No desirable choice for the ketch. Either stop or be sunk. Grady and William reluctantly furled the headsail and brought down the rest. Grady swung the ketch around ninety degrees so it was headed into the wind.
The chopper circled twice, then hovered off starboard. It had widespread pontoons, unusually fat, oversized ones, which the pilot managed to set down with only slight difficulty on the water’s unruly surface. The engine was cut, the single-blade rotor slowed and came to a stop in line with the chopper’s body. Drift carried the chopper alongside the ketch. Before Grady and William could put out fenders one of the chopper’s pontoons collided against the hull, but only with enough impact to cause a smudge.
The door of the chopper slid open. Two barefoot Burmese soldiers stepped out onto the nearest pontoon and climbed aboard the ketch. Typical Burmese, slightly built, grimly set expressions on their dark, burnished faces. They were armed with automatic rifles. One held his rifle cocked and at the ready on Grady, William and Julia, while the other secured a line to hold the chopper positioned.
A Burmese army captain stepped out onto the pontoon and came aboard. He was in lightweight dress uniform: shirt, tie, two rows of service ribbons and a .45 caliber sidearm in a highly polished brown leather holster. The incongruous thing about him was his black, wing-tipped shoes. He ran his disdainful look up and down Grady. Then William, then Julia. He didn’t move his head, just his eyes.
Lethal-looking little fucker, Grady thought. Not the sort to tolerate much, would shoot them and toss them over the side if the situation got the least bit complicated. Or maybe not shoot, just toss.
The captain gibbered a few sentences in Burmese before abruptly shifting to English. He demanded identification. Passports were shown. He demanded the boat’s papers. The papers were shown. He didn’t express even a hint of satisfaction, snapped an order to his two men and they began searching the boat.
They searched methodically but carelessly, pulling things out of every locker and storage area, strewing clothes and equipment and supplies about. One of the first places they looked was in the main cabin, in the drawer of the cabinet next to the bed. The blue pearls had been kept there in one of Julia’s white athletic socks. The sock was there now but not the pearls.
No pearls.
The captain climbed down onto the pontoon and reported that to someone, evidently a superior, who was remaining out of sight inside the chopper.
Grady thought this might be all there’d be to it. The captain would climb back into the chopper, would signal his men to do the same. The chopper would take off and good riddance.
However, the captain intently heeded what he was told by his superior. He came back aboard and reprimanded the two soldiers for not having searched thoroughly enough. They jumped to it, began going through everything again. A frantic, disorganized search during which they looked into some storage spaces and lockers as many as a half dozen times within a few minutes.
They gave special attention to the galley with all its cupboards and little bins, canisters, pots and cartons of foodstuff. The empty wine bottles in the trash receptacle would have been overlooked had not one of the soldiers brushed against a protruding neck. Causing the chinking sound of glass against glass and also a few telltale clicks.
The soldiers peered down the throats of the dark green bottles, held them up to the light, saw around the labels what was in two of them. They took those two to the captain.
The captain partially inverted one of the bottles.
Several of the blue pearls it contained rolled out and dropped into his palm, along with a dribble of La Tache.
Julia looked to Grady. He had his eyes closed to avoid witnessing the awful moment. Good thing, Julia thought, otherwise no telling what he’d do. Probably he’d go berserk and get himself riddled. She herself was close to that point. She’d almost pulled it off, though. Pearls in the empty wine bottles. When it became obvious that the ketch was going to be boarded she’d hidden the pearls there. Now the bottom line was the old L-L-L, all that swimming and risk yesterday, Love’s Labor Lost. Oh well. She tried to prime up some optimism by telling herself this was a huge, expensive setback, but it didn’t necessarily augur an unhappy ending. She also thought the wish that these Burmese miserables would be made to take a flying leap and a long, pink-yellow-green swim in that lagoon.
The captain commended the soldiers with a brief smile and one nod. Wine bottles in hand, he legged over the lifeline and got onto the pontoon. He had the bottles extended, handing them over to his yet unseen superior within the chopper when a swell caused the chopper to pitch.
