Flights of Angels (Exit Unicorns Series) (24 page)

The diamond-hard surface that he had presented to the small Scot only moments before was gone and he had succumbed to the pain that he had held tightly in check during the interview. Very few people were allowed to see him vulnerable in such a way, possibly only three that she could think of—herself, Jonathan Wexler and Yevgena.

Over the years, she had watched this man build a shield of reason and intellect to serve himself in the world. And certainly, though both intellect and reason were fierce within him, he was in truth a Romantic whose nature insisted on the pathways of intuition, imagination, and feeling through the senses, the world beyond, both visible and otherwise.

There were ways to break these shields, to release the body and allow the spirit the escape it needed from the fetters of body and mind. This she could provide, for there were times men did not understand the ways of their own being, but a woman knew these things by instinct and could give the necessary balm. He was at the fine dwelling edge of his own nerves and must be brought back from the brink in the manner that served best. Deprivation was as harmful as over-indulgence, and this man had lived long enough beyond his senses that he must now be steeped in them for his own good. For though she was beautifully versed in the laws of business and finance, she understood even better the laws of the human heart, which superseded all others.

One would not have known yesterday how severe the pain was. He had met in the afternoon with four of the Mountain Men, the leaders of individual sects of the Hong Kong triads. He had been chill as ice water, without a single outward sign that his head was fired with pain. These men were the most powerful and violent men in Hong Kong. Jamie, impeccably dressed in Hong Kong tailoring, had met with them and observed all the formalities and rituals so dear to the Chinese heart. He understood how to give face while keeping it perfectly intact for himself. It had been an especially arduous meeting, during which she had kept demurely in the background, though she did not miss one twitch or finger tap or any other sign that these men used to communicate beyond spoken language.

Even she had been slow to realize that Jamie was near blind from pain. The green eyes had been as sharp and penetrating as they always were and he had not missed a nuance nor conceded a point with men who were world class at Hong Kong’s infamous ‘squeeze’—the bribe money paid out monthly by businessmen for the ‘protection’ of the local chapter of the triad.

The meeting had lasted three hours, and Jamie had not agreed to higher pay for protection. But Sallie knew he had his own methods of dealing with the triads. Demanding higher pay was often a means of upping the ante and increasing their own face, something that Jamie understood. He granted what concessions he could, but refused to kowtow to those who cut too deeply into his profit margin or compromised the Kirkpatrick holdings in Hong Kong in any way. Once the men had left, Jamie had gone to look out the window of the large airy space they had rented for the meeting. It was only when she had gone to stand beside him to deconstruct the last hours, as they always did after a meeting, that she realized he was trembling like a leaf and his shirt was damp with sweat. And so she had brought him here and begun a series of treatments to alleviate his pain.

She put a cloth in a hot bath of water infused with lavender and orange oils and then wrung it out, releasing aromatic steam. She unrolled the cloth carefully and placed it over Jamie’s face. He didn’t protest, which told her he must be almost insensible with the pain, as neither meekness nor submission were traits he normally displayed. And so she knew he was to the point of being receptive to her cure. She knelt and pulled out an ornately carved ebony box. Inside lay the tools of the opium den. The pipe was simple, the bamboo that the Chinese preferred for its size and ability to hold and store the resins of opium which resulted in a more luxuriant smoke. The Chinese pipes distilled the drug rather than burning it. She had prepared pipes for her grandfather and he had taught her exactingly how to make a pure pipe, how to set the ambience and ritual that were an important part of the experience. But the pipe she prepared for Jamie wasn’t going to be of that sort. He needed the concentrated morphine of the dross, and she had a small sticky ball of it ready.

She had only tried opium once in her life and it had been with Jamie in their younger years. What she remembered of the experience was a great deal of laughter and their total absorption in a caterpillar for what seemed several hours, that happened across their landscape at the time. She also remembered how her body had felt, vaporous and eased, without the heaviness of flesh. It had been quite wonderful.

