Chapter 11

 

 

The following day, Ewen parked his Prado down from the Blue Chip computer store on Wanneroo Road. No ladders leaning against any verandas, and no carpenters. He strolled the footpath, passed the shattered glass in the gutter and continued onto the computer store.

He placed a hand on the shop’s front door and paused; journalism had led him into some bizarre situations before. Perspiration glistened on his arms. He closed his eyes and checked himself. His heart rate was up a tad. Scared or excited? Unsure, but certain that he needed to stay calm because to coax a story from someone he needed them to relax. For them to relax they needed to sense how relaxed he was. He thought about surfing with his father. It always nurtured a quiet confidence. He pushed on the door.

Apart from the cool air, what grabbed his attention the most was the green threadbare carpet and faded posters on the walls. A cheap Vietnamese restaurant in Northbridge came to mind, a place that presented itself as tatty but served brilliant food. Three Asian teenagers, two guys and a girl, worked separate counters, a customer at each.

Beyond the counters, a door opened. The Thai lady from the first Skinny Ray meeting stepped out. No longer dressed in jeans, she wore a full length, white cotton dress. Her long black hair was still in a ponytail. She held a straight posture. Steady and smart. On seeing Ewen, she gestured with flickering fingers, a teacher summoning a student to the front. As he walked through the gap in the counter, a male shop assistant grabbed his arm. The woman spoke Thai. The grip released, and Ewen followed the woman in white through the doorway into an office.

Incense. To Ewen, the smell these days conjured new age shops not Asian memories. She stood at a desk. Behind her, on a pedestal, sat a half-metre high chrysoprase Buddha. Worth a mint. The Buddha rested a hand on his knee, palm up. The other hand touched the wooden stand he sat upon. An incense stick smoked alongside.

She offered her hand. “Celty.”

Slender, he noticed, all the way to her fingertips. A plain gold ring; her wedding finger. He pictured Ray’s similar ring. She enjoyed a firm grip. She’d never break a promise. Her dark almond-shaped eyes represented a tunnel, something to explore.

“Mr Langtree. I’m pleased to meet you.”

“Ewen, please.”

She sat behind the desk, her head the same height as the Buddha’s. Both hinted the slightest smile. She gestured to a chair opposite.

“I understand you are chasing information.” Her Thai accent was a childhood echo.

“Yes. I was hoping to speak to Ray.”

“Sorry, Ray is unavailable. He asked me to answer your questions.”

Heroin, her beauty: onshore and offshore. Unease started banking his questions against each other. “I’m not sure if you can help me.”

“Help you.” Her teeth shone white. “A very broad term. I am forty-five years old. I may know more than you think. Try me.”

Try? Who wouldn’t? What woman tells you her age within two minutes? Forty-five. Wouldn’t have picked it; Asian chicks sure hold their youth. “The heroin…it had a red dragon stamped on it…a symbol supposedly around in the seventies. A symbol linked to Thailand. And seeing Thailand has done its bit to eradicate poppy cultivation and stem narcotics flowing across its borders, why the red dragon? Why is cheap heroin supposedly streaming out of Thailand?”

She studied him for a moment. “Before I attempt to answer, tell me, truthfully, what did you feel when you saw the kilogram sitting on the table?”

With girlfriends, he’d always succeeded in pussyfooting around the truth for months or years without having to plunge deep into any relationship. It suited him fine. It suited his lifestyle. It also helped him recognise women who possessed a finely tuned bullshit-detector. He bet on her being one. No nonsense. No need for makeup. No need to appease. Asia all-over—stunning, and no doubt able to shock. Don’t touch. “I noted five entities in the room: me, Lon, Ray, the bodyguard and the kilo. I saw power.”

“No, what did you feel?”

Off-guard. He eyed her, held a breath for stability. “I felt attraction, similar to looking at gold. For some strange reason, you felt yourself wanting—”

“I. Not you.”

He fidgeted in his seat. “I…wanted to touch it, caress it. Maybe steal it.”

“Steal?” she said, smiling, her head now slightly tilted.

Gorgeous smile. Like the chicks in the Kung Fu movies. Smile, then kick your arse. He winked. “Don’t tell Ray.”

She laughed. He relaxed back into his seat. The laugh wasn’t hollow.

“I won’t. But you do sense its attraction. Although your perceptions may come from an addict’s point of view. Correct?”

“No.”

“But you have tried it?”

“Yes. And you?”

“Out of curiosity.”

Neat answer.

“So,” she continued, “what do you suppose a person who has never tried heroin would feel looking at the kilo?”

“Probably nothing. If they had tried it…I guess they would sense… possibly…power.”

“I agree.”

Anything to make you happy. She’s so hot she’s sinister.

“So, history has power.”

Wake up. Stop snorting lines off her naked breast. “Come again?”

“The person only grasps what the drug is capable of. Of how much money it’s worth, how much violence is associated with it, how much bliss it can conjure and how much despair it can create. All based on past stories and experiences.”

“You could say that.”

“So, for you to understand heroin and the power it yields in Thailand, you’ll need to know its history. Have you visited Thailand?

“A few times.”

“Work or pleasure?”

Did her lips curl a tad when she’d mentioned pleasure? He wasn’t there for work and it wasn’t that sort of pleasure. “Travel.”

The lips definitely curled.

“I’ve pieced together a history lesson for you. You are welcome to use it in your article. I hope you enjoy it?”

