“Reluctantly,” Bodge thought aloud.
“They don’t want them to leave at all. Why should they train new men when the ones they have are already experienced? And, in fact, what with military conscription, there aren’t really many able-bodied men left in the villages to replace them. As slavery has been outlawed in Vietnam, the plantation owners have to constantly come up with new tricks to keep the men there.”
“Like kidnapping their wives.”
“So it seems.”
“Excuse me for asking, but why wouldn’t the plantation people just kill the women and pretend to have them held someplace?”
“For some reason I haven’t yet worked out, the army was involved in the kidnappings. I believe the General had some say in the wellbeing of the women.”
“Do you know where they are?”
“Now we do, yes. They’re on the plantation.”
“Then I imagine they’re well guarded.”
“Yes, but we’ve put together a plan.”
“…that involves me?”
“I have no right to ask. You’re a man of the cloth and I know that this may conflict with your principles.”
A man of God? It hadn’t occurred to Bodge recently that anyone would still consider him a man of the cloth. He also wondered whether he had any principles left. While Hong went over her plan, he felt his respect and admiration for her grow. She was an awesome woman, one he’d be loath to get on the wrong side of. He was certain if he were the Emperor he wouldn’t leave her on the bench as second string pitcher.
Before she could finish outlining her plans, she paused and looked to the sky. He heard the sound a few seconds later — the rotor of a helicopter. From his brief orientation, Bodge knew there were fewer than half-a-dozen in the entire country. This one was coming toward them from across the lake. Its noise engulfed the heavenly place like the voice of Satan.
“Under cover, quick,” she said, and they scurried into the thick bush.
The clumsy Westland-Sikorsky with a hospital cross on its side, flew almost directly over their heads, along the bank, and landed beside the villa. Bodge and Hong were lying side by side in the damp leaves. When the engine finally went quiet, Bodge could hear her breathing, see her chest rise and fall beneath the silk.
“Something must be wrong,” she whispered.
“They would never have access to a helicopter just for a casual visit. Are you quite sure you didn’t do anything wrong?”
“Not to anyone but myself.”
“Then we need to find out what they’ve come for. Wait here.”
“What? Where are you going?”
She stood, brushed herself down and refastened her hair. “My umbrella’s still on the veranda. If they go inside they’ll know someone’s been staying at the villa. I have to regain control.”
“What can you tell them?”
“Right now, I don’t have any idea. But, by the time I reach the house, I hope I’ll have some nice lies all ready. Stay out of sight.”
She walked elegantly along the hog trail that cut up through the vegetation and vanished from view. Bodge had a smile on his face the size of Texas. He put his hands behind his head oblivious to the leaves that soaked his clothes. “Oh, man,” he said. “What a gal.”
When Hong reached the steps leading up to the rear balcony of the villa, she could see the heads of five men. They appeared to be gathered around a very noisy bunch of keys arguing about which one might open the padlock. She recognized two of the visitors. Her arrival took them by surprise. They looked around at the sound of her heels on the wooden steps.
Henry took a step forward and bowed his head respectfully. “Madame Hong. I wouldn’t have expected to find you here in the rainy season.”
“Captain Henry,” she nodded back.
Henry introduced the Chief Inspector and his assistant, Mr. Copeland, and finally, Billotte from the Saigon Administration.
“Yes,” said Billotte. “We are acquainted.” He too nodded briefly but it sounded to Henry as if their acquaintance hadn’t been a cordial one.
“What brings you gentlemen here?” Hong asked, putting a bucket of water on the deck at her feet. The bucket had been conveniently waiting for her beside the lake along with her story.
“Government business,” said Lacouture. “But perhaps we could begin by asking you that same question.” He left his assistant alone to hunt for the key.
“If you must,” she said. “I come every day to water Mrs. Rogers’ orchids.”
“Such a long walk. Wouldn’t it be easier to move them up to your own lodge?” Lacouture asked.
“Why goodness me, Chief Inspector. Surely that would entail breaking the law. They belong to Mrs. Rogers. Why should I steal them?”
“Then you obviously haven’t heard,” Henry cut in to Lacouture’s annoyance.
“Heard what, Inspector?”
“Poor Mrs. Roger’s was killed by a tiger several days ago.”
Hong flopped back onto one of the patio chairs and looked to all assembled there like a woman about to pass out. “Oh, but how terrible.”
“Were you close?” Lacouture asked.
“We’d only known one another a few weeks, but we became friends right away. I’d hoped we could become closer.”
“So, you know her husband, also.”
Hong resented this attack from a man she’d never met. “No. She arrived before him. I left before he came. Of course she talked about him.”
“That is the Royal Lodge I can see on the hill?”
“Yes.”
“So, if anyone had been here the last few days, you, or someone up there would have noticed.”
“That’s correct.”
“And did you?”
“Did I what?”
Lacouture bared his teeth at her like a wolf. “Did you notice anyone here?”
“You mean, apart from Mr. Rogers?”
“He was here?”
“Yes.”
“But you said you’ve never seen him.”
“And I have not. But the guards remembered him from the day he arrived. They informed me he came by the villa one or two days ago, very early in the morning. I was still asleep at that hour. He drove up to the front gate in his jeep, was inside for most of the morning, then left with a suitcase.”
