by Todd Merer
So did I, incredulous. For beneath the Buddha’s right arm, the Chinese scientists had drilled a hole that partially exposed the mummified face of a monk entombed within a coffin of gold and precious stones.
And then, at long last, I finally realized the truth—
Lucky was both a monk and the Ming Treasure.
Duke motioned to me. “Tell Stella I tried . . .”
Richard stepped between us, pointing his pistol at me—
From above, an arrow flew, striking the deck at Richard’s feet. Logui warriors on the bridge and on the radar mast had their arrows notched in drawn bowstrings.
Richard holstered his weapon, forced a crazed grin. “Fine,” he said to the Logui, gesturing at me. “He’s all yours.” From a pocket, he pulled what seemed a piece of dry leather on which was tattooed seven numbers. It took a moment before I realized it wasn’t leather but the inside of Albert Woo’s cheek—
Derek had told me Albert’s face had been partially removed.
Richard let me glimpse the underside of his wrist, where another seven numbers were tattooed . . . the remaining seven numbers. A revelation dulled by realization: dead men tell no tales.
“The Chinks think they ripped me off,” he said to no one in particular, eyes glittering strangely. “But I still got their seed money. Ten million greenbacks. Think about it all the long days you’re gonna spend in jail, Counselor.”
I felt a slight vibration on the deck beneath my feet, and for a moment it seemed the Laughing Buddha moved. Or maybe I just imagined it, for I also imagined I heard the golden behemoth laugh, a rich, deep-throated peal—
The deck vibrated again, more strongly this time, and now I saw that the Buddha had moved toward the opened railing, although the Chinese freighter remained ten to twenty feet away.
Stella rushed at Missy Soo, her face twisted with hatred, wielding the gun she’d taken from Duke.
“You,” said Missy Soo, adopting a martial-arts ready position.
I moved to intercept Stella and took the gun away. If she harmed Missy, the Chinese would retaliate, the Americans would reply, and we’d all be dead. As Stella writhed in my grip, Missy lunged at her. I tried fending Missy off, but she got around me—
Ming lumbered between us and gripped both women. Beside his massive bulk, they looked like dolls. Tears flowed down Ming’s disfigured cheek as he hugged both, then kissed each of their foreheads—
The Buddha lurched again, precariously close to the opening.
“No!” Missy screamed, breaking free and rushing down to the aft deck and placing her weight against the Buddha, desperately trying to stop its movement.
I took Stella’s gun from my belt. The time had come to end Richard’s life. But Stella yanked it from me and shot Missy. I snatched the pistol back, but it was too late. Blood blossomed from Missy’s breast; she staggered, yet continued trying to halt the Buddha’s movement.
Richard went to help her. He lent his weight to Missy’s, and the Buddha stopped.
Yet Missy Soo screamed, “Get away, gweilo pig.”
Stoned, Richard said, “No, baby, it’s me.”
The Chinese freighter floated only fifteen feet away now. Through its lowered aft flap, crewmen were readying to extend a roller that would bridge to the one on The White Rose, conveying Lucky across the gap.
The Laughing Buddha was still, the moment frozen.
I became aware of Dolores at my side. She was smiling.
“Lend a hand, you slackers,” Richard cried to his sailors.
But none did, intuiting that this was not part of their mission.
Dolores squeezed my arm, nodded.
The Laughing Buddha had begun moving again and now was partly through the flap, teetering above the sea. Missy Soo slipped and fell from the rollers into the water. Blood trickled from her mouth, but still she gripped the tipping Buddha, which now tilted just above her.
Richard alone held the Buddha back now. Something fell from his hand to the deck. “Help me,” he said to me.
I put my gun against his heart and shot him.
He cried, “Jeannie!” and fell into the sea.
No longer restrained, the Buddha slid over the side. As the remaining cables that had secured it snapped, it sank slowly, dragging Missy Soo and Richard with it. Richard reached for my hand, and I pretended to take it but didn’t. His face sank beneath the surface of the clear tropical sea, which seemed illuminated by Lucky’s multicolored jeweled glow.