Still, she had not smoked it since. She, however, did not get headaches that rendered her insensible for several days. She knew Jamie had certain tendencies in his personality that made narcotic substances unwise but she thought there were exceptions to every rule and this was one. She had brought every other remedy to his service, but none of them had worked: not the acupressure, nor the acupuncture, nor the massage, nor the burning of mugwort on his pulse points, nor the dark, bitter drink her grandfather had taught her how to make when she was a child. Because of their failure, she knew that the origin of his pain lay not in the physical realm, but rather the spiritual. Of this, however, he would not speak.

At the very least, it would quell his nausea and possibly give him a few hours sleep, something he sorely needed. Sallie was a pragmatist above all and unnecessary suffering, whether spiritual or physical, seemed like the worst form of self-martyrdom to her, especially when there were remedies at hand.

From a small ceramic pot, she took the sticky dark ball. She had acquired the
chandoo
from an old and trusted associate of her grandfather’s. She had been explicit in what it was needed for and the old man had nodded and taken her behind his shop counter to where a long line of enameled jars stood, each holding a different grade of
chandoo
. What she wanted was usually reserved for addicts who were desperate for the direct hit of morphine, in which the dirtier grades of opium were rich. It was called the dross and was scraped from the leavings in the bowl of a pure smoke.

Sallie took the ball and skewered it. It was large enough to provide three separate smokes. Cooking opium required a dexterous hand and great focus. It was a delicate process and like a soufflé in that even if it was slightly burned, it was ruined. She held it over the flame of the lamp, at just the right angle and proximity so that it wouldn’t overheat on one side and stay cold on the other. She picked up another ivory-handled skewer and began a gentle weaving, skewer over skewer, as though she were attempting to tie and untie knots with the needles. It had to be done just right, so the thebaine in it wouldn’t evaporate and leave the smoker with a much harsher and unforgiving pipe. Patiently, patiently, needle over needle, slowly the color began to transform from black to syrupy brown, to tan and finally to the brown gold that signified it was done. Her hands described a dance of precise steps upon the air, winding up with one skewer holding the majority of the opium and the other just enough for the first fill of the pipe. This she spun briefly in the heat of the flame and then rolled it rapidly in a small bowl until it formed a small tight cylinder which she then inserted into the heated bowl of the pipe. One more spin of the skewer and the opium was in place against the sides of the bowl and ready to smoke.

Jamie had turned on his side, the emerald eyes dark and dense with pain. She positioned the lamp near him, placed the pipe in his hands with the bowl at just the right angle to the flame, and replaced the cloth over his eyes with a fresh one, knowing even the low, steady light of the flame, was an agony to him at present.

“Draw gently,” she said softly, “but deep. It will take you where the elephants dream.” She watched him draw, and draw again and again, until the weight of the drug stole over him. The smoke would caress each cell and float down the rivers of vein and artery, smoothing them and preparing the way for the darker notes of morphine which held the key to release. It would also provide the relaxation necessary for the second part of her cure.

This pipe was her grandfather’s and inscribed upon the bowl were the words,
Spring Flowers and Autumn Moon.
She had not handled it since her grandfather’s death and would not have brooked its use by anyone other than the man who lay before her now. She hoped that some of her grandfather’s spirit still lingered with the pipe and would help to lift the fog of pain that Jamie was wrapped within.

She waited until the first pellet was entirely burned up and she had inserted the second before saying, “I have invited someone to share your bed tonight.” Her tone was the same as she would have used in offering him a cup of tea but there were many butterflies below the belt of her robe. She was crossing a line she had never thought to cross with Jamie before. Under different circumstances, with a different man, she might have offered herself. But long ago she and Jamie had agreed that their friendship would outweigh any other concern and that they would not succumb to the temptation to bed one another. They had both, over the years, thought perhaps they had been smug in thinking that would be an easy pact to keep, but keep it they had, appearances in front of stout-spined Scots secretaries notwithstanding.

