Satori - Don Winslow [94]
“Yes, please,” Nicholai answered. “And coffee, croissant, and the most recent newspaper available, if you will.”
The clerk nodded with satisfaction.
Clean and shaven, Nicholai sat on his small balcony and enjoyed the excellent croissant.
The pastry seemed at odds with the intense heat that was building in the late morning, but nevertheless tasted good along with the cup of strong espresso. It was all very French — even as the file of saffron-robed young monks walked by on their way back from the ritual morning alms solicitations.
A main thoroughfare of the old Laotian royal capital, Khem Kong Road ran along the riverbank and was lined with shops, restaurants, and French cafés. A blend of odors — steamed fish and crepes — spoke redolently of the town’s mixed culture. Ancient Buddhist temples stood beside elegant French colonial manor houses, the red-tiled roofs of which would not have been out of place along the Mediterranean Sea instead of the banks of the Mekong. Beautiful emerald green mountains rose across the brown, muddy river. It was a scene of great tranquility, in sharp contrast to the shipment of lethal weapons waiting on the rafts just a few hundred yards upriver.
Nicholai took another bite of the croissant and read his newspaper, a week-old copy of the Journal d’Extrême-Orient. He hadn’t seen the news in several months, but was not surprised to see that little had changed. Negotiations to end the Korean conflict dragged on, the Viet Minh had defeated the French at a battle near Hoa Binh in the north, a Cambodian nationalist demanded that French forces leave the country, then was forced to flee and was branded both a Communist and an agent of the CIA by the editorialist. In Saigon, the puppet emperor Bao Dai welcomed a delegation from the French film industry and —
He almost missed it at first, in the dull list naming the delegation: Françoise Ariend, Michel Cournoyer, Anise Maurent …
Solange Picard.
Solange was not in Tokyo but in Saigon. As a member of a French film delegation. Interesting.
Saigon, he thought.
How interesting, how coincidental.
Haverford must think me a fool.
Nicholai walked up the street to a clothier.
The heat of afternoon was on — the air was moist with the promise of rain. The dry season in Southeast Asia would soon be over, the monsoons would be coming on. With the temperature at least a hundred degrees and humid, Nicholai’s shirt was soaked with sweat by the time he went into the shop. He bought three cotton shirts, two pairs of linen trousers, a white linen suit, a pair of oxford shoes, and a panama hat and had them sent back to his hotel. Then he found another shop and bought a decent suitcase. Now he could simply pack, walk away from the suicide mission to take the weapons into the south of Vietnam, and go to Saigon into the trap that the Americans were setting with Solange as bait.
He could see the go-kang, and the stones moving, and he saw his way through.
But he couldn’t and knew that he couldn’t.
He had given his word to Yu, and he had to go and make contact with the Viet Minh agent.
99
NICHOLAI SAT in the back of a pedicab as it wound its way down Sisavangvong Road.
The cab dropped him off at the edge of an old Luang Prabang institution, the “Night Market,” an open-air bazaar with hundreds of small stands selling balls of sweet sticky rice, bits of fried fish, steaming cups of tea, and a few dozen delicacies that Nicholai didn’t recognize. Other stands offered delicate parasols, brightly colored paper lanterns, cotton shirts, trousers, sandals, candles, and little statues of Buddha.
The rich smells, sights, and sounds were a heady contrast to the austerity of the long river journey. The merchants loudly proclaimed the virtues of their wares or haggled with buyers, the acrid smell of charcoal fires competed with the aromas of sizzling chili sauces in open woks, and, even under lantern light