The Red Lotus

by Chris Bohjalian

  “Rats are many things, Douglas, but not duplicitous. Pretty much what you see is what you get,” Bao corrected him, his tone good-natured. Then he continued, his voice growing more serious, “There’s also the Korean and the dude from India. They have their own labs at the complex, too.”

  Austin took a breath and said adamantly, “I’m telling you both the truth: I’ve come here on vacation. I’ve come to pay my respects to an uncle I never met and see where my father was wounded in the war. That’s all this is: a bike tour and an attempt to connect with a part of my family. It’s—”

  “Horseshit! That’s complete and utter horseshit, Austin! Who are you meeting? Or who have you met with already? What’s that expression, ‘in country’? You’ve been in country nearly a week. Who did you meet with and what did you give them?”

  “I met with the tailors in Hoi An. I bought a suit. Other than waiters and shopkeepers and docents and the people on the bike tour? Not a soul. I swear it.”

  Douglas reached into the breast pocket of his blazer and pulled out a dart. “This is a Black Widow. Tungsten barrel. Steel tip. Sharp. Newly sharpened, as a matter of fact.” Bao rose from the couch and sat on the arm of the chair in which Austin was sitting. He took his right wrist in both hands and yanked him forward.

  “I promise you, I’ve seen no one, Douglas,” Austin said, and now, for the first time, he heard the pleading, desperate tone in his voice. He saw where this was going.

  “You’re lying. You’re not even good at that.”

  Bao pulled his wrist toward the white marble tabletop and Austin tried to resist, but the other fellow was strong—considerably stronger than he was—and he knew that what loomed was going to hurt far more than a bullet in his biceps. Bao placed his hand palm down on the slab and, for good measure, spread wide his fingers. Douglas leaned forward, the dart gripped in his fist like an awl. He raised his eyebrows and waited. He didn’t have to tell Austin that this was his last chance; it was obvious.

  “Okay, then,” Douglas murmured, and he drew in his lips and shook his head. Then he slammed the dart down as hard as he could into the back of Austin’s hand, and Austin’s bellow was so loud that the barbets on the roof of the house and the Siamese firebacks in the trees by the pool all flew away at one time.

  The cranes and the tigers and the water buffalo were victims of the herbicides, too, you know. Sometimes they died because their habitat was destroyed and sometimes it was because of the poisons themselves. The active ingredients in Agent Orange are unpronounceable: trichlorophenoxyacetic and dichlorophenoxyacetic acids. (You thought I was exaggerating. I wasn’t.)

  But there were some species that did not merely survive but, in the end, flourished. Among them? Rats and mice.

  Scientific research showed that dioxin caused cancer in lab rats, and even future generations of the animals had a greater likelihood of developing all kinds of nasty diseases.

  But the ones that didn’t die? They thrived in the new Vietnam. They flourished. Partly this was the habitat that was created in the wake of the massive defoliation. Partly it was cellular. Darwinian.

  And, of course, it wasn’t just rats. It was people. The Vietnam Red Cross chronicled millions of human deaths from the defoliant and nearly half a million children born with birth defects. Half a million. Think about that. But if you managed to survive the American War, it was a bustling new cosmos and a brave new world.

  Anyway, the big question was this: why were some rodents so bloody fruitful in the midst of all that chemical carnage and why were others mere evolutionary jetsam?

  In upper Manhattan, researchers at Columbia studied mouse shit from eight buildings across the city, and found the usual pathogens, such as Salmonella and E. coli and Clostridium. But they also discovered nine new strains of antibiotic-resistant bacteria. That was problematic—even unnerving—if you worked at the metropolitan hospitals.

  (As far as I know, the other hospitals near us—NYU Langone and Bellevue—had labs that did research with rats and mice, but I believe a lot of it was focused on rodent behavior and neuroscience. No one ever told me if they were also studying the pathogens that local rats carry.)

  Some people presumed that, in the end, it would be the roach that ruled the world. But others? People like me? We put our money on the rat.

