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Our high-tech Tibetan gave us GPS coordinates for the precise location of the drop, and both Zi
I’m pointing to a ship on the opposite side of the docks which was previously invisible but has come into view as we try to position ourselves in accordance with the Tibetan’s coordinates. I say, “The coordinates he gave are not where he is located. He’s taken us to the point where we can see him, that’s all.”
“See what? I don’t see a damn thing.”
“The prayer flags,” I say, unable to repress a grin. “On that ship over there, all the way up to the top of the mast.”
“Why the hell would he do that?” Zi
“Because we’re being watched by his people, have been since the minute we arrived,” Vikorn explains in a tone of respect and wonder. “By now he knows everything he needs to know about us. How many men, what kind of weapons, even our morale.”
When we finally arrive at the ship that’s festooned with Tibetan prayer flags gently swaying in the night air, the Tibetan wild man himself is sitting all alone in his open parka on a black iron bollard, his long gray hair tied back. With his eyes rolling, he looks insane.
“Sawatdee krup,” he says in a not-bad accent, showing us the equality wai, with hands raised to eye level and no higher.
“Told you,” Zi
Everyone watches while I walk toward Tietsin with the letter of credit in my hand. I hold it in front of his eyes, but he makes no gesture to check it. Instead, he jerks his chin in the direction behind us. We turn to look, but all we can see are the high black bows and shadows in between.
Then they start to appear one by one, all dressed in black. One by one, Zi
“Backpacks?” Vikorn says, gobsmacked, his voice squeaking in disbelief. “He brought in the whole fucking five hundred and thirty-three kilos in backpacks?”
I stare slack-jawed in wonder at Tietsin while his men continue to appear in commando-black T-shirts and pants, with black backpacks. When they have finished arriving there are thirty in all, which I calculate produces an average of about seventeen kilos-thirty-eight pounds-of heroin per backpack. Thirty-eight pounds is the maximum load for paid Sherpas in the Himalayas.
“We thought about other means,” Tietsin says, rolling his eyes back, “but none of them were viable. In the end I had to develop a customs officer mantra with all the ritual that goes with it. So far so good, it seems to have worked fine.” He beams.
“Please tell me you didn’t all take the same plane,” Vikorn says; the blood has drained from his face.
“Of course not. Half of us came on the morning flight, the other half in the afternoon.”
“You, you, you-” I say, then stop. Words fail one at times like this.
“What d’you expect? We’re Himalayans. We don’t know any better. Now, why don’t you tell your little friends to get their chemists working so we can all go home?”
Vikorn and Zi
And all the time, more and more of his men are emerging from the shadows of the dock. Now it is hard to say how many people Tietsin has brought with him. At first I assumed that some of them, at least, were Thais he’d hired from some underworld co
He speaks softly. “Detective, did you ever hear of an asshole named Clive of India?”
“Yes.”
“And do you know what this asshole named Clive of India did to the world?”
“British Empire.”
“Financed by?”
“Opium sales.”
“If you put it like that you risk trivializing his achievement. He was the first to make the co
He sighs. “You thought you would play the martyr, get yourself a permanent seat in nirvana in return for your sacrifice, your undeniable stinking goodness? What are you, some kind of Sunday Christian? Didn’t I already make it clear that good isn’t good enough? You accepted the mantra, kid, and you can’t say nobody warned you. Good is even harder to kick than evil. They are a duality, you know that, you don’t get one without the other. I dread to think what kind of sanctimonious asshole you would have turned into, probably about five minutes before Vikorn snuffed you, if we didn’t get to you first.” He lets a couple of beats pass while he examines my shocked and terrified mug. “It just ain’t that easy, you of all people should know that. And anyway, you have no right to deprive me of my karma. It’s all me driving this. This is my moment, not yours, so who the fuck are you to screw it all up just because you can’t live with yourself? If you can’t live with yourself, dump your self.”
“The Buddha came to me in a dream,” I mumble. “He showed me the gas bottles.”
“Oh, yeah? Listen, around us you don’t talk about the Buddha. Which Buddha? Be specific.”
“He was in the form of a child’s toy.”
“See! Can’t you even interpret your own dreams properly by now? The Buddha’s showing you it’s time to grow up already, dump your infant faith, and get into something adult. Didn’t they tell you the great Theravada admonition: ‘If you see the Buddha on the road, kill him’?”