UNKNOWABLE (Murder on the Mekong, Book 2)

by Rivers, Hart;

  “I thank you for this extraordinary treasure and will always see it as a symbol of our deep trust and friendship in this endeavor. And now please let us adjourn for some brief business, and then”—he gestured and a line of young, elaborately costumed Vietnamese young women filed into the room—“we shall have pleasurable entertainment after our business is done.”

  By some kind of mutual accord all the women at the table, except Kate, excused themselves and migrated elsewhere while Phillip guided her to join him with the masculine contingency that gathered in an enormous drawing room. Soft leather chairs and settees were artfully arranged in groupings, with low-set tables that boasted boxes of cigars, French and American cigarettes, bottles of vintage port and Courvoisier. The orchestration was conducive to conversations both private and shared, while participants also enjoyed the view of an elevated stage with closed, red velvet curtains. Kate likened it to a high-end salon that might also serve as a movie house or showcase some kind of off-Broadway theater.

  She was acutely aware of being the only woman in the room except for the servants, and sat as closely as possible to Phillip when he claimed a settee and patted the space beside him.

  While everyone got settled with their drinks and were lighting up their cigars and cigarettes of choice, Kate eyed the Gauloises box. She desperately wanted a smoke. Somehow, though, she didn’t feel comfortable joining the boys, who were clearly in their element.

  She was not. At least, not yet.

  Phillip squeezed her hand, and then stood to make the formal introduction they had agreed was best saved for this private meeting after dinner.

  “Gentlemen, I would like you to meet my recently promoted associate,” he announced without preamble. “Ms. Morningside is far more than my dinner companion. She works directly for me and has state department and consulate status, though you will not find her listed anywhere as such, if you take my meaning. This operation will find her at the heart of our taking over the Golden Triangle and all its infrastructure for distribution and sales. As you know, once we have shifted control there, then the CIA will oversee security and distribution safely and efficiently, and the product will be moved through ships and air world-wide. Of course, none of this would be possible without a certain individual at the top who will be handling the highly strategic Corsican connections and their European distributions through his family and business to ensure our collective success. I believe all of you know The Pale Man.”

  When Phillip extended a palm his way, it seemed to Kate that Paulu all but preened. He was certainly dressed enough like a peacock, in a getup that looked like it came from Liberace’s closet. All he needed was a rhinestone-studded grand piano and that ridiculous throne she had glimpsed when she got “lost” in his “house” that was the size of a small country.

  She felt like getting out of the tub and pulling the plug on him already, but that wasn’t her decision to make. Just as it wasn’t her decision to sucker all the players gathered here into believing that the CIA had a mutually vested interest in milking the poppies for as much and as indefinitely as possible to get their share of the lucrative sale of narcotics. Convincing those gathered was essential to pulling off the CIA’s ultimate bait and switch: get control of the poppy fields so they could shut them down.

  Just one of the goals worthy of all she had signed up for. And that included putting her hands together to signal applause for The Pale Man of the Hour.

  As everyone in the room joined her, the most ambitious beating her to a standing ovation, Paulu rose from his chair with such aplomb she half expected wires attached so he could fly through the air and shower them all with pixie dust.

  Although napalm bombs would be more like it if the little snippets of memory she’d begun to have weren’t just brain vomit pulled from the dark matter where nightmares emerged.

  “Oh my, oh my! Thank you! Oh my, you are all too kind,” he gushed.

  After taking several bows and relishing what he mistook for adulation—which Kate was sure was driven by fear or greed or strategy, or some suck-up cocktail of all three—he patted the air and implored, “Please, do have a seat, and by all means indulge in another libation while you enjoy the tobacco of your choice. I want you to be comfortable during the special presentation I have arranged tonight in honor of your attendance. It is a double feature.” He signaled and a film screen descended from the ceiling just above the stage and fronting the red velvet curtains. “We will open with an instructional video regarding the consequences of, shall we say, making poor choices within our organization. Lights, please?”

