Satori

by Don Winslow

  The first thing he felt was the shock of the cold water as he went under. He pulled himself to the surface, then felt the mental shock of knowing that he was in the river and inexorably headed for the waterfall.

  He had been in bad situations before, while exploring narrow passages in caves during his happy years with friends in Japan. Then, the chambers had closed in and seemed to offer no way out. Or he’d been trapped by underground streams, the water hissing below him in the pitch black, and he’d enjoyed the danger, so now he forced his mind to dismiss the terror and focus on survival.

  The first thing to do was get turned around, so he struggled successfully to get feet-first into the current. He didn’t know what waited at the bottom of the fall, but it was certainly better to encounter it with his feet instead of his head, smashing his legs, perhaps, instead of his neck or skull. He knew that he was dead anyway if the fall landed shallowly on rock, but honor demanded that he do his best.

  Then he pressed his arms tightly to his sides and closed his legs to create as compact a vessel of himself as he could, so his limbs wouldn’t create levers that might tip him sideways and roll him, akimbo, over the falls.

  He held his neck and head up out of the water until the last possible moment, then took a deep breath (his last? he wondered) and went over the edge.

  The fall was long and violent, the water battering him to try to knock him out of his posture, but he held firm, waiting for the “landing” that would shatter his body, maim him, or offer the next challenge.

  Then he felt the stillness of a pool and realized that he’d survived the fall.

  He looked back up and realized that he’d plunged at least forty feet. Treading water to catch his breath, he looked downstream and saw, on the right edge, both rafts pulled up on the shore.

  They were in bad shape.

  The canopy of the first raft was stoved in, and several oars were broken. The second raft looked little better, its bow jagged like a broken tooth. But both had made it through the Dragon’s Throat and, miraculously, the crates sat in the middle like cows lying down in the face of bad weather.

  One of the crew standing on the edge saw him and started to point and yell as Nicholai, exhausted, swam for the shore, where he just lay on the rough stones, unable to move.

  “Thought you were a goner,” Tasser said, standing over him.

  “So did I.”

  “Glad you made it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Yeah, you have the rest of my dough.”

  On that sentimental note, he pulled Nicholai to his feet.

  They spent the next three days resting, repairing the damaged rafts and oars, and perusing the rough map of the next stretch of the river.

  “This so-called map is useless,” Nicholai said.

  So Tasser and Nicholai walked downstream, climbed a steep cliff on the right bank, and confirmed their worst fear: an enormous fall, higher than the one that nearly killed them, loomed just downstream.

  “We can’t run that,” Nicholai said.

  “Nope.”

  They would have to go around it. With only nine men, a portage would be long and arduous, but they had no choice. So they went back and began the long task of disassembling the rafts and hewing poles with which to heft the crates. This took two more days — making an unplanned delay of five days — so dwindling supplies became a concern. With no villages in the wilderness of the Lekang River gorges in which to buy food, they would have to cut rations, a serious problem with the increase in labor that the portage would extract.

  But no one complained about these hardships, when weighed against the terror of another run down worse rapids. The men worked steadily, and in two days they were ready to set out.

  For three days they worked in relay teams, hefting, pulling, dragging, and pushing the rafts’ logs up the slope beside the massive waterfall, then lowering them down using ropes wrapped around trees as counterweights. Then, while two of the crewmen reassembled the rafts, the other six men carried the heavy crates with their lethal cargo over the same route.

  To the extent that one can enjoy grueling physical labor, Nicholai did so. The battle against the physics of hauling heavy material up and down a mountain and the struggle against the limitations of his own body and spirit seemed simple and clean as opposed to the more underhanded conflicts of his mission.

  No deception was involved in this, just the direct application of muscle and sweat, determination and brains. Nicholai found it to be a cleansing process — even the sharp edge of hunger that came on the second day seemed only to sharpen his senses and purge the malaise that he only now realized had set in after leaving Solange.

