Which way was it going to go? Krit wondered. Would it head for the door to the hall, or toward the window high up on the wall? Which way had it come in? He backed up, uncertain what to do next. The needle was still embedded in its body. If only he’d had time to depress the plunger and give it a shot of the Demerol; that might have slowed it up enough for him to capture and kill it. Hardly daring to take his eyes off its slithering body, he tried to survey the rest of the room for a weapon, of any sort, that he could use against it . . . anything sharp, or blunt and heavy, or long enough to wield effectively.
His eye fell on the crucifix . . . but the serpent was now directly in the way. It had moved toward the door, then stopped. Krit guessed its length at about five or six feet. Slowly it pulled its body into the coiled position again. Krit began to wonder if the Demerol wasn’t leaking into its bloodstream somehow after all.
“Don’t listen to it,” Molloy said, his voice tortured and barely audible. “Just kill it . . .” His hands were straining at the wrist restraints. “Just kill it.”
Krit wondered if he could leap right over it, grab the iron crucifix from the wall, and then hammer it to death. But the snake was watching him fixedly, and seemed, though he knew he was imagining it, to be gauging his intent.
Why didn’t it just continue on, out the door into the hall?
Now it had raised its head again, and brought the needle around in front of it. Opening its jaws, and still looking toward Krit, it hooked the plunger end of the needle with its curved fangs, and as delicately as Krit might have extracted a splinter from a crying child, pulled the whole syringe free of its scales. Krit was astounded. The needle was deposited on the linoleum, where it rolled, harmlessly, in a tiny circle.
Krit had no idea a snake could do something like that.
“Kill it now,” Molloy croaked, “while you can. Kill it while you can.”
But how? And with what?
The serpent hissed, as if to celebrate its feat, and then shuddered, violently, from one end to the other. Krit pulled back even further—was it going to attack now? The shuddering continued, and the coils of its body began to twist and writhe. Before his very eyes, the body of the snake began to expand, like a hose being pumped full of air. Krit grabbed the basin of the bedpan from the nightstand and hurled it at the snake; the basin hit its tail, then clattered into the darkened hallway. The snake was taking in more and more air, puffing itself up, shuddering all the while; it already looked twice the size it had been a minute earlier. Krit grabbed the plastic cup with the straw and threw that too; then he whirled the bedpan lid like a saucer at its head. The snake ducked and the lid banged up against the wall, chewing loose a chip of plaster.
What else could he do? If he threw the kerosene lamp, he’d just set the whole place on fire—and with Molloy still strapped to the bed. He took the Bible and threw that; the pages fluttered wildly as it sailed, uselessly, into the corner. The snake didn’t even look quite like a snake anymore—its body was thicker, more bulbous, each of its dark-green scales the size of a playing card now. It was rising up on its tail, almost standing in the doorway.
“It’s the Devil,” Molloy groaned. “You have to kill it.”
And Krit believed him.
He leapt up onto the end of Molloy’s cot, just missing his feet, and lunged for the crucifix on the wall. But the creature was too fast; Krit was snared, almost in midair, by what felt like a thick, rubber tire lashed around his waist. Something flashed by his face—the creature’s head!—and he felt something wrap itself, like a whip, around his legs. He was yanked off the bed, and held, his feet just touching the floor, in a crushing embrace. His limbs were immobilized, grappled in the coils; he started to scream, but he could not catch enough breath.
The creature seemed to swell, and grow even larger.
Krit struggled, trying to free his arms. But the coils possessed an enormous strength.
He tried to breathe, but each time he did, the coils tightened even more.
He kicked his feet, the toes of his sneakers just scraping the floor, but he couldn’t get his balance.
The crucifix gleamed, only inches from his face, in the amber light of the kerosene lamp.
His body ached from the snake’s contractions; he was suffocating in its coils. And the more he struggled, the bigger, and stronger, the creature became.
