Thai Horse (41 page)

Most of the hill tribes still sold opium gum in its raw stage, but the Hsong tribe had its own refinery, a crude but effective little factory in a room no larger than a bedroom. The Chiu Chaos preferred to refine their own heroin, but the Hsong had always produced the powder themselves. It was a matter of pride to Dao as well as of economics. It takes two thousand poppies to make a kilo of opium gum. A kilo of gum sold in the hills for seventy dollars, a kilo of China White sold for nine hundred dollars. To Dao the difference was worth the effort. It meant more rifles for the men, more pigs and buffalo, and perhaps even a new truck for the village, bolts of Thai silk for the women, and for himself, a new radio with shortwave. He had no idea that the same pound of heroin was worth half a million dollars in New York, or that it would be stepped up six or seven times after that, making the street value close to four million dollars.

That night the Hsong cranked up the little furnace. They mixed ten kilos of gum with water and cooked it in an enormous brass wok until it was a dark, thick mass that looked like heavy molasses. Then they poured it into an ancient wooden press and squeezed the water out. What was left was a kilo of morphine base granules. Mixed with water and acetic anhydride in a small still and dried under grow lamps and pressed again, it produced a brick of pure white powder, which they branded with a stamp: 999. The mark of Hsong and a guarantee that the one-kilo brick of China White was 99.9 percent pure heroin.

Just after sunrise, the chopper took off from Chang Mai and headed for the village of the Hs
o
ng, seventy miles away. The day before, Tollie Fong had sent his Straw Sandal to General Dao to arrange the meeting. The ritual of dealing was a formality, but one they had performed at villages like this all over northern Thailand during the past few months. The emerald-green mountains slipped below them and grew more rugged and less penetrable. Mountain roads twisted up the sides of the lush peaks and ended suddenly at landslides or were simply devoured by the foliage. From the air it was easy to see why the army was frustrated in its attempts to discourage or destroy the poppy crop here.

Fong sat in the copilot’s seat of the chopper with his three aides in the seats behind him
—
the White Fan, who was in charge of rituals and for this trip would also serve as Fong’s secretary and financial adviser, and two gunmen, Billy Kot a
n
d Soon. The messenger had completed his duties and returned to Bangkok.

The White Fan, an ancient seer pushing eighty with wispy white hair and the remnants of a white goatee, wore the traditional silk
cheongsam
of the Chinese and had devoted his life to tradition and ritual. He hated to fly, particularly in this mixing bowl of an airplane, but his inscrutable face gave no hi
n
t of his discomfort. He sat with his eyes closed and his small black bag of tricks between his feet. Soon, a reliable executioner, dozed beside him, unconcerned by the flying.

Economics, as well as killing, was Tollie Fong’s business. Getting the smack from the hills to the marketplace, whether it was Singapore or Marseilles, New York or Grand Rapids, was also his business. Fong had first been introduced to the trade while he was still in his early teens by
h
is father, who had gone to college in the United States and understood Americans. Fong remembered that night well.

1962. The eve of the Chinese New Year, the Year of the Tiger.

Outside their window, there were dancers and dragons in the street. Firecrackers rattled in the gutters and the stars over Hong Kong were concealed behind a glittering wall of skyrockets.

Young Fong, not yet fourteen, wanted to be out there with the rest of his frie
n
ds, but his father was insistent. He had called his
bin
g
yahn,
his soldiers, to a meeting and the White
Palm
executioner leaned toward his five officers and placed his hand on his son’s knee. ‘I have spent several hours with the
san wong
and it is important that you
u
nderstand our new plans.

‘First, you must understand abo
ut
Americans. They are very self-indulgent. They are eager to try new things. They are very sociable and they go to great lengths to impress their friends. They tend to do things in great masses. They live on borro
w
ed money and their goals in life are security
—
and pleasure.

