104
THE PLANE FOLLOWED the Mekong south.
Nicholai watched out the window as the broad brown river flowed out of the mountains down into the plains of Cambodia, then broke into multiple tributaries as it entered the delta in southern Vietnam.
Looking down at the endless stretch of green rice paddies, cross-stitched with irrigation canals and dotted with innumerable villages, Nicholai knew that he had made the right decision to deal with Bay Vien.
Blockhouses and guard towers rose every two or three kilometers above the paddies, and Nicholai could spot military convoys patrolling the main roads. Not only was the Foreign Legion thick on the ground, but also the well-armed militias whose arms the French purchased from the proceeds of the opium in the plane’s cargo hold.
The French army bought the opium from the Meo, purchasing their loyalty as well. Then the army sold the crop to the Binh Xuyen, who monopolized the opium traffic in Saigon. The French used the profits to pay the militias and mountain tribes to fight a guerrilla war in the countryside, while the Binh Xuyen held Saigon for them.
We would never have made it through all this, Nicholai thought, with the shipment of arms.
It was the right thing to do.
He had a dull headache that throbbed with the pulse of the engines and was exacerbated by the engine fumes. The propellers were noisy and the plane rattled and bumped, and he was glad when he saw the sprawling metropolis of greater Saigon appear below.
But the plane banked southeast, away from the city and down the coast, and Nicholai saw what looked like a military base.
“Vung Tau!” Signavi shouted over the noise. “ ‘Cap St.-Jacques’!”
The plane made a rapid descent and landed on the military airstrip. Trucks were waiting, and Binh Xuyen troopers in green paramilitary uniforms hopped out and quickly loaded the crates of opium and rocket launchers.
“I’m off to a bath and a decent drink,” Signavi said. He shook Nicholai’s hand. “Perhaps I’ll see you in Saigon?”
“I would enjoy that.”
“Good. See you there.”
A black limousine pulled up. Two troopers armed with machine pistols got out and escorted Bay and Nicholai into the back of the car and it quickly drove off the airstrip.
“Where is the cargo going?” Nicholai asked.
“The opium, to our processing plant in Cholon,” Bay answered. “The weapons, somewhere safe.”
“Until I’ve been paid,” Nicholai said, “the rocket launchers are still my property, and as such, I have a right to know where they are.”
Bay nodded. “Fair enough. They’re going to the Rung Sat – ‘the Swamp of the Assassins.’ ”
“Colorful.”
“It’s the base of the Binh Xuyen,” Bay said, smiling. “Remember, we started as ‘river pirates.’ Your property will be quite safe there.”
“When do I get paid?” Nicholai asked.
“Do you have an account in Saigon?”
“I prefer cash.”
“As you wish,” Bay said. “It’s nothing to me. I’ll arrange for payment tomorrow. Meet me at my casino, Le Grand Monde.”
“What do I have as security?”
Bay turned and glared at him. “My word.”
105
SAIGON WAS beautiful.
Nicholai thought the city’s sobriquet as “the Pearl of the Orient” was perfectly justified as he rode in a blue Renault taxi down the Rue Catinat.
The broad boulevard – lined with plane trees, studded with sidewalk cafés, bars, restaurants, expensive shops, and exclusive hotels – seemed a perfect blend of French and Asian culture, as if someone had chosen the best of both and placed them in happy harmony, side by side.
Vietnamese police, in their distinctive white uniforms, stoically struggled to manage the swirling Citroën and Renault autos, cyclo-pousses, Vespa scooters, and swarms of bicycles that competed for the right-of-way in a chaos that was a true mixture of the French and Asian styles of driving. Honking horns, jingling bells, and shouts of good-natured abuse in French, Vietnamese, and Chinese contributed to an urban cacophony.
Child street vendors darted and dodged through the traffic to sell newspapers, bottles of orange soda, or cigarettes to customers momentarily stuck in a jam, or sitting at a café table, or just walking down the busy sidewalks.
The women were magnificent, Nicholai thought – slim, tiny Vietnamese in tight silk ao dais stopped to window shop, while the elegant French colons, dressed in fashion only a year removed from Paris runways, strode in their slow, long-legged gait to the unabashed, admiring stares of the café denizens.
The cab pulled up to the Continental Hotel, a broad white colonial building in the Beaux-Arts style, with its arched windows and pedimented doors. It was the apero hour, that time in the late afternoon when the privileged classes sought refuge from the heat and the day’s work, and all the smarter types gathered on the Continental’s broad café terrace that flanked the boulevard. Just across Catinat from the USIS office, the Continental was a convenient place to have a drink, exchange information and intelligence (to such an extent that the café was nicknamed “Radio Catinat”), or perhaps to find a companion to share a table now or a bed later.
Ellis Haverford looked through the anti-grenade netting to observe the new arrival as Nicholai unfolded himself from the backseat of the small car. He was dressed like a classic Southeast Asian colon, in the clothes that he had bought in Luang Prabang. Vietnamese bellboys in short white jackets and black trousers ran out to take his luggage and take it into the lobby.
I’m glad to see you, Nicholai, Haverford thought.
He had been reasonably sure that Hel would come to Saigon, but it was good to know he was right.
Nicholai walked past a rather surprising bronze statue of Napoleon to the reception desk.
“Monsieur Guibert?” The métis clerk smiled. He had received a call from Bay Vien himself and was appropriately obsequious. “Welcome to the Continental. It is our pleasure to have you.”
“Thank you.”
“Your room is ready,” the clerk said. “And Monsieur Mancini invites you to have a drink with him, if it is convenient for you. In the bar? Six o’clock?”
“Please relay my honored acceptance,” Nicholai said. Signavi had apparently wasted no time informing his Corsican colleagues of his arrival in the city.
Mathieu Mancini had come to Saigon after World War I, married a wealthy Vietnamese woman, and bought the Continental. Reputed to be the head of L’Union Corse, the Corsican mafia, in Saigon he was a confidant of Bao Dai’s.
And a friend to Bay Vien.
A bellhop took Nicholai to his room on the fourth and top floor. It was large and high-ceilinged, with whitewashed walls and simple but elegant wooden furniture. French doors opened onto a small, private balcony behind iron grillwork. A ceiling fan circulated the humid air, providing some relief.
Nicholai tipped the bellboy and then was glad for some privacy and solitude. He called room service for an iced beer, drew a steaming hot bath, and luxuriated in it for half an hour.
It was good to be in a city again and experience some luxury and sophistication that he hadn’t known since Shanghai. The contrast between the near-scalding water and the cold beer was a sharp delight, and Nicholai allowed himself to give in to the realm of the senses for a few minutes.
Then he evaluated the Go board.
He had advanced his position. I’m safely out of China, he thought, have funds – or will have tomorrow – and am in Saigon with Bay Vien as a patron and protector.
Good and good.
And Solange is likely somewhere in the city.
Better.
But my position is nevertheless precarious.
Haverford is sitting in the bar across the street, apparently unconcerned with being discovered. He knows I’m alive and where I am. Beijing and Moscow will soon know, if they don’t already, and might well send people to kill or kidnap me. Of the two, the Chinese are the greater threat as the Russians will have a problem getting agents into Saigon.