by Don Winslow
He was truly a “cold warrior”; in fact, the coldest man that Haverford had ever known.
Singleton’s ruthlessness had made him a legend. The éminence grise of the Washington intelligence community, he was respected — even feared — from Foggy Bottom to Capitol Hill, even to Pennsylvania Avenue itself.
For good reason, Haverford thought. Compared to Singleton, Machiavelli was a naïve choirboy and the Borgias subjects of a Rockwell painting. Standing beside Singleton, the devil himself would appear as the angel Lucifer before the fall.
Chief of the OSS Asian Bureau during the war, Singleton was reputed responsible for guerrilla operations in China and Vietnam and was even thought to have been influential in the decision to drop the bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
After the war he had politically survived the “loss” of China, the surprise invasion of Korea, and even attacks from McCarthy and his cohorts. In fact, Singleton was probably more powerful now than ever, a fact that his many enemies, albeit quietly, attributed to his close relationship to Satan.
Now he looked across his desk at the two rival officers.
“Is Hel unstable?” he asked Haverford.
“To the contrary,” Haverford answered. “I’ve never met a man as self-possessed as Nicholai Hel.”
“What are you, in love with the guy or something?” Diamond chimed in, his mouth leering with the crude homophobic implication.
“No, I’m not in love with the guy,” Haverford answered tiredly.
“Kill this mission, sir,” Diamond said to Singleton. “It’s too risky and Hel is a loose cannon. I have much more reliable assassins in southern China that we could send to —”
“Hel is perfect,” Haverford said.
“How so?” Singleton asked.
Haverford laid out his reasoning — Hel was fluent in Chinese, Russian, and French. He was a trained martial artist who could not only execute the sanction, but do so in a way that would leave the manner of death ambiguous, a crucial factor in achieving the maximum positive result.
“Why is French important?” Diamond asked, smelling trouble.
“It’s why we brought you in for briefing,” Singleton said. “Ellis?”
“Hel’s cover will be a French arms dealer,” Haverford said, anticipating Diamond’s discomfiture with great pleasure, “selling weapons to the Viet Minh.”
Indeed, Diamond’s lips bent into a grimace.
“As that affects your Indochinese bailiwick,” Singleton said, “we thought you should know.”
Great, Diamond thought. I don’t have enough trouble trying to keep the Frogs from punting another war without my own team sending aid to the enemy? “You’re not telling me that you’re actually going to —”
“Of course not. It’s just a cover to get Hel to Beijing,” Haverford said. “But we didn’t want you overreacting to any radar pings you might pick up.”
Diamond glared at Haverford. “Keep your boy the hell away from my turf.”
“Don’t worry.”
But Diamond was worried. If knowledge of Operation X — and his real role in it — ever reached Washington … “X” was an Indochinese op, run by the Frogs, so he thought he had it nicely contained. Now this Hel business threatened contamination.
Diamond turned to Singleton. “Sir, I’d like to be kept current with all phases of the operation, if you don’t mind.”
“You’ll be briefed,” Singleton assured him. “Ellis, keep him posted on everything you do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Ellis, if you could stay for a moment.”
Diamond left the meeting. Nicholai Hel free, he thought in the elevator. He felt the involuntary tremor in his leg. Face it, he thought, you’re afraid of the guy, and with good reason. He’s a trained killer with a grudge against you.
And then there’s Operation X.
If there’s even the slightest chance of that getting out.
He couldn’t allow it to happen.
“Does Hel know the identity of his target?” Singleton asked Haverford.
“I haven’t told him yet.”
Singleton thought this over for a few moments, then asked, “Is there anything to what Diamond said? About Hel being a loose cannon?”
“I don’t think so,” Haverford answered. “But I’ve taken the caution of providing, to mix nautical metaphors, an anchor.”
Singleton dismissed Haverford, then checked his schedule with his secretary and saw that he had a few moments for reflection. He went into his private study, sat down at his table, and contemplated the Go board in front of him.