Again, I thought I heard the Buddha, laughing.
I tossed both pistols over the side into the sea.
“I’m not gonna miss you, Dickie,” I said.
Then I picked up what he’d dropped.
Both teams of sailors seemed stunned by what had happened. Dolores kissed Stella’s cheek. Stella stifled a sob, smiled, entered Derek’s embrace. Ming Chan crouched opposite where Duke lay, bloody and exhausted. The two men looked at each other for a long moment before Ming spoke, his voice labored.
“Thank you for fighting for my country.”
“Hey, it was a blast,” gasped Duke.
CHAPTER 67
Javier lowered his camera. “Helluva place for a burial. We’re directly above a trench. Nothing below us but five miles of saltwater.”
“Om Mani Padme Hmm . . . Om Mani Padme Hmm . . . Om . . .”
The monk’s refrain was no longer a chant but a moan.
“Kitty,” cried Duke. “Oh, my Kitty . . .”
Madame Soo lay still on the bridge. Ming Chan and Duke managed to stagger to her side. We all followed. Next to the lever she’d pulled that sent Lucky into the sea, Madame Soo lay draped in a shawl, her face peaceful in death. Her arms were folded across her breasts, her small hands closed. Stella reached to her, stopped, unsure . . .
“Go ahead,” said Derek gently. “She’s your grandmother.”
Tears ran down Stella’s cheeks as she pried Madame Soo’s fingers open. In her left hand was a Hero of the Revolution medal. In her right hand was an AVG Flying Tigers ring. Stella ignored both of these as she undid Madame Soo’s shawl, as if looking for something else.
She found it.
Beneath where Madame Soo’s arms had been folded was an old, yellowing photograph of Kitty and a young, bespectacled Chinese man wearing a suit and tie: the young Uncle Winston Lau.
“When Uncle brought her to New York, they fell in love, but she could not live as a criminal’s wife,” said Derek. “They lived far apart but were always one. Duke knew he dare not communicate with Madame Soo, so he entrusted Lucky’s hat to Uncle, hoping one day Uncle might return it to her. They arranged Lucky’s fate. I was their go-between. Madame Soo believed in one China and didn’t care if Taiwan claimed to be independent. To her, China was China; the different names were just the result of stupid men saving face. She knew if the Reds found Lucky on a South China Sea island, they’d claim he’d been there since Ming Dynasty days, which meant their sovereignty predated all other claims. And if the Taiwanese got Lucky, they’d claim that proved the Ming Dynasty capital was in Taiwan, and they were the traditional rulers. Either way, there would be a war. So she decided the best outcome was that Lucky belonged to no one.”
Colonel Tso climbed onto the bridge. Scowling, he addressed Dolores.
“I am of the impression this was your true plan all along, yes?”
“Not mine,” she said, looking at Madame Soo, still clasping her photograph in death. “Hers. And Mr. Mason’s. And, apparently, General Ming Chan’s as well.”
“But you went along with it,” said Colonel Tso, unholstering his pistol. “For that, there must be consequences.”
“Bad idea.” I pointed at the Logui above, their bowstrings drawn.
Colonel Tso looked, then holstered his weapon. “Point taken.”
“Good. Let’s move on to negotiating.”
“What is left to negotiate? Lucky is gone.”
“But not forgotten. His discovery on an atoll flying the Chinese
flag and his removal from the crate were recorded on video. Seems to me that’s a lot of fuel for your propaganda machine. Putting it another way, half a loaf is better than none at all.”
The colonel considered a moment, glanced at Ming Chan, and said, “I’ll need to make a call. No doubt my superiors will want to discuss the matter directly with you.”
“You might also mention that the videos have already been electronically conveyed for safekeeping.”
“Safekeeping?” asked Colonel Tso.
I nodded. “From you and yours.”
He nodded. “My compliments.”
“Another thing,” I said. When I told him what it was, his eyes narrowed in disbelief but then slowly widened as he understood. He nodded.