  6

  They wrapped a towel around Austin’s hand, and Bao held it between his own hands, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. The tableau was weirdly tender, Douglas thought. The dart hadn’t augured a hole through one of the bones there—Douglas hadn’t created stigmata in Austin’s palm or dinged that impeccable marble tabletop with its tip—but clearly it had broken something. It had, most likely, chipped off a piece or two. Douglas guessed that Austin’s ER girlfriend would know the name of the bone. Douglas knew he didn’t. He was pleased he could even recall doc-speak for the term when little chunks of bone splintered off in a break: comminuted. And Austin, if he did know the name (which Douglas rather doubted), was too busy hyperventilating from pain, his head bowed, clearly desirous of swearing but keeping his mouth closed. He’d howled when the dart had smashed into those little bones in the back of his hand, but now he was silent. And the dart? Wasn’t even dented.

  “Just breathe,” Bao was murmuring, his voice melodious and kind. “Deep breath in, now out.” Austin’s skin had become the color of the paint Douglas’s interior designer had picked out for the guest bedroom in his duplex: eggshell, the paint chip had said. Usually Austin’s skin was darker. This wasn’t the first time that Douglas had turned a man pale, and the physiology of it never ceased to fascinate him. The blood literally drained from a person’s face, centering around the heart and lungs for a dimly contemplated but often critical burst of energy: it was all part of that great animalistic fight-or-flight response.

  “Yes, wait for the pain to recede a little bit,” Douglas told him. He glanced at the tip of the dart. “I think I’ve made my point.”

  Austin looked up at him, and his eyes were hooded and small; he was thoroughly diminished and absolutely terrified. Douglas had only bothered to put a bag on his head to give him the delusion that he had a prayer in hell of getting out of here alive, and it crossed his mind that perhaps he’d skewered him too quickly.

  “Would you like some more water?” Bao asked, but Austin shook his head.

  Douglas noted that Phuong had resumed her work in the kitchen, but the young woman was still keeping a wary eye on the three men in the living room. He presumed that Bao had told her what was coming, and he doubted it was the first time that she’d seen a man hurt. Still, he regretted wounding the other American in front of her. They’d have to deal with the rest of it—finish it—elsewhere. Bring him someplace. He didn’t want her to witness that or even be aware that the execution was occurring on the property. He rather doubted that Bao did, either. In fact, the more Douglas thought about it, the more he wanted her convinced this would still end well for the man in the sweaty bike shorts and Speed Racer cycling jersey. They’d tell her they were driving him back to the hotel. Plausible deniability. It was better for everyone.

  Austin might even believe the plan—certainly he’d want to believe it—and that would make his end a little bit easier. The last moments were always less stressful, less emotionally fraught, when the dead man walking had managed to delude himself into believing that somehow he’d been spared. Douglas decided he’d tell him whatever lies would elicit the information he wanted. Really, why not if it made this easier for everyone?

  And then it came to Douglas. They’d give the man back his bike. After sunset. He knew precisely how and where the man would have a lethal accident.

  “Phuong,” Bao asked, “perhaps you could bring our guest some painkillers. The red pills. Ibuprofen. I believe they are in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.” She nodded and turned off the burner beneath the wok and started down the h
allway.

  Austin closed his eyes and rolled his neck. When Douglas watched him, he thought of yoga and the woman who taught his favorite class back in New York. They looked nothing alike—that yoga instructor was gorgeous, all lean limbs in Lycra—but that neck stretch just now was similar. “Tell me why you’re here, Austin. You’re in your salesman mode, I get it,” he said. “But this is your absolute last chance.”

  “I’m here—” he began, and then he stopped.

  “Go on.”

  “Yes, there is a market, Douglas. Or I thought there might be.”

  “Of course there is. Who’s your buyer?”

  “And if I tell you?”

  “We give you your bike and send you on your way.”

  “Assuming I can even grip the handlebars.”

  “That is my assumption, yes. You bike back to your hotel in Hoi An. Or not. We drop you off somewhere and you return to your little bike tour friends. Your eye candy in scrubs. You tell the folks there whatever the hell you want.”

  “Including the fact you broke my hand with a dart?”

  “Well, perhaps you should take some license there. Leave Bao and me out of it, thank you very much. But I think you know that’s in your best interest, too.”