One of the bottles was bobbled.
The superior grabbed for it, got it.
However, in so doing, his hands came into view. Just his hands. They were by no means the hands of a Burmese. Too pale to be that, and too large. Huge, coarse-looking hands. The sort of hands that would mark a Caucasian peasant.
Grady believed he recognized those hands.
So did William.
Grady’s involuntary reflex was an aggressive step forward.
The soldiers alerted the aim of their rifles. Another step by Grady and they’d be firing.
William’s shoulders slumped, his arms hung limp at his sides. He appeared to be giving up the situation. It was too much for him to bear. Spiritless, he lowered himself to his haunches. That lower position gave him what he’d hoped he’d get from his feigning. A different perspective of the inside of the chopper. The inside man was still keeping himself out of sight, however the glare from the sea was making the window opaque on the far side of the chopper’s cabin, and from the angle William had of it the man’s face was being reflected.
It was undoubtedly him.
Lesage. Bertin.
That meant the chopper wasn’t really Burmese, just decorated to appear so. The captain and the soldiers also weren’t what they were made out to be. They might be Burmese but they were hired, playing a role, probably Burmese army deserters. There were any number of those who’d jumped over the border. The real thing, though, were the weapons. There was no doubting those automatic rifles nor the threat that they’d be used.
The make-believe captain and soldiers got into the chopper. It drifted clear. Its door was slid shut, its rotor started. As it lifted and did a swooping side-slip away, the ketch and those aboard it were struck by a blast of insolent turbulence.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Is that the lot?” Kumura asked.
“That’s it,” Lesage replied.
“You’re not holding back a few or quite a few?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Possibly to strike a second, harder bargain after we’ve concluded this one.”
“I wouldn’t do that to a partner,” Lesage said, wishing he’d thought of it. “Especially not to a partner who’s also a close friend.”
“Forgive me, Daniel. It’s just that I know what a sharp deal-maker you are.” Kumura hoped his flattery wasn’t too thick. Evidently it wasn’t. Lesage just soaked it up.
They were in the office-study on the ground floor of Kumura’s house. On the surface of the desk between them lay the blue pearls. Kumura was trying his best to modulate his intense interest in the pearls, however each time he sat back and ignored them they soon enough drew him to them and had him on the edge of his chair and hunched. Meanwhile, Lesage was slouched in his chair as though for him the pearls, though blue and rare, held absolutely no fascination.
Lesage had assumed insouciance from the first word when he’d phoned Kumura a few hours ago and during a pause in their discussion regarding a trivial matter had dropped the fact that he (by the way) had acquired another batch of blue natural pearls. Was Kumura by any chance interested? Kumura had difficulty only saying he might be. Kumura let the subject go for a minute or two, then came back to it, suggested offhand that Lesage bring the blue pearls by so he could have a look at them. Lesage put him off until five with the fib that Paulette had a new pedicurist c
oming in from Phuket whom he also wanted to give a try.
That delay was intended to fuel Kumura’s acquisitiveness, however what it did was give Kumura time to settle on how he’d handle the matter if indeed Lesage did have some blue naturals.
Thus, when Lesage showed up at five-thirty with a brown paper bag in hand, Kumura was prepared for him.
The pearls were removed from the bag and grouped upon a square of white velour. The bag was crumpled into a ball and tossed into the wastebasket. Kumura got a ten-power tripod loupe from one of the drawers of the collector’s cabinet situated against the wall behind his desk. He chose pearls at random and examined them carefully, taking his time, making favorable comments. At times he got lost in the depths of their blue vibrancy, not seeing the pearls as pearls as much as he was seeing women. Women he would yet meet and fulfill, young, erotically greedy women whom he’d satiate with his virility, passionate sexual novices whom he’d initiate with such impressive technique and ardor that they’d go through life spoiled for all other men.