There came a cheer from the men at the door. Finally the correct key had been found. Fortunately, they only bothered to pull open the right-hand door, assuming the left to be stuck. Lacouture was more interested in completing his interrogation.
“Did they mention which direction he drove?”
“I wasn’t interested in such information. I can ask if you wish.”
“You do that, Miss.”
“Actually, it’s Your Royal Highness.”
“What is?”
“My title. If I were a sheep herder it might be appropriate to call me Miss. But I’m not.”
There was a long moment of silence before, “I apologize.”
While the men from Saigon looked around the villa, Hong pumped Henry for information outside on the veranda. He’d been barred from the search and it was looking increasingly like he was about to be barred from his job. He was naturally very bitter about it and was only too happy to tell Hong everything he knew, both Lacouture’s version of what happened at the Ban Methuot house, and what he considered to be the true one.
The sun was sinking behind the mauve mountains when the men finally came out of the villa with cane baskets full of “evidence”.
“There seem to be an awful lot of empty cans for one man,” Lacouture said to Hong. “Are you certain he was alone when he came?”
“No,” she answered curtly.
“But you said…”
“I said that my guards told me he was alone. That hardly makes it my certainty, does it now?”
Mr. Copeland seemed to be enjoying the hostilities far more than Lacouture, but he pointed out that it would be better for them to return before ni
ghtfall.
Lacouture continued to stare at Hong who smiled prettily back. “I shall return tomorrow and talk to your guards,” he said.
“Yes, I give you my permission.”
Lacouture stormed down the steps to the waiting helicopter. Before joining him, Copeland went to Hong and smiled. “Your Royal Highness,” he said. “I’m so sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk.” He handed her a name card. “My name is Copeland, from the American Embassy. If Mr. Rogers should happen to return, I’d be so grateful if you could give him my card. I would very much like to speak with him.”
“Of course.”
“I’m sorry everyone has been so businesslike. I’m sure this has all been very upsetting for you. Please accept my apologies.”
“That’s very nice of you,” she nodded slowly. He clicked his heels, military fashion, and hurried down the steps to join the others in the cramped helicopter. It lifted unsteadily and filled the lake basin with its ugly noise, sending birds into a panic and raising a chorus of jungle animals. Hong watched it head off into a spectacular sunset. She really believed there would be a temporary respite from the monsoons at last.
51.
The armed guards waved down the black jeep and trailer that had just come slithering along the mud driveway. A huge slab of granite stood beside the road with the words; Plantation DeWolff, carved out of it with great precision.
One of the guards was French. He sauntered over to the jeep, half-heartedly saluted the driver and glared at the woman beside him.
“What’s your business?” he asked.
Bodge in his best black suit and white shirt was impressed. There couldn’t be many employers in the colonies who still had money to throw away on imported gorillas.
“My name, sir,” he said, “is the Reverend Robert Rogers, and this lady is Sister Natalia of the Redemption Missions.” Sister Natalia was a huge black woman squirming uncomfortably in a yellow floral frock. She hid behind thick, black rimmed sunglasses. “And we are here on the business of the Lord. Today is the Sabbath and we’ve come to give the gift of religion to the heathens.”
“Are they expecting you?” the gorilla asked. He’d apparently been taught half-a-dozen guard phrases.
“Would I be here if they weren’t?”
It was all too difficult for the guard. He walked around the back of the jeep and lifted the tarpaulin that covered the low trailer hitched behind. It was packed with shiny black Bibles and framed pictures of Jesus bleeding on the cross. He replaced the tarp and went round to the passenger’s side where he gestured for Sister Natalia to get in the back. She did so slowly and with a great deal of grunting. He took her place in the front and ordered Bodge to drive.
For the past few days, Bodge had been holed up in one of the emperor’s hides up in the hills beyond the lodge. Hong had provided him with enough supplies to sustain him but had given him none of her time. The first actual conversation they’d had was when she came to pick him up in the jeep that morning. She had a neat black suit for him and a clean white shirt. Given their size, they had to have been made to measure. They went over her plan once more and took him to meet his ally for the first time.
Now, an hour later, here they were driving through endless acres of coffee orchards and rubber groves. The drive, even at some speed, took fifteen minutes and Bodge began to understand just how important it was for the French Government to protect its interests in Indo-china. The sale of produce from this single plantation could have fed and clothed Paris for a year. By the time they reached the magnificent Villa DeWolff, Bodge had become entranced by mile upon mile of crisscrossed rows of neatly pruned trees.
“You wait here,” the gorilla said.
“Guard phrase number five”, Bodge noted, watching the man run to the house. Bodge climbed down, picked up his Bible from the seat and smiled at his honored guest. “Better you stay in the car.”
“Okay, Boss.”
He walked toward the enormous building. A very black West African girl in a maid’s uniform came running down the steps to head him off. “Welcome, Sir,” she said with a big smile. “Please come into the guest room.” She had the build of a weightlifter so Bodge felt he had no choice but to follow. She sat him in a glorious room of marble and teak and gilt cornices that made him feel like a tourist on an historical visit to Avignon. He composed himself. The encounter that was to follow would be the life or death of today’s plan and perhaps of himself. He had to get it just right.
