UNKNOWABLE (Murder on the Mekong, Book 2)

by Rivers, Hart;

  “Zhang?” Izzy was certain he hadn’t heard right. “How can he be waiting for us when he’s…Well, he’s dead?”

  “The Poppy King is dead,” JD confirmed. “But the power behind the throne is not, and that power, compromised though it may be, still belongs to my brother, Zhang. You met him once before, on another boat.”

  Chapter 42

  The Pale Man was terribly disappointed to have lost his court jester as a result of actions he had not anticipated, no doubt goaded by emotions he simply could not comprehend. It bothered him more than he wanted to admit that the Missy girl had not been found despite an impressive search party, but, oh well. What harm could she do? She was likely just as dead as his pet mouse by now. Such a pity the little man had squandered his own life to save her before delivering more pleasures to his liege, The King of the Poppy.

  Paltry matters in the scheme of things, however, with all he still had to relish. Indeed, other than the little Romeo and Juliet debacle and the failed lobotomy, rarely had The Pale Man felt so good, so alive and substantial. He gazed out over his magnificent estate and across the immaculate scented garden. The variously landscaped candle lanterns were creating lovely shadows. Darkness upon darkness. He imagined he could hear the good doctors screaming down in the blackness. Surely they were beginning to lose their minds, their smug, well-schooled minds, to the crushing darkness and the terror of the snake, escalating with their hunger and thirst.

  Ah, a pity he had simply forgotten to have them fed and watered for the past two days. Even though his true prize had endured a week of various tortures and beatings to save his friend before the grand finale that went awry, he would outlast both doctors. Which did lead one to toy with the idea of bringing them all out in another day or so to see what he could get them to barter in order to not be sent back. Perhaps their souls, by seeing how willingly they would harm or sell out the others to save themselves. The doctors reputedly had good minds and it would be interesting to see who broke first. Actually, now that he thought about it, he could have the psychiatrist lobotomize Mr. John Doe Mikel in exchange for saving himself and Dr. Kelly. A two-for-one deal might not be such a bad way to go. Mmm, now that was a pleasant thought. Then he could whittle them down from there, perhaps turn the softhearted psychologist into a torturer in order to prolong his own life.

  Phillip had done him a great favor when he dropped that tidbit about the new CIA operation in the works, and, by God, those Americans were imaginative! An actual school for terrorism and torture. At some point Jenkins’ extended hiatus would have to be explained, but perhaps he could smooth things over by offering his own services as an associate professor, as he had mentioned to Jenkins before his untimely demise. Yes, Herr Professor had a nice, old-world ring to it, to go along with being The King of the Poppy.

  He would need to pay his subjects another visit in a few days, since he did take his new duties quite seriously. And so, tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow he would allow his pets out and strategize the lobotomy so J. D. Mikel would now be having a portion of his brain removed by the friend whose life he had saved. The irony of it all was simply too delicious!

  Tomorrow was going to be a very big, exciting day, and so, early to bed, early to rise. It was time for a cooling bath.

  He preferred the pleasure of being alone when he slept and luxuriated in the new silk sheets. The tropical night was cooled by a gentle breeze. And that was how he fell asleep.

  Until…

  Something woke him. A sound, a smell, a sense of no longer being alone?

  It was dark, with just moonlight fluttering about the room from the open balcony doors. Wait. Hadn’t he closed them, a little extra precaution he really didn’t need? Reaching for the bedside light, The Pale Man felt a sharp jab to his solar plexus that left him immobilized, then the stab of a needle into his leg. A damp cloth pressed over his nose, over his mouth.

  A familiar voice advised him, “Good old Special K. Just a little ketamine, fresh from your very own medical facility. It should only take a few breaths before it hits. That’s good. Now, a few more breaths…Excellent. Enjoy your nice dissociative state in dream land. When you wake up, we will have everything arranged to sort out this unfortunate misunderstanding between us. Sweet dreams.”

  When The Pale Man awoke he was in his grand sanctum, strapped into his throne by the waist, and facing his exquisite Go board. Across from him, on simple stools meant for servants, sat two men: Mikel and an ex-employee who had started out with such promise, even gouging out the eyes of his highly trained superior to be quickly promoted, only to disappear at a critical moment and not resurface until now.