Finally, Kumura set the loupe aside. “So, how many do we have here?”
“Fifty-eight.”
“Not fifty-seven or fifty-nine?”
Lesage shrugged indifferently. “To tell the truth,” he said, “I didn’t count them.”
“You’re jesting, of course.”
“I played with them a bit and thought about counting them but then I saw no point in it. They’re so obviously a large lot and I have no intention of selling them by the piece.”
“I see. Still … I find it hard to believe you haven’t counted them. Any other man would have done so a dozen times.”
“You should know by now that I avoid doing the ordinary.”
“That doesn’t say much for me,” Kumura smiled wryly. “Here I sit finding it hard to suppress the urge to know precisely how many there are.”
“Go ahead, count.”
It was crucial to Kumura that he know the exact number of pearls in the lot. Lesage had lied well and Kumura didn’t know which to believe. Were there fifty-eight pearls as Lesage had first said or was it true that Lesage hadn’t bothered to count?
Kumura used the flat edge of a silver letter opener to separate two pearls at a time from the rest—thirty-two, thirty-four, thirty-six…—and while counting asked, “Would you mind telling me where in the world you got these?”
“I’d mind.”
“Somewhere in the Andaman no doubt.”
“Somewhere.”
Forty-two, forty-four… “I suppose you can get more whenever you wish.”
“No, the source is depleted.”
“You’re certain of that?”
“It’s cleaned out. There won’t be more.”
“What a shame. But, if that’s the case you shouldn’t mind my knowing where they came from.” Fifty-four, fifty-six, fifty-eight.
Lesage remained silent.
Kumura abandoned that tack. He reached down into the wastebasket to retrieve the badly crushed brown paper bag. Pretending to have a second better thought he dropped the paper bag back into the basket. He stood and from one of the many higher drawers of his collector’s cabinet brought out a tan, chamois drawstring sack. He put the pearls in the sack, had a slight problem with the drawstring. He paused for a long moment, seeming to be turning over in his mind the sack of pearls he had in his hand. Then, abruptly, as though having reached a decision, he drew open one of the high drawers of the cabinet and placed the sack of pearls into it. Slid the drawer shut sharply. “Okay,” he said, turning to Lesage, “now, how much are you going to stick me?”
“This is twice as good a lot as the first.”
“If you say.”
“A hundred million,” Lesage blurted.
Kumura smiled. “I knew you’d be reasonable.”
“And…” Lesage continued, “controlling interest in the pearl farm here in Bang Wan. I thought what we might do is simply reverse our positions. I’d hold the majority share, you’d take over my limited standing.”
“Is that all?” Kumura asked calmly.
“No. I want a quarter interest in Kumura Worldwide.”
“What else?”
“Those are my terms,” Lesage said firmly. He was quite sure Kumura would go for the hundred million and with owning a lesser share of the farm. He was just as sure Kumura wouldn’t agree to a quarter interest in Kumura Worldwide. He’d included the latter in his demands only to have something to give up.
Kumura nodded thoughtfully to convey that he understood the terms. While evidently considering them, he began pacing back and forth in front of the cabinet. It was a huge piece of mahogany furniture. Over ten feet tall and six wide. Lacquered red as it was, with intricate gold-painted Oriental figures and motifs and hand-shaped brass pulls, escutcheons and hinges, it appeared to be authentically Chinese. However, in truth it was early nineteenth-century English, created by a maker in Bristol. Kumura had come across it one day in a shop on Curzon Street. The most appealing thing about it was its numerous drawers. Fifty-five in the upper section alone. Thirty-three more below. Not tiny drawers, either, but of useful size. For that reason it was called a collector’s cabinet. It was Kumura’s favorite. He regularly took advantage of its features and knew it well.
He stopped pacing, stopped equivocating. Faced the cabinet, pulled out one of its higher drawers. He was removing the tan chamois sack from that drawer when he again had trouble with its drawstring. The drawstring came loose. Several of the pearls escaped the sack and clacked against the mahogany bottom of the drawer.
