Satori

Bay turned and glared at him. “My word.”

105

SAIGON WAS beautiful.

Nicholai thought the city’s sobriquet as “the Pearl of the Orient” was perfectly justified as he rode in a blue Renault taxi down the Rue Catinat.

The broad boulevard – lined with plane trees, studded with sidewalk cafes, bars, restaurants, expensive shops, and exclusive hotels – seemed a perfect blend of French and Asian culture, as if someone had chosen the best of both and placed them in happy harmony, side by side.

Vietnamese police, in their distinctive white uniforms, stoically struggled to manage the swirling Citroen and Renault autos, cyclo-pousses, Vespa scooters, and swarms of bicycles that competed for the right-of-way in a chaos that was a true mixture of the French and Asian styles of driving. Honking horns, jingling bells, and shouts of good-natured abuse in French, Vietnamese, and Chinese contributed to an urban cacophony.

Child street vendors darted and dodged through the traffic to sell newspapers, bottles of orange soda, or cigarettes to customers momentarily stuck in a jam, or sitting at a cafe table, or just walking down the busy sidewalks.

The women were magnificent, Nicholai thought – slim, tiny Vietnamese in tight silk ao dais stopped to window shop, while the elegant French colons, dressed in fashion only a year removed from Paris runways, strode in their slow, long-legged gait to the unabashed, admiring stares of the cafe denizens.

The cab pulled up to the Continental Hotel, a broad white colonial building in the Beaux-Arts style, with its arched windows and pedimented doors. It was the apero hour, that time in the late afternoon when the privileged classes sought refuge from the heat and the day’s work, and all the smarter types gathered on the Continental’s broad cafe terrace that flanked the boulevard. Just across Catinat from the USIS office, the Continental was a convenient place to have a drink, exchange information and intelligence (to such an extent that the cafe was nicknamed “Radio Catinat”), or perhaps to find a companion to share a table now or a bed later.

Ellis Haverford looked through the anti-grenade netting to observe the new arrival as Nicholai unfolded himself from the backseat of the small car. He was dressed like a classic Southeast Asian colon, in the clothes that he had bought in Luang Prabang. Vietnamese bellboys in short white jackets and black trousers ran out to take his luggage and take it into the lobby.

I’m glad to see you, Nicholai, Haverford thought.

He had been reasonably sure that Hel would come to Saigon, but it was good to know he was right.

Nicholai walked past a rather surprising bronze statue of Napoleon to the reception desk.

“Monsieur Guibert?” The metis clerk smiled. He had received a call from Bay Vien himself and was appropriately obsequious. “Welcome to the Continental. It is our pleasure to have you.”

“Thank you.”

“Your room is ready,” the clerk said. “And Monsieur Mancini invites you to have a drink with him, if it is convenient for you. In the bar? Six o’clock?”

“Please relay my honored acceptance,” Nicholai said. Signavi had apparently wasted no time informing his Corsican colleagues of his arrival in the city.

Mathieu Mancini had come to Saigon after World War I, married a wealthy Vietnamese woman, and bought the Continental. Reputed to be the head of L’Union Corse, the Corsican mafia, in Saigon he was a confidant of Bao Dai’s.

And a friend to Bay Vien.

A bellhop took Nicholai to his room on the fourth and top floor. It was large and high-ceilinged, with whitewashed walls and simple but elegant wooden furniture. French doors opened onto a small, private balcony behind iron grillwork. A ceiling fan circulated the humid air, providing some relief.

Nicholai tipped the bellboy and then was glad for some privacy and solitude. He called room service for an iced beer, drew a steaming hot bath, and luxuriated in it for half an hour.

It was good to be in a city again and experience some luxury and sophistication that he hadn’t known since Shanghai. The contrast between the near-scalding water and the cold beer was a sharp delight, and Nicholai allowed himself to give in to the realm of the senses for a few minutes.

Then he evaluated the Go board.

He had advanced his position. I’m safely out of China, he thought, have funds – or will have tomorrow – and am in Saigon with Bay Vien as a patron and protector.

Good and good.

And Solange is likely somewhere in the city.

Better.

But my position is nevertheless precarious.

Haverford is sitting in the bar across the street, apparently unconcerned with being discovered. He knows I’m alive and where I am. Beijing and Moscow will soon know, if they don’t already, and might well send people to kill or kidnap me. Of the two, the Chinese are the greater threat as the Russians will have a problem getting agents into Saigon.

The “Guibert” cover has a short life. I need a new identity, and quickly, if I’m ever to get out of Saigon. And before I leave, I have things to accomplish.

But all that is several moves off, he reminded himself. The next part of the game is to see what Mancini wants.

The Corsican greeted him warmly.

“Monsieur Guibert,” Mancini said. He kissed Nicholai on both cheeks, patted him on the shoulders, and continued, “Welcome, welcome.”

Mancini smelled of cologne and tobacco.

“Thank you, Monsieur Mancini.”

“Call me Mathieu, please.”

“I’m Michel.”

The Continental’s owner was short but looked immensely powerful, barrel-chested with the big, sloping shoulders of a former boxer. A few strands of silver glistened at the temples of thick black hair that was slicked straight back. His off-white cotton suit and monogrammed white shirt were beautifully cut, and he saw that Nicholai noticed.

“I’ll introduce you to my tailor,” Mancini said. “Vietnamese guy at the ‘Botany’ shop, just down Catinat.”

“I would appreciate that.”

“You’re new to Saigon?”

“First time here.”

“You’re in for a treat,” Mancini said. “It’s a beautiful city, beautiful. So many pleasures on offer.”

And which, Nicholai wondered, are you going to offer me?

“Pastaga?” Mancini asked, using Marseille slang for pastis. He searched Nicholai’s eyes for any blink of incomprehension.

“I could do with a pastis,” Nicholai answered. Solange had covered the word with him many times and familiarized him with the thick yellow liqueur, a close cousin of absinthe.

“Ah, you’re from the south,” Mancini said.

“Montpellier,” Nicholai said, deciding to end the honeymoon. “But you knew that already.”

“I know everything, young man,” Mancini said amiably. “Come on, then. I won’t insult you with the crap we serve the colons. The real stuff is out here.”

As he led Nicholai out of the bar into a private garden, Mancini said, “Me, I’m from Corsica originally. But you already knew that. Did you also know that Corsicans make the best assassins in the world?”