It took him ninety minutes at the blackjack tables of the El San Juan casino to put himself ahead for the day, net of the rigged cockfight and four-hundred-dollar Cat in the Hat peepshow. Around 2 A.M. he found some company in a pair of inebriated sisters from New Jersey who needled him until he agreed to accompany them to the suite somebody had procured for them, where they shared some of Jamaica’s finest and a three-for-all in the suite’s whirlpool tub.
Once the ladies’ presence had depreciated to a two-tiered snore pattern on the overcrowded king-size bed, Cooper pulled a Coke from the minibar, rode a pair of elevators back to his own room, and took his PowerBook out to the balcony. He was thinking he was only willing to go so far to find answers-even when the questions came to him in his dreams, screeched by the dead-and, given this, it occurred to him the Internet was a lot closer, and certainly a more pleasant place to visit, than Port-au-Prince, Haiti, sometime home to Reynold Benoit, M.D.
By way of his access to a set of online databases, he found varying theories on whether the ritual of transforming a living person into a walking corpse actually worked, or was simply the longest-running urban legend on record. If it was only myth, much of the credit for originating the legend went to a pair of books, published a century apart-in 1884, a bestseller documented savage cannibalistic voodoo rituals; recently, a more scholarly book claimed to have identified the ingredients used by witch doctors, or bokors, to reduce ordinary men to so-called zombie status. The recipe was composed of human remains, a certain indigenous flower, and varying amounts of venom extracted from the bouga toad and puffer fish. When properly administered-along with the appropriate black-magic spell-the coup poudre, as it was called, supposedly sent its victim into a coma, slowing down his metabolism enough to generate the appearance of death. Bury him, wait a few days, dig him up and feed him conconbre zombi-another indigenous plant-and the bokor had a custom-lobotomized menial laborer whose friends and family thought had died.
A gust of wind whistled through the El San Juan’s main tower, the trades picking up and shifting direction by a few degrees as the city’s perpetual nighttime cloud cover broke and the moon materialized. Who knows, Cooper thought-maybe the gust of wind was caused by an evil spirit, a petro-loa, checking in on my progress. Or hell-could be it’s Le Gran Maître himself, telling me…telling me what? Back off? Keep going?
Then again it could have been the weather pattern and that was it.
Either way, he decided he’d go ahead and call it a voodoo moon: a voodoo moon, telling me to get my ass out of San Juan.
He closed out his Internet connection at four-forty-five. American Eagle, he knew, ran the first flight to Terrance Lettsome at five-fifty; if he got the hell off the balcony he could make the flight and be back in the spiritually protected environs of the Conch Bay Beach Club in time to catch the late morning rays. Toss back a sweet cocktail, maybe a piña colada or a painkiller, and see if boredom, sunshine, and syrupy booze could accomplish what gambling, rapture, and herb had not:
Clear this fucking head of mine, he thought, of petro-loas, Puerto Rican cops, and Les Chats dans les Chapeaux.
8
Forty miles north of Beijing, an unmarked stretch limousine wound its way up a ribbon of highway. At the wheel sat a portly old driver in standard-issue People’s Liberation Army fatigues-his knuckles, exposed in two clumps on the steering wheel, as gnarled as the trees flashing past the limo along the road. It was eight in the morning, and already there was a muggy weight to the air.
At the top of the hill the highway transitioned to a dirt road. A guard shack materialized, and a soldier wearing similar fatigues emerged from the booth. He spoke in Mandarin.
“Proceed, old man,” the soldier said.
The driver steered into a parking lot, the limo kicking up dust as he parked it behind a row of wooden stables. He locked the parking brake, got out, stood with his back to the car, and fired up a black-market Winston.
He made sure nobody saw him do it.
As the team worked the ball around and dished it ahead of him, General Deng Jiang spurred his horse into a dash. He corralled the pass and came around with a looping swing. Crack-mallet on ball. As usual, he scored; Deng did most of the scoring here.
The majority of his teammates were People’s Liberation Army deputy ministers, but there were others-an admiral, a few captains, even a pair of bureaucrats who’d kissed sufficient ass to get an invite. Feeling good about himself, Deng ignored the fact that most of these players weren’t simply ten or twenty years younger but also ten or twenty grades his junior and working for him-meaning they were out here letting him hog all the glory and win at will. Any other result and the opposing players were destined for a prison camp in Tibet; in any case, few of them had any interest in being here to begin with. Most had never even heard of the sport before Deng’s summons delivered them to his private polo field.
During the days that followed his weekly contests, Deng found himself better equipped to travel back down to Beijing and endure the intolerable-base closures, project cancellations, the retirement of loyal, old-guard soldiers. After his private game he could do these things with greater purpose, Deng getting at least a semblance of that old feeling back, the sense that he still commanded the military of the greatest nation in the history of mankind. That he wasn’t merely the grim reaper with a budget ax, a treasonous bean counter shaving away a new layer of the people’s heritage with every dab of the pen.
The morning’s farce concluded and a servant arrived to assist his dismount. Deng looked for and found his driver, seeing the man leaning against the limousine behind the stables. Deng watched as the old man flicked away the cigarette and did his best to look busy, whipping out a rag and polishing one of the limo’s fenders. The driver had been loyal to him through twenty years of service, and remained so, even now, in retirement; Deng allowed him the slack he would never grant others under his charge.
The old servant was getting ready to take Deng back to reality. Past the gnarled trees, down the hill, and into the abyss of deteriorating military might. Despite the satisfaction brought on by the game, this was when Deng typically began to feel the slow burn of anger-the quiet rage of a man returning to the coal mines for another miserable day along the journey to death.
Today, however, was not a typical day.
Changing into fatigues in his private dressing room, Deng checked the date on the face of his watch for what might have been the hundredth time. It was true, as he had confirmed it to be true all morning.
Today was, in fact, the day he had been waiting for.
Today, he would catch a glimpse of tomorrow.
The blades of the PLA Z-9 helicopter thopped against the humidity, its landing skids settling on the tarmac of the Shandong PLN base. Deng rode in the rear, reclining on the leather seats of his airborne military limousine. He held on for nearly three minutes before giving the order to open the door-he would make them wait, encourage these men to think about who it was who was about to exit the airship. He peered through the bulletproof window beside his seat; the window afforded him an awesome sight.
Shoulder to shoulder, back to front, stretching the length and width of an entire military airstrip, there stood in formation some twenty-five thousand troops. Behind the first few thousand men were hundreds of vehicles-tanks, trucks, armored cars, jeeps-and, behind these, dozens of additional helicopters, rotors blazing, plus a score of fighter jets.