Don Winslow - Satori

“What do we have in Xuanwu?” Haverford asked.

“You’re in luck. The Temple of the Green Truth is right down the street.”

“And what, pray tell, is the Temple of the Green Truth?” Haverford said as he scanned for it and then found the building on the map.

“The oldest mosque in Beijing,” Benton answered.

A photo of the temple appeared under Haverford’s nose. It looked like any old Chinese temple – Buddhist or Daoist – with blue-and-red columns and a sloping roof. But then Haverford noticed that the roof tiles were not the usual blue, but green. “The Commies left it standing?”

“No choice – it’s in the middle of a Hui neighborhood.”

Haverford knew that Benton was playing the “I know more than you know” game. But it was typical of the old China hands, always defensive about the fact that they “lost” the country to the Communists, and ever resentful at now being subordinate to the Asia Desk and Johnny-come-latelies like Haverford. But he was sympathetic – most of their assets had been rolled up, and now an entirely new network had to be built, slowly and painfully.

“Chinese-speaking Muslim minority,” Benton explained. “Been in Beijing for a thousand years. They call their brand of Islam qing zhen – ‘the Green Truth.’ ”

“Do we own a few of these Huis?” Haverford asked.

“More than a few,” Benton answered. “They hate the fucking Reds, see them as godless infidels trying to suppress their religion. Also, they’re hooked into the Muslim minority out in Xinjiang who are looking to secede.”

It has possibilities, Haverford thought. “I’ll need an extraction team.”

“We can do that.”

“And a dead drop location for an asset in Beijing,” Haverford added.

“Can you toss a few guns to Xinjiang?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll get back to you with details,” Benton said.

“I’ll come to Hong Kong to work out the details.” He didn’t want Benton fucking this up and he didn’t have much time to finalize a plan and get it to Hel.

THE WEAPON LOOKED as ugly as it was lethal.

There is no honor and hence no beauty in it, Nicholai thought. A sword is beautiful for the care and craft that goes into its creation, and honorable for the courage it takes to wield in personal combat.

But a “rocket launcher”?

It is ugly in proportion to its destructive power. Anonymously produced by soulless drones on an assembly line in some American factory, it brings no distinction to its owner, just the ability to kill and destroy from a distance.

Still, Nicholai had to admit as Yu recited the weapon’s particulars, its power was impressive.

The M20 rocket launcher-a.k.a. the “Super Bazooka” – weighed a mere fifteen pounds and was a little over sixty inches long, half of that being barrel. It fired an eight-pound HEAT rocket that, at a velocity of 340 feet per second, could penetrate eleven inches of armor plating at an effective range of a hundred yards. It could take out a heavy tank, an armored personnel carrier, a half-track, or a fortified pillbox.

The weapon, basically a tube with an electric firing device and a reflecting sight attached, could be broken down into two pieces for easy carrying by two men. It could be fired from a standing, sitting, or – critically for its intended purpose – prone position. That is, a man could lie in a rice paddy or stand of elephant grass and get off an accurate shot. A well-trained team of two men could fire six rounds inside of a minute, while an elite team could fire as many as sixteen shots in the same period of time.

“Could one man operate it if he had to?” Nicholai asked.

“Once it’s on its tripod.”

“And they are included?”

“Of course, Comrade Guibert.”

Nicholai made him open each of the fifty cases and inspected each rocket launcher. He was no expert on these weapons, but a failure to do so would have aroused Yu’s suspicions. No serious arms dealer – as Guibert certainly was – would have gambled on buying five cases of rocket launchers and forty-five cases of mud bricks.

The weapons were packed in a thin layer of grease to prevent fungus damage to the gunsights.

“You provide the solvent to clean them?” Nicholai asked.

“Of course.”

Fifty of these weapons, Nicholai contemplated, each of them capable of taking out a French tank, half-track, or pillbox, could make an enormous difference to the Viet Minh.

Perhaps a decisive difference.

The Viet Minh had prematurely launched a conventional offensive against the French troops on the Day River. Gunned down en masse by superior French firepower and armor, the Viet Minh lost eleven thousand men in just twenty-six days of fighting. Even so, they had almost prevailed and might have done so, had the Americans not intervened with yet another new weapon.

They called it “napalm,” liquid fire dropped from airplanes, and the Viet Minh were incinerated where they stood.

Does the American genius for mass destruction know no bounds? Nicholai wondered, recalling the firebombing of Tokyo, and of course the atomic weapons that annihilated Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

“I’ll take them,” he said, “depending, of course, on the price.”

Not that he really needed to drive a bargain – Haverford had supplied him with more than enough money – but, again, what kind of arms merchant wouldn’t try to drive the price down?

Not Michel Guibert.

“I am authorized to negotiate for the Defense Ministry,” Yu said. “Perhaps over lunch?”

They repaired to an enclosed pavilion overlooking Longtan Lake.

The food was quite good. A whole boiled fish in a sweet brown sauce, followed by greens in garlic and then zha jiang ma, thick wheat noodles with ground pork in yellow soybean sauce.

Nicholai asked, “So what is your price?”

“What is your offer?” Yu asked, refusing to take the bait of making the first bid.

Nicholai stated a ridiculously low figure.

“Perhaps you misunderstand,” Yu replied. “You are not purchasing just the crates, but the contents as well.” He quadrupled Nicholai’s offer.

“Perhaps I misspoke,” Nicholai responded. “I wish to buy fifty, not five hundred.” But he raised his offer a bit.

“We have expenses,” Yu said. He gave his new figure.

“Apparently heavy ones,” Nicholai answered. But now he knew Yu’s real price, for the colonel had shifted in mere arithmetic proportion toward his goal. An unimaginative Go player lacking in subtlety or flair. But Nicholai was eager to conclude this distasteful bargaining, so he raised his offer to a figure just below Yu’s desired one. He was surprised when Yu accepted. It raised Nicholai’s hackles and he wondered why.

Yu quickly provided the answer. “Now we must discuss transportation.”

Nicholai feigned interest. Of course he had no intention of actually buying these arms, much less shipping them anywhere. By the time the weapons were ready to go, he would have killed Voroshenin and hopefully made his escape. Still, the game must be played, so he said, “Of course I will pay reasonable shipping charges to some location near the Vietnamese border.”

Yu nodded. “You will deposit the funds into an account in Lausanne. When we have received the payment, we will give you a location in Yunnan Province. The appropriate army unit will help you to transport the merchandise to the Vietnamese border. Beyond that, it is up to you and your ultimate client.”

“I will deposit half the money into the Swiss account,” Nicholai replied, “and the other half when the merchandise and myself arrive safely at the border.”

“Your lack of trust is unsettling.”