  The snake that should be tattooed on his face had somehow disappeared as well.

  Mikel’s face, however, had accumulated a nice, long line of fresh stitches, along with a shortened earlobe. He was much too perfect looking for his own good—rather, he had been.

  “Greetings, my dear Pale Man. Did you have a nice nap?” solicitously inquired Mikel, then hastily added, “No need to answer. And no need to call for your guards. They’re all gone, dispatched with ample incentive not to return. So, it’s just you, me, my brother Zhang—who I believe you’ve already met—and a game to play. Oh. Tea, of course, first. Thirsty?”

  “Bloody hell,” he hissed. “How did you get out? And what is this nonsense about this being your brother?”

  “If you win a game, I will tell you. If you lose a game?” A shrug and a smile. “That is something we need to discuss. Now, as you can see, you have been outmaneuvered. However, I do understand your love of games and, in the interest of fairness, we are willing to play a winner-take-all game of Go. If you win, you can go free. Really, easy as that. But should you lose, the winner chooses your punishment. What say you, Pale Man? Quite sporting, agreed? You can even choose which brother you wish to play.”

  Idiots! He could easily beat them both even under these conditions, and the ketamine had completely worn off, leaving his mind to work at its usual fast clip. His ex-guard must be responsible for Mikel’s escape. A disgruntled employee, no doubt, who was now posing as the brother he had personally removed with the order “Mozambique.” Two shots to the chest, one to the head. Neither Mikel nor his accomplice would be so lucky. They wanted to play a game? The Master would teach them a few things right now.

  “And how do I know you will live up to the terms prescribed, Mr. Mikel? You’ve already demonstrated a great affinity for lying, actually expecting me to believe this is your brother.”

  “Believe what you like, but we will abide by the terms presented. You have my word.”

  “What I believe is you must perceive me as quite a threat to have me tied up; and your word means nothing. What proof do you offer that you aren’t up to some trickery and won’t renege on my release upon the game’s conclusion?” And it was a foregone conclusion. Mikel and the guard, who only spoke rudimentary English, and had yet to even speak in this exchange, clearly had no idea who they were playing with, just as Colonel Vo had not—and he had been a magnificent, world-class Go player.

  There was just one thing he had yet to figure out, which bothered him. Why had his ex-killer-for-hire inked his face in such a professional manner to gain his earlier position, only to reveal it as temporary? Was there any possibility, however remote, that he was indeed more than he seemed?

  As if reading his mind, Mikel offered, “Phillip has you. Zhang had The Poppy King, who you most unfortunately dispensed with. He would have been a far more polite opponent, one you should have kept around to buy yourself a little more time. As for proof of my pure intentions, do you recall our first meeting as we enjoyed an exquisite cup of tea beside the Koi pond where you started this whole game between us?”

  Thinking back to that delightful morning when he had his servant bring in the tastefully presented head of the boat pilot with Miss Morningside’s bracelet between his teeth, The Pale Man allowed himself a satisfied smile. “Why, yes. That was quite the moment, wasn’t i
t?”

  “Indeed. Remove the restraints.” Mikel nodded to his “brother,” or whoever the imposter was, as they were clearly trying to upset his own gamesmanship with the ploy of deceit.

  Their deceit, at least, did not extend to just pretending to release him from the restraints that bound him to the throne he had acquired from a country where things had not ended well.

  No sooner had the “brother” done as he was bidden than Mikel instructed him to bring the tea they had prepared.

  The tea arrived, beautifully presented, yet Mikel apologized, saying, “I’m afraid it’s not quite up to par with your very fine Iron Buddha, tie guan yin, grown on the south slope. But it is mine, a Longjing, the Dragon Well, which I grow facing north.” Mikel personally poured two cups before inviting, “Please, you first.”

  Since it would be incredibly rude to refuse, The Pale Man chose his cup, knowing he would not dare put a sip to his lips until Mikel did so himself.