  The lights went down. Phillip leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Kate, I think we should leave.”

  “No,” she whispered back. “I think we should stay.”

  Although there were no opening credits, the initial sweeping, cinematic shot established the film was professionally produced. Nothing home grown with a Kodak Super 8, but shot by a skilled cinematographer equipped with the best equipment. The audio, with the first strains of Ravel’s Bolero piped through hidden speakers, was of equally unsurpassed quality.

  Almost as immediately Kate realized something else: she had heard of underground snuff films but thought it a bunch of malarkey on a par with ghost stories around a campfire, only fueled by the sort of sick imagination that gravitated to underground porn houses with flickering film, trench coats, and fondling private body parts in public. There was none of that here but what she watched, unable to blink, was, in its own twisted way, even worse.

  The classical arrangement of Bolero was a sharp contrast that only served to augment the close up of an albino snake, so large and long it had to be a prop. One that was somehow being manipulated as the camera panned out, showing it emerge from a small body of water that resembled one of The Pale Man’s ponds. The sound of a distant scream grew louder, as if a dial were being turned up to better magnify the desperate pleas and cries for mercy that were punctuated in time to the symphonic accompaniment.

  From a close up of the snake the camera suddenly swung to a man she thought she recognized, perhaps from somewhere in that murky cesspool of toxicity she associated with The Pale Man’s estate. The man was tied to a huge stake resembling—

  Kate sucked in a sharp breath as the camera panned out further. He wasn’t tied to a stake. It was an intricately carved totem-pole she had most definitely seen, even if she wasn’t sure when. Her breathing escalated along with the man’s shrieks and Ravel’s gathering crescendo as the snake approached, first in slow, sinuous motion. Then a sudden cut to accelerate the action, only to abruptly switch to slow motion again for the first strike, repeated twice for effect, and then the big lunge—

  Phillip got up. He strode in front of the stage and loudly commanded, “Lights!”

  The lights went on. The film immediately stopped and the screen rolled back up to the ceiling. Kate could see a muscle working in Phillip’s jaw. It was the only sign that his forced smile was not sincere.

  “I believe that was sufficiently instructional, Paulu.”

  There was a smattering of nervous laughter.

  The Pale Man quickly joined him. His answering smile for the audience suggested he was not happy with his provided entertainment being cut short, but professional courtesy for this particular team mate took precedence over his own proclivities. They were role models, exhibiting their ability to agree to disagree without making a fuss in front of colleagues.

  “Thank you, Phillip,” Paulu graciously conceded. “I am so glad that you, and I trust everyone else here, can appreciate the value of functional art, and—” He paused as Phillip whispered something into his ear, and then continued, “And of course, with art being such a subjective sort of appreciation, we will now have a brief intermission for those who wish to avail themselves of some fresh air before proceeding with our live entertainment.”

  Mouse knew he should be nervous, and ordinarily he would’ve been. But ever since things had changed between him and Missy, it
seemed like nothing could rattle him. Not even the crowd of big shots lounging around in the swanky digs that could pass for a millionaires-only nightclub.

  He took it all in from where he waited for his cue behind the curtain. Stage left. Professional lights. Professional sound. Even an earlier rehearsal with some dance coaching. A costume fitting. The whole nine fuckin’ yards.

  Calm as he felt, he still fingered the Zippo in the pocket of his…Shit, he didn’t know what to call them, but they looked like the bottoms Yul Brynner wore in The King and I. Yeah, he was looking like a king here, all right. Some topless king of the jungle decked out in gold hoop earrings and coiling gold armbands, bongo drums strapped around his waist and a bunch of fake white snakes perched on his head. Like Desi Arnaz screwed Carmen Miranda and out he came, minus the fruit.

  The lights dimmed.

  Mouse flicked the Zippo. Poof.

  The sound of drums and maracas.

  Curtains parting.

