“But that’s just it, don’t you see? At least we do have each other. And as disconnected as we might feel from the outside world or our families, we do have a reasonable hope of returning, reintegrating, or…Well, maybe that hope is dim sometimes. A lot of times, actually. Okay, almost all the time. And yes, of course I hate being here. And I hate all the destruction and anger and division you see everywhere around us, wherever we go…” Izzy took a longer swig and his wince wasn’t only from the cool burn of the liquor. The groups had only shoved in their faces the extent of the division that was crippling the army fast and furious, in a way it hadn’t been when he first arrived for duty three hundred endless days before. There were racial divisions. Divisions between old and young, between “lifers” that were regular army and the resentful draftees. Even a division between the “juicers”—the drinkers who were typically “lifers” who drank their drugs at the NCO and officer clubs—and the “heads” that were mostly draftees who gathered in their hootches smoking their weed or, more recently, an extraordinarily pure heroin…
Izzy paused in mid-thought. He took another sip, and wondered if they had missed something important that linked Kate’s disappearance with the outbreak of heroin use, the devastating results he and Gregg continued to witness in group after group after group. Could it be the food-chain JD was supposedly tracking was not so much about making a particular connection, as it was about the seemingly random trajectory of locations they were going to—almost like a scavenger hunt, or shifting positions on a game board?
“Okay, so you were saying,” Gregg prompted. “As much as you hate the way things have gone from bad to miserable, misery does like company and at least we have each other for that. Which is more than JD has, right?”
“Correct. As far as we know, he doesn’t have any family—no parents or siblings. No home to return to. No one to confide in, although Kate must have gotten past the surface façade. I’m fairly certain he doesn’t have a large circle of friends. In fact, I suspect we may be the closest thing to what he considers friends.”
Gregg shook his head. “Man, now that’s sad. Maybe we should offer him some counseling.”
Even as Izzy agreed, he considered whether they should forego the offer of counseling, which JD would almost certainly refuse, and put their collective expertise to work on him instead. It wasn’t really right to worm your way into someone else’s head and take them apart for your own purposes, but if he had learned one thing from this ugly mess of a war, it was that right and wrong weren’t nearly as easy to separate as he’d once believed.
JD put aside the listening device linked to the bugs he had planted in the guys’ assigned quarters. He had heard enough. They were right on several counts, but way off base on others. The eye twitching was deliberate; he could contort and control nearly every muscle in his body at will. It was one area where he had excelled in his studies at the monastery, which served him well in assuming the various roles and personas his work often required.
They were also incorrect regarding his lack of family. Although, if he ever lost Zhang, it would be more truth than not. His various cousins, and even a living grandparent in the US, hardly counted since they did not know him, and likely believed him dead from drowning as a child—again, presuming his father even relayed that he had ever been born. Years ago he had fleetingly considered showing up as a delivery boy, bringing flowers to his paternal grandmother, just to see what she looked like, find out if she would be as cold and dismissive to a stranger as his father had been to his own son. But he had immediately discarded such a self-indulgent idea, knowing it would serve no real purpose other than distracting him from the mission at hand, which had involved a certain politician who wasn’t as safely ensconced as he thought, as so many falsely did who lived on American soil.
It was one of only two trips JD had ever made to the USA. He had not thought to make another until he fell in love with Kate, and wondered if she might like him to meet her mother.
So Izzy was indeed correct that Kate had gotten past the surface façade. She had dug herself deep into his heart. He did have one; it just wasn’t easy to find. Even for him, sometimes. A lot of times, actually. Okay, almost all the time.
Just to entertain himself, JD arranged his features into the same expression he could imagine the good Dr. Moskowitz making while he said the same. If he wanted, he could even pitch his voice to sound just like Izzy, which might be a bit of fun if he wanted to mess with Gregg once he made his way back home.