  “It isn’t poisoned,” Mikel assured him, and drank.

  The Pale Man then joined him, eagerly, since his mouth had become unexpectedly dry. There was a little tightness in his throat despite all the restraints having been removed. It felt like a replay of their first meeting, minus the carp and domed tray presented to Mikel with an opening move that would ensure he remained for a very long game.

  Mikel clapped his hands twice. A large, domed silver tray did arrive then, Mikel’s own lackey bowing as he presented the new delivery.

  “I wish to show my sincerity. Your earlier gift to me has earned no less in return.” Mikel’s voice, so gracious he could have been speaking to a king, was not mirrored by the striking green eyes that could have cut glass, or the smile that did not try to hide the ferocity of anticipation behind it. “Now please, allow me to offer proof that the end game is near.”

  Off came the domed lid.

  The Pale Man’s breath stopped. His cup hit the stone floor.

  Centered on the tray was the severed head of his beloved albino python. Its eyes were wide open, as well as the jaws that could take in the head of a man, as it had many a time before, including his own prized court jester, Mr. Mouse.

  On the extended tongue merely rested two stones from The Pale Man’s most cherished Go board.

  The one set up between them.

  “Now, do you prefer black or white?” Mikel softly inquired. “And which brother would you choose to play the game that will determine whether you go free—if you win—or, should you lose, decide upon your fate?”

  For the first time it seemed entirely possible that he had been out-gamed, and that the silent partner in the room was indeed Mikel’s step-brother Zhang, who had once controlled the land of the poppies, the subjects who tended them, and the kingdom that was no longer his to command.

  This game was not over yet.

  “I will take black.” The Pale Man wondered at their allowing him the advantage of the first move as he glanced from one potential opponent to the other. “You may relinquish your seat,” he decided. “I will play against”—he gestured in the direction of the tray bearer—“him.”

  “Well spoken,” the two men said in unison.

  They bowed to each other. And laughed.

  And then they laughed some more.

  The game, which could take days to play between true masters, was over in less than an hour. The victor pronounced, “Well done. I decided to play in the manner of my teacher’s favorite teacher of the game, the great master Huang Longshi. His is always a good play against the style of someone so presumptuous. Your first plays had exactly the hubris of your Poppy King moves and brought you to the same kind of disaster.”

  The Pale Man, already sitting in a pool of his own sweat, thought of running, but he knew that was futile. His head was reeling with confusion and absolute fury. His opponent had been devious, elegant, and ruthless. And now he was bowing to Mikel, and Mikel bowing back. Then they both cast their eyes, filled with dark excitement, upon him. The slyness of their smiles did not bode well.

  “That wasn’t fair!” It wasn’t much of a defense, but it was all he had. “I demand a rematch. The best two out of three…five out of seven? I—I…Please, I can give you anything you desire—”

  “But you have nothing to give us. It is already ours,” Mikel informed him. “You thought you stole a kingdom by killing a king, only the king took his orders from my brother, who is extremely unhappy, as am I, with you as well as your cohorts. Phillip will be in quite a dilemma for his next move since his puppet will be having his strings cut.”

  “No! Wait. Please, I am begging you, begging you—”

  “Begging?” said the opponent who had unbelievably bested him at the board, and almost assuredly was not a hired mercenary who’d had the audacity to insert himself amongst those who were real, not fraudulent. “You have given me an excellent idea as to your punishment, since I am the winner and the one to choose what it shall be. I find myself wondering, how well would a blind, mute beggar fare in Saigon? Like my brother, I do have a love for poetry, and poetic justice, and what would be more poetic than a man who would be King, one who is blinded by greed, becoming a beggar without hands, or eyes, unable to read or write, whose tongue has been cut out so he cannot speak or communicate, but only squeal as he hobbles along a dark tunnel forever?”

  The Pale Man shuddered. It was far worse than anything he had ever imagined—well, yes, he had imagined such things. Just never happening to him.

  “You will have a long, long time to think over how you lost the game,” Mikel assured him as The Pale Man clung to his throne, determined they would have to peel him from it.