Colonel Tso walked aside and murmured into his phone. Listened. Spoke some more, listened some more. Hung up and rejoined us.
“It will take some time to arrange,” he said. “A few hours.”
With that, the Chinese left The White Rose.
Stella knelt by Duke, who lay exhausted.
“She’s going to need a lot of healing,” said Derek.
“You’re the right man for that job,” I said.
“You did pretty well yourself.”
“Considering I’m The Man Who Knows Least,” I said, holding my hand out to Dolores.
She took it and pressed it to her lips.
PART SEVEN:
POSTTRIAL
CHAPTER 68
It was late day, and Dolores and I were alone on the bridge. Derek and Stella had retreated to her cabin. Javi was on the prow, smoking a spliff. The Chinese had returned. On the stern deck below us, a crew of technicians was gathered around a bank of electronics topped by three monitor screens. Colonel Tso looked at us, nodded.
“Time for my closing argument,” I said.
In the gathering twilight, Captain Starski of the American amphibious assault vessel, Dolores, Javier, Colonel Tso, and I stood facing the three monitor screens, now glowing brightly in the dimness.
On one monitor, a woman I recognized as the US deputy secretary of state sat at a desk, the American flag behind her. On another, a Chinese man wearing a Mao jacket sat stiffly in front of the red and gold-starred flag of the People’s Republic of China. On the third monitor, a man I knew was the vice president of Colombia sat beside the yellow, blue, and red striped flag of Colombia. All three were waiting for me to speak.
Let them wait.
Whatever their separate agendas, I knew they all operated outside the pale of international law. Although disparate people, they had one thing in common: they were all masters of the deniable. People died and nations crumbled, but these were the Three Wise Monkeys. No see, no hear, no speak . . . and always have a fall guy in reserve.
But that was about to change. No evasiveness and no fall guy because now they were dealing with an entity they’d never experienced.
Benn Bluestone, Mouthpiece, Esq.
I said, “Before I begin, I need for you to understand that nothing is negotiable. You either accept our terms, or suffer the consequences. Here’s what you get. The United States reacknowledges its support for a one-China policy—”
“Now, see here,” began the deputy secretary of state.
Sometimes I think being a loyal American is akin to loving a whore. You play, you pay. Lord only knows what whoring has cost the United States in blood and treasure over the last half century. People and fortunes that could have transformed the States, hell, the entire planet, to be all that it could be. But all that transpired on the home front was that the rich got richer. In my adulthood alone, we’ve ass-screwed Southeast Asia, the Middle East, and Latin America. Not that the Chinese or the Colombians were any better. All three peoples suffered the misery imposed by governmental greed and false ambition.
If I were king—man, would I love to be—the deputy secretary of state would be in Guantanamo getting waterboarded and the Colombian and Chinese leaders locked in underground cells in the Florence Supermax.
“Zip your lip,” I told her. “We’ve got footage of a CIA agent who called himself Richard committing treason with Chinese intelligence. The same Richard you put in command of a US Navy warship. Not to mention a host of accompanying murders, extortions, and betrayals. Do you understand?”
The undersecretary cleared her throat, nodded.
“I didn’t hear you,” I said. “Speak up.”
“Understood,” she replied, weakly.
“First and foremost, I, Javier Barrera, Derek Lau and his colleagues, Stella Maris, Marmaduke Mason, and the woman named Dolores get full immunity from any and all prosecutions by the United States, China, and Colombia.”
“That could be in play, depending,” said the undersecretary.
“Good start,” I said, taking my time, savoring the moment. Orgasmic. I’d just given the government my middle finger. After so many years of having to beg for favors, it felt good dictating my demands.
“What does China get?” asked the man in the Mao jacket.
“The United States and China issue a joint statement that all competing national claims in the South China Sea are subject to peaceful arbitration.”
“The United States supports that position,” said the undersecretary.
“The People’s Republic of China agrees,” said Mao jacket. “I repeat, what does China get?”
Their greediness made me want to puke. Their words were conveniences of the moment, subject to future redefinitions and redactions.