He wasn’t alone in the room for long. He heard the footsteps and barkings of an angry man. DeWolff appeared in the doorway with his arms open like John the Baptist. He was a short man with freckles and ginger hair, rather too comical to be a convincing despot, Bodge thought. The man’s reaction to his arrival caught Bodge by surprise.
“Monsieur Rogers,” he said. “What an honor. What a great, great honor to have you in my house.” He took Bodge’s hands like a child welcoming home its father. “I heard you’d arrived in Ban Methuot. I was honestly planning to come to see you. And here you are, saving me the trouble. Come. Let’s get out of this dowdy room. Come, my friend, to my study. I know you’ll like it there.”
DeWolff led Bodge by the arm along a hallway flanked with European tapestries, and steered him into a scale replica of the Royal study at le Palais de Papes. Bodge knew it well as he’d visited the place after the war.
“You have an impressive house, M. DeWolff,” Bodge said before being lowered onto an antique Louis XV chaise longues.
“And you have a marvelous grasp of our language,” DeWolff replied.
Things were running far too smoothly for Bodge’s comfort. He’d expected some opposition to his arrival, some objections to his proposal. He had a complicated speech worked out, but it didn’t look like it would be getting an airing.
“Port?” the host asked, pouring from a decanter.
“Thank you. I don’t drink on Sundays. Which actually brings me to the reason for my visit.”
“Yes?”
“I was hoping I’d be able to conduct a sermon today, for your heathen workers.”
“What a splendid idea. Marvelous. You know I was trying to get your predecessor to do exactly that. Couldn’t get him interested. This is just splendid.” He called out for a man called Manx. An overseer in a sweat stained uniform arrived at the door. He was bow-legged and built like the Arc de Triomphe.
“M. DeWolff?”
“Manx, this is Reverend Rogers. He’s kindly agreed to preach to our menials. Would you be so kind as to get the Montagnard assembled in the cutting shed?”
“All of them?” the man asked.
“Every last man of them. It’s Sunday. We’re going to introduce them to the one true God.”
“You know it’s their only day off?”
Bodge caught a glimpse of the tyrant in DeWolff’s eyes. He was fighting to remain civil with his henchman. “All the better. All the better. This is the beginning of a relationship with the Reverend here that I’m certain will blossom like a glorious frangipani in the months to come. Go to it, now.”
The overseer shrugged and slouched out of the room. Bodge assumed a smile that wasn’t remotely indicative of his feelings. Everything he’d heard about DeWolff warned him the man was a snake. All this kindness curdled in Bodge. Something stank.
“I must confess,” Bodge said. “I wasn’t expecting such a hospitable welcome.”
DeWolff sat opposite with a goblet of port the size of a fish bowl. “And I must confess I wasn’t expecting you to be back at work so soon, considering.”
“Considering?”
“Your terrible loss, of course.”
“I see. My wife would have wanted me to continue with our mission.”
“Word reached me that you’d suffered a tragic decline, a slide into Hell, as it were. (There; the low punch Bodge had been waiting for.) But, it could have happened to any of us I suppose.”
“I…I’m not sure I know what you mean.” Bodge look
ed down at the Bible on his lap.
“Oh, I’m sure you do. And I’m sure the flock at your home church in Mississippi, or whatever awful place you come from, would understand also.”
“My church?”
DeWolff reached into a drawer in the small cabinet beside his chair, and produced a brown envelope. Bodge noticed there were other envelopes in the same drawer.
“You see?” DeWolff said, producing a dozen or so black and white photographs. “I’m something of an amateur cameraman. I also collect pictures of beautiful things. And I’m sure you’ll agree, (he crossed over and dropped the photographs onto Bodge’s lap) that these are very beautiful things. It appears you and General LePenn have similar tastes.”
Bodge thumbed through them. His first reaction was to laugh, but he managed to turn his smile into a gash of anguish. The pictures showed Bodge in one of the back rooms at Madam Vin’s. He was naked, but clearly unconscious. With him in the room was the tall, beautiful half-girl. While the comatose victim slept, she, or he, stripped naked to leave no doubt as to his gender, and performed several unlikely acts with and to the body. Bodge was certain, even though he could argue unconsciousness, the series would be devastating to a real missionary. He knew men in his home town who would kill themselves rather than have such pictures exposed.
But on this day, and to this particular missionary, all they achieved was to galvanize Bodge’s dislike of this man and his empire. He was more intent than ever to ensure the day’s plan was a success.
“Oh, God help me,” he said. “No, it can’t be.” He buried his head in his hands and wept. “Please. You can’t be so heartless.”
“Disgraceful, isn’t it? DeWolff smiled. “But perhaps people would eventually be able to forgive you — the psychological stress and all.”
“No. They could never understand such…such depravity. My career, my life would be over.”
“Really? I’m sorry to hear that. And I always believed Christians were a forgiving lot.” He laughed as he retrieved the pictures.
“You…you animal,” Bodge sobbed. “How could you do this?”
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