And on that subject, again they were wrong. He actually had several homes. His favorite, the little island getaway off the shores of Nha Trang where he had taken Kate, and only Kate, to visit and where he liked to paint, dive amidst the coral reefs, go spear fishing, and meditate. Then there was the rubber plantation he inherited from his father, where his mother’s remains were buried. And he owned the tea plantation where he had overseers tending a Longjing, the Dragon Well, on a north-facing slope in Burma, that he had deliberately mentioned during his visit with The Pale Man. A singular meeting that had gotten this whole rotten and ridiculous and seemingly misguided “plan” set into motion.
He knew Kate was alive. He just didn’t know exactly where. The Pale Man liked games and he liked to play with those he deemed worthy opponents. Hence, a trail of clues. Each clue like a stone in the game of Go and strategically placed on a sequence of army bases, with each clue pointing him to the next location via a planted contact within the drug groups.
The Pale Man had laid out the rules: Phillip was not to be privy to their little game within the game. Location twelve would be the magic number. They were now on location #9. “They” being the operative word, since, “to up the ante,” The Pale Man had stipulated his opponent must procure two other players who would not drop out of the game, no matter how dangerous or aimless or dull it all might seem as they followed the leader.
So, the game of Go meets Follow the Leader, wherever he may…Go!
JD commanded himself to relax his jaw and his left eye that suddenly wanted to twitch as he remembered the giggle of delight and clapping of ghostly hands before The Pale Man leapt to his feet, hit the gong near the Go board that resided close to the lotus pond, where an exquisite carp had been offered, and declared their meeting done.
JD had left knowing there were only two men he could count on to follow him no matter what or where. This did not include Phillip. Still, Phillip’s role was particularly crucial. Phillip was the mastermind, doing everything possible to engage The Pale Man as a potential ally when his real intent was to help preserve Zhang’s control over the poppy fields of the Golden Triangle.
That, and wheedling what information he could about Kate’s wellbeing and whereabouts, while being careful not to appear too invested, since that would only increase The Pale Man’s leverage with Kate as a bargaining chip.
JD hardly remembered a time that Phillip wasn’t somehow part of his life. One of his earliest memories was of Phillip tousling his hair and giving him a wink, and then plucking a coin like magic from behind his ear.
The coin was in the sandalwood box, still safely hidden with Maman’s comb, The Jungle Book, the handkerchief she had kissed. His other small treasures.
In those early days Phillip was always very kind to JD and, most importantly, to Maman. But that was a very long time ago. Much had changed since then. And it disturbed JD greatly that he couldn’t quite explain this niggling feeling, whenever he and Phillip discussed the current situation and traded progress reports, that Phillip was stalling somehow, or withholding information, or not being quite on the level with things.
To a certain degree, JD knew he was guilty of such himself. But this felt different—and altogether too familiar. Seduction had a delicate, nuanced scent, and if anyone could pick up the faintest whiff of being lured in, it was he.
Before the sudden summons that took him off the boat with Kate, he would have simply confronted Phillip. Such was the nature of their relation
ship. But now he found himself falling back on an important lesson his favorite teacher had taught him about the wisdom of avoiding confrontation: Yielding is not defeat. It is avoiding direct confrontation with an assailant. This philosophy teaches us to work with the natural order of things, not against them. If you can master this, you can deflect the momentum of one thousand pounds with a force of four ounces. The opponent will fall down by virtue of his own force.
Was Phillip a potential traitor? With every hope JD had ever harbored as a boy, and as a man far more cynical than he ever wanted to be, he prayed not. But whatever Phillip had been, was, or might yet prove to be, JD knew the title of “trusted friend” was not presently amongst them.
A friend was someone whose company you enjoyed without some purpose attached; someone who would keep your secrets safe. Such relationships were rare in his line of work.
Even if they didn’t share his sentiments, Dr. Israel Moskowitz and Dr. Gregg Kelly were the only two people JD knew who qualified on both counts. Which, to his way of thinking, made Gregg and Izzy both right and wrong in their assessment regarding his apparent lack of friendships.
Yes, they were the closest thing he had to real friends, at least in this latest version of his life. But that did not make him a sad or lonely man at all.
