Jake Maroc - Shan Part 42

"What?"

Reaction time was everything. Under normal circ.u.mstances one had only one's training to rely on. And one had to hope one's own training was the better. But there were times of extreme peril when that kind of thinking was inadequate, when one needed an edge.

It had been Simbal's experience that the only advantage to be sought in such times was that of surprise. The body responded instinctively to motion, so this had to be discounted. The mind was the target. The mind had to be frozen that infinitesimal instant so that the impulses to the nerves and muscles were delayed the fraction needed to gain the advantage.

The words were not entirely out of Simbal's mouth when he was already pushing his body on its way. One, two, three strides and then leap, you b.l.o.o.d.y b.a.s.t.a.r.d, leap into poor Maria's torso, knocking her and Bennett backward.

The three of them tumbling to the deck, everything happening in a blur, bad luck handcuffing him, the edge of Bennett's cowboy boot rising in reflex, catching Simbal over the right eye, the Magnum discharging, Maria's chest exploding.

Bennett charging while Simbal was still recovering, the muzzle of the Magnum landing alongside Simbal's nose, making breathing impossible, the nerves in his face going numb.

Simbal fighting back now out of pure instinct, the organism, in terror for its own life, cared nothing but to wrest control of the gun from Bennett. It had seen what one hollow-nosed bullet had done to a human being and it wanted nothing more to do with the working end of the Magnum.

Still on the dock, the Cuban had his pistol out. He could see Maria but he did not know how badly she had been hit. The shots had stayedhim from leaping onto the cigarette. The three of them were so entangled that he feared his intervention would get Maria or Simbal shot.

A knee in Bennett's groin brought the pistol down far enough for Simbal's b.l.o.o.d.y fingers to slip over its slick metal surface. Simbal chopped blindly down, made another grab for the Magnum. It flipped over the side, making a heavy splash.

Bennett used his ham fists, locking the fingers together, bringing the combination down like a cudgel on the back of Simbal's neck. That was the end of it. Simbal had absorbed too much in too little time to recover. He went down in a heap and Bennett kicked him savagely once, twice.

Fumbled in a locker, drew out a Mack 10, trained the mini machine pistol on the Cuban who had started forward with the sound of the Magnum going into the water. "Sorry about the skirt, brother," Bennett said. "But you've only to blame this s.h.i.t-for-brains for that." He let off a quick burst as the Cuban made an abortive move. "You're not as stupid as this one here," Bennett said. "So throw down the gun."

With one eye on Gato de Rosa, Bennett undid the mooring lines, then started the engines. A rumbling, liquid roar and he guided the black cigarette out of the dock.

When he deemed it far enough he put the boat into neutral, went back along the deck to where Simbal and Maria lay unmoving. Bennett reached out and lifted Simbal onto his shoulder. With an animal grunt he threw him overboard, said to no one in particular, "Don't pollute this rat-infested place too much." He spat into the place where the body had sunk.

Back at the helm, he turned the wheel hard over and, in a thick plume of phosph.o.r.escent spray, was gone.

The Star House in Causeway Bay was the kind of restaurant Bliss usually avoided. Great multifaceted crystal chandeliers floated above circular tables for eight or ten people. Ornate carved dragons rippled in lurid bas-relief along the gilt-flecked walls, and columns in the form of crimson-and-emerald phoenixes studded the interior.

In all it was the kind of out-of-the-way place that tourists flocked to simply because it wasn't in the Hong Kong Tourist a.s.sociation guidebook and, because of its rather awesome decor, was believed to be frequented by the locals "who really know good food."

The two or three times Bliss had come here the food had been solidly mediocre. But this time was different. Each dish put before them was sparklingly fresh and absolutely delicious. When she commented on this, Big Oysters Pok laughed and said, "They all say that, everyone I take here. I like to see the looks on their faces when they walk in and when they take their first bite of faahn. The answer's quite uncomplicated. The chef is my brother-in-law. He cherishes my sister like no one else in the world. Therefore, he says, he owes me everything."

"How is that?"

"My parents are dead," Big Oyster Pok said.

"I see," As the head of the family, it was up to him to approve of the marriage. Obviously he had.

Tonight he was Big Oysters Pok, not Fung the Skeleton: pale oyster-gray linen suit, pin-striped shirt with a pastel blue background, midnight-blue raw silk tie. He was very dapper, difficult to recognize as the muscular, barebacked smuggler she had met earlier in the day.

He said something amusing and Bliss laughed. He nodded his head, smiling almost shyly. He found himself liking her. She was unlike any woman he had ever met. She had the mind of a man and that intrigued him. He saw no weakness in her, only a shrewdness that made her flexible.

