made its first pass.
What was that?
Then he saw the red and green navigation lights on the cross trees of a motor launch, perhaps no more than two hundred yards away.
“Help me! He shouted.
He felt something swim past him in the water, very close. Then something hit him very hard, just above his left knee, and he felt himself being dragged below the surface.
***
It was a small one, no more than five feet, a hammerhead. A larger one would have taken his whole leg.
He had no idea what was happening to him. Choking, he scrabbled desperately at the thing that held his leg, trying to tear himself free. The fish shook him like a dog with a bone, tore a chunk of meat from his thigh and veered away. He bobbed back to the surface like a cork.
It was his shrill scream of panic that attracted the attention of the duty watch on Police 48.
***
Sergeant David Tarrant was one of only three white officers aboard police launch 48