‘Now they are becoming involved in a great turmoil over the fighting in Vietnam. T
h
ere is revolutionary protest by the young people. And’
—
his eyes lit up
—
‘they have discovered drugs. Marijuana, peyote, the chemical called acid. It is just beginning. The
san wong
believes these young people are ripe for other drugs.

‘Until now, the customers for powder have been mostly beggars, people of the streets, thieves and thugs. There is some trade with the very wealthy, but very few users in between. The Sicilians control the trade.

‘So we have three plans. First, i
t
is time to move on the Sicilians. This will not be done easily, but we may be able to supply them and use their people for our own distribution.’

‘Can we trust them?’ one of the
bing
yahn
asked.

‘Never! Always be wary of them. When it is convenient, we will make our war and destroy them, but that is a long time away. For now, we
m
ust help create the demand and make the deals, so we need the Sicilians. Second, the American soldiers in Vietnam and Thailand are at our very door and the war is growing. There will be many more soldiers coming. This war will last a long time, as it did with the French. We will sell them powder at cost plus ten percent.’

‘At cost?’ one of the
bing
yahn
said with surprise.

‘Plus ten percent, to create the need,’ Fong corrected. ‘And they will take this need back to the States with them and pass the need on to their friends and they will all grow old with the demon. These will be
our
customers. They will be accustomed to pure China White and will not be satisfied
wi
th the Turkish and Mexican brown shit the S
i
ci
li
an sell. Finally, we must encourage the hill people to
grow
more poppies, for the demand will be greater than any of us realize. All other business in which the White Pa
lm
s are involved must come second to this.’

That was the night he had assigned his five captains, who called themselves the Drago
n
’s Breath, to open the markets in Saigon and keep the
m
supplied.

‘We must plan this move
most
carefully and then wait,’ he said, ‘for it will be two
o
r three years before we make our move, but it is a good
plan
and it will work.’

When his captains had left, th
e
older Fong turned to his son. ‘You must understand the economics of this business,’ he said softly but firm
l
y. ‘There are millions, perhaps billions, of dollars at s
t
ake, Right now your destiny is to follow me as Red P
o
le of the White Palm Chiu Chao. But this business will open things up for you. The more you know, the m
o
re important you will become. Who knows how far you can go.
. .

The Red Pole had prepared his son well. Tollie Fong’s mentor was Joe Lung, who would later be the only member of the Dragon’ Breath to survive Hatcher’s brutal massacre on the Mekong. Lung guided a vigorous training prog
r
am. A year with the Ninja in Tokyo, six months wit
h
the SAVAK in Iran, another six months with thuggee
S
ikhs in Bombay. And another year spent with a master
o
f tai chi and karate on Okinawa.

But always there was the
business
of the trade to learn, and Fong learned it from t
h
e experts by interning in the business offices of the Chiu Chaos in Hong Kong, Bangkok, Singapore and Seattle. Before
h
e was twenty he was in New York learning the business of the street and had already killed three ti
mes
,
for his main role in the hierarchy of the White Pal
m
was still to take his father’s place as the Red Pole executioner.

As the new
san
w
ong
of the White Palms, Fong would
have made his father proud, for he had become an expert at the economics of the trade. Now the profits were so enormous that police could be bought and whole nations could be corrupted. Dope smuggling had become the most profitable business in the world, and a fifth of all the heroin sold in the United States came from the Golden Triangle in northern Thailand. And despite his
ch’u-tiao,
his blood oath to kill Hatcher
—
the man who had executed his father and now Joe Lung
—
the business of powder had to come first, for he had stretched his authority by setting up deals with the most productive hill tribes in the Golden Triangle.

Each year he had spread his empire farther, moving more deeply into the Triangle, taking dangerous risks with the suspicious and volatile mountain bandits. Every time the government burned out a field or coerced a hill tribe into planting coffee or mushrooms, Fong went deeper and found new tribes willing to cultivate the lucrative poppy.

