“Maybe. That didn’t save other villages. You saw the corn growing on the hillsides around here, right? This village is surrounded by poppies. Both the government and the Wa are hip-deep in drugs. The Tatmadaw’s on one side, the UWSA’s on another, and the SSA-South’s on a third, all fighting each other. The Wa and the Tatmadaw grab people for forced labor, like at that bridge at Wān Namyūm. They charge households two to eight thousand kyat each to buy materials for fixing roads and bridges. They also draft young men who don’t run away fast enough. It’s…”
“A shitshow?”
“Uh-huh. So the local Wa ‘commander’—” she uses air quotes “—drug lord—found out the ceramics made here hide the scent of heroin from drug dogs. The village started paying off the Wa in pottery ten years ago.”
I’m starting to see how all this goes together. “Let me guess—when Pensri found the Nam Ton wares, they started using that as part of the payoff.”
Savannah scrunches her nose. “It’s… more complicated than that.”
“Complicated how?”
She wipes her forehead on her sleeve. “Pensri sent me pictures. This was not too long after I got laid off from Sotheby’s and went back to the Bay Area. I’d just started advising. I looked at these beautiful things and… well, I told her, ‘You know, you can get a lot of money for those over here.’ And she said ‘science,’ ‘cultural heritage,’ all that. So I said, ‘Send me a piece and let me see what I can do with it.’ She did. I took it to Lorena—we’d gotten pretty friendly by then—and I asked her if any of her clients would be interested. She found someone right away. I sent Pensri almost $7,000 in cash. That’s a lot of money up here. It paid off the Tatmadaw for a year.”
“That’s all it takes?”
“The village has forty houses. Eight thousand kyat per is 320,000 kyat.”
“That’s like… less than three hundred bucks.”
“In a place where they’re doing great if they make twenty or thirty dollars a month. That’s one project for one of the three sides. And they have to pay, especially the army. The army can shell their village if they don’t. Anyway, I told Pensri to send me three good pieces a year and the village could pay off the Tatmadaw and the SSA. That’s how it all started. I was trying to do something good.”
“You and Lorena did all this for free, right?”
She makes a face. “Of course not. I took my commission, and so did she. It was work, and quite honestly, I needed the money. The Leech had almost wiped me out. But most of what we got for the wares came back here. That’s the way it ought to be, isn’t it?”
Okay, I know this breaches scientific ethics and breaks the UNESCO convention against looting antiquities and all that, but… look at it. Three pots a year. They’d end up in a university’s warehouse or on some tourist’s mantle otherwise. The village gets most of the money from the sales. They use it to keep from becoming refugees or being on the wrong end of a pogrom.
Then I think of Bandineau’s storage cube. “It’s not just three pots a year anymore.”
“I know.” Savannah nods sadly. “Once they learned how much the wares are worth, they started turning them into extra cash. They sold them to antique stores in Chiang Mai. The Wa agreed to give them more credit for the Nam Ton pieces because they can sell them on the other end for more money.”
This is the part I dislike. I’m sure the Wa and those antique stores aren’t giving the villagers anything near what the wares are worth. Three pots a year is a noble sacrifice for the common good; the rest is just plain looting, and the people who should benefit from it aren’t.
I’m dying to ask where I come into this, but since she’s sharing, I need to encourage her to keep going. Talbot and Carruthers may want to know some of this. “Where’d it go wrong?”
“I showed it to Jim. He got really excited about it. You know he has bigger ambitions than the Norris, right?”
“I got that impression.”
“Well, the next thing I knew, he was talking about collectors and museums and donations and how that would help me get more money for the village, and…” She stops sing-songing and sighs. “I knew it was all about him. This was how he was going to be chief curator at the Met or something. I tried to keep control of the wares coming over, but…” she looks toward the forest again “…Coulson snaked that out from under me.”
Finally, something that surprises me. “You know Coulson?”