It made him rich.
Chapter 23
Back near Nha Trang
This shit was all Mouse had never, ever, wanted and more. Missy was gone. He’d decided to risk calling Uncle Louie from their Quonset headquarters only to discover the phone wires were cut, and now this.
“You’re kidding me, right?” Mouse actually laughed. This new major getting his orders passed down and then passing them down to Mouse had to be some kind of loony tunes. Even if he didn’t turn thief like the first major, who earned a fragging at the firebase near Pleiku, the grunts reporting to this guy would be thinking about it pretty quick if he pulled some bullshit like this in the field.
“Listen, Gallini, I got my orders and they’re coming one step down from The Big Man himself: someone else is picking your load up and another new shipment is coming down out of the mountains. It’s not ours, but The Man wants you to highjack the goods and a message sent in the taking. Don’t kid yourself. This is a test, but you ace it and you’re in like Flint. Word has it The Man is getting positioned to muscle out the boss controlling the fields, take over the Golden Triangle. You have any idea what this means?”
Mouse knew exactly what it meant: a shit storm of epic proportions for him. First there was the summons from Vo to bring him to The Man as some kind of attaché, which sounded like a suitcase with maybe him in it. Now this new major was giving him the order to intercept a huge shipment belonging to someone else—it wasn’t like they were the only game in town, just the biggest and baddest—but, worst of all, a two by four had just been rammed through Mouse’s getaway plan. Not that he was going anywhere before tidying up his original assignment, since he had a work ethic to consider, didn’t want to sound the alarm too soon, and sure as hell didn’t want to piss off Uncle Louie by not taking care of business first with so much money involved.
But that was the original assignment. Business as usual, done in a day, no sweat.
The dampness on the back of Mouse’s neck coincided with a watery sensation in his bowels. This felt like some kind of setup, or at least a punishment for not coming on call. If there wasn’t a chopper already waiting for him, with the major walking him to it…Mouse wasn’t sure what he would do, but he wouldn’t be such an idiot as to be airlifted to Ban Me Thuot with a $75k roll in his pack, a fake passport, and the name of an Air America pilot who could help him get out of Nam for a price.
By the time he landed in Ban Me Thuot he was still trying to decide if it was best to make a run for it now, or find someplace to stash his stuff until he could get back to it—but then he didn’t even have those two options. An arranged ground transport with a couple of muscle guys in uniform, who didn’t report to him, were waiting the second his feet touched the tarmac. Definitely a setup. He’d been in on enough to know he was as trussed up as the Fish, just minus the ropes, as soon as they took him to some pre-arranged coordinates in the Highlands, right at the edge of the jungle. A gunship was waiting. No markings, no ID.
And no choice but to be escorted to it by the muscle guys. Holding tightly to his pack, Mouse hopped in and there they were, grinning at him: a whole gunship full of crazy-fuck snakeheads. Just like Tony had said, their faces were tattooed with snakes. Creepy. He really hated snakes. He thought about hightailing it back to the jeep but it had already peeled out. Besides, running didn’t seem like such a good idea with all the snakeheads either twirling around a machete or playing with their M-16s. Holy shit, where was a grenade when you needed one?
“You Gallini?” asked the one that wasn’t grinning with the rest.
Mouse figured him for the leader, and the worst thing he could do was let on just how freaked he was to the biggest snake of them all. “Yeah. Me, Gallini. You Jane?”
Big Snake suddenly grinned too, pointed to a space a couple of his men had made to sandwich Mouse between them. “Sit.”
Mouse did as instructed, knowing he wasn’t the one running this show, but took hope from the fact that these snakeheads had a sense of humor. Then again, they could all be smiling because they knew what was up and he wasn’t in on the joke. Yeah, that had to be it, and he had a bad, bad feeling that luck wasn’t gonna be a lady tonight as the gunship lifted, spun out, and banked over jungle green until it descended into God knew where and dropped them off just before twilight. His best hope was that they would make camp and he could take his chances in the jungle these snakeheads probably knew like the backs of their machetes. He didn’t do jungle well, not unless it was concrete, but it seemed the only way out.
