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.
“
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 smoker” 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
“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.”
“They disobeyed instructions, then,” Bay said. “I had hoped to accomplish this without violence. Simply have you sell your wares to what you thought were Viet Minh, pay you your money, and let you go on your way. But now…”
Bay shook his head with what appeared to be regret. “Please understand it’s only business.”
Nicholai knew that this development had rearranged the stones on the
He could almost hear Otake-sama’s gentle counsel.
“Yes, poor business,” Nicholai answered.
“How so?”
“Fifty rocket launchers will make the Binh Xuyen very powerful,” Nicholai said. “So what would a hundred make you? Or two hundred?”
Bay Vien scoffed, “You can’t get that many.”
“Not if I’m dead,” Nicholai agreed.
He could virtually see Bay Vien thinking, as well he might. The Binh Xuyen would eventually have to fight the militias, other gangs, and perhaps the Viet Minh. They might even have to go up against their current ally Bao Dai and his regular Vietnamese troops in the future. These weapons could decide the outcome of a battle fought in the streets of Saigon.
And Bay Vien’s thinking, Nicholai contemplated, will determine if I live or die.
100
ELLIS HAVERFORD ALWAYS LIKED Saigon.
In the guise of an employee at the United States Information Service, he had been in and out of the city quite often over the years, and considered it a second home. To him it was the ideal blend of the best of Paris and the best of Asia-the food, the architecture, the wine, the fashion, the women -all without the gray winters and accompanying existential angst that often plagued the city on the Seine. Saigon was a sophisticated town with an easy tolerance for vice-its casinos were honest and well-run, its brothels cheerful, hospitable, and famed for the staggering variety of their courtesans.
And he liked the city’s bars. Saigon was a great town for booze and boozy conversations. The escalating war brought reporters from all over the world, always good for a laugh and a little inside information, always available