“Yes, I know him.” She doesn’t have to say I’d rather not. “Then my clients heard about Nam Ton and wanted in on it. Ohlmeyer was first and got the good prices, like I told you. By then my friend in Shanghai was also interested. Ohlmeyer let me sell some pieces to him. That’s how the Chinese market started.”
Savannah skipped over an important detail: how the Chinese friend found out about Nam Ton. I suspect she told him so she could develop a market without Bandineau’s interference.
“Ohlmeyer’s pretty accommodating.” I take a moment to add up all the bits and pieces I’ve learned about him over the past two months. I think I finally see the puzzle’s picture. “You’re Ohlmeyer.”
There’s a flash in her eyes. I recognize it: it’s that rush of shit to the heart when you realize somebody’s figured you out. It’s gone in a moment. She deadpans, “You say that why?”
“A reclusive collector with an obscure name who just happens to get in first on Jim’s scheme. He’s able to negotiate the prices down, then he lets you take pieces from his collection to sell to this guy in China. I’m pretty sure your friend would mean zero to a real Ohlmeyer. He sounds like the kind of character you make up when you’re laundering money or ducking customs or avoiding currency controls.” Our gallery had several clients who existed only in Gar’s head and some receipts and bank records. It’s a great way to clean dirty cash.
She gives me a tight-lipped, closed-mouth smile. “Believe what you want.”
Believe what you want is what you say when you don’t want to say neither confirm nor deny, which is what you say when giving a straight answer will drop you in the shit.
“Are you still selling pieces for the village?”
“Three a year, through my friend in China. The village gets more money that way.”
“But you sell more than that, don’t you? Someone’s keeping the Chinese market supplied. Does Ohlmeyer have any Nam Ton left in his—her?—collection, or is it all in China?”
Savannah folds her arms and stares out the window for a while. “It’s all in China.” It’s a confession, not an argument.
That’s probably as close as she’ll get to admitting she’s Ohlmeyer. “When’d you find out about the heroin?”
“I knew about that from the start.” She’s beginning to sound irritated. “Pensri told me, remember? That’s why the Wa wanted ceramics.”
“And that was okay with you?”
“The wares Pensri sent me were clean.”
“The ones Ohlmeyer bought weren’t.”
She snaps, “I know. I didn’t have any control over that. That was Coulson’s deal, remember? Him and the Wa.” Savannah lunges off the windowsill and stalks away. “I blame Jim for that. If he didn’t get so greedy, if he didn’t make that deal, it would’ve been okay.”
I wonder what Bandineau’s telling the DEA right now. Does any of his story line up with Savannah’s? He says he’s the victim; she says she is. Maybe they both are, or neither.
Savannah pivots toward me. “This system I built? I never designed it, it was all a reaction. Now the DEA and Homeland Security and whoever else want to tear it down. It’s time to change.” She squats in front of me, folds her arms on my thighs, then turns those big blue eyes on me. Her voice goes soft. “I’d been trying to work out how to get here since last year, ever since I found out about the DEA.”
Another bomb goes off in my head. “Wait—you already knew about the DEA?”
“Uh-huh. Brandon told me.” Her face says she’s
not a bit sorry about the lie.
She’d seemed so surprised when I told her. “If the art-advisor thing doesn’t work out? You totally need to try acting.”
“Thanks for the suggestion.” She gives me a chilly smile. “You solved a big problem for me. I knew I needed to do something about the wares, but I didn’t have enough money to fly over, get a car, get here. Then you called and invited me along. That was a huge help.”
“Glad I was useful for something. What happened to you being a millionaire?”
“I’m a real estate millionaire. All the money’s in the house. Cash-wise, I’m mostly broke. You don’t make a lot of money doing what I do unless you have a crazy-good resume and lots of contacts. What I got from selling Ohlmeyer’s ceramics dried up when they ran out. I still need to pay for food, Uber, new shoes. I needed to get over here to fix my income, but I didn’t have enough income left to get over here. Until you brought me.” She squeezes my knee. “Thanks.”