“You’ve done
what?”
Jamie said, though his voice, fogged with the drug, lacked the necessary impact.

“She is extremely well versed in the art of reflexes and muscles, she is an expert in relieving tension,” Sallie said, imbuing her voice with just the right amount of rebuke.

“Is that what we’re calling it?” he asked, sarcasm scattered heavily through the few words.

“Are you too weak for such activity?” she asked, tone light but unmistakably scornful.

One corner of the steaming cloth was lifted and a green eye looked out at her with a certain cynicism, tempered though it was by the opium veil. “I have a headache. I’m not dead.”

“Good,” she said crisply. “Then I trust you will know how to behave.”

The green eye shot her a look of profound disdain before disappearing behind the cloth once more.

She was a woman forever divided between East and West. In some areas she was purely Western and in others the East, with all its opulence and art, held sway. In the bedchamber, she thought with the Qiuyue half of her mind and spirit. She had chosen Jamie’s companion for the night herself, for in her business of international trade and finance, of complex negotiation between Eastern modes of thinking and Western, she had become expert in an array of things. Men came to Hong Kong for business, but when the sun sank into Victoria Harbor, they expected pleasure. From the depth of their gratitude on the day that followed such arrangements, she knew which woman was best at the business. And that was Li.

Sallie crossed the room and opened the small door hidden behind a silk screen. Behind it stood one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. Though Li’s name merely meant ‘pretty’, no such pale word could describe her. There were legends of a Mongol warlord in her ancestry, and if the cut-glass cheekbones and deep amber eyes were anything to go by, it was more than mere legend. Her business sense and shrewd management of both men and money led one to believe it as well.

She did not need to tell Li her business. She knew it well and could assess instinctively what a man needed to force the loss of his control. Even James Kirkpatrick had a breaking point, and right now he was very near it. Li understood this, just as she knew the effects of carefully controlled opium on a man’s sexual nature. She would know when to prolong certain acts, and when to drive them to the finish.

Li nodded to her, a faint smile on her lips indicating, Sallie knew, that she was welcome to leave. She inclined her head to the side in a gesture of grace and gratitude, even if inside her feelings did not match these virtues in the slightest. This was the Chinese way. Face must be maintained despite whatever emotions roiled inside the body. She crossed the room on lightly padded feet, silent as moonlight on leaves.

At the door she hesitated for a moment, her hand on the ornate knob, and looked back into the room, hoping she was doing the right thing for Jamie.

Li had disrobed. In the dark her body was a ribbon of silk, pale as water and every bit as fluid, strong where she needed to be and melting where she did not. Yes, Sallie acknowledged with grim satisfaction, she had chosen rightly in this matter.

Li stepped into the opening of the bed enclosure and murmured a few words in Cantonese. Then Jamie spoke, his voice low and slightly jagged from the drug and pain, but flawless in the singsong cadence of Hong Kong’s primary language. Sallie could not hear what he said, but the gist of it was clear for Li, sinuous as a wave, joined him on the bed.

There was a soft laugh and a gasp, and then the movement of two bodies. The laugh shocked her, for it was the laugh of a woman who well knew the night that lay ahead of her, which told her this was not Li’s first experience of Lord James Kirkpatrick. Now many things made sense—Li’s smile when she had requested this favor of her and her refusal of any form of payment.

“I do this favor for you,” Li had said, “and later you do one for me.”

Li’s business here tonight was purely that of pleasure. Still, she was the right woman for the task. The only partner who might have served the purpose better in this regard would have been herself, but she had made a promise, and with this one man she knew she must never make the mistake of breaking it.

Li was a professional and therefore would not mind that there was another woman in the bed with them, invisible, but there nevertheless, for Sallie could feel the shadow of her upon Jamie. It was this, she was certain, that had brought him to his current state.

She closed the door behind her and went down the stairs, the sound of the rain in tempo with her steps.

Chapter Nineteen
November 1973
Robert