He’d been at this game against himself for some weeks now, and the shapes of the opposing stones were slowly becoming beautiful. They could almost be called graceful in the delicate interplay between the yin and yang of opposites. Only on the go-kang did life promise perfect balance.
Diamond would be Diamond and Haverford would be Haverford — they were virtually fixtures on the board.
But Hel …
Singleton moved a black stone.
Hel would soon learn the identity of his target and would be, shall we say, motivated.
But to do what?
How would this Go player respond? It was not an exaggeration to say that the immediate future of Asia depended on the complex persona of Nicholai Hel.
An “anchor,” Singleton mused.
How interesting.
6
SOLANGE WAS as lovely as her name.
Her hair was the color of spun gold swirling with streams of amber, her eyes as blue as a midday sea. An aquiline nose betrayed the Roman colonization of her native Languedoc, but her full lips could only have been French. A light spray of freckles disrupted an otherwise almost monotonously perfect porcelain complexion, and the soft curve of her high cheekbones prevented what might be an unfortunate severity. She was tall, just a head shy of Nicholai’s height, longlegged and full-bodied, her breasts stretching taut the simple but elegant blue dress.
But it was her voice that affected Nicholai the most. Low but gentle, with that particular Gallic softness that was simultaneously genteel and sensual. “Welcome to my home, monsieur. I hope you will be comfortable.”
“I’m sure I will be.”
Solange offered her hand to be kissed, as if most of his face weren’t obscured by bandages. He took her hand in his — her fingers were long and thin — and kissed it, the cotton of the bandage touching her skin along with his lips. “Enchanté.”
“May I show you to your bedroom?”
“S’il vous plaît” said Nicholai. The long flight from the United States back to Tokyo had tired him.
“S’il vous plaît,” she said, gently correcting his pronunciation to hold the “a” sound a touch longer.
Nicholai accepted the criticism and repeated the phrase, echoing her enunciation. She rewarded him with a smile of approval. “Your nanny was from Tours, perhaps? The purest accent in France. But we need to give you an accent du Midi.”
“I understand that’s why I’m here.”
“I am from the south,” she told him. “Montpellier.”
“I’ve never been.”
“It is beautiful,” she said. “Sunny and warm. And the light …”
His bedroom was simple but tasteful, the walls a yellow that was cheerful without being oppressively chirpy, the spare furniture painted a middle-range blue that perfectly complemented the walls. The large bed — after the cot in his cell it looked massive — was covered with a blue duvet. A single chrysanthemum had been placed in a vase on the bedside table.
“It is a Japanese flower, no?” Solange asked.
“Yes.”
“And you have missed them?”
“Yes,” he said, feeling oddly touched. “Thank you.”
“Pas de quoi.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The proper response would be to say ‘je vous en prie,’ “she said, “but the—comment vous dites — the ‘vernacular’ wou
ld be ‘il n’y a pas de quoi’ or simply ‘pas de quoi.’ Vous voyez?”
“Très bien.”
“Very good,” she said. “But roll your ‘r’ on your tongue, please. Comme ça.” She formed her mouth into a shape that Nicholai found rather attractive. “Très bien.”
“Très bien.”
“And a bit more through the nose, please.”
He repeated the words, giving the ending a nasal twang.
“Formidable,” she said. “Notice the trace of a ‘g’ at the end, but just a ghost of one, please. You don’t want to sound like a rustic, rather a cultured man of the south. Are you tired or would you like to take lunch now?”
“I am more hungry than tired.”
“I have taken the liberty of preparing something.”
She led him into a small dining room. The window gave a view onto a karesansui Japanese rock garden bordered by a high bamboo wall. The garden had been done with skill, and reminded him of the garden he had so meticulously constructed at his own home in Tokyo. He had found a measure of contentment in that home before making the decision to kill Kishikawa-sama. He asked, “Am I allowed the freedom of the garden?”
“Of course,” she said. “This is your home for as long as you are here.”