“Damn!” Kumura exclaimed. He retrieved the pearls, fumbled them into the sack, tightened and tied the drawstring and placed the sack on the desk in front of Lesage.
“By nature,” Kumura said as he resumed his seat behind the desk, “I’m the impulsive sort. Too much so. Always have been. Lately I’ve been trying to check that shortcoming. My inclination is to make this deal, close it here and now and be done with it. This time, however, I’m going to listen to my more judicious self.”
“Meaning?”
“I’m going to give it some thought.”
“What’s the problem? Are my terms too stiff?”
“You know very well I’d never part with any of Kumura Worldwide.”
“So, I’m flexible when it comes to that. Exclude it from my deal entirely, just throw it out.”
“And how about revealing to me the source of the pearls?”
It occurred to Lesage that inasmuch as he’d told Kumura that the source of the pearls had been picked clean he could indicate just about any remote island and say that was it. He acted reluctant, hemmed and hawed some before giving in. “I’ll take you to it,” he promised.
A grateful smile from Kumura.
Lesage believed he had him.
But Kumura was like a big fish that kept slipping off the hook. “You’ll have my answer by tomorrow morning at the latest,” Kumura said, “most likely sooner. Will you be turning in early tonight?”
“I’ll be up,” Lesage said, dejected. He undid the tan chamois sack, took a cursory look in at the pearls, retied the sack and departed.
Kumura stood by the window and watched Lesage’s black Rolls out of sight. He felt like doing a dance around the room. He limited his glee to a single skip on his way to the collector’s cabinet. From the drawer fourth from the top in the second vertical row from the left he removed the chamois sack containing the fifty-eight natural blue pearls.
It had taken some doing, he thought, as he opened the sack and poured a few of the precious blues into his cupped palm.
He’d prepared in advance of Lesage’s arrival three sacks of pearls. One containing forty-five pearls, another containing fifty-five, and still another containing sixty-five. All were cultured pearls that he’d gathered and covertly dyed blue over the years, with the hope that each batch he dyed would somehow be as effective for him as were the natural blues.
He’d placed each of the three identi
cal sacks in a separate drawer on the fifth row down. The sticky part had been the number of pearls. When it turned out that Lesage’s natural blues totaled fifty-eight, Kumura had either to add three to the sack of fifty-five or subtract seven from the sack of sixty-five.
He’d decided it would be easier to take out rather than put in. Accordingly, the troublesome drawstring had been his spontaneous invention, allowing pearls to escape from the sack of sixty-five so that he could recover all but seven.
Thus, the sack he’d given back to Lesage held fifty-eight pearls and, in that regard, Lesage would be none the wiser.
It had been a perfect switch. All those identical drawers. Fifth row down or fourth row down, Lesage hadn’t been alert enough to notice the difference. Also Lesage’s affected air of insouciance had helped greatly. The bloody oaf, Kumura thought. He’d phone Lesage in the morning to tell him no deal.
Of course, Lesage would find out soon enough that his goods were cultured and dyed. As soon as he tried to sell elsewhere that would come out. Lesage would be insulted, perplexed and livid. In that order. When he mentally backtracked, he’d realize when the switch had most likely taken place. He’d rant and accuse, threaten all sorts of action.
Let him.
For Kumura it was a matter of fellicific calculus, the pleasures that would be forthcoming because of the switch far outweighed whatever else he’d have to put up with.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The village of Na Yang.
Ten miles up the coast from Bang Wan.
Grady and William decided they’d put the ketch in there rather than sail directly to the docking shed.
Julia wasn’t asked her opinion of the tactic, and, although she agreed that such stealth seemed a good idea, she resented not having been allowed a voice. Nor was she included in how Lesage should and would be dealt with. Grady and William could think or speak of little else, but when Julia tried to contribute, either her words got stepped on or it was like she was talking to herself. It had become a dangerous matter involving weapons and therefore a male matter.
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