  Mouse leaped into position—semi-squat, arms akimbo. Jungle voodoo priest stance. Woo-woo.

  With the stage lights beaming on him, he couldn’t make out the audience, but from his earlier peek from the wings, he knew where The Man was sitting. Mouse grinned big right at him, fully exposing his choppers. He had instructions to provide a memorable demonstration without offing the offender, at least not until the curtains closed.

  As Mouse pivoted his grin grew so wide it hurt his grin muscles, but shit, he just couldn’t help it. Not when Vo must’ve done something to really piss off The Man. Something bad enough to be made a public example—like, maybe trying to make a run for it?

  Vo sure wasn’t running now. And he wasn’t screaming over The Rolling Stones neither, not with his mouth taped shut. Tiki torches lit the stage, and in the center two poles formed a big X with Vo’s legs strapped to the bottom, his midsection tied to the middle, and his arms spread over his head with wrists bound at the top, so one stumpy hand flopped over, leaving the other nicely situated for some abbreviation itself.

  Sympathy for the Devil? At least when it came to this one here: No. Fuckin’. Way. After this performance was over, it was gonna be curtains for Vo.

  And that would leave Mouse with one down—he darted another big grin in The Man’s direction—one to Go.

  Chapter 27

  The next morning Kate was loaded for bear. She only wished she was packing a gun in the lining of her Chanel ensemble instead of a note pad, where she sat at the far end of the long, gleaming table, listening to the latest imbecile trying to make points with the major players gathered to finalize their strategies for Project White Tiger.

  There were several new faces at this meeting. Those from the night before had a certain pallor that should make The Pale Man proud. Hers was not amongst them. Whatever happened after Phillip escorted her out of the room, neither of them returning, only served to hit her buttons because it must have been even worse than the film she had witnessed.

  Yes, she knew the CIA had to do some bad things. She was, after all, about to do something very bad to JD, because not only did he have it coming, there was a larger picture to consider. But frightening people into obedience and actually enjoying the sight of violence, which Paulu clearly did, didn’t frighten or appall her nearly as much as it pissed her off. So did being patronized by someone who thought having a pointer and a big map at the front of the room somehow made him head of the class.

  “Here approximately, and I emphasize approximately, is the home and headquarters of the man who has controlled the opium-growing operations in Southeast Asia for the last two decades.” Pointer here; pointer there; pointing out the obvious. “While even our most sophisticated equipment has not been able to target the exact location of his headquarters, and he has proven too elusive to obtain an actual photo, we do have some sketches, although none look quite the same. Nonetheless, we have been able to pinpoint the general location, within a fifty-mile radius, of where his home and headquarters would be most strategically located, not only to be central to the product region, but to protect him and his army—and he is believed to have a formidable force—within very dense jungle terrain. These headquarters are ideally situated to move the product by mule through the mountains, by boat down the Mekong, and out to the world market. Unfortunately, at present it also is in the middle of the largest war in the world, which has proven to be yet another advantage for him. Any enemy of The Poppy King, as he is known, has to first find their way through two enemy forces just to arrive there. The Poppy King has forged truces and rights of way with the North Vietnamese. He has done the same with VC within Vietnam, and he has traditional and longstanding agreements with the various hill tribes in the regions that he moves the product through.” More pointer to map: “Here, here, here, and here. Gentlemen and Lady, it is a brilliant organization.”

  The latest speaker paused and Kate counted to three before the Air America former air-force general blurted the predictable tactics of a Big Pirate raping a Whore.

  “Let’s just napalm bomb the whole goddamn area to smoke and dust, wipe this Poppy King out and take over! We can put all our resources together and have it up and running again on our terms in two months. Easy as that.”

  “Yes,” agreed the RVN general she had met the night before. “Excellent! We will then move in with our ground forces with no resistance and establish control of the entire operation, from the headquarters to the fields to the skimming operations and bribes.”

