Opium (15 page)

“No, we would not dare to.”

“If offered a reward by the government, even as much as ten thousand ounces of gold, for information about your brothers, would you give it?'

“No, we would not dare to.”

“If you have spoken truly, you are loyal and righteous and may enter the city to swear allegiance and protect the country with your concerted efforts.”

They let him through. The air inside the temple was heavy with joss, massive coils of it spiralling down from the ceiling on long chains. There were tablets on the walls, bold characters in black on red. Douglas saw Maoist epigrams such as:
“The heroes are supreme; the brave ones have no equal.”
But there were others he had not seen before, black on yellow:
“When will be the end of enmity? Regrets will remain forever.”

There were other banners around the walls, the flags of the Five Tiger generals, and the pennants of the Four Great Faithful Ones, the fabled guardians of the ancient Triad city of Muk Yeung Shing, - the city of Willows.

The altar was lit by a brass lamp with seven stems, signifying the seven planets of the heavens. There were bowls of fruit and flowers and spices. The centrepiece was the
tau
, a large wooden tub, painted red, and filled with rice. Each grain of rice, Dragon Fist had told him, represented a society member.

There was a red wooden club, the symbol for punishment; the sword of Loyalty and Righteousness; and the Mirror of Truth, in which a man's innermost soul was supposed to be reflected. There was also a bloodstained white robe and rosary, in memory of the rebel monks from the Shao Lin monastery in Fukien, who had founded the triad almost three hundred years before.

The last icon was an intricately folded sheet of paper, known as the gall of the
Tau
. Once unfolded it was said to be impossible for the uninitiated to reconstruct it, only the Incense Master knew its secret. It was placed in front of the Tau, in plain view, proof of the Incense Master's arcane knowledge.

The temple's interior represented the walls of the ancient triad City of Willows. Douglas and his fellow recruits walked solemnly through the paper arches that had been built to represent the gates that had once existed inside the secret city. They were then invited to kneel in front of the Incense Master.

He wore a white robe, with a knotted bandana on his head, prayer beads in his right hand, a grass sandal on his left foot. The Vanguard, on the left of the altar, was dressed in black. He carried a whip, symbol of his authority; and on his back was a bundle containing the ashes of the thirteen monks who had founded the Hung Mun, the black society of the triad.

The rest of the Lodge officials sat facing each other in two rows. Douglas saw Dragon Fist, looking solemn and ridiculous in his black robe.

“An order has been issued from the Five Ancestors Altar,” the Incense Master began. “Investigation must be made around the lodge, and if police are present to spy on us they must be relentlessly washed. '

It was ritual only. No police officer would venture into the heart of the Walled City, Douglas knew. The two guards nodded to the Incense Master.

“There are no strangers,” the Incense Master announced. “We will open the lodge.”

The Vanguard recorded the names and addresses and ages of each recruit in a great book, and their initiation fee was paid. The Incense Master then went to the altar and laid the register book next to the
tau
, and returned with three straw figures, each bearing the name of famous triad traitors pinned to its chest. The effigies were forced into a kneeling position and their heads cut off with the Sword of Loyalty and Righteousness.

Then Douglas, with his fellow initiates - or, the 'new horses', as the Incense Master referred to them - crawled under the crossed cleavers of the guards, on their elbows and knees. This first phase of the ceremony, Dragon Fist had explained, was called
Passing the Mountain of Knives
.

One at a time they knelt in front of the Incense Master. When it was his turn, Douglas felt him rap his neck with the back of the sword.

“Which is harder, the sword or your neck?'

“My neck,” Douglas answered, as Dragon Fist had instructed him.

The ceremony went on for hours.

Douglas was captivated by the ritual. He understood why it was necessary, how the cabal could take hold of a man's spirit. He drank it all in, enthralled.

The Vanguard then brought in a live cockerel and handed it to the Incense Master. Its feet and beak were tied with string. It struggled frantically in the Incense Master's hands. He expertly chopped off its head with one blow of the knife, and drained the blood into a large wooden bowl.

Then he went to each of the recruits in turn. They extended their left hands, palm upwards, facing the Vanguard. He was holding a needle threaded with red cotton and he pricked the middle finger of each man's hand until the blood flowed.

As the silver needle brings blood from the finger, so you shall not reveal our secrets to others. If any secrets are disclosed, blood will be shed from the five holes of the body.”

The blood was mixed with ashes and wine and the black blood of the cockerel. As the Incense Master brought round the bowl, each recruit dipped a finger into the bowl and placed it in his mouth.

The blood oath had been taken.

When it was done, the bowl was broken on the altar. “So shall traitors to the triad similarly be broken.”

The Incense Master placed some joss paper on the floor and set it alight. With the others Douglas was invited to leap the fiery pit. “It commemorates the burning of our founders' ancient monastery,” Dragon Fist had told him. “Everything in the ceremony has a meaning. Everything.”

Finally, as they knelt on the cold stone floor, a stick of incense held between their joined hands, the Incense Master read to them the thirty six oaths of the society. They recited each oath back to him, then struck the end of their joss stick on the floor.

“I shall not disclose the secrets of the Hung family, not even to my parents, brothers or wife. I shall never disclose the secrets for money. I will be killed by myriads of swords if I do so ... '

When he had finished Douglas Ho was a triad. He was no longer an alien. He had a place to belong. He had a family.