  And the Tibetan crewmen were a marvel of cheerfulness and stamina. Having begun their working lives as sherpas, lugging heavy baggage on the slopes of the Himalayas, they were not daunted by this task and seemed to find the complexities of maneuvering the loads to be a pleasant intellectual as well as physical challenge. They loved to solve the problems of weight and counterweight using complicated arrangements of ropes and knots that fascinated Nicholai.

  He resolved that, if he survived this mission, he would spend more time in the mountains and master the techniques of technical climbing.

  At night the Tibetans would build a fire, brew strong pots of tea from the dwindling supply, and make soup that got thinner each night. Still it was a good time, resting sore muscles and listening to the tales of ghosts and spirits, sage holy men and brave warriors that the crewmen would tell while Tasser translated into colloquial American English.

  Then Nicholai would sleep the sleep of the dead, waking only just before dawn, when the day’s good and hard work would begin again. He was almost disappointed when, after three days, the portage was accomplished, the rafts reassembled, and the journey downriver could begin again.

  The river was gentler below these falls. Jagged rocks and shallows, with the occasional rapids, still caused problems, but in only two days, Tasser checked the cartoon-map and happily announced, “We’re out of goddamn China.”

  They were in the French colony of Laos, and the river changed its name from the Lekang to the Mekong.

  In an almost mystical way, the river itself seemed to recognize the change. It broadened, slowed, and darkened with the collected silt brought all the way down from the Himalayan foothills.

  “Like us,” Tasser observed. “Brown and down from Tibet.”

  The mountains that flanked the river became greener, verdant with jungle vegetation, and here and there a bamboo village, its houses on stilts against the seasonal floods, appeared suddenly around a bend of the twisting river.

  They put in at one of these villages to buy food, and Nicholai realized that Tasser knew a little more than he let on.

  “I don’t know what you got in those goddamn crates,” Tasser said, “and I don’t want to know. But if you’re taking them where I think you’re taking them, keep your lips zipped. These are Hmong people, and they don’t much like Commies. So don’t give them any of that “Comrade” shit, or they might take one of them curvy knives and lop off your head. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Another thing,” Tasser warned as he piloted the raft onto a sandy spot along the right side of the river. “Turn a blind eye to what you see here.”

  He pointed across the river. “That’s Siam over there. Land of the Thais. Also land of the poppy. This here is prime opium-growing country, and the river downstream from here is a highway for dope. The Hmong grow it, so do the Thais. It’s how they feed their kids.”

  “I understand.”

  “You’d better,” Tasser said. “We smile, we buy our groceries, we get back on the water pronto.”

  Nicholai stayed on the raft while Tasser took two men and went to buy supplies. Naked Hmong children happily dove off a rickety bamboo pier into the water. The women, in their unique black caps, sat nearby, kept a watchful eye, and sneaked shy glances at the tall European sitting on the raft. Ni
cholai heard dogs barking in the village and the ubiquitous bleating of goats and cackling of chickens.

  Barely half an hour later Tasser returned with mesh nets full of bananas and other fruits, greens, rice, and smoked fish. Nicholai felt ashamed of his suspicions as Tasser gave the order to shove off and the raft swirled back into the gentle current. Then the captain handed Nicholai a bottle of clear liquid.

  “Take a belt,” Tasser said.

  Nicholai took a swallow and felt like his stomach, lungs, and brain were on fire. “Good God, man, what is it?”

  “Lao-lao,” Tasser answered. “Hmong moonshine.”

  Nicholai helped one of the crew build a fire in the charcoal stove and soon they had a delicious meal of rice, fish, and bananas. Then he took his turn at an oar, and when relieved sat on the edge and enjoyed the beautiful, verdant countryside, the green mountains and limestone cliffs.

  Two days later they came into Luang Prabang.

  98

  NICHOLAI CUT an odd figure checking in to the small guesthouse.

  His clothes were torn and mud-stained, his hair long and disheveled, his face brown as a nut and weatherworn. He ignored the desk clerk’s stare with an aristocratic insouciance and asked for the best room available, preferably with a view of the river.