Was it the topic, or was it her? Whatever, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“The dragon is a Chinese symbol representing good luck and power. Now, it’s widely believed that during the build up to, and during the Vietnam War, the CIA had a hand in narcotics protection and distribution via Air America. Why would they do this, especially after a White House survey in nineteen seventy-one estimated around fifteen per cent of US troops in Vietnam were addicted to heroin? The answer lies in communism. The Asian ethnic warlords had grown into hardened anti-communists and fought their version of the cold war in the Golden Triangle’s highlands.”

“Tell me, Celty. What did you think about it?”

She eyed him. Didn’t blink.

“Heroin. The stone?” he asked.

“It’s the devil’s daughter. Anything that pleasurable is dangerous and to be avoided at all costs.”

He nodded, watching her eyes for a connection. The Buddha’s eyes remained closed.

“When the Chinese Civil War ended in a communist victory in nineteen forty-nine, the Nationalist Chinese government force, the Kuomintang, retreated across the border into Burma’s Shan State where they linked with the CIA already running covert Burmese operations. The Kuomintang, referred to as the Lost Army, ended up fighting a war on two fronts. One, against the Burmese government who wanted to rid them from the country. And two, armed by the CIA, they launched attacks against the communist Chinese in an attempt to retake Yunnan.

“For the next eight years, while the Lost Army fought running battles against the Burmese military and the communists, they increased their dominance over the opium trade. In nineteen sixty-one, the Burmese army pushed the four thousand Kuomintang troops across the mountainous border to Mae Salong village in Northern Thailand. The Thai government granted refugee status to the Lost Army. They knew their anti-communist hatred ran deep and the government would gain an ally in fighting communist insurgents in the region. Bloody battles raged on for twenty years until nineteen eighty-two when the Lost Army soldiers finally laid down their arms and lived a peaceful existence in Mae Salong. One General from the Lost Army, a leader at the Nationalist defeat in the Chinese Civil War, was Tuan Shi-wen.”

Celty picked up an A4 sheet from the desk. “And here is a quote from him in the London Weekend Telegraph. March nineteen sixty-seven. We have to continue to fight the evil of communism, and to fight you must have an army, and an army must have guns, and to buy guns you must have money. In these mountains, the only money is opium.” She slid the sheet across. “A CIA report in the early seventies noted Mae Salong as the largest heroin distribution point in Southeast Asia. And the Chinese connection, the Red Dragon, the good luck and power symbol, supposedly became the stamp representing the village Mae Salong.”

“Cool story, but it’s over. This so-called Lost Army must have surrendered to the crop-substitution program, because the Thai government, through the Lucas Aid agreement, has eradicated poppy cultivation.”

“They surrendered to tourism also. It’s now a unique attraction in Thailand. The country’s fifth-biggest tourist destination.”

“Why would you bother to stamp the heroin now? Why even hint at giving out a clue?”

“Some societies do actually believe in symbolism. And to the Chinese the dragon is prosperity.”

“Do you believe the Chinese are involved?”

“In Asia, the Chinese are always involved when it comes to money. The Golden Triangle drug lords may be gone, but the networks they put in place are still intact. Now the drug lords don’t ride horseback, they ride helicopters.”

“Why expose themselves? Why use the dragon?”

“Chinese are superstitious. If something worked before, it will work again. The dragon may not represent the town Mae Salong, but it does represent the network put in place many years ago.”

“And it’s flooding into Australia, not the US or Europe, which represent bigger markets.”

“It’s not unusual for groups to use heroin to help win wars. Look at the Russians in Afghanistan. The Afghans turned half the Russian army into junkies who lost the war and now represent the biggest collective of addicts in one country on Earth today. Vietnam, US servicemen addicted to heroin fighting a losing war. Afghanistan again; the Taliban trying to push the US soldiers onto heroin because it helps win wars.”

“But Australia isn’t fighting a war at home.”

“If it can’t halt the narcotics and the boat people flooding into the country, it will become a political war.”

“Do you think they’re linked, the boat people and drugs?”

“Linked. I’m not sure. Similarities do exist though. Both streaming in. Both Asian. And both pushing the Australian government into action.”

“Where would you start researching such a theory?”

“I’m looking into a connection. Sources from inside the Golden Triangle say the Chinese control the Burmese and Laotian opium trade. And the kingpin is not a man, it’s a woman. A woman based in the Yunnan province in China.”

“Where the Lost Army originated from.”

“Correct. And do you also know who comes from and lives in that province?”

Ewen stared at her.

“Do you know anything about the wealthy businessman, Francis Hogmyre?”

The name flew like a dart, and Ewen forced himself not to flinch. It took a second to answer. “A little.”

“His adopted daughter, Cai, lives in Yunnan province…” Celty watched him. “I’m not sure whether you look surprised or stunned.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Surprised, you act on. Stunned, you’re acted upon.”

Surprised. It drove a desire for more information. “How do you know these facts?”

“Because Skinny Ray was born in Mae Salong, and his father fought in the Lost Army.”

“And you?”

“I also was born in Mae Salong.”

 

*

 

Back in his Prado, after leaving the computer shop, Ewen started the motor but didn’t drive off. Instead, his fingers drummed the wheel while he mumbled in disbelief to himself. “I only wanted a background story on the Red Dragon and Hogmyre gets mentioned.” He’d listened though, listened and watched but told her nothing about his offhanded theory concerning the rich stock trader and his adopted children wreaking havoc in their birth countries. He rested a palm beside him on the manila folder stuffed with red dragon information; a present from Celty. Probably enough material for a weekend spread.

He checked his side mirror, edged into the traffic, and as he flowed along Wanneroo Road imagined himself seeing Celty again. She’d offered another meeting if he needed more information. He braked for a red light. She exuded a celebrity’s presence. The lights turned green. He took off. But no matter how far he drove, a question followed. Why did she know so much about heroin?