Occasionally Big Oysters Pok had run across the new breed of West-em woman, tough as steel and about as appetizing. In pushing themselves into what was essentially a male arena they had hardened their souls. Male strengththe pattern which they followed with slavish devotionhad made them inflexible because they had mistaken an essential quality of this nature. One learned strength in business by watching the work of the ocean against the rocks along the beach. The sea endured while the stones, over time, became smaller and smaller.

Bliss was so unlike these new Western mistresses of corporate ent.i.ties it was startling. It was unlike himso untraditional!to find such strength in a female attractive. Yet he did.

Across the table, Bliss was not unaware of his change in att.i.tude but she was unable to address herself fully to the shift. Part of her had slipped into da-hei, her qi strung out across the bosom of the South China Sea. Moonlight dappled the waves; the whine of powerful diesels far off yet carried in the water along with the long, drawn-out notes of the whales conversing pack to pack.

Annoyed at being drawn away from her mission, she made an effort to turn her back on da-hei. If she was to get the name of the woman who followed Jake, who knew of his appointment with Zilin, she knew she would need all her concentration. Big Oysters Pok was not just another smuggler of the tears of the poppy. He was a complex man.

She needed to know what his quid pro quo was going to be for the information she soughtbefore he asked his price. That was the only way to deal with such a shrewd businessman.

"You seem to change personalities as easily as you change clothes," she said.

Big Oysters Pok smiled. "It is only a modest quality, not even a talent really. If I live many lives, I can have many loves."

So that is what he wants, Bliss thought. Me.

"I imagine it can be dangerous as well," she said. "Being so many people brings complications, doesn't it?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps that is one of the reasons I pursue such lives. Like smuggling there is a high degree of risk. I find that life has no meaning without such an element. Like Sichuan peppers, risk imparts an undeniable piquancy that is instantly identifiable."

"You could put a revolver to your head and play Russian roulette," Bliss said.

Big Oysters Pok laughed. "I've done that as well. On a bet. Or a dare. I got one of my boats that way. Very easy." He laughed again.

"About the woman who stole this opal," Bliss said.

Big Oysters Pok looked at her. "Do I get it back?"

She slid it across the table.

Big Oysters Pok said, "She was my mistress. Until I found out that she was meeting a Communist agent from the mainland."

"She was a Communist spy?"

"Yes."

Her eyes losing focus, night turning to day, the moonlight shimmering, a pathway leading her on, da-hei engulfing her, Not now! I'm almost there! The strange calling of the sea creatures blending into the pathway of light, intensifying the illumination until it transmogrified into a voice, calling to her a Coming, he's coming Who's coming?

He's coming, coming now Big Oysters Pok turning his head, chopsticks clattering off the edge of the plate as he let them go. Big Oysters Pok trying to rise as Bliss sat enraptured by the ethereal voices in da-hei. Big Oysters Pok opening his mouth, saying, "Dew neh loh moh on y"

Then the explosions, one! two! three! four! five! six! as the bullets landed.

Out in the night the fires were burning. In the Outback. Behind Ian McKenna's eyes. The green-headed fly tap-tap-tapping on the convex surface of the b.u.g.g.e.red boy's milky eye. Staring blindly up at the winking stars. In the desert. In the death of innocence, in time out of mind. When Ian McKenna went mad.

The string had been pulled then but his mind refused to believe it, to accept any responsibility for its own agonizing predicament. Rather it was the magic, the magic of the sparking fires ringing the Outback, the runic chanting that had ensorcelled him.

The wogs, McKenna had decided. It was the b.l.o.o.d.y wogs who wanted him dead, who insisted that he pay for his sin, his crime against nature. Aborigine or Chinese, it no longer mattered to McKenna. One and the other was blended in his mind in a kind of hideous amalgam, a larger-than-life figure that sought to humble him, to take from him his superiority, his very manhood.

The mind twisted by such torment sought the nearest target, the one who had most recently humbled it.

Big Oysters Pok.

Ian McKenna had been searching for Big Oysters Pok in every dive in Wan chai. Then someone in the Pink Teacup had reminded him that Pok invariably ate dinner at the Star House in Causeway Bay.

McKenna had walked in, his red-brimmed eyes staring wildly. He was quite mad but since they considered all gwai loh mad, the Chinese scurrying back and forth along the crowded aisles with food-laden trays held high paid him no attention. Even when he approached Big Oysters Pok's table at full speed.

Until he pulled out the Magnum .357 and, squeezing the trigger six times, emptied it.

And all h.e.l.l broke loose.

"I have made all the necessary calls."

Eyes closed, his mind was floating in darkness, in nothingness.

"Jake-san, did you hear me?"

"Hai, Mikio-san," he said wearily. "I heard you."

