Let him have that, at least, Zhiu thought. He may never have anything else.
The boy knocked on the door — two slow raps, a pause, followed by three rapid ones — and waited a moment before pushing it open. Then he leaned his head through the entry and said something and waited some more. After a brief interval Zhiu heard a male voice answer from inside the house. Though the words were unclear to him, their tone was unmistakeably harsh and reprimanding.
The boy turned from the door and shooed away his friends, who climbed down to the landing and went hurrying off somewhere along the bank.
"Ma'af saya," he said nervously, offering Zhiu Sheng a contrite bow. "I did not mean to offend—"
"Never mind."
His patience exhausted, Zhiu brushed past him and ascended the shaky ladder, half expecting it to buckle under his feet.
He was met at the entrance by a pair of lank, brown-skinned islanders with undulant kris tattoos on their hands. Was it not said that such a dagger could claim a victim merely by being driven into one's shadow? Perhaps so, Zhiu thought. But ancient myths aside, he believed the semi-automatic rifles slung over the men's shoulders would prove much more lethal.
"Selamat datang," one of them said. He bowed his head deferentially. "Welcome."
Zhiu nodded and went inside.
The interior of the dwelling was a large rectangle, its floor and walls made up of bare plywood boards, the high peaked roof supported by tiers of slanting beams. Midway down the length of the right-hand wall was a closed door with a third islander standing guard in front of it. Towering and rigid, he had coarse features, long black hair, and was bare-chested under an open denim jacket with cut-off sleeves. The blockish muscles on his torso and upper arms were heavily covered with tattoos. In addition to his rifle, he carried a knife — a kris, no doubt — in an elaborately tooled leather sheath on his belt.
Zhiu ran his eyes over to the middle of the room, where the men he had come to meet — General Kersik Imman, Nga Canbera, and the drug trafficker, Khao Luan — were waiting at a long plank table.
Glancing up from a conversation with the others, Kersik was the first to acknowledge his presence.
"Zhiu Sheng, you look well," he said, dipping his head. "How was your trip?"
"Hot, tedious, and hopefully worthwhile," Zhiu said.
A smile touched Kersik's thin, lined face. While the eyes below his shaggy brows were as strong and sharp as ever, he had aged a great deal over the past several months and, in civilian clothes now, possessed an almost grandfatherly mien that hid his true severity of nature.
By contrast, Zhiu thought, Canbera looked scarcely older than the children outside, and like them seemed to be working at a role that was beyond him. Political subversive, champion of the poor. His soft features and vain demeanor put the lie to it, though. As did his social position. The eldest son of a diamond baron, Nga had been born into immeasurable wealth, and handed control of Banjarmasin's largest bank only to serve as a place marker on his family's sprawling financial game board. He understood nothing of human struggle, and less of material hardship. Nor did the spoiled upper-class activists with whom he secretly consorted… and whose national reform movement he was helping to fund.
He was a narcissistic dabbler, interested in gratifying his own conceits, and would leap for the safety net of privilege if the consequences of his actions overtook him.
"Sawasdee. My place isn't nearly as well appointed as Kersik's residence, but, as a humble exile and outsider, it's the best I can do."
This from Khao Luan himself. Seated at the head of the table, he raised his hands in the traditional Thai greeting, palms together as if in prayer, his fingertips just below his nose to indicate familiarity. On their previous meetings, Zhiu noted, he had steepled his hands lower and closer to his chest — the stranger's wai.
The significance of the gesture was not lost on Zhiu, and it admittedly distressed him… for was a man not measured in large part by his associations? Still, he returned it without hesitation. The time for misgivings was long past. And corrupt as his occupation might be, the Thai was without pretense and worthy of respect.
"Please," Luan said, indicating an empty chair on his right. "Make yourself comfortable."
Zhiu went over to the table and regarded him carefully. Round and balding, Luan had a smooth wide forehead, bow-shaped lips, and a light mustache and chin beard. His cheekbones were perfectly flat and covered with soft, shiny pads of flesh. He sat with his chair pushed back from the table, his short-sleeved batik shirt hanging out over his waist sash, straining at the seams around his big stomach, and unbuttoned at the collar to reveal a thick ring of Hmong silver. There were dark blotches of perspiration on his chest and under his arms.
"The American," Zhiu said, lowering himself into his chair. "Where is he?"
Luan nodded toward the door in the right wall.
"My friend Xiang and his sea wolves are keeping a close eye on him."
"Has he told you anything?"
Luan was silent a moment before replying.
"He's been, ah, unable to communicate this morning, but I expect he'll be coming around shortly," he said. "Maybe then we'll all learn what we want to know."
Zhiu darted a surprised glance across the table at General Kersik. "He was captured, what, four days ago?"
Kersik brought his head up and down, a slow nod.
"He's a tough one," he said.
"No need to be concerned, we'll get what we want out of him soon enough," Luan said. He smiled thinly. "The White Lady has her ways."
Zhiu raised his eyebrows. "Heroin?"
"They've scarcely been apart since we introduced him to her yesterday," Luan said. "She'll charm him into talking."
"It is barbaric."
"It is necessary," Kersik said. "And preferable to some alternatives."
"As our prisoner should conclude for himself before too long," Luan said.
They were quiet. Zhiu found himself staring at the enormous pirate. He seemed somehow to exist in his own space, immovable and dangerous, his calm unfeeling eyes those of a Mesozoic creature poised to strike.
"What I think ought to worry us is the woman," Nga said.
Zhiu shifted his attention to him. "Chu, is that her name?"
"Kirsten Chu. She's dropped out of sight. And there's no telling what she's discovered about our involvement with Monolith, or what sort of proof she's taken with her. A tremendous amount of information could have been routed through her division of the company."
"I assume we have people looking for her in Singapore?"
"And elsewhere," Luan said.
"Still," Nga said. "It could hurt us badly if the Americans learn of—"
"I've been trying to reassure Nga that he's jumping ahead of things," Kersik interrupted. "Let's stay with what we know. This could have been a case of industrial espionage, having nothing to do with us."
"She's repeatedly accessed Monolith's most sensitive financial databases from her office computer terminal. Made dozens of telephone calls to the UpLink groundstation in Johor.. and probably many more that can't be traced because they went to a secure line," Nga said. "Are you suggesting that we simply forget about her?"
"You really must try to become a more receptive listener," Kersik said. "Without the American to guide her, it's likely she won't know where to turn, or what to do with any documentation she might have. Probably she'll surface on her own. If not, we'll eventually find her." He motioned toward Zhiu Sheng with a slow, gliding wave of his hand. "Let us put speculation aside, and get to the point of why our comrade has traveled here."
Zhiu nodded slightly. Despite his equable manner, Kersik was looking hard at him.
"I've brought positive news," he said. "Those I represent are prepared to supply whatever munitions you require. The high-speed boats will be more difficult to obtain, but should also be forthcoming."