  And then he was being lifted, throne and all, held loftily in the air by his two escorts as though he were being paraded through the eerily deserted grounds of his estate, futilely shouting for help, until they reached the medical facility where he and his throne were unceremoniously, abruptly deposited.

  “Would you care for more ketamine?” Mikel politely inquired, while Zhang approached with something silver glimmering in his hand.

  “Sorry,” said he. “I won, I choose, and he doesn’t get any.”

  The last thing The Pale Man saw was the needle coming towards his eyes.

  Later

  The two brothers were swimming. Laughing and splashing each other they reminisced over old times together, and progressed to a fine meal of Luon Nuong Xa from the excellent kitchen in their favorite beach cottage on the Andaman Sea across from Burma.

  “We could invite your friends, the doctors, to join us,” Zhang suggested with another lift of his chopsticks from a bowl of fragrant jasmine rice with grilled eel, lemongrass and turmeric. “They looked as though they could use a respite from the war. Amongst other things.”

  “Believe me, after what they’ve been through, lying low at the safe house Missy arranged is a vacation. Not that they should have to stay much longer, now that The Pale Man is no longer a threat.” JD fingered the still-healing scar on his cheek. The burns were forgotten as soon as they were inflicted, and the gunshot to his arm had been a clean in-and-out exit wound. While he had lost quite a bit of blood, the damage had not been nearly as bad as it looked—or would have been without the assist from his unlikely conspirator. Mike Gallini had surprised him. But life was full of surprises, some not so good, as The Pale Man had so recently learned.

  “I trust our Hmong friends did a good clean job with the amputations.” JD took a leisurely sip of his tea. Yes, his tea, a Longjing, the Dragon Well, rather than a far pricier, very fine Iron Buddha he never cared to sip again. “The Pale Man, or what is left of him, should be sufficiently healed to be begging in Saigon shortly, while we enjoy our time together here.”

  “A fair sentence,” Zhang replied. “He never should have killed our dearly departed Poppy King. I feel terribly about that. My good and trusted ally, and my friend. It was my mistake for not anticipating such an early, ruthless move. We are providing generously for his family, not that
any compensation is ample for their loss. And again, my dear brother, please know how heavy is the burden I carry for removing myself from sight once delivering you and the good doctors from the boat, and then doing as your letter instructed with the other occupants. Had I not been so preoccupied with managing matters that were getting entirely out of hand, I would have—”

  “Zhang, enough. No more apologies, please. All has turned out to our advantage, with the only question remaining, what shall be your next move?”

  “Appointing another trusted associate to run my kingdom and deal with the demons who so love their B52s and napalm baths over land they have no right to. It will never be the same, I know that, but we have power still and time will be on our side. This is our land. They are just borrowing it, as did the French, and they are now gone.”

  “I understand Phillip is in France, having a little holiday at his favorite hotel.”

  “Hmm,” Zhang mused. “I think cutting our vacation short bears consideration.”

  JD pretended to consider before agreeing. “Indeed, my brother. Now that we have taken care of The Pale Man, what say you to a little surprise visit to the Ambassador?”

  Chapter 43

  Chateau Saint-Martin

  Vence, France

  Phillip gazed out from the balcony of the honeymoon duplex suite at the top of the ancient tower, and across at the Mediterranean Sea. The crisp breeze flowing down the mountain from the Alpes Maritimes made the air sparklingly clear, and the scent brought many memories. Down the hill the medieval walls held the village of Vence, where old Roman fountains still spouted cool waters from the mountains. He loved it here. He had been coming since he was a boy to this favorite place of his grandfather. It had been a private residence then. He recalled walking to town, where they would greet Matisse on his way to his favorite cafe. The family apartment in Paris was grand and the country estate in Provence was delightful, but for pure, French elegance the Chateau Saint-Martin was his favorite. The ambience was so lovely that the famed Konrad Adenauer, a friend also of his grandfather, once described it as the “anteroom of Paradise.” This hotel had been a real castle of the 12th Century Knights Templar and, of course, that had fired his imagination as a boy, pretending he was one of the Knights in battle, sword drawn, galloping on horseback to victory.