Satori

120

SOLANGE PRETENDED that she was lying on the beach at Frontignan and Bao Dai was a small wave that kept washing over her.

The wave – finally – broke.

She waited for a politely appropriate spell of postcoital intimacy and mutual praise, then rolled over for a cigarette.

“He seemed quite interested in you,” Bao Dai said, getting up for a smoke of his own and a glass of scotch. “A drink?”

“Thank you, no. Who did?”

Bao Dai smiled indulgently. “Please, my darling, trust me when I say that I’ve had more than my fill of games tonight. We both know that I’m referring to your handsome fellow countryman.”

“That Guibert?”

“That Guibert.”

Solange got out of bed, slipped into a white silk robe, and cinched the belt around her waist. Then she sat on the Louis XIV loveseat and looked over at him. “Men do find me attractive. Am I meant to apologize for that?”

“Only if the attraction is mutual,” Bao Dai answered. “Was it?”

Solange shrugged. “You said yourself that he is a handsome man. The world is full of them. I suppose you could have me blinded…”

“You’re being glib.”

“What else should I be,” she asked, “when you’re being silly? I’m with you, darling, not with him. I’m a little hurt – I thought you noticed.”

He walked over and put his arms around her neck.

She hated his touch.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Perhaps it’s that he took so much from me tonight. I was worried that maybe he took you as well.”

“Oh, now you are being silly,” she answered, turning her neck to kiss his fingers. “Vous me faites briller.”

Later he went into his private study, picked up the phone, and ordered, “Kill him.”

121

NICHOLAI LAY ON HIS BACK on his bed and forced Solange out of his mind.

Focusing instead on creating a mental go-kang, he reviewed the state of play as it stood at the moment.

My position, he decided, is strong but ephemerally so. I have sufficient funds to launch and sustain my next moves, but what should those moves be? The possession of Voroshenin’s papers is promising but the promises must be fulfilled – a tricky prospect.

Nor can I rely on Haverford’s promise of a new passport. It could just as easily be a setup for another termination attempt, and in any case would still leave a trail that the CIA could follow. Then there are the papers I am due from the Viet Minh, but do I want them and the Chinese to also have a way to track me?

In either case, I would still be in my perpetual peripatetic prison.

But let them both think I need their passports.

Or that we do.

Solange had been so difficult to read. She would have made a superb Go player – maybe she will, he thought, if she decides to come with me and we manage it. But she had looked indifferent, icy, and angry in turn – furious, in fact, when I took the money from Bao Dai.

Was it an act? The theatrical skills of a first-class courtesan on display, or is she really with Bao Dai and through with me? Certainly she gave me not the slightest sign otherwise, but then again, given the situation, she had to be circumspect. Or was I the one exposed to the “theatrical skills of a first-class courtesan”?

His doubts surprisingly painful, he moved on to scan the position of the white stones that still surrounded him.

They were many and they were in motion.

Start with Haverford and the Americans. Despite his protestations to the contrary, it is still most likely that he intended me to be killed in Beijing and was surprised and dismayed that I survived. Now that I’ve openly surfaced in Saigon we’re both pretending, at least, to be friends and allies.

But will the Americans make another attempt?

If so, which Americans? It is most likely that Diamond was responsible for the attempt back in the rock garden in Tokyo (which seemed like another lifetime). Would he now make another attempt in Saigon, with or without Haverford’s assent?

Then there are the French, doubtless edgy at the thought of a stranger getting near their opium-smuggling operation. They will be suspicious, perhaps lethally so, and if the army isn’t moved to act, the civil authorities might be, considering that a mess will soon land on their desks as soon as it is discovered in Moscow and Beijing that Michel Guibert is alive in Saigon.

And what about L’Union Corse? The opium trade is the wellspring of their wealth, from which they draw to purchase their hotels, clubs, and restaurants. While they appear to be cooperative, soliciting as is their nature their “cut of the action,” “Corsican” is virtually synonymous with “treacherous.”

On the topic of treachery, he thought, can you really trust Bay Vien, a man who has switched sides before and doubtless will again? Will his albeit temporary alliance with Bao Dai cause him to betray you as well?

And, if so, to whom? Bao Dai is the obvious choice, but it is well to keep in mind that Bay, after all, is Chinese, although many generations removed from the homeland. But Cholon is Chinese, surely swarming with Beijing- controlled operatives, even if Bay himself isn’t one of them.

Beijing will certainly be coming for me.

As will Moscow. Even if Leotov has not already lost his nerve and contacted them, they will soon find out – if they haven’t already – that Voroshenin’s killer is in Saigon. The KGB certainly can’t be seen to let that go unavenged. They will be coming. If not here, then somewhere else, and they will be relentless.

“Michel Guibert” needs to disappear, and quickly.

Hopefully, he thought, Solange Picard will disappear with him.

But it all depends on what happens tomorrow.

With delicious irony, my future depends on Yuri Voroshenin.

He put the imaginary board away and went to sleep.

122

MICHEL GUIBERT WAS the talk of Rue Catinat.

Even the waiters at breakfast treated him with an increased deference, and Nicholai saw the staff and other guests subtly point to him and whisper.

He found his new status amusing.

So did De Lhandes. He arrived in the dining room looking remarkably fresh from the previous night’s excesses, sat down at Nicholai’s table, and sniffed disapprovingly at the fare.

“But, my friend,” he huffed, “this is shit, especially for a man of your taste and wealth. These Corsicans wouldn’t know cuisine if it crept up their anal cavities and warbled Piaf tunes. Look, they can even make a debacle