the bastard who killed him finds us here.”
Gregg had noticed how “us” and “we” had become a new part of JD’s lexicon. The lack of immediate grief over his personal loss might have been unsettling except that the essential rules of survival were at play—keeping him and Izzy alive. JD could get out of Houdini’s swim tank with shackles on. They were the liabilities. But JD wasn’t leaving them behind. Just like when he worked some kind of deal in his shouting match with the tattooed leader on the boat, who had agreeably smacked JD into the water, given them the Jack, then assisted JD with their escape off the boat. JD could have left them to fend for themselves, but no. He had used the handcuffs to attach himself to the side and endure hour upon hour as a human life raft until he emerged under the cover of dark. The letter with the flower had been extra insurance, with instructions meant for his brother, including “don’t kill her,” and to watch out for them in the event of his death.
So here they were now and the one who had ended up dead was The Poppy King.
Izzy checked his Seiko. “Is this right? Is it really 9 a.m.? Did we sleep that late again?”
“Correct,” JD confirmed. “And I’m giving you exactly one minute to change into this”—he tossed them each a costume of local indigenous attire to match what he’d already put on—“and then we need to smear on some of this.”
While JD smeared on a muddy grease, he explained, “It will darken your skin and keep off the insects once we get to the jungle. The most important thing is that we pass for locals, at least until we’re well beyond the gates, just in case trouble gets here first.”
Gregg wrinkled h
is nose at the grease. “God, the smell. What is this stuff?”
“Elephant dung. They like the smell even if we don’t. Besides, if you don’t like getting close to it then no one else will either. Once we’re on our ride, keep your heads bowed and eyes down. Gregg, you especially. Nobody around here has blue eyes.”
“Don’t tell me . . . Elephants?” Izzy didn’t get any further before he gagged.
“C’mon, guys, you can do this. You have to. Elephants won’t call attention to us like a jeep, especially if we’re part of a group on its way to work. They’re waiting for us now. Once we’re under jungle cover, they’ll split off and do their thing while I score us another of the jeeps the local gendarmes keep in strategic locations, like the one we used to get here. You now have thirty seconds. Move it!”
While Izzy did a quick change, Gregg obediently smeared elephant feces all over his face. Neither were about to question JD’s methods at this point. As for where JD decided to take them, they had to trust it would be safer than where they were, or where Kate might have them go.
*
The Pale Man had enjoyed his early morning flight across the jungle of the Highlands. The scent of the deep forest. The rising mists. The way the light of the sunrise tinted the clouds. The ongoing begging and squealing of his prisoners for mercy, like the chirping of birds through their taped mouths. He wanted to make a grand entrance to his new kingdom, impress upon the unwashed masses what could happen to them if they did not please him.
It had all been too easy, really. Except for their ridiculous little king who earned himself an early assassination, and Phillip’s precious Katherine who would get hers yet, nearly everyone in the operation had shown little imagination in their moves and counter-moves. Everything had fallen as easily into place as flipping dominoes.
Alas, he had anticipated a more complicated and interesting game of Go.