His gamble had paid off handsomely. Fong now controlled the flow of Thai heroin for all the Chiu Chao families, and that was almost 5 percent of all the heroin that came out of Thailand. And in secret conclave, the Chiu Chaos were at that very moment, confirming him as
san wong,
master of all the families.

Fong needed someone to take his place as enforcer, someone he could trust. He decided that someone would be Billy Kot.

Handpicked from among the many assassins who served the White Palms, Kot was bright, clever, awesomely ruthless and, in Fong’s eyes, the most efficient killer in the world, next to Tollie Fong himself. Kot was only twenty-six, but he was a college graduate, and now it was time to move him up.

Leaning over the back of the seat, Fong began a dialogue with Billy Kot, who leaned forward with his ear close to Fong’s mouth.

‘You must learn this part of the business because you are going to be the next Red Pole.’

Kot reared back in surprise, for the news was totally unexpected.

‘It is more than just the business of the Red Pole,’ said Fong. ‘You must not only enforce the rules of the Society, you must also control negotiations up here as well.’

‘I understand,’ Billy Kot said, trying to control his excitement at the news. ‘I promise to be worthy of your trust.’

‘You must learn the ways of each of the hill leaders. To us they are like arteries to the heart. They must learn to trust you. And they are all different.’

‘What of General Dao?’

‘General Dao has been head of the Hsong tribe for fourteen years, since he was twenty-two,’ Fong began. ‘For three hundred miles in every direction, the tribes fear the Hsong.’

‘Is he a warlord?’

‘He does not start things, but be does not bow down either. They have not waged war on anyone for at least ten years.’

‘So he is a tough guy,’ Billy Kot said.

‘Very. The army is afraid of him. Two years ago he threw out the
nai amphoe,
and Bangkok never even replaced the man. He is not like some of the others, always crying about the federals burning their fields, trying to gouge a few extra dollars for every
joi.’

‘Is he friendly?’ Kot asked.

‘He smiles,’ Fong answered with a shrug, ‘but he is cautious. The secret is to treat him with respect, never threaten him. An insult or threat, even an unwitting one, could be mistaken as an act of war. His
bing yahn
would drop us all on the spot. At the very least he would end our arrangement. So be careful.’

‘I will just listen this time.’

‘No, do what your spirit says. If you make a slip, the White Fan will warn you. He will stand or sit between us and Dao and to the side, partly facing us. If he shakes his head, stop talking, and he will handle the problem.’

‘How much gum does the Hsong produce?’

‘He is not a big producer, but the powder is as pure as it gets and he does it all, including the refining. Each year he has increased his production. I don’t know what the yield will be this year.’

Below them they saw a village, not large, perhaps a hundred hooches, forming neat patterns on a high, lush mesa. Beyond it was Powder Mountain, its poppy fields denuded by the harvest. The pilot jockeyed the chopper around and put it down beside a dirt road at the foot of the mountain.

‘This is the main village,’ Fong said as they crawled out of the plane. ‘There are three or four smaller ones around. And the Hsong
bing yah
n
live in the jungle. They are everywhere, do not underestimate them.’

‘How many soldiers?’ asked Billy Kot.

‘I have no idea,’ Fong answered. ‘Three hundred maybe.’

‘Weapons?’

‘Everything. Subguns, M—14s, grenade launchers, a lot of small stuff. Very well armed.’

A battered antique of an army truck was waiting for them. They crawled in the back and sat facing each other as it rattled and rocked up the barely passable road to the village, thirty-five hundred feet above the valley floor.

‘He can use a new truck or two,’ said Fong, nodding to the White Fan. The old man made a mental note of it. He never wrote anything down.

Kot watched as the truck climbed the dusty road. He spotted a momentary flash of sun on steel in a tree, saw movement in another.

‘His
bing
yahn
are everywhere,’ he said.

‘Hai.
Real monkeys,’ Fong answered with a nod.