Don Winslow - Satori

The cook, stirring his soup, was unaware, and Nicholai hit him with a fist to the back of the neck, then caught him before he could fall forward on the stove, dragged him into a corner, and then gently set him down.

It would have been easier to kill him, but the man was an innocent, and Nicholai knew that Bay Vien would not easily forgive the killing of one of his people.

Nicholai stood behind the door that opened into the house and shouted, in Chinese, “Cho, you lazy, useless thing! The soup is ready!”

The young waiter scurried through the door, straight into Nicholai’s shuto strike, and dropped in a heap.

Nicholai pressed himself against the wall until the next sentry passed outside, then found a slightly longer waiter’s jacket on a hook in the pantry, put the waiter’s round black cap on his head, put two bowls of the soup on a tray, and headed upstairs.

The guard at the bottom of the stairway nodded brusquely, then blinked when he noticed the waiter’s strange height.

It was too late.

Nicholai’s leopard paw strike, the fingers folded but not closed into a fist. His second knuckles struck the guard straight in the nose – hard enough to drive the bone into the brain but not forceful enough to kill. Nicholai caught him in one arm and guided him to the floor so the gun wouldn’t clatter. Unburdening him of the.45, he slipped the pistol inside his sleeve and walked up the stairs.

His proximity sense told him there was another guard outside Bay Vien’s door.

Indeed, the guard heard his footsteps and called, “Cho?”

“I have Master’s dinner.”

“About time.”

As Nicholai feared, the door was at the end of the hallway, which would give the guard ample time to discern that it wasn’t Cho. Cursing his large Western frame, he tucked his chin into his chest, hoping to buy a crucial moment.

Looking back up, Nicholai took the spoon off the tray and threw it like a ninja star just as the guard was raising his pistol. The spinning spoon caught the guard in the eye and drove his head back.

His shot fired high.

Nicholai sprang forward, grabbed his gun wrist, and pushed it up. As soon as he felt the guard pull back down, he went with his flow and pulled with him, sweeping the arm in a full circle backward until he heard the shoulder pop. Then he reversed the flow, swept the guard’s foot, took him to the ground, and struck him in the throat.

He stepped over the prone guard, pulled his pistol, and kicked the unlocked door open.

BAY SAT UP IN BED, a pistol of his own pointed straight at Nicholai’s chest. A beautiful Asian woman pulled the sheet over herself.

“My friends generally just ring the doorbell,” Bay said.

“I didn’t know if I was still your friend.”

“You know,” Bay said, “with one shout from me, my guards will come and they will throw you to my tiger.”

“But you won’t be alive to see it.”

Bay frowned. “I suppose from the clatter that you spilled my soup.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“You are a bother, Michel.”

He elbowed the woman next to him. “Get some clothes on, darling, and get out. I need to have a private talk with my rude guest.” The woman leaned out of the bed, grabbed a silk robe from the floor, and put it on. Bay told her, “Go down and tell the cook that we need more soup. The cook is still alive, Michel?”

“Yes.”

“Go.”

The woman eased past Nicholai and then he heard her trot down the hallway.

“The pistol is getting heavy,” Bay complained. “Shall we each put ours down? We’re not going to shoot each other, are we?”

“I hope not.” Nicholai slowly lowered his gun.

Bay did the same. “You look ridiculous in that jacket.”

“I feel ridiculous.”

“Do you mind if I get dressed?”

“I’d prefer it, actually.”

Bay got out of bed and went into the attached bathroom, emerging a moment later in a black silk robe decorated with a red-and-green embroidered dragon. He tied the knot around his waist and walked past Nicholai as he said, “Let’s go to the dining room.”

He stepped over the dazed guard who lay on the floor, still rubbing his throat.

“Useless crap eater,” Bay said. “I should feed you to Beauty.”

“Your tiger?” Nicholai asked.

“Lovely, isn’t she?”

Nicholai followed him downstairs.

THE SOUP WAS delicious.

Served by a cowed Cho and a rather resentful chef (“I told him if he spit in your bowl, I’d cut his balls off,” Bay reassured Nicholai), it arrived on the teak dining room table hot and steaming.

Bay skillfully wended his chopsticks to pick out the delicate pieces of fish. “Sleeping with the emperor’s woman,” he said, shaking his head. “Not good.”

She’s not his woman, Nicholai thought. She’s mine.

“Fifty-seven French whores at my brothel,” Bay said, “but you have to have that one.”

“Does Bao Dai know?”

“I don’t know if he knows,” Bay answered. “I know. He asked me to keep an eye on her. I didn’t tell him, if that’s what you want to know.”

“Who tried to kill me?”

Bay shrugged. “Wasn’t me.”

“Bao Dai didn’t order it?”

“Maybe he did,” Bay answered, “just not through me. I guess he’s angry that I didn’t stack the deck against you. Maybe he doesn’t trust me anymore.”

“I need to ask a favor,” Nicholai said.

Bay shrugged and ate his soup. Finally setting his chopsticks down, he picked up the bowl and slurped down the broth. Then he said, “You break into my home, beat up my staff, scare my evening’s companion half to death, point a gun at me and threaten to use it, and then you ask for my help? This after you take my most important partner’s money, screw his woman, and then commit mayhem and murder in the streets of Saigon? And that after you apparently killed some Russian and have half the world baying for your blood? You have balls of steel, Michel. I should just throw you to Beauty and let her break her teeth on you.”

“But you won’t,” Nicholai said.

“What do you want?”

My life, Nicholai thought. More than that, my honor.

“Sell me my weapons back,” he said. “I am prepared to offer you a small profit for your trouble.”

“Are you prepared to die as well?”

“Yes.”

Bay gazed at him for a long moment. “I believe you. But, tell me, if I sell you back the weapons, what do you intend to do with them?”

“Deliver them to the original client.”

Bay looked surprised. “The Viet Minh. Why?”

“I gave my word.”

“That’s why you should do it,” Bay said. “Why should I?”

Nicholai answered, “Whatever else you are, or aren’t, you are a man of honor and you owe me your life.”

“The Viet Minh are the enemy.”

“Today,” Nicholai agreed. “Four years ago they were your allies. Four years from now, who knows? Bao Dai is going to come after you eventually, and if he doesn’t, the Americans will. Besides, the Viet Minh are going to win.”

“You think so.”

“So do you,” Nicholai answered. “But that is all speculation. The only real question is, will you honor your debt?”

“Have I mentioned that you’re a difficult friend?”

“Yes.”

“I owe you my life,” Bay said. “But this is it. We’re even.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll get you out of town,” Bay said. “Until we can get you on a ship or something.”

Nicholai shook his head. “I need to go back into Saigon.”

“Are you nuts?” Bay asked. “Half of Saigon is looking to kill you, the other half is looking to sell you to the people looking to kill you.”