Lethal Redemption (6 page)

“If this is the five-hundred-year-old original of Trung Trac, that will change your mind?” She felt the glimmer of hope glow brighter.

“We’ll see.”

That would seal the deal, Kiera thought. The woman on that elephant, Trung Trac, was the greatest female warrior in Southeast Asian history. A kind of Joan of Arc of Vietnam. She and her sister had led a revolt against the dominating Chinese in 40 B.C. They came from a military family and there was speculation that Vietnam might have been a matriarchy in those days. The ladies raised an army of eighty thousand soldiers to take on the ruling Chinese. All the detachments were captained by female commanders.

They waged a war for a couple of years and succeeded in kicking the Chinese out of village after village. Ultimately they were defeated, but not before changing the consciousness of Vietnam forever. Vietnam had schools, roads and holidays named after her. Those female-led forces were so fierce, legend had it, that one of their captains was supposed to have given birth on the battlefield and, with a newborn in one hand, a sword in the other, kept right on fighting.

“My grandfather said that the statue was hidden at Nui Ba Den, the mountains of the Black Virgin, a holy place for Viet Buddhists,” she said as they crossed the street. “It was thought that it had been found and taken by the French when they conquered Indochina, but that turned out not to be the case. A fake was taken by the French. The real thing remained in hiding until the communists threatened to take over the country. He was bringing it out for the Buddhists.”

“We’ll see,” is all he would say, effectively shutting her up.

He hates me, she thought for the second time. Unfortunately, she was really starting to like this guy. He definitely had something about him. The way others respected him, the hard, cool demeanor, the connection to some Buddhist underground, his history with his father as bone hunters. He had a lot going for him. The bottom line, though, was that he was perfect for what she needed. Other than she was apparently ruining his life.

A block away the market lay under a huge dome. As they got closer she would see the place had an old, art deco style that she’d always liked.

He led her through the back door of shops, down a labyrinth of aisles jammed with colorful vendor stalls—selling everything from fine silks to gold and silver jewelry and antique coins to endangered animals—women squatting around their charcoal burners cooking soups, past restaurant alcoves busy feeding the hungry patrons, and finally to a row of shops separate from the main mall, the air wafting with spices and fish smells.

They entered a narrow shop and a bell tinkled. The walls were lined with glass cases of jewelry and artifacts, and recesses filled with statues and vases and paintings.

The bell alerted a woman who now came through the burgundy curtain hanging at the rear of the store. She was probably in her fifties, but it was obvious she took great care of herself, and as she drew closer Kiera marveled at her flawless skin and her shiny black hair which she had pulled back in a loose bun. She wore a black and gold silk
ao dai
, a traditional Vietnamese dress with a mandarin collar, and gold pantaloons. An elaborate floral design swept up from the bottom of the gown to the bodice. She seemed to glide into the room like an exotic bird.

“This is a friend of mine,” Porter said. “Nguyen Thi Xam.” He introduced Kiera but the woman ignored her and put her hands on Porter’s arm. When she smiled, her eyes flamed bright as she said, “
Chao ong
.” When she finally turned to Kiera the flame died out, replaced by cool appraisal.

Porter said, “Kiera, show her the photo of the elephant.”

She retrieved the photo from her backpack and handed it to a skeptical looking Thi Xam.

Thi Xam looked at it, glanced at Porter then led them into the back room. The room felt cramped and smelled of silver polish, turpentine and paint. Three work tables held vices, lamps, boxes of jewelry, silver plates, teapots and statues, and pieces of broken pottery.

Porter and Thi Xam spoke in Vietnamese. The woman turned on a small powerful light on a large magnifying glass, adjusted a tray below it, and placed the picture in the center of the tray. Porter made himself comfortable on a cushioned chair and poured two small cups of what appeared to be some kind of wine.

“Try it, see what you think,” he said, offering Kiera a cup.

She smelled it first, sweet and pungent. Then she took a sip, swirled it around in her mouth and decided it was probably one of those acquired tastes she wouldn’t have time for.

“How’s the wine?” Porter asked.

“Different,” Kiera said.

