“Got it.”
“Another thing,” Tasser warned as he piloted the raft onto a sandy spot along the right side of the river. “Turn a blind eye to what you see here.”
He pointed across the river. “That’s Siam over there. Land of the Thais. Also land of the poppy. This here is prime opium-growing country, and the river downstream from here is a highway for dope. The Hmong grow it, so do the Thais. It’s how they feed their kids.”
“I understand.”
“You’d better,” Tasser said. “We smile, we buy our groceries, we get back on the water pronto.”
Nicholai stayed on the raft while Tasser took two men and went to buy supplies. Naked Hmong children happily dove off a rickety bamboo pier into the water. The women, in their unique black caps, sat nearby, kept a watchful eye, and sneaked shy glances at the tall European sitting on the raft. Nicholai heard dogs barking in the village and the ubiquitous bleating of goats and cackling of chickens.
Barely half an hour later Tasser returned with mesh nets full of bananas and other fruits, greens, rice, and smoked fish. Nicholai felt ashamed of his suspicions as Tasser gave the order to shove off and the raft swirled back into the gentle current. Then the captain handed Nicholai a bottle of clear liquid.
“Take a belt,” Tasser said.
Nicholai took a swallow and felt like his stomach, lungs, and brain were on fire. “Good God, man, what is it?”
“Lao-lao,” Tasser answered. “Hmong moonshine.”
Nicholai helped one of the crew build a fire in the charcoal stove and soon they had a delicious meal of rice, fish, and bananas. Then he took his turn at an oar, and when relieved sat on the edge and enjoyed the beautiful, verdant countryside, the green mountains and limestone cliffs.
Two days later they came into Luang Prabang.
98
NICHOLAI CUT an odd figure checking in to the small guesthouse.
His clothes were torn and mud-stained, his hair long and disheveled, his face brown as a nut and weatherworn. He ignored the desk clerk’s stare with an aristocratic insouciance and asked for the best room available, preferably with a view of the river.
“Does Monsieur have luggage?”
“Monsieur does not.”
“Will it be arriving from the airport, perhaps?”
“Probably not,” Nicholai said. He produced a handful of bills from his pants pocket and laid them on the counter.
“Passport?”
Nicholai handed over the passport indentifying him as Michel Guibert. It was a calculated risk, one that might send teletypes singing in Beijing, Moscow, and Washington, but Nicholai doubted it. Luang Prabang was a backwater even in Indochina, and there were probably no alarm bells here to be rung. Still, French intelligence would no doubt have a presence here, but Nicholai was counting on that.
The clerk copied down the passport information and handed it back to Nicholai with a key. “Room 203 has a charming view of the river. Would Monsieur like a razor sent up?”
“Yes, please,” Nicholai answered. “And coffee, croissant, and the most recent newspaper available, if you will.”
The clerk nodded with satisfaction.
Clean and shaven, Nicholai sat on his small balcony and enjoyed the excellent croissant.
The pastry seemed at odds with the intense heat that was building in the late morning, but nevertheless tasted good along with the cup of strong espresso. It was all very French – even as the file of saffron-robed young monks walked by on their way back from the ritual morning alms solicitations.
A main thoroughfare of the old Laotian royal capital, Khem Kong Road ran along the riverbank and was lined with shops, restaurants, and French cafés. A blend of odors – steamed fish and crepes – spoke redolently of the town’s mixed culture. Ancient Buddhist temples stood beside elegant French colonial manor houses, the red-tiled roofs of which would not have been out of place along the Mediterranean Sea instead of the banks of the Mekong. Beautiful emerald green mountains rose across the brown, muddy river. It was a scene of great tranquility, in sharp contrast to the shipment of lethal weapons waiting on the rafts just a few hundred yards upriver.
Nicholai took another bite of the croissant and read his newspaper, a week-old copy of the Journal d’Extrême-Orient. He hadn’t seen the news in several months, but was not surprised to see that little had changed. Negotiations to end the Korean conflict dragged on, the Viet Minh had defeated the French at a battle near Hoa Binh in the north, a Cambodian nationalist demanded that French forces leave the country, then was forced to flee and was branded both a Communist and an agent of the CIA by the editorialist. In Saigon, the puppet emperor Bao Dai welcomed a delegation from the French film industry and -
He almost missed it at first, in the dull list naming the delegation: Françoise Ariend, Michel Cournoyer, Anise Maurent…
Solange Picard.
Solange was not in Tokyo but in Saigon. As a member of a French film delegation. Interesting.
Saigon, he thought.
How interesting, how coincidental.
Haverford must think me a fool.
Nicholai walked up the street to a clothier.
The heat of afternoon was on – the air was moist with the promise of rain. The dry season in Southeast Asia would soon be over, the monsoons would be coming on. With the temperature at least a hundred degrees and humid, Nicholai’s shirt was soaked with sweat by the time he went into the shop. He bought three cotton shirts, two pairs of linen trousers, a white linen suit, a pair of oxford shoes, and a panama hat and had them sent back to his hotel. Then he found another shop and bought a decent suitcase. Now he could simply pack, walk away from the suicide mission to take the weapons into the south of Vietnam, and go to Saigon into the trap that the Americans were setting with Solange as bait.
He could see the go-kang, and the stones moving, and he saw his way through.
But he couldn’t and knew that he couldn’t.
He had given his word to Yu, and he had to go and make contact with the Viet Minh agent.
99
NICHOLAI SAT in the back of a pedicab as it wound its way down Sisavangvong Road.
The cab dropped him off at the edge of an old Luang Prabang institution, the “Night Market,” an open-air bazaar with hundreds of small stands selling balls of sweet sticky rice, bits of fried fish, steaming cups of tea, and a few dozen delicacies that Nicholai didn’t recognize. Other stands offered delicate parasols, brightly colored paper lanterns, cotton shirts, trousers, sandals, candles, and little statues of Buddha.
The rich smells, sights, and sounds were a heady contrast to the austerity of the long river journey. The merchants loudly proclaimed the virtues of their wares or haggled with buyers, the acrid smell of charcoal fires competed with the aromas of sizzling chili sauces in open woks, and, even under lantern light in the dark alleys, the various merchandise combined to make a riotous panoply.
Nicholai easily edged his way through the crowd. At least a head taller than most of the shoppers, he was nevertheless inconspicuous. The Laotians were used to the French colonials and Nicholai looked and acted like one.
He came to a stand selling live birds. The birds were pretty and much too small to eat. Choosing a bird with electric blue and green feathers, he untied it and the bird flew into the night, albeit without the Buddhist prayer that freed birds were usually meant to convey.
Nicholai strolled farther into the market, drank a hot green tea, made a few small purchases, and then tried some fried fish in hot chili oil and coriander. He’d not quite finished it when a man sidled up and quietly said in French, “Follow me.”
They left the market through a narrow alley and Nicholai’s nerves tingled in this potential trap. But it was not unlike working through a tight chamber in a cave, and he calmed his mind and let his senses guard for danger.