Mikio settled himself across from Jake on the tatami. Across the room, Kazamuki, standing by the window, waited for Mikio's sign. He gave it, just a slight flick of his hand. She bowed slightly and left the room in such utter silence that Jake, tired to the bone, was not aware that she had gone.

"I have spent some time speaking to my contacts in the prefecturepolice," Mikio went on as if nothing had transpired. "You have nothing to fear from them, believe me."

"How did you manage that?" Jake said without humor. "We've left rather a mess in our wake."

Mikio ignored the impolite question. He was more concerned to see his friend in such emotional anguish. Jake's tone made it clear that he was immersed in selfpity. Mikio thought that was quite unlike him.

Mikio grunted. "It's been nothing compared to the war I've been waging the last few weeks. Do not concern yourself." Clandestinely, he peered at his friend, wondering whether the death of Jake's father was the cause of this despair.

They were in a large room by j.a.panese standards, in a large house by j.a.panese standards. But this was Karuizawa, the elegant resort so dear to the hearts of Tokyo's upper crust. Here amid wide larch-lined streets, within estate villas set back by exquisitely groomed lawns, the traditional elite of Tokyo came to relax and have fun.

Karuizawa was a resort with a split personality. Here in the old section, the Imperial family stayed, along with poets and artists, the older corporate heads. Not a kilometer away was the other side of the coin, where the new richthe sons and daughters of the old monied cla.s.sstrolled, dressed in the latest Fila and Ellesse tennis togs, swinging Prince Graphite racquets over their shoulders, splurging between sets at the trendiest boutiques. Here, the life-style revolved around the concept of see and be seen.

Only two hours north by car from the center of Tokyo, Karuizawa sat cool, clean and beautiful along the ridge of the j.a.panese Alps, the central spine of Honshu.

"We are close to the core of the Moro clan, Jake-san," Mikio said now. Concern darkened his face. Jake's eyes remained closed, his lips unmoving. "Jake-san."

"Have you any saki?"

Mikio considered a moment, then rose and fetched a bottle from the cedar sideboard. He returned with two tiny cups on a red lacquered tray. Only when he heard the trickle of the rice wine did Jake open his eyes.

Mikio handed him the cup. "I regret it is not hot."

Jake downed the saki in one convulsive gulp; Mikio, thoughtful, sipped at his.

"Pain," Mikio said carefully, "always seems hardest to bear whenit dwells solely in the mind, I have been injured many times in my life, some badly, some not so. But the pain of all my wounds was nothing in the face of the pain I suffered when my wife, Kaziko, died." He had never said how it had happened and Jake had had the good manners not to ask. As Jake refilled his cup, Mikio said, "I think because she died in childbirth, because both of us had labored so long to have a child, because, in the end, neither of them could be saved, their pa.s.sing would not let me be for a very long time."

Jake was silent. His respect was more eloquent than a hundred thank-you's.

In a moment, Mikio resumed. "I tell you all this, Jake-san, so you will understand that I have had much experience in the matters of pain. So you will not take offense when I say that I see a similar kind of pain binding you."

Jake looked away into the distance. The immutability of the wooded hills was a comfort.

"You may have come here to find out who killed your father, Jake-san," Mikio said, "but it seems clear to me that you had another reasonjust as personal. And, perhaps, even more urgent."

Jake finished off the rice wine and put his cup onto the lacquered tray. He did not reach for more. His hands, folded in his lap, were quite still. "I have lost more than my father, Mikio-san. I have lost the center of myself. I can no longer enter ba-mahk. I cannot feel the pulse, as I have been taught to. Without ba-mahk, my entire life has changed."

"When the ocean's tide turns," Mikio said, "the world is altered. This occurs twice a day, many, many times in a lifetime." "It is not the same."

"On the contrary, Jake-san, it is just the same. The tide is mighty. Even boats dare not sail against it. But as the tide changes, so do circ.u.mstances. Whatever changes must change back again." "I do not think that my ability to enter ba-mahk will return." "That may very well be, Jake-san. If so, it is your karma. Joss, neh? You must accept whatever has befallen you. You must accept it and go on. Because strength of spirit, unlike the strength of the tide, must not be allowed to ebb. Strength of spirit is all that makes a man. It is all that differentiates him from the animals. It is by this alone that man may consider himself civilized. This, solely, must be the focus of your thoughts. Even though the pain you feel hinders youespecially because of that. Because the spirit must remain strong always." He put down his cup. "Always, Jake-san. Or all is lost."

Jake was thinking of the mountain his father had spoken of a lifetime ago, or so it seemed, when they had sat on the sh.o.r.e of the South China Sea. Zilin had said that it was on the mountain that he would be tested; there it was dark and Jake was alone.