“Which is for how long, please?”
“As long as it takes you to recuperate,” she said, effortlessly deflecting the real question. Then, with a smile that was just mischievous, she added, “And to learn proper French.”
Solange gestured to a chair at the table.
He sat down as she walked into the kitchen.
The room, like the rest of the house’s interior, was completely European, and he wondered where she had acquired the furnishings. She probably hadn’t, he decided, it was more likely her American masters who provided the resources to replicate a French country house, albeit with a karesansui. Doubtless they’d calculated that he would absorb his French “cover” through some sort of decorative osmosis, just as doubtless after consultation with a “psychologist,” one of those priests of the new American civil religion. Nevertheless, the room was pleasant and stimulating to the appetite.
So was the aroma coming from the kitchen. Delicate, with a trace of wine perhaps, and he thought he detected the musty aroma of mushrooms. Solange returned and set a stoneware casserole on the table, removed the lid and announced, “Coq au vin. I hope you like.”
The smell was tantalizing.
He said, “I have not had European cuisine in many years.”
“I hope it will not upset your stomach,” she said. “It is necessary, though, that you eat mostly French food from now on.”
“A pleasure, but why?”
Solange pursed her lips into a pretty pout, then answered, “I wish to say this delicately, without giving offense …”
“Please be blunt,” he said, although he doubted that bluntness was in her repertoire.
“As it is,” she said, “you smell like a Japanese. Il faut que vous ayez l’odeur d’un vrai français.”
“I see.” It was so, of course. In his prison cell, he could discern the nationality of someone coming down the corridor by his odor. The Americans had that beef smell on them, the Russians the strong scent of potato, the Japanese guards smelled of fish and vegetables. And Solange? All he could smell was her perfume.
“May I serve?” she asked.
“Please.”
She ladled out a healthy portion of the rich chicken and wine dish, then took some asparagus spears from another dish and put them on his plate. Then she poured him a glass of rich red wine. “It is good to serve the same wine in which you braised the chicken. Good French wine, monsieur.”
“Call me Nicholai.”
“Eh bien, Nicholai,” she answered. “Please call me Solange.”
“What a lovely name.”
She blushed, and it was very pretty. Then she sat down and served herself, but waited for him to taste his food. When he did, she asked, “Do you like?”
“It’s extraordinary.” He was telling the truth. The flavors, subtle yet distinct, burst in his mouth, and the taste of the wine recalled boyhood meals at home with his mother. Perhaps, he thought, I might take up European wine … if I survive. “My compliments to the chef.”
She bowed her head. “Merci.”
“You made this?” he asked, surprised.
“I love to cook,” she said. “I’ve had little chance these past few years, so it is a great joy.”
Solange took up her fork and ate with a relish that would have been considered unbecoming in a Japanese woman, but in her was quite appealing, a joie de vivre that Nicholai hadn’t seen during the long years of war, the hungry occupation, the lonely prison. It was a pleasure to watch her enjoy the meal. After a few minutes he said, “So the man I am meant to imitate, he ate French food even in Asia?”
“I believe so.”
“How did he manage that?”
“Money,” she answered, as if it were obvious. “Money makes all things possible.”
“Is that why you work for the Americans?” he asked, instantly regretting it and wondering why he felt an impulse to offend her.
“Tout le monde,” Solange said. “Everyone works for the Americans now.”
Including you, mon ami, she thought, smiling at him. She got up from her chair. “I made a tarte tatin. Would you like some?”
“That would be nice.”
“Coffee?”
“I would prefer tea, if you have it.”
“Coffee for you now, Nicholai,” she said. “Un express avec une cigarette.”
She left for a minute, then returned with the apple tarte, a small pot of espresso, and a pack of Gauloises and set them on the table.
“I apologize for my rudeness,” Nicholai said. “I have become unused to conversation.”
“Pas de quoi.” She liked that he apologized.
