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Authors: Eric Van Lustbader
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death?”
“It was no accident, but I imagine you already know that.”
“Yes.”
“Do you also know that he was murdered in the Chinese manner?”
“Chinese? I don’t think I understand.”
“Once upon a time, the Chinese warlords of the Shan mountains eliminated their enemies in the manner in which Vincent Tinh was killed. They shot them, then left them to be found in the acid that helps refine the tears of the poppy into opium. It served as warning to others who would try to betray them.”
“You mean they don’t do it anymore?”
Bay ducked her head so that her hair swung across one shoulder. “In a manner of speaking. They no longer exist. They have been supplanted by one man who now virtually controls the poppy trade.”
“Really? I have never heard of such a man.”
“I’m not surprised.” Bay’s eyes watched his with neither fear nor judgment. “To speak his name is to court instant death.”
“All right. I accept that. But is this man responsible for Tinh’s murder?”
Bay’s eyes, dark as coffee, held his. “I will tell you a story about this place where we are headed. It is called Cu Chi. You have heard of it?”
“Yes, I have.”
“During the war, the Twenty-fifth Division of the U.S. Army established a major base of operations in Cu Chi in order to deal with the VC menace so close to South Vietnam’s capital. No one knew how the VC were able to maneuver at will so deep inside enemy territory. Months of grunts being found murdered in their tents every morning finally led to the discovery of the tunnels beneath the base camp, but at a horrific cost in human life. By sheer chance, the Twenty-fifth Division had made camp directly atop the tunnels.”
Nicholas thought about this for some time. “Was Tinh operating too close to the man who now controls the poppy trade?”
“The poppy trade is not all he controls.”
No wonder Chief Inspector Van Kiet had refused Shindo’s bribe, Nicholas thought. He was scared shitless. “Bay, do you know this man’s name?”
“Chu Goto, or whatever your real name is, I told you that I was an independent operator. That does not mean I cannot precipitate enemies should I become foolish.”
They were interrupted by a guttural noise from the bus driver. Bay quickly went forward and Nicholas heard them speak briefly. Even from that distance he could discern the note of urgency in their voices.
When Bay returned, her face was pale. “We’re in trouble. There is a police roadblock ahead. I believe they are looking for us.”
“Why? We’ve done nothing.”
Bay jerked her head. “Nothing except leave the scene of a murder, show up unescorted in a highly restricted area, conspire to trade in contraband materials—and those are just three of the legitimate charges that could be leveled at us.”
“Yes, but—”
“Thirty years in prison without a trial or hope of parole. It’s a lifetime. And your government, Chu Goto, has no formal diplomatic relations with Vietnam. If you are caught, you have absolutely no recourse.”
She was leading him toward the rear of the bus, where the driver had opened the accordion door.
“And that’s not even counting the obvious—that the police are on the take from people far more powerful than we are. If they catch us, we’ll be lucky if we aren’t executed on the spot.”
Her last words were cut off by the wind as she jumped into the night. Nicholas leapt after her without hesitation.
For a moment, Chief Minister Ushiba was blind with the pain. Then his vision cleared and he was able to see the simple wooden edifice of Yasukuni.
The hoarse shouts of patriots in years past still echoed through the smoggy afternoon, oblivious to the modern din of passing traffic.
The Yasukuni Shinto shrine, near the moat surrounding the Imperial Palace in the heart of Tokyo, had become a memorial for Japan’s war dead, and to the bravery of kamikaze deaths, one of the war machine’s most notorious sacrifices to
“It was no accident, but I imagine you already know that.”
“Yes.”
“Do you also know that he was murdered in the Chinese manner?”
“Chinese? I don’t think I understand.”
“Once upon a time, the Chinese warlords of the Shan mountains eliminated their enemies in the manner in which Vincent Tinh was killed. They shot them, then left them to be found in the acid that helps refine the tears of the poppy into opium. It served as warning to others who would try to betray them.”
“You mean they don’t do it anymore?”
Bay ducked her head so that her hair swung across one shoulder. “In a manner of speaking. They no longer exist. They have been supplanted by one man who now virtually controls the poppy trade.”
“Really? I have never heard of such a man.”
“I’m not surprised.” Bay’s eyes watched his with neither fear nor judgment. “To speak his name is to court instant death.”
“All right. I accept that. But is this man responsible for Tinh’s murder?”
Bay’s eyes, dark as coffee, held his. “I will tell you a story about this place where we are headed. It is called Cu Chi. You have heard of it?”
“Yes, I have.”
“During the war, the Twenty-fifth Division of the U.S. Army established a major base of operations in Cu Chi in order to deal with the VC menace so close to South Vietnam’s capital. No one knew how the VC were able to maneuver at will so deep inside enemy territory. Months of grunts being found murdered in their tents every morning finally led to the discovery of the tunnels beneath the base camp, but at a horrific cost in human life. By sheer chance, the Twenty-fifth Division had made camp directly atop the tunnels.”
Nicholas thought about this for some time. “Was Tinh operating too close to the man who now controls the poppy trade?”
“The poppy trade is not all he controls.”
No wonder Chief Inspector Van Kiet had refused Shindo’s bribe, Nicholas thought. He was scared shitless. “Bay, do you know this man’s name?”
“Chu Goto, or whatever your real name is, I told you that I was an independent operator. That does not mean I cannot precipitate enemies should I become foolish.”
They were interrupted by a guttural noise from the bus driver. Bay quickly went forward and Nicholas heard them speak briefly. Even from that distance he could discern the note of urgency in their voices.
When Bay returned, her face was pale. “We’re in trouble. There is a police roadblock ahead. I believe they are looking for us.”
“Why? We’ve done nothing.”
Bay jerked her head. “Nothing except leave the scene of a murder, show up unescorted in a highly restricted area, conspire to trade in contraband materials—and those are just three of the legitimate charges that could be leveled at us.”
“Yes, but—”
“Thirty years in prison without a trial or hope of parole. It’s a lifetime. And your government, Chu Goto, has no formal diplomatic relations with Vietnam. If you are caught, you have absolutely no recourse.”
She was leading him toward the rear of the bus, where the driver had opened the accordion door.
“And that’s not even counting the obvious—that the police are on the take from people far more powerful than we are. If they catch us, we’ll be lucky if we aren’t executed on the spot.”
Her last words were cut off by the wind as she jumped into the night. Nicholas leapt after her without hesitation.
For a moment, Chief Minister Ushiba was blind with the pain. Then his vision cleared and he was able to see the simple wooden edifice of Yasukuni.
The hoarse shouts of patriots in years past still echoed through the smoggy afternoon, oblivious to the modern din of passing traffic.
The Yasukuni Shinto shrine, near the moat surrounding the Imperial Palace in the heart of Tokyo, had become a memorial for Japan’s war dead, and to the bravery of kamikaze deaths, one of the war machine’s most notorious sacrifices to
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