Its head suddenly loomed up before his face—huge rounded eyes covered with transparent scales, two black nostrils flaring open, jaws so wide they seemed to be smiling. Krit was choking, gasping for air. The creature’s head reared back, its jaws unhinged; Krit was staring deep into its gullet—pink, vaulted, streaming with saliva. He’d have screamed if he could. The fangs were sharp, and pale white. The jaws spread wider, impossibly wide, and even as he watched and thrashed in horror, they came down again and engulfed his head. Krit felt the fangs sink into the back of his neck; suddenly, everything was black and smooth and soaking wet. His whole body convulsed in shock—and he felt the fangs jerk him, like hooks in a fish, further into the creature’s throat. He tried, one last time, to scream, as the jaws moved lower to swallow his shoulders too, but there was only blackness and heat and water and the fierce rippling contractions that had already begun the monster’s process of digestion . . .
. . .
The whole devouring, witnessed with a cool, steady insanity by Molloy, took the better part of an hour. One sneaker had almost fallen off of Krit’s foot, but the serpent kept it on him long enough to swallow that too. There was something admirable in that, Molloy thought; something very neat and orderly. He’d been in the Navy once, so he’d learned to appreciate a job well done, equipment well stowed, a place for everything and everything in its place. And this was a job well done. When the doctor had been entirely consumed, the serpent lay on the floor beside Molloy’s bed, letting the meal settle. There was a huge bulge in its body where the ribs had spread to accommodate and then pass along the bulk of the food, but the bulge gradually flattened out, diminished . . . and disappeared.
The gray light of dawn filtered in through the screen over the window. The serpent, without so much as flicking its tail, faded away, as if it had never been anything more than a long black shadow cast on the cracked linoleum floor . . . or a nightmare that Molloy had at last awakened from. Now he could close his eyes—funny, he still thought of himself as having two eyes, not one—and get some rest before breakfast.
CHAPTER
12
Morgan never knew exactly what it was, but he always felt slightly uncomfortable in the presence of Lucien Calais. He could think of several things to attribute it to—the man’s reputation for financial guile and inestimable wealth, his peculiar combination of Asian coloring and Western features, the ever-present bodyguard with the limp and the stolid expression—but he couldn’t quite pin his discomfort to any single one of them. After all, as an officer of Lloyd’s of London, he dealt with tycoons and foreigners, of all stripes, all the time, and this was the only one that gave him the creeps like that.
Maybe it was that bloody ponytail he insisted on wearing. It made it feel to Morgan like he was dealing with some faggot fashion designer, instead of a shipping owner. As far as Morgan was concerned, the ponytail just compounded all the rest.
Still, there was business to be done here.
“I won’t deceive you,” he said to Calais, pressing the tips of his fingers together. “There has been a certain measure of . . . concern over the Garuda incident. The fact that no real cause for the explosion has so far been discovered has only added to that heightened sense of, shall we say, hesitancy. It’s difficult to put together consortiums for the purpose of underwriting, as I’m sure you will understand, when there hovers over the enterprise, however faintly, the aroma of possible sabotage.” He opened the little steeple he had made of his fingers. “Where there has been one attempt at all-out war—and a successful one at that, given its own abhorrent aims—there may well be others to come. And no one,
least of all those insuring the target enterprise, wishes to be caught up in the middle of that.”
Calais, sitting on the opposite side of the desk, simply crossed his legs; his expression betrayed nothing.
Morgan went on. “That’s not to say we can’t do it. Lloyd’s prides itself on being able to arrange just such difficult deals, as you know yourself from experience, and we expect to be able to arrange this one for you too. The tanker you propose to buy from the Sembawang Yard in Singapore has, as it were, an impeccable pedigree. And your plans for incorporating it into the present uses of L.C. Carriers, Inc., makes eminent sense to our own directors here. The management of your company has never been in doubt.”
Calais tilted his head slightly, in ackowledgment of the belated praise. But Morgan knew that he was aware of the general tenor, if not the actual terms, of what was to come next. So there was really no point in delaying it any longer.
“There are, as we see it, two distinct questions that require attention and, of course, swift resolution. The first is the rates—premiums, collateralization, amortization—at which the ships of L.C. Carriers have been valued and insured. In view of the recent turmoil, the terms of any underwriting agreement will, unfortunately, have to reflect those liabilities.”