I said, “China gets the video of Lucky being raised from the sea next to an atoll flying the Chinese flag, along with the close-up video of Lucky on deck. Do with it as you wish. But should you choose not to accept the offer, the video of Lucky going overboard in your presence will be released to the media. Feeding-frenzy time. China may find it difficult to explain dumping their proof of sovereignty into the sea.”
“Point taken,” said Mao jacket. “Continue.”
“China must guarantee in the United Nations that the Strait of Malacca is deemed international waters permanently, and that China will never seek to impose a toll for passage.”
After a moment, Mao jacket nodded. “Agreed.”
The phonies. As if they were really giving up anything. Closing the strait would be an act of war that would escalate from a minor misunderstanding to all-out nuclear war neither side wanted. I’d added the meaningless condition as a sop for the Chinese to save face.
The undersecretary said, “The United States doesn’t make deals dictated by criminals.”
“Excepting all the time,” I said. “Your answer is no?”
Flustered, the undersecretary said, “I . . . the United States agrees.”
I turned to the Colombian vice president. He was well known for his histrionic antidrug speeches, but I had personal knowledge that he was a thief, having once, courtesy of a cooperating client, watched a “classified”—ha!—video of a payoff encounter in which he’d made specific mention of this for that. Yet the US government had deemed the veep as too big to fail—he being a pillar of the antidrug forces—and ignored the clear proof of his malfeasance.
“As for you, señor,” I said, “the Colombian government will inform China that the present Sierra Nevada rare-earth-element mining agreement is void. It will be replaced by a new agreement allowing China to mine rare earth elements in other, proven deposits near Riohacha.”
“But the contract is already in force,” he protested.
“I have the floor, señor. Meaning, you shut up. As I was saying, Colombia and China will renegotiate the REE mining, moving the leased territory from the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta to Riohacha. In return, evidence of corrupt Colombian officials being bribed to veto the Sierra Nevada as a World Heritage Site will be destroyed.”
The Colombian vice president nodded. “A pleasure.”
“While you’re pleasuring yourself, you will reverse your government’s decision, and instead request the Sierra Nevada be declare
d a World Heritage Site. ¿Comprendes?”
“Sí, señor. Gladly.”
“I’m glad you’re glad,” I said. “I want everything in writing.”
No way I trusted mere words, even if I had to wait for the bureaucrats of three nations to define the agreements on paper. But to my surprise—no, to my further endless appreciation of Dolores—the papers were quickly drawn up and transmitted by computers Derek had set up, and it dawned on me that all along Dolores had been planting seeds, cultivating this outcome. With my unwitting help, she’d pitted her resourcefulness against the great powers and won.
I pointed to Javier, who was taping the exchange. Addressing the three monitor images, I said, “There’s no better proof than self-incrimination. Now, no if, ands, or buts. Sign.”
I watched as the three nations signed and transmitted the documents to one another. Hard copies of the signed documents were given to me. I photographed them and e-mailed them to Hotmail addresses only I knew.
“One more thing,” I said. “Madame Soo is to be buried in the Soo family plot in Shanghai.”
Colonel Tso nodded. “I will personally ensure that.”
Both squads of sailors had already departed The White Rose. Now Captain Starski and the colonel left. Ming was the last to go. He took the hat with him. I said nothing. Let the old man keep his memories. As he gripped a railing for support, he stared at Duke, who met his gaze.
Ming raised a bloodied arm and saluted Duke.
“See you on the other side,” said Duke.
CHAPTER 69
Duke was in extremis. He’d driven himself to live this far, but now he was running on fumes. Each time his eyes closed, I thought he had departed, but always they fluttered open again, and always he scanned the horizon expectantly.
It was dark when I understood why.
Lights ablaze, Kitty appeared from the night. Duke gathered himself and stood, watching Kitty near. A railed gangplank linked the two vessels. Duke was first to cross. Midway, he tottered, then regained himself and boarded Kitty. He sagged to his knees, bent, and kissed the deck, then slumped, dead.