  Bao released his hand, and Austin curled it on his lap, keeping it draped inside the towel. Douglas supposed he was afraid to look at it. He doubted it was still bleeding. The back of the hand didn’t bleed much when punctured. Douglas knew this from experience. Austin wasn’t the first person he’d spiked.

  “It’s clear,” Bao told Austin, “you were going to meet with or already met with someone. Someone in Hue or Hoi An or Da Nang. That’s where you were going or coming from—and not because of some need to reconnect with the ghosts of your family.”

  “Why didn’t you just follow me, if you believe that?”

  “We feared a bloodbath,” Douglas said. “Or, so to speak, we feared swollen lymph nodes—those horrific buboes the size of chicken eggs—fever, chills, skull-piercing headaches. And, yes, those disgusting bleeding welts. That kind of bloodbath. Not pleasant. And, as you know, antibiotic resistant. Fatal. I assumed you’d brought the toxin with you: that you had it on you. Perhaps, we were mistaken. We’d do a full-body cavity search, but, well, I can’t imagine anyone—even you—would try and mule that stuff in your system or up your ass.”

  “No.”

  “There was none in that little bike tour bike bag you strapped to your bicycle.”

  “Of course not!”

  “But it’s still evident that you came all the way to Vietnam and then parted with your bike group because you’re up to something, and that something has absolutely nothing to do with sentimental bullshit about your family. You don’t know the meaning of ancestral worship. You wouldn’t know what the fuck to do at the cities of the dead other than take a selfie. So, I want to know what you’re really doing here—and with whom.”

  “I’m supposed to tell you that I was on my way to meet with someone—or I already met with someone—and then you’ll send me home?”

  “Chastened and forgiven.” Douglas pointed at Austin’s hand and murmured, “A little worse for the wear, maybe. But otherwise intact. Still breathing.”

  “And what will you do to them? Those people?” Austin asked.

  Douglas smiled munificently. “Nothing—assuming you don’t reach out to them ever again. I’m really not interested in a trade war.” Once more he was lying, and he supposed that Austin knew this. But, like everything else he was hearing, he would convince himself it was the truth because he wanted so desperately to believe it. Then Douglas watched Austin’s face as the fellow reviewed his options in his mind. He really had none. Even a man such as Austin—frat-boy bonhomie in a thirtysomething body, a man whose perspicacity stretched to the horizon when it came to bars and bicycles and what the hospital called “institutional advancement,” but a mere fogbound trawler when it came to common sense and knowing the limits of an acceptable betrayal—could see that.

  “And you won’t hurt anyone on the bike tour?” he asked.

  “Are they involved?”

  “Of course not!”

  Douglas shrugged. “Then why in the name of God would we? Are you worried about your doctor friend? If so, let that go. She’s of no interest to me, unless you’re using her for something.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  Douglas nodded to reassure him, but Austin had unintentionally planted a seed. He hadn’t meant to; that was among the last things the fellow probably wanted. But he had. Douglas couldn’t help but wonder now: Had Austin actually recruited the woman for something? She worked at the same hospital. She was a physician, which meant that she knew something about biology and chemistry. And Austin was an excellent salesperson. Most of the time he was convincing people to do ridiculously altruistic things with their money. “Good,” he said simply, but he made a mental note to research her a little more carefully. “Then I have no bone to pick with her.” He raised an eyebrow and motioned ever so slightly with his jaw at the dart on the coffee table, a gesture that was irresistible after using the words bone and pick in the same sentence.

  Bao swallowed the last of his wine. “We should let you get back to your group. Tell us where you were going—or where you’ve been.”

  “The three place settings?” Austin asked, his tone more confused than anxious.

  “What about them?”

  “I…I thought…” he stammered.

  “You thought you were joining us? No. I mean, you’re welcome to. But I assumed you’d rather rejoin your friends in Hoi An.”

  Phuong returned with a bottle of painkillers, already open, and shook two red pills onto the table.

  “Thank you,” said Bao. “But give him three.”

  She nodded and dropped another pill onto the marble.

  “Phuong is my daughter, Austin. She’s the third place setting,” Bao continued.

  “I see. My mistake.”