I already knew this; I just didn’t know I knew. I’d seen the wear on her dresses, how many are from two or three years ago, the mid-market lingerie. I didn’t understand why until now. “What’s this thing you need me to do?”
“It’s pretty simple. The U.S. market’s gone now. Between ICE and the DEA, Nam Ton will be toxic to legitimate collectors. It’s still hot in China, though. I need the wares to go straight to my Shanghai friend. It’ll cut out a lot of middlemen and the village will get more of the profits. It’s another one of those win-win situations.”
“I bet you’ll get a bigger cut, too.”
She shrugs.
I don’t have to think too long or hard to see the obvious flaw in the plan. “To change where the pots are going, won’t you also have to change where the heroin’s going?”
“Uh-huh. Now that the Wa lost their U.S. operation, I’m sure they’ll want to switch up.”
I sit there, stunned. She’s proposing sending a stream of ultra-pure heroin to China like it’s a new brand of lipstick. There’s no doubt or guilt in her eyes. “This doesn’t bother you… even a little?”
She makes a face. “The Wa already ship heroin into China. All I’ll do is hand them a new connection, farther north. At least it won’t be going to America anymore.” She moves to the window, leans against the frame. “If you’re not interested in helping…”
Good god. I didn’t see this coming from her.
Our gallery had some truly sketchy clients. I’m sure at least a couple used drug money to buy art, or maybe used the art they bought to move drug money. I already mentioned how hard it is to throw a gallery party without dope. The concept is nasty, but it’s not shocking.
Except… it’s coming from Savannah. Pretty, smart, fun Savannah.
It’s hard to keep my voice calm, but I manage. “What do you want me to do?”
Savannah smiles. “I’d hoped you see it that way. That Wa commander I mentioned? He’ll be here later this morning. I need you to be Hoskins for him. A different version of Hoskins.”
Aha. Medina wants the asshole behind the super-smack… and he’s coming here. I can satisfy both my sponsors at the same time. “Meaning?”
“I need to get him to agree to this deal. The problem is, I’m a woman.”
“I’ve noticed.”
She smiles. “The way it works around here, he wouldn’t bother talking to a mere woman. He certainly wouldn’t discuss business with one unless she’s a prostitute. So I need you to make the deal with him.”
“Do what?”
“You heard me. I’ll be the interpreter. He doesn’t speak English. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you everything you need to know to say more-or-less the right words. When I translate, I can fix whatever you say so it’s right.”
“I’m a beard.”
“That’s an old-fashioned way to put it, but, yes.”
My first thought is, seriously? But it makes a certain kind of sense… especially when I consider that the risk is all on my head, not hers. As far as anybody else will know, it’s my deal.
So this is what she wanted Hoskins for. I totally underestimated her.
Savannah kneels in front of me and cups her hands around my knees. “What do you think? Can you do it?”
I know I can. The real question is, should I? “If I say no?”
Her face crinkles in pain. “I hope you won’t. If you do… well, the villagers will probably just give you to the Wa. You made them look bad in town—”
“You mean, when I rescued you?”
“Uh-huh. They’ll want to make an example out of you. They’ll probably kill you after a while.”
“You’re welcome, by the way.”
“I didn’t say I’d like it. There won’t be a lot I can do about it, though.” She gives me a sad smile. “Come on. You sold that house to me. I know you can do this. Once you do, we can leave and I can show you around Thailand and we can have a lot more fun than we’ve had this past week. Maybe we can have a good conversation about us. What ‘us’ is. I’d like that a lot. Would you?”
Negotiate a major narcotics deal that will lead to hundreds, maybe thousands of deaths.
Or die.
I’ve done some bad things. Worse than the fraud and tax evasion and money laundering at the gallery. Something I helped do drove a woman to kill herself. My partner killed somebody right in front of me and I did nothing to stop it. I didn’t intend for either of those things to happen, but, well, intentions…
There aren’t a lot of lines I won’t cross. Those there are, I stay well away from.
Mass murder is one of them.