  “Does Monsieur have luggage?”

  “Monsieur does not.”

  “Will it be arriving from the airport, perhaps?”

  “Probably not,” Nicholai said. He produced a handful of bills from his pants pocket and laid them on the counter.

  “Passport?”

  Nicholai handed over the passport indentifying him as Michel Guibert. It was a calculated risk, one that might send teletypes singing in Beijing, Moscow, and Washington, but Nicholai doubted it. Luang Prabang was a backwater even in Indochina, and there were probably no alarm bells here to be rung. Still, French intelligence would no doubt have a presence here, but Nicholai was counting on that.

  The clerk copied down the passport information and handed it back to Nicholai with a key. “Room 203 has a charming view of the river. Would Monsieur like a razor sent up?”

  “Yes, please,” Nicholai answered. “And coffee, croissant, and the most recent newspaper available, if you will.”

  The clerk nodded with satisfaction.

  Clean and shaven, Nicholai sat on his small balcony and enjoyed the excellent croissant.

  The pastry seemed at odds with the intense heat that was building in the late morning, but nevertheless tasted good along with the cup of strong espresso. It was all very French — even as the file of saffron-robed young monks walked by on their way back from the ritual morning alms solicitations.

  A main thoroughfare of the old Laotian royal capital, Khem Kong Road ran along the riverbank and was lined with shops, restaurants, and French cafés. A blend of odors — steamed fish and crepes — spoke redolently of the town’s mixed culture. Ancient Buddhist temples stood beside elegant French colonial manor houses, the red-tiled roofs of which would not have been out of place along the Mediterranean Sea instead of the banks of the Mekong. Beautiful emerald green mountains rose across the brown, muddy river. It was a scene of great tranquility, in sharp contrast to the shipment of lethal weapons waiting on the rafts just a few hundred yards upriver.

  Nicholai took another bite of the croissant and read his newspaper, a week-old copy of the Journal d’Extrême-Orient. He hadn’t seen the news in several months, but was not surprised to see that little had changed. Negotiations to end the Korean conflict dragged on, the Viet Minh had defeated the French at a battle near Hoa Binh in the north, a Cambodian nationalist demanded that French forces leave the country, then was forced to flee and was branded both a Communist and an agent of the CIA by the editorialist. In Saigon, the puppet emperor Bao Dai welcomed a delegation from the French film industry and —

  He almost missed it at first, in the dull list naming the delegation: Françoise Ariend, Michel Cournoyer, Anise Maurent …

  Solange Picard.

  Solange was not in Tokyo but in Saigon. As a member of a French film delegation. Interesting.

  Saigon, he thought.

  How interesting, how coincidental.

  Haverford must think me a fool.

  Nicholai walked up the street to a clothier.

  The heat of afternoon was on — the air was moist with the promise of rain. The dry season in Southeast Asia would soon be over, the monsoons would be coming on. With the temperature at least a hundred degrees and humid, Nicholai’s shirt was soaked with sweat by the time he went into the shop. He bought three cotton shirts, two pairs of linen trousers, a white linen suit, a pair of oxford shoes, and a panama hat and had them sent back to his hotel. Then he found another shop and bought a decent suitcase. Now he could simply pack, walk away from the suicide mission to take the weapons into the south of Vietnam, and go to Saigon into the trap that the Americans were setting with Solange as bait.

  He could see the go-kang, and the stones moving, and he saw his way through.

  But he couldn’t and knew that he couldn’t.

  He had given his word to Yu, and he had to go and make contact with the Viet Minh agent.

  99

  NICHOLAI SAT in the back of a pedicab as it wound its way down Sisavangvong Road.

  The cab dropped him off at the edge of an old Luang Prabang institution, the “Night Market,” an open-air bazaar with hundreds of small stands selling balls of sweet sticky rice, bits of fried fish, steaming cups of tea, and a few dozen delicacies that Nicholai didn’t recognize. Other stands offered delicate parasols, brightly colored paper lanterns, cotton shirts, trousers, sandals, candles, and little statues of Buddha.