  “Not at all,” said Douglas. “Phuong, do you mind, please, adding a fourth setting? It looks like Austin is going to stay for lunch, after all. A little sustenance will do him good.” Then he turned back to the bicyclist. “So: the name of your buyer.”

  “Middleman, really,” Austin said.

  “Fine. Middleman,” Douglas agreed, fighting hard the urge to roll his eyes.

  Carefully Austin lifted his left hand off his right and reached for the pills. “Not poison, right?” he asked, only half kidding.

  “Not poison,” Douglas reassured him.

  Austin swallowed the pills and finished the water in his glass, and then, after taking a breath, told them where he was going and with whom he was going to meet.

  FRIDAY

  7

  In the morning, Alexis awoke to the alarm on her phone, pressed the button to shut it off, and in her grogginess momentarily forgot that Austin wasn’t there. She presumed he was beside her in that massive four-poster bed, and rolled over to drape an arm upon him. To nuzzle against his neck and bare chest. But, of course, she saw that his side of the bed was empty and instantly recalled that he was gone. That he had disappeared. She knew she’d slept only because she had taken that second Xanax.

  It was a little after seven. The area’s FBI attaché and the Vietnamese police were due in less than an hour. She checked her phone again, hoping for a miracle: a text or a missed call from Austin. But there wasn’t either. Nor was there anything from Austin’s parents. The solitude in the room felt alive, a thing that breathed beside her. She sighed and rubbed her eyes, her temples, trying to exorcise the phantom presence. Then she pushed off the sheet and stood up, inhaling deeply to pull herself together. Despite the amount of time she had spent on the floor of the shower last night, she went there first, but she resolved this time to remain on her feet.

  * * *
r />   . . .

  Her mother was neither humorless nor grim: both of those words were too strong. But she was demanding and relentless, and for a long moment Alexis stared at her phone. It was 8:30 at night in New Jersey. Arguably, it wasn’t a bad time to call: her mother might still be at her office or she might be commuting home. She’d pick up if either of those possibilities were the case. If she were at a dinner meeting, she probably wouldn’t pick up. On the other hand, Alexis was seeing the FBI attaché in a few minutes, so she didn’t have a lot of time. She shook her head: she should have called her mother yesterday, when she had tried to reach Austin’s parents. If she phoned now, her mother would chastise her both for not calling right away and for calling when she really didn’t have time to speak, and her mother would—with cause, for a change, with cause—have Alexis feeling so guilty that she would be angry inside. Angry on top of being frightened and angry on top of being numb with worry and (yes) grief. Because Austin was gone. Because Austin had disappeared. Because Austin, most likely, was dead. And fear and anxiety and remorse were just too toxic a combination, too poisonous a cocktail, and so she didn’t phone her mother. She would wait to call until after she had met with the FBI.

  * * *

  . . .

  She was still standing there in her room in a sundress printed with lilacs that was absurdly cheerful for her world that moment, her phone in her hand, when she heard a car in the long driveway and peered out the window. There actually were two. There was a white police car, a Toyota, with its iconic blue stripe and red, white, and blue light bar across the roof, and a black SUV with embassy plates. Together they coasted to a stop. It wasn’t even seven thirty. Either Toril Bjornstad had made very good time, or the gravity of the situation had compelled her to leave early. She was the first to emerge from the cars, climbing from the front passenger seat of the SUV: she was tall, her hair the reddish brown of Tuscan terra-cotta, and she was wearing navy slacks and a white blouse. She had a blazer in her arms, and it was evident that she couldn’t decide whether protocol should triumph over comfort: already the air was getting sticky, and, in the end, she tossed the coat back into the vehicle. Alexis guessed that the woman was her age. Her driver—or her bodyguard or both—was Vietnamese and wearing dress slacks and a white shirt, but no necktie. Based on the gray in his temples and the way his middle had started to grow a little heavy, she estimated he was at least a decade older than Toril. The two police officers who emerged from the cruiser were also Vietnamese and dressed in black uniforms. The pair could have been a father and son: an avuncular-looking gentleman with a thick shock of white hair and a lean young man who shared the same aquiline nose and placid smile.