Chapter 28

Laos, May, 1962

B
APTISTE saw a break in the clouds and began a slow spiral descent into the valley. The altimeter showed 4,000 feet ASL. Through the black monsoon clouds he saw the wild green mountains rising all around him, some as thin as knife blades. Another squall spattered against the windshield and the Beechcraft jumped like a rollercoaster.

The ground disappeared and he felt a familiar tightening in his gut as he searched for another break in the cloud to give him his bearing. For almost a minute he flew blind, corkscrewing down. He could feel the mountain slopes closing in on him on every side. Then suddenly he was through the cloud and he saw the dirt strip almost dead ahead.

It was tiny, a brown scar scraped into the emerald of the surrounding forest. He cut back the throttle and lowered the flaps bringing the Beechcraft low into the valley. Now he could see the bend in the strip, fifteen degrees to starboard. The Americans had hacked these landing strips from the mountains, and they suited the STOL's - Short Take off and Landing aircraft - that they used. For more conventional craft, like his, they were a nightmare. This one, he remembered, also had a twenty five degree upslope.

But it was better than nothing.

As he flew over the village he saw people staring up at him, the dogs and chickens scattering under the poled huts. A child sitting astride the back of a water buffalo waved to him. He brought the Beechcraft along the valley, the wheels almost skimming the forest canopy.

He would have to land with the nose of the Beechcraft almost pointing at the sky.

As he made his final approach he pulled back on the controls, lifted the nose, stamped on the rudder to correct against a sudden wind shear, and snatched back the power. Only two hundred yards to make the landing, less with the bend. The upslope would work in his favour, gravity killing the speed.

Keep the nose up ...

Vache!
Not enough!

The Beechcraft hit the ground hard, skidding in the mud. He gasped as the impact jarred his body, almost forcing his hands and feet from the controls. A spray of mud splattered on the windshield, blinding him. But he felt her slowing. He was down. He swore harshly under his breath, and the tension drained out of him.

Just another day at Air Opium.

***

There was another aircraft parked under the wind-sock, near a squalid collection of tin sheds. It wasn't one of the CAT's Pipers or Helios; it was a Cessna 195, with the red and blue insignia of Francisci's
Lao Charter
.

A familiar figure emerged from under the Cessna's wing and waved. Jean-Marie.

Baptiste climbed out of the cabin.

“That was the tidiest crash landing I've ever seen,” Jean-Marie shouted. “Are you practising for a kamikaze squadron?'

“Wind shear.”

“It was like dropping an omelette on a plate!'

Baptiste scowled. He didn't make mistakes very often and when he did, he didn't like an audience. “It's not a toy plane like yours,” he snapped back. “You try putting this bitch down on the side of a mountain.”

Jean-Marie laughed and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. “You're shaking,
mon vieux.
You look like you need a drink.”

The rain rolled across the valley in a grey sheet, and they ran splashing through the mud for the shelter of the huts.

***

“So how's the eye?' Jean-Marie asked him. They were sitting side by side on the rice sacks that were piled against the wall of the shed. Steam rose from their backs, their cotton drill shirts soaked through. Baptiste took a swallow from a bottle of Mekong whiskey, felt it burn his throat and stomach. He adjusted the black patch he now wore over his left eye.

“Not so good. It's harder to judge distance these days. I think that's why I bumped the landing.”

He handed the bottle to Jean-Marie. “Maybe you should find something else to do.”

“Like what?'

“Like I don't know.” Jean-Marie scratched at the sweat itch under his shirt. “So the eye patch is there to stay?'

“It's good for my reputation.” He grabbed back the whiskey bottle and took another pull. The sky was impenetrable and his contact had not arrived. He would not be flying again for a few hours. Maybe not again today.

“How's Noelle?'

“Fine.”

“When's the baby due?'

“After the monsoon.” Baptiste took a crumpled pack of Gitanes from the breast pocket of his shirt. They were wet. After four of five attempts, he managed to light one. “You haven't told me what you're doing back in Laos. I thought you were flying for some outfit in Thailand.”

“It didn't work out. Then Francisci came to see me, offered me twice as much as before. He's buying another Cessna.”

Baptiste raised an eyebrow. So far Bonaventure had tolerated the competition, but with Francisci increasing the size of his fleet he might not be so sanguine. “So you agreed to come back and fly it for him?'

“It's good money.”

“Be careful, Jean-Mar'.”

Jean-Marie screwed the top back on the whiskey bottle. “There's enough mud up here for everyone,” he said, using the local slang for opium.

Baptiste got up and went outside. In seconds he was soaked through, but he ignored the rain. He walked over to Jean-Marie's Cessna and threw open the cabin door and peered inside. The hold was stacked to the roof, perhaps as much as three hundred kilos of raw opium.

He looked up. Jean-Marie was leaning against the door of the hut, watching him. Neither man said a word. The rain hammered down. Mother of God, Baptiste thought. This could get serious.

Chapter 29

N
YAM FON
the rainy season, started around the end of April. The sun rose unseen in the mornings, the valleys flooded and the rice fields turned jade green. Everything smelled of mould, and at night insects swarmed around the kerosene lanterns and infested every room.

Tonight a bat swooped in through the open French windows, hypnotised by the slowly turning ceiling fan. It circled the room, following the whirling blades until it grew tired and then flapped and skittered around the floor. It happened a lot during the monsoon. Noelle had learned to ignore them.