And then even that was gone. Vo’s not so subtle threat that he was not in the US anymore became even clearer as he clung to his bag like Linus with his blankie, while Big Snake signaled them all to what looked like a small village. Little kids were running around with their mammas chasing after them and their papas chewing the shit around a central fire, where some kind of animal, maybe a goat, was roasting on a spit. Almost looked like a party, with lanterns swinging in the breeze around their little thatched houses. All they were missing was the sound of waves and “California Dreamin’” on the jukebox.
Big Snake entered into some kind of gibberish conversation with the head man. Money exchanged hands, and next thing Mouse knew, he was bunking in a hut with the rest of the snakeheads, minus two.
Their machetes had been parked just outside the village, along with their guns, with the two snakeheads Big Snake had appointed as babysitters within viewing distance of the village. At least that much made sense—better to make nice, get what you need and vamoose. They didn’t have payback to make or a message to send these villagers, who threw in a pretty nice dinner on top of it all. But Mouse could hardly get down a bite. Surrounded by snakeheads in the hut, knowing the ones watching the weapons would be keeping an eye out for him too, he didn’t expect to get any shut eye. Still, to keep up appearances, he stretched out on his mat and used his pack as a pillow.
It was only when his head hit the floor with a thunk that he came abruptly awake, and then scrambled to his feet.
Big Snake held the pack. “Up,” he ordered. “Go now.”
“Gimme that back,” Mouse demanded. If they were going to kill him, now was as good a time as any, and he was probably dead already if they discovered what he was packing. Besides, he could at least take a good chunk of Big Snake’s nose with him if the fat lady was singing sayonara to The Mouse.
It was actually a relief to have finally come to some kind of decision. He put his hand in his pocket to hold the Zippo. He felt the tingle, letting him know the magic was there, like he was about to split off just when he needed It most. Because like any good production, timing was everything.
Tick: Mouse locked eyes with
Big Snake.
Tock: Mouse grinned wide, baring his teeth.
Tick: Mouse lunged—
Only for Big Snake to fling the pack so hard into his chest that Mouse stumbled back.
“Go now,” Big Snake repeated, though with a little less attitude.
Mouse followed him out of the empty hut, still grinning—
And couldn’t believe what he saw.
The whole village was dead. All their heads were on sticks. The sticks were in family groups—mommies and daddies with the kids and babies, but all of them with their chopped off heads on sticks, stuck into the ground.
It was one thing to be a thug, a murderer, a hit man, throw in some theatrics while he was at it. But this? This? These were innocent people. Yeah, they were gooks, but they weren’t bad gooks. They had fuckin’ families, too—and then he noticed one that looked like Missy.
Mouse didn’t even remember hitting the ground on his knees before Big Snake yanked him back to his feet.
Frantically, Mouse jerked away, made himself stare at the girl. The breath left his lungs in a rush of relief when he noticed the girl didn’t have Missy’s cheekbones or mouth. He knew those by heart, and reassured himself there was no way Missy could be here in this tribe, when she was already finding her way to Australia.
Mouse kept telling himself that, while he was marched through the jungle, clinging to his pack. He had seen a lot of bad shit happen. He had done a lot of bad shit. But what happened in the village went beyond anything he could even get his KRZY brain twisted around. These were some cold motherfuckers. And they worked for The Man who wanted Mouse for his own. Only there were lines even guys like him didn’t cross and that meant he had to figure out…
Somethin’.
The trek through the jungle was hell. Behind him, the stick people. Above him, a black sky belching out rain. Ahead was more jungle and more gross leeches. He couldn’t put down his bag to brush them off. To the side was some fuckin’ mule trail where they were supposed to steal a shipment of high-grade heroin from the convoy smuggling it in. And just when he thought it couldn’t get worse, it did.
UNKNOWABLE (Murder on the Mekong, Book 2) Page 20