  The rich smells, sights, and sounds were a heady contrast to the austerity of the long river journey. The merchants loudly proclaimed the virtues of their wares or haggled with buyers, the acrid smell of charcoal fires competed with the aromas of sizzling chili sauces in open woks, and, even under lantern light in the dark alleys, the various merchandise combined to make a riotous panoply.

  Nicholai easily edged his way through the crowd. At least a head taller than most of the shoppers, he was nevertheless inconspicuous. The Laotians were used to the French colonials and Nicholai looked and acted like one.

  He came to a stand selling live birds. The birds were pretty and much too small to eat. Choosing a bird with electric blue and green feathers, he untied it and the bird flew into the night, albeit without the Buddhist prayer that freed birds were usually meant to convey.

  Nicholai strolled farther into the market, drank a hot green tea, made a few small purchases, and then tried some fried fish in hot chili oil and coriander. He’d not quite finished it when a man sidled up and quietly said in French, “Follow me.”

  They left the market through a narrow alley and Nicholai’s nerves tingled in this potential trap. But it was not unlike working through a tight chamber in a cave, and he calmed his mind and let his senses guard for danger.

  They emerged from the alley into a tight dirt street. Nicholai smelled the distinct aroma of opium as he followed the man into a ramshackle building. It was dark inside, the front room lit only by the glow of the pipes. The smokers, sitting or lying around the walls, lost in their opium dreams, didn’t even look up, but Nicholai’s proximity sense alerted him.

  The third opium smoker along the wall, in the stained black shirt, was there to kill him, if need be. Nicholai grasped the small ivory letter opener with the carved elephant handle he’d bought at the Night Market.

  “Wangbadan,” Nicholai said in Cantonese.

  Son of a bitch.

  He saw the flicker of recognition in the alleged Viet Minh’s eyes before the man quickly recovered and asked in French, “What?”

  The ivory blade flashed out of Nicholai’s sleeve and pressed against the neck of the supposed Viet Minh agent. He said in Cantonese, “If that man moves, I’ll kill you.”

  The agent understood. He looked at the “opium s
moker” and slowly shook his head. Then he said to Nicholai, “I didn’t see you buy that.”

  “That’s right,” Nicholai said. “Where is the man that I was supposed to meet?”

  “I am the man you —”

  Nicholai pressed the point against his carotid artery. “I won’t ask again.”

  “Dead.”

  Nicholai felt more than saw the gun come out from under the “opium smoker’s” black shirt and he flicked the letter opener. The blade went straight into the gunman’s throat and he slumped to the floor.

  The other Binh Xuyen took the chance and launched a knee strike at Nicholai’s solar plexus. He turned to deflect the blow, then crossed his hands, grabbed the man’s head, and jerked in both directions. The neck snapped and the man went limp in his hands.

  Nicholai let him drop just as three men with machine pistols burst through the back door.

  “I’m impressed, Monsieur Guibert.”

  The boss of the Binh Xuyen gang was physically unimpressive.

  Short and slight, with a receding line of nevertheless jet black hair, his left eye went off at an odd forty-five-degree angle, and it looked like the orbital bone around it had been smashed. He wore a plain khaki linen shirt, light khaki trousers, and sandals over white socks.

  Now he contemplated Nicholai for a moment and asked, “Would you prefer to speak in French or Chinese?”

  “As you wish,” Nicholai said in French.

  “Do you know who I am?” the man asked in Cantonese.

  “I imagine,” Nicholai answered, “that you’re with the Binh Xuyen.”

  “I am not with the Binh Xuyen,” the small man said. “I am the Binh Xuyen.”

  “Bay Vien.”

  Bay nodded. “You should be flattered by my personal attention. I usually delegate these errands, but I was in town on business anyway, so … You appear to have killed two of my men, Monsieur Guibert.”

  Nicholai knew that this was not the time to attempt a retreat. To back off would be to die. “Generally speaking, I do kill people who try to kill me first.”