“It’s a blend of rice wine and sparrow blood,” Porter said. “Very popular in Vietnam.”

“Maybe not for me,” Kiera said, putting the cup down on one of the tables.

They watched as Xam studied the picture.

Porter said, “To Vietnamese Buddhists in some sects that statue is like the jewel of the Muroji to the Buddhists in Japan.”

“I don’t know about any jewel of Muroji,” Kiera said.

“A Buddhist temple in Japan named Muroji after Mount Muro. It’s the Shingon sect that allowed women to access the inner circle during the pre-Meiji period. The legend says that the founder of the temple, Kukai, buried a jewel there. It’s supposedly buried in the exact center of Japan. And as long as that jewel is there, Buddhism will continue to exist in Japan. Icons are important in Buddhist cultures.”

He got up and leaned over Xam’s shoulder for a moment, then came back to Kiera and said, “You ever hear of the Mother of Madhu? That’s another example of the significance of icons important to some Buddhists sects.”

“No.”

“It’s a Christian icon actually. The Virgin in Sri Lanka. That is also about five hundred years old. It’s an important icon to Hindus, Buddhists and the small percentage of Christians there. After a twenty-five year war between the Sinhalese Buddhist government forces and Hindu Tamil Tigers, violence and clashes simmered down when that statue was returned to its jungle shrine. It’s thought to have great protective powers, among other things. Believing is the ultimate placebo, is it not?”

“If the golden elephant in the picture is real—”

“If it is, and is recovered and returned to its proper place, many would take that as a powerful symbol of the ultimate survival of Buddhism in Indochina. The very existence of the statue is considered by many to be a myth, as it was commissioned by a radical sect believed to have been all women. But myths are often more powerful than reality.”

Xam transferred the picture to another table, another lamp, and another magnifying glass. This one had a bluish light. She uttered quietly, “
Choi oi
!”

Kiera moved over and looked closer at the magnified picture. She hadn’t noticed the inscription on the bottom platform of the statue until now. “What does that say?”

“That inscription fifteenth century poem,” Thi Xam replied tersely. “All the male heroes bowed their heads in submission; only the two sisters proudly stood up to avenge the country.”

Thi Xam then turned to Porter and said something in Vietnamese as she handed him the photo.

But they were then interrupted by somebody who came into the shop calling for Xam.

She left them and went up front where there was a quick, intense discussion.

Kiera recognized the voice. It was Miloon.

“It’s been fun but time to go,” Porter said.

She quickly returned the photo to her backpack while Porter went up front, and then came back.

“Let’s go,” Porter said, ushering Kiera out a back door. “You have anything at a hotel, it’s not coming with you.”

“I don’t.”

“You ever been up the Mekong River?”

“No.”

“We’re going to see a friend of mine if we can get out of here. An old Special Forces soldier who once called the Ho Chi Minh Trail his backyard.”

“I take it Xam thinks the statue may be the real thing.”

He stopped and looked around at the shop aisles, then they moved on. “She leans that way,” he said.

“You thinking of handing me off to some old vet living out his days in his own mental Apocalypse, are you?”

“Be a good idea, but I wouldn’t inflict you on him without a buffer.”

In spite of his attitude, she smiled inwardly. She had her man and he was growing on her by the minute.

11

Porter stopped and pulled her back into a cramped recess between vendors as two Cambodian policeman walked past. The space was tight and she realized they were both holding their breath, though she definitely felt his heart thudding as his chest pressed against hers. When they were gone they headed off, cutting through shops, Porter nodding to the owners. He seemed to know everyone.

“I haven’t committed any crime,” Kiera protested mildly. “Why would the police be looking for me?”

“You’re in Cambodia and you’re with me,” Porter said. “That’s crime enough and the police are very responsive to power. You got somebody with pull all worked up.”

They retraced their steps through the market, up two blocks to the dark recess where Porter’s Land Rover was parked.

Porter turned on the engine as he glanced back to see what might be coming.

But just as he put the Land Rover in gear and pulled out on the main street, a car pulled up in front of them turning sideways to try and block the road. Another raced up behind them, lights flashing.