  Kate’s line of vision swung to The Pale Man positioned at the head of the table, nodding agreeably as though they had actually said something worthy of consideration.

  “Now watch this,” Phillip whispered as a new attendee eagerly made his way to the front. “He’s a new CIA man—has no idea who I am. Probably thinks you’re an assistant taking notes. But I know all about him. Last name, Robards. Very ambitious, eager to make his reputation. Let’s see how he goes about that.”

  Robards took the pointer and immediately began pitching his own ingenious plan for a “quick night ops operation” that was followed by a number of unintelligible acronyms describing his elaborate scheme to “use contracted CIA Special Ops to pinpoint the location and then assassinate The Poppy King and all his senior staff.”

  Looking as if he had somehow solved one of the 20th century’s most difficult math theorems, Robards stepped back and asked, “Any questions?”

  Kate tossed down her pen. The stupid, stooopid, idiots. Congratulating themselves for the stupidest of stupid ideas, and why? She had no idea, other than their collective possession of penises, but that wouldn’t explain it either since she had known many smart, even brilliant, intuitive men, not the least being Phillip.

  He slid her a private smile and chuckled. He was daring her to have some balls herself.

  Kate pushed back her chair near the furthest end of the table that ran the length of a bowling alley. She stood up. All eyes swung in her direction. She had been noticed earlier. She was always noticed in a room full of men; however, just as always, she had been discounted and ignored as soon as the room got down to business.

  Well, that was about to change. Phillip hadn’t made her his protégé just so she could smile and serve refreshments. Respect was earned; she was about to get some.

  “I do not have a question,” she responded, “more of an observation. Let’s blow it up! Let’s kill everybody! I feel like I’m watching a BBC documentary on chimps being dominant, and you”—she pointed at the latest chimp at the front—“along with everyone else here who actually agrees with you, may as well be screeching and beating your chests.”

  She felt all eyes on her chest, and then on her backside as she passed them en route to the front. Once there, she extended her hand, palm up. “The pointer, please?”

  Rather than hand it over, an expression of disbelief accompanied Robards’ purposeful dropping of the pointer to the floor. “Look, lady,” he snorted, “I don’t know who you think you are, but—”

&n
bsp; “And you don’t know who I am either, son,” Phillip interjected, still sitting. “Nor do you want to. But I can assure you right now, the lady is far above your pay grade and security clearance, and if you are unable to drop your little attitude show and perhaps gain some manners you most certainly will find yourself tomorrow enjoying a border crossing job in Siberia.”

  The room was so quiet you could have heard a feather drop. Kate simply raised a well plucked brow and reiterated, “The pointer, please?”

  “Yes, certainly.” Robards dropped down, grabbed the pointer, and extended it to her. “My apologies, ma’am. I am sorry.”

  Kate granted him a dismissive nod and Robards slinked his way back to the seat where he could worry if he should be packing for Siberia. She scanned the room. Everyone was paying attention. Good.

  “Gentlemen. Although I realize quite a few countries are represented in the room, I believe we can all agree that when it comes to automobiles, no country in the world can compete with the United States’ production and profitability within that particular industry.” Nods. Raised brows. Expressions of interest. Some confusion. “Now, for the sake of simplicity, let us say this”—she tapped the pointer at the heart of The Poppy King’s presumed headquarters—“this is Detroit. Here is Ford, GM, and Chrysler, the whole American automobile empire. All of its manufacturing, all of its factories, all of the distribution and network chains, everything all in place. A money-making machine like none other in the world, built up over years and years of running twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, like a finely tuned Swiss watch. Imagine all the years and work that has gone into doing that and now…” She paused. “Let’s blow it up! Turn it into smoke and dust and start over! Let’s kill all of the top executives and engineers that know how it works and runs, and replace them with…who?” She aimed the pointer at the Air America general. “You? You know how to rebuild and run Detroit and all its money-making factories after you blow it up? And you can even get it all retooled and running again within sixty days?”