But the project turns to dust in three days. If I say “no,” my expiration date will come sooner. Savannah will still get the deal done, and I’ll be fertilizing the forest.
Gulp. “Yeah. I’d like that, too.”
Chapter 53
The Wa commander arrives around ten in the morning with an entourage of a dozen soldiers. They all look like the UWSA troops we’ve seen before, except cleaner and with better tailoring. None of them wear anything I can identify as rank insignia, which seems weird. The only way I can tell which one is the head honcho is that he’s the only one without a red scarf tied around his neck, and he’s packing what looks like a Rolex.
I’m standing in front of what Savannah tells me is the village chief’s house. She’s next to me in her Burmese outfit with her hair covered by a yellow kerchief. The chief is next to her, then his son, then Pensri. They gave me back my duffel earlier, so for the first time in days, I’m showered (last night in the rain, with Savannah), shaved, and wearing relatively clean clothes.
The rain also washed some of the humidity out of the air. It’s damp but not sweltering (yet). Ironically, this is the nicest morning we’ve had since we entered Myanmar.
“Ironically,” because my stomach’s turned into a pretzel.
The soldiers set up a cordon between us and the rest of the village. The village guards flank us outside the ring of Wa. A few villagers watch the show from outside the screen of guards. I can’t tell if the security is to keep the villagers out or to stop us from escaping.
The chief and the Wa honcho have a long exchange that sounds like telling each other how wonderful each other are. Savannah moves her mouth next to my ear. “He’s Colonel Kyon.” Pronounced chon. “He’s in charge of the Wa troops around here and runs the local poppy grow.”
“So the Rolex is real?”
“Probably.”
“Met him before?”
“No. Pensri’s always kept me away from him. He didn’t need to know about western visitors until now.”
Colonel Kyon is round-faced and stout, but I don’t get that he’s soft. His eyes are dark, sharp, almost piercing. He stands straight with his shoulders square, but it’s not a pose; it looks natural on him. “You’re sure he doesn’t speak English?”
“That’s what Pensri says.”
“We’ll need to test that.”
Two teenage girls bring out stools for the six of us. The chief and Kyon get the nice, shiny white plastic ones, while the rest of us get handmade wooden ones that have been around the block a few times.
The chief hands Kyon the booze and cigarettes we brought, then finally gets around to introducing me. Kyon lights a Marlboro and shifts his stare to me.
I doubt this is what the DEA expected, but I’m about to cross off the last item on my checklist. “Nin hao ma?” Savannah told me this is Mandarin for how are you? This is where we shift from Burmese to a language Savannah can speak… and cut out everybody else.
Kyon bobs his head and says something short. His voice is semi-tenor, not quite what I expect for someone his shape or position.
Savannah says, “He says he’s very well, thank you.”
“My name is Richard Hoskins.” Since pointing is considered rude, I nod toward Savannah. “This is my interpreter.”
She translates. He answers. “He asks if you’re American.”
I had to do this a few times at the gallery. One rule I remember is to always speak to the person I’m talking to, not the interpreter. “Yes, I am. So is she. She works for me. I like to have control over my interpreters. Is Mandarin acceptable to you?”
“He says he understands, and Mandarin is fine.”
I nod once to him. “The soldier standing behind you is about to shoot you in the head.” I say it like I’m commenting on last night’s game.
Not a flicker. Kyon switches his focus to Savannah, expectant. I guess Pensri was right.
Savannah says, “I told him that you appreciate the opportunity to discuss business with him. He said he’s willing to discuss business with anyone serious about it. He asks if you had a pleasant journey here.”
Ah. We have to chat first. So we chat through Savannah, who keeps a perfectly blank face through the whole exchange. I finally notice that her stool is shorter than mine. That probably isn’t accidental.
The two teenagers bring out ceramic cups for all of us and pour tea from a scorched metal pot. I lean in to Savannah and whisper, “Is it safe to drink this?”
Chasing Clay (The DeWitt Agency Files Book 3) Page 33