Jake knew that Mikio was right. Jake might have arrived in j.a.pan in order to ferret out the ident.i.ty of his father's murderer; to prefect the inner circle; to help Mikio, his friend. But these were practical matters. There was the spritual side, as well. This, really, was why he had been so determined to return to j.a.pan, the place where he had been educated. The baffling loss of ba-mahk had caused a crisis within him. He had needed a renewal of spirit, and sought it in the ancient, mystic hillsides of j.a.pan where the true essence of his youth resided.

When he looked up, he saw Kazamuki standing just inside the door. She wore an oversize black blouse, loose black trousers, what appeared to be black thin-soled dancer's shoes. Her thick black hair had disappeared within a tight black cotton headband. Her face was streaked with lampblack.

"We are ready, oyabun."

"Good." Mikio Komoto rose and took the canvas bag from Kazamuki. He bent, opened the zip top, pulled out several items. He turned back to Jake and said, "No matter what has happened, you are still yumi-tori." The holder of the bow. He stretched out his arm. Jake saw that he held an ouruma wood war bow. "It is time that you took up your weapon."

Their eyes met. Gratefully, his heart filled up again, Jake took it from him.

The Burmese rain forest at five thousand meters closed over their heads like a vast cathedral. The triple canopy was brilliant with life, a teeming flow as rich as that of the ocean.

Sir John Bluestone said, "We have them now." His red face was aglow with good humor. "We've broken the yuhn-hyun!"

He sat behind a battered bamboo desk. It was a far cry from his own intricately carved Bangkok rosewood desk at Five Star Pacific. But that did not matter to him. This moment was special; to be savored like a wine of the finest vintage. The knowledge that he was close to controlling his enemies' business interests made him tremble, so that he was obliged to press his hands hard against one another beneath the desk.

"Now we have begun our run on InterAsia Trading." He was speaking of the yuhn-hyun's umbrella corporation. "With the disaster ofSouthasia Bancorp nagging at our enemies, our move on the Hang Seng has had its maximum effect."

White-Eye Kao was not impressed. He went across the faded blue-and-gold Hereka rug and fixed himself a drink from one of several bottles scattered atop a half-open crate.

The view out the dusty windows, partly covered by tattered, yellowed newspaper, was full of Shan soldiers carrying AK-47s and burlap bags of opium. The sickly sweet stench of the refining of the tears of the poppy hung heavily in the air.

White-Eye Kao downed some Scotch, poured more amber liquid. He was waiting for the word.

"The idea is to gain fifty-one percent of InterAsia Trading before they have a chance to know what's happening," said a voice from the a" shadows.

It had come. White-Eye Kao turned into the recesses of the room. He watched the small figure with the kind of avidity the other man could neither pick up nor understand.

"If Sawyer or Three Oaths Tsun get an inkling of what's going on before we have bought up a sufficient number of shares, tai pan, they could cause us discomfort."

Though he spoke only in the most deferential tones, Bluestone listened intently to the third man. He was Chinese. His age could be anywhere from fifty to seventy-five. His skin was smooth except at one corner of his mouth where a pale, puckered scar turned it down into a perpetual frown. Yet, despite this, he was a handsome man. He had the eyes of a twenty-year-old, undimmed by either time or ennui. He possessed, as well, a singular kind of electricity. He was not a man to cross. One disagreed with him only at great peril or when absolutely certain of the correctness of one's position. Chen Ju was a most implacable enemy.

"We are at a critical stage," he went on, "and I must reiterate: there is no room for a mistake. The cards we hold are fragile at best. At this moment, they give us a tremendous advantage over the yuhn-hyun, that is certainly undeniable. We must be vigilant to ensure that we maintain the advantage."

Bluestone unfolded himself from the scarred wooden chair. He felt obliged to show off every inch of his height in front of this particular Chinese. Bluestone, who was among the most pragmatic of men, nevertheless felt acutely uncomfortable in the presence of Chen Ju. Bluestone thrived on control, and control was the one thing he was unsure of with this man.

Chen Ju possessed more power than any other man Bluestone had met. In fact, for a man who clung to secrecy with such tenacity, Chen Ju's influence was staggering. Not one ounce of opium, Bluestone had learned on linking up with him, moved in or out of Hong Kong without his knowledge, consent and a.s.sistance.

What I could do with such an awesome shadow network! Bluestone thought greedily. How can I turn this partnership to my own advantage. I want what Chen Ju has; now I must see how best to wrest his powerfrom him.

With an effort, Bluestone grinned broadly. "There is no reason to be so gloomy, my friend. We are almost home." He clenched his fist. "I can feel the noose tightening around that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Sawyer's neck. Have no fear, Chen Ju."

White-Eye Kao smiled but he was enmeshed within bars of shadow and therefore quite safe. It was a most secret smile. It was Chen Ju who had trained him, set him on Sir John Bluestone as a spy.