Thai Horse

the business offices of the Chiu Chaos in Hong Kong, Bangkok, Singapore and Seattle. Before he was twenty he was in New York learning the business of the street and had already killed three times , for his main role in the hierarchy of the White Palm was still to take his father’s place as the Red Pole executioner.

As the new san wong of the White Palms, Fong would have made his father proud, for he had become an expert at the economics of the trade. Now the profits were so enormous that police could be bought and whole nations could be corrupted. Dope smuggling had become the most profitable business in the world, and a fifth of all the heroin sold in the United States came from the Golden Triangle in northern Thailand. And despite his ch’u-tiao, his blood oath to kill Hatcher — the man who had executed his father and now Joe Lung — the business of powder had to come first, for he had stretched his authority by setting up deals with the most productive hill tribes in the Golden Triangle.

Each year he had spread his empire farther, moving more deeply into the Triangle, taking dangerous risks with the suspicious and volatile mountain bandits. Every time the government burned out a field or coerced a hill tribe into planting coffee or mushrooms, Fong went deeper and found new tribes willing to cultivate the lucrative poppy.

His gamble had paid off handsomely. Fong now controlled the flow of Thai heroin for all the Chiu Chao families, and that was almost 5 percent of all the heroin that came out of Thailand. And in secret conclave, the Chiu Chaos were at that very moment, confirming him as san wong, master of all the families.

Fong needed someone to take his place as enforcer, someone he could trust. He decided that someone would be Billy Kot.

Handpicked from among the many assassins who served the White Palms, Kot was bright, clever, awesomely ruthless and, in Fong’s eyes, the most efficient killer in the world, next to Tollie Fong himself. Kot was only twenty- six, but he was a college graduate, and now it was time to move him up.

Leaning over the back of the seat, Fong began a dialogue with Billy Kot, who leaned forward with his ear close to Fong’s mouth.

‘You must learn this part of the business because you are going to be the next Red Pole.’

Kot reared back in surprise, for the news was totally unexpected.

‘It is more than just the business of the Red Pole,’ said Fong. ‘You must not only enforce the rules of the Society, you must also control negotiations up here as well.’

‘I understand,’ Billy Kot said, trying to control his excitement at the news. ‘I promise to be worthy of your trust.’

‘You must learn the ways of each of the hill leaders. To us they are like arteries to the heart. They must learn to trust you. And they are all different.’

‘What of General Dao?’

‘General Dao has been head of the Hsong tribe for fourteen years, since he was twenty-two,’ Fong began. ‘For three hundred miles in every direction, the tribes fear the Hsong.’

‘Is he a warlord?’

‘He does not start things, but be does not bow down either. They have not waged war on anyone for at least ten years.’

‘So he is a tough guy,’ Billy Kot said.

‘Very. The army is afraid of him. Two years ago he threw out the nai amphoe, and Bangkok never even replaced the man. He is not like some of the others, always crying about the federals burning their fields, trying to gouge a few extra dollars for every joi.’

‘Is he friendly?’ Kot asked.

‘He smiles,’ Fong answered with a shrug, ‘but he is cautious. The secret is to treat him with respect, never threaten him. An insult or threat, even an unwitting one, could be mistaken as an act of war. His bing yahn would drop us all on the spot. At the very least he would end our arrangement. So be careful.’

‘I will just listen this time.’

‘No, do what your spirit says. If you make a slip, the White Fan will warn you. He will stand or sit between us and Dao and to the side, partly facing us. If he shakes his head, stop talking, and he will handle the problem.’

‘How much gum does the Hsong produce?’

‘He is not a big producer, but the powder is as pure as it gets and he does it all, including the refining. Each year he has increased his production. I don’t know what the yield will be this year.’

Below them they saw a village, not large, perhaps a hundred hooches, forming neat patterns on a high, lush mesa. Beyond it was Powder Mountain, its poppy fields denuded by the harvest. The pilot jockeyed the chopper around and put it down beside a dirt road at the foot of the mountain.

‘This is the main village,’ Fong said as they crawled out of the plane. ‘There are three or four smaller ones around. And the Hsong bing yahn live in the jungle. They are everywhere, do not underestimate them.’

‘How many soldiers?’ asked Billy Kot.

‘I have no idea,’ Fong answered. ‘Three hundred maybe.’

‘Weapons?’

‘Everything. Subguns, M—14s, grenade launchers, a lot of small stuff. Very well armed.’

A battered antique of an army truck was waiting for them. They crawled in the back and sat facing each other as it rattled and rocked up the barely passable road to the village, thirty-five hundred feet above the valley floor.

‘He can use a new truck or two,’ said Fong, nodding to the White Fan. The old man made a mental note of it.