The tarte was delicious, the coffee, surprisingly more so. Nicholai sat back in his chair and Solange nudged the pack of cigarettes toward him. “Take two,” she said, “light them, and give one to me.”
“Seriously?”
She laughed. “Didn’t you ever go to the cinema?”
“No.” It always seemed an odd concept to him, to sit and stare at other people’s fantasies projected through a strip of celluloid.
“I love the cinema,” Solange said. “I wanted to be an actress.”
Nicholai thought to ask what had prevented her — certainly she was attractive enough — but then decided that the answer might cause her sadness, so he refrained. Instead, he shook two cigarettes from the pack, put them both in his mouth, then struck a match and lit them. When the tip of one glowed, he handed it to her.
“Formidable,” Solange said. “Paul Henreid would be jealous.”
Nicholai had no idea what she meant, but he inhaled the smoke and endured a spasm of coughing. It hurt where the stitches were. “It’s been a while,” he said when he recovered.
“Apparently.” She laughed at him but he didn’t feel in the least offended or embarrassed. It was more as if they were sharing an amusing moment, and he started to laugh himself. Again, it hurt a little bit, and he realized that it had been a very long time since he’d laughed with another person.
Solange discerned his thought. “It is good, no? We have not lived through laughing times, I think, you and me.”
“Nor the world at large,” Nicholai said
She refilled his wine glass, then her own, lifted it and said, “To better times.”
“To better times.”
“You must learn to smoke, Nicholai,” she said. “All Frenchmen smoke.”
“I sneaked cigarettes when I was a boy in Shanghai,” Nicholai answered. “The Chinese smoke like chimneys. Smoke, and spit.”
“We can do without the spitting, I think.”
After lunch he strolled in the garden.
It had been very well done, indeed. Pathways led around an area of gravel carefull
y raked to replicate the ripples of the ocean. A small “island,” of short grass and stone, in the middle of the “sea,” represented the mountains of Japan. Shrubs had been perfectly placed around the path to offer a fresh perspective at every curve.
Like life itself, Nicholai thought.
7
THE NEXT FEW WEEKS passed in pleasant routine.
Nicholai woke early and went into the garden to meditate. When he came out, Solange had a café au lait and a croissant ready for him, and while it took him some time to get used to the concept of bread for breakfast, he came to enjoy it. After breakfast they engaged in conversation, during which she corrected his accent and suggested current slang and vernacular. Solange was an exacting taskmistress, which Nicholai appreciated.
For her part, Solange knew that the slightest slip, a careless anachronism or a lapse into a stilted formality, could cost him his life. So she pushed him hard, insisted on perfection, challenged his intellect and considerable talent for languages. He exceeded her expectations — his pride made him a superb student.
They conversed through lunch, and then Nicholai took his customary walk in the garden. Knowing that he needed solitude, she was discreet enough never to accept his polite invitation to join him. Instead, she had a small rest before starting preparations for dinner. When he came back, they would go over maps of Montpellier, photographs of certain cafés, restaurants, and landmarks that a native would know. She quizzed him about the Place Ste.-Anne, the marketplace, who sold the best peaches, where one could get a decent bottle of wine for a price.
Following the afternoon study session, Nicholai repaired to his room to rest, study, and bathe, which he did in a gloriously hot Japanese tub. He emerged from the near-scalding water delightfully refreshed, and then dressed for dinner, which was always French and always superb. After dinner they had a coffee and a cognac, conversed casually, perhaps listened to a little radio until Solange retired to her bedroom.
Then Nicholai changed into a gi and went out into the garden for his nightly ritual. At first, Solange peeked through her window blinds to watch him perform the intricate maneuvers of the kata — the repetitive martial arts routines — of hoda korosu, “naked kill.” He appeared to be dancing, but after a few nights of watching Solange started to perceive that he was fighting numerous imaginary enemies coming at him from all directions, and that the motions of the “dance” were in fact defensive blocks followed by lethal strikes. If it was a dance, it was a dance of death.