“Didn’t take them long,” Porter said. “Unusual for around here.”

Kiera felt a jolt in the pit of her stomach as Porter swung out into the oncoming traffic, forcing a taxi to crash into a parked car.

“Fasten your seatbelt,” Porter said with a tight but controlled voice. “I got a feeling—” He didn’t finish. Two more cars, these unmarked, pulled into the road along with a police car and blockaded the street.

Porter slowed, and for a moment she thought he was going to stop. He drew close and hit his bright lights.

Then he floored the gas pedal. They swerved crazily from side-to-side at first, then he fixed on the narrow separation between the cars. Two men with guns got out, but seeing him coming at them at high speed, they dodged in opposite directions. Porter hit the tiny space between the two cars and shoved them out of the way.

The rear panel of one car flew up over the windshield, that car spinning around behind them as they shot up the boulevard with two other cars in hot pursuit.

Porter said as he tracked his pursuers in the rearview mirror. “If you’d waited one lousy day I’d be in Bangkok right now with, as Old Blue Eyes would have put it, a cuff link on each arm.”

“You wear long sleeve shirts?” she managed to say through clenched teeth.

“When I’m partying in Bangkok.”

A police car appeared ahead of them, its bar lights dancing and headlights flashing.

Porter headed straight for the car, high beams on, in a high-speed game of chicken.

Kiera grabbed the door and the dash and braced herself for what looked like a horrible end.

The police car stuttered to a stop at an angle, a cop leaning out the window of the passenger side with a gun.

Porter swerved violently back and forth and slammed into a car, metal screeching and grinding and suddenly they were free and speeding down the street.

She was back up and looking through the back window but they’d turned and she couldn’t see a pursuer. Porter took another tight corner and she had to brace herself as the Land Rover went up on two wheels, then bounced down violently.

“The joys of four-wheel-drive,” Porter said as he turned out his lights, took a hard left and nearly wiped out a cyclo. As he swerved to avoid it they sideswiped a tree, shot up over a large lawn in front of a magnificent old French house, then back through a row of flowers and into an alleyway, then crossed another street.

“There’s a Glock and an extra clip and satellite phone in a pouch in the glove box. Grab them. We’ll be on foot very soon.”

She fumbled for the pouch. It occurred to her that Porter Vale was maybe a little more nuts than she’d sensed. But then again, maybe it went with the territory.

As he cut down another wide boulevard a few blocks away from the quay they came to a traffic circle.

She saw a sign flash by:
Charles de Gaulle Boulevard
. Then they were airborne, bouncing between a truck and Pedi cabs, with pedestrians jumping out of the way.

He turned down a side street, jumped over a curb and raced through a park.

They shot past a stadium, and then pulled off the street and through a low arch and into what looked like a village area. He finally stopped behind some hedges and a thatched house.

“You look in pretty good shape,” Porter said. “You can run?”

“I can,” Kiera assured him.

He reached for the pouch and took out a satellite phone and a handgun. “Get your backpack on, we’re going to be on foot.”

She put on her backpack and followed him as he tucked the handgun behind him in his belt under his shirt and the SAT phone in one of his cargo pants pockets.

They took off in a fast jog, cutting through a group of thatched houses, back across a footbridge and then into a courtyard, around a statue and into an alley.

He slowed to a fast walk, then stopped and peered down one street, then led her across.

“You saved me from a night of goodbyes and debauchery,” Porter said. “That’s something to be grateful for, I guess.”

“I do my best,” she said, hoping his attempt at levity was a good sign.

They went over a low wall. “I hope wherever you’re staying,” Porter said, “you don’t have anything there you don’t mind losing.”

“What wasn’t stolen is on my back, along with a few replacements.”

A gray cat leaped back over a low wall, startling her for a second. It vanished.

To keep up she had to break into an all-out sprint through the dark of a narrow confine of buildings. They darted down another narrow street and slowed, then stopped at a white wall with an iron gate.

Porter opened the gate and she followed him into a recessed little courtyard of what looked like a small of pagoda.