“By how much?” Calais’s voice remained entirely neutral.
“I’ve faxed the figures, completely broken down, to your office in New York. I expect to discuss them later in the week with your Phillip Epstein. In the meantime,” he said, passing a slim accordion file, tied with a blue string, across the desk, “I’ve compiled a rundown for you to look over while you’re here in London.”
Calais took the file.
“How long will you be staying on in our fair city?” Morgan asked, attempting to inject some cordiality into the proceedings.
But Calais had already removed the report from the folder, and was running his eye over some of the figures. “Another day or two,” he replied, without looking up, “no more.” After a few seconds, and after flipping back and forth through the pages, he said, “It appears my costs have increased by anywhere from seventeen to thirty-five percent.”
“Yes.”
Calais burrowed back into the pages, reading quickly; looking up again, he asked, “Why?”
Morgan cleared his throat and said, “Well, as I’ve pointed out, the costs incurred by the Garuda incident, and the possibility—”
“That’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking why there is such a wide discrepancy. There’s something here—a paragraph—about ‘overextension of capital resources.’ Apparently, the directors of Lloyd’s believe that L.C. Carriers is in danger of becoming too large. Am I right? Do you feel that the company is not capable of generating the same level of profits as in the past? You believe that the loss of one tanker—for which I have already found, and negotiated, a replacement—will adversely affect the bottom line to the extent of seventeen to thirty-five percent?” His tone was measured, but incredulous nonetheless.
“No, we don’t,” Morgan said. “But we do believe that there are other factors affecting the future profitability—indeed, viability—of many international shipping lines. Surely your investment bankers in New York have expressed their own reservations about the recent downturn in the global shipping market—the glut of ships, the surge in short-term leasing as a result, increasingly stringent building codes.”
“The ship I’m buying at Sembawang,” Lucien said, dryly, “is double-hulled and state-of-the-art.”
“A point well-taken,” Morgan hastily agreed. “The rest of your fleet is also top-notch. Top-notch, absolutely.”
There was a pregnant pause.
“But that alone does not provide L.C. Carriers with sufficient insulation against the greater forces operating in the global economy,” Morgan went on, “particularly in the Pacific and Southeast Asian areas where so many unpredictable forces—I need not mention the recent events in China, or the looming deadline on Hong Kong’s repatriation—are at work.” He could see that Calais had now grasped where he was going with this, and he paused. “From our perspective, we would be more comfortable to see L.C. Carriers pursuing a policy of retrenchment and solidification, if you will, rather than one of expansion and acquisition.” Then he added, “At this time.”
Calais himself paused, then uncrossed his legs. “Clearly, we’re speaking of my pursuit of the Gold Prow shipping line now.”
Morgan did not disagree.
“A pursuit in which I am challenged by an English aristocrat, with his own plans for expansion and acquisition . . . if you will.”
Morgan cleared his throat again, and said, “If you mean to imply, Mr. Calais, that chauvinism of some sort is playing a part in our advice and counsel, may I hasten to assure you that—”
“That Lloyd’s of London is entirely neutral in this affair,” Lucien interrupted. “That any business relationship that Lord Sykes has with Lloyd’s—and of course he does have one—in no way affects your decision in respect to L.C. Carriers.”
“Precisely,” Morgan replied.
“Then let’s keep it so,” Lucien said, sounding amicable but unpersuaded. “And in respect to Lloyd’s concern about the ongoing solvency of my company, let me assure you that I foresee no fiscal difficulties whatsoever. May I also remind you, with all due respect, that the stability and structuring of my company are based on decisions I alone make. I work with several banks, as you know, in New York, Tokyo, and Bonn, but I do not expect them to devise my strategies, or define my aims. I do that myself, alone. My banks are only there to help me implement those strategies, as smoothly as possible. I do not require their advice, and though it is very kind of the directors of Lloyd’s to offer it, I do not require theirs either.” He offered Morgan a cool smile, which Morgan returned in kind.
“And have you had a chance,” Calais asked, in conclusion, “to come up with the information I requested on A.C.S., Limited, and Lady Birch Farms?”
“Yes, we have some for you,” Morgan said, relieved to be onto something else. “But as we have no professional relationship with either one, all I can really offer you is rather rudimentary. A.C.S.,” he said, referring now to a pale blue sheet he had lifted from his blotter, “is based, it appears, in Taiwan, and Lady Birch Farms is an agricultural importer, with headquarters here in London as a matter of fact, down in Southwark.” He passed the sheet over to Lucien. “I’m afraid we can’t offer you any exact numbers on either one, but neither, so far as we know, is what you’d call a market force. Both are privately held, it appears, and very closely at that.”
Lucien glanced at the sheet, then folded it into the breast pocket of his suit. With this for a starter, he’d put Epstein on the case. And in the meantime, he’d see what he could discover on his own before leaving London. Tucking the folder with the underwriting papers under his arm, he thanked Morgan for his assistance and got up to go. Morgan glided around the edge of the desk and extended a slightly damp hand, which Lucien shook.
Hun was waiting in the outer office, where Morgan wished them a pleasant afternoon; Lucien and Hun took one of the all-glass elevators down to the lobby, and while Lucien waited in the gleaming atrium, Hun went around the comer of Leadenhall Street to fetch the car. The headquarters of Lady Birch Farms would be no more than twenty minutes away.
Hun brought the Bentley around, a car virtually identical to the one Lucien kept in New York—except that the steering wheel was on the opposite side—and Lucien quickly got in. The cold and damp of London would have bothered him at any time, but coming on the heels of Bangkok it was positively oppressive; he’d felt slightly numb ever since his plane had touched down at Gatwick. And no matter how much hot tea he managed to drink, nothing seemed to assuage it.
Lucien told Hun the address they were looking for, then directed him to take Aldgate High Street to Mansell, and from that point to head south toward the Tower Bridge. Traffic in this part of the city was always bad during business hours, but H
un had gotten to be a practiced, even speedy, hand at such navigation; he’d had experience, Lucien reflected, on four different continents now, and only once, in Rio de Janeiro, had he collided with anything (which, in that case, had happened to be the limousine of a prominent mobster). Now, he skirted the back of a double-decker bus, raced past a flock of black taxi cabs, and beat out a mini-van, packed with Japanese tourists, on the approach to the bridge.
Like so many port areas Lucien had seen, this one too was in the midst of rapid change. St. Katharine’s Dock, once cluttered with vast warehouses stuffed with wool and wine, was now dotted with new office buildings of glass and steel; the ships in the harbor, once trading vessels of the West India Company, had given way to sleek pleasure boats, owned by stockbrokers and barristers. The world, Lucien thought, was marching on in its own unpredictable fashion . . . but the eternal forces remained at play.
And most people were oblivious to them.
Perhaps it was the only way they could live their lives at all.
Hun piloted the Bentley over the bridge, the sluggish waters of the Thames passing below, and into the labyrinth of streets that had sprung up, centuries before, on the south bank. Here too, progress had planted its flag, with the occasional apartment complex or boutique bumping elbows with tumbledown commercial buildings and the storefront offices of a thousand small importers. It took some time, threading their way through the narrow passageways between Tooley Street and the river, before they were able to locate, just a stone’s throw from the St. Saviour’s Dock, the headquarters of Lady Birch Farms. It looked no more impressive than the rest of the local enterprises.
Lucien directed Hun to stop the car a hundred yards beyond it. Turning up the collar of his coat, he stepped out of the car. So close to the water, the air was even colder and damper than ever; with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, he strode across the cracked asphalt, passing a boarded-up maritime supplies depot, an animal clinic, and several bleak doorways with rows of buzzers next to the names of various firms. Lady Birch Farms, despite its title, was about as bucolic as a laundromat—the sign above the door was painted red and chipping, the windows were soaped up and covered by iron security gates that were extended even now. As he pressed the bell, and waited in the doorway, Lucien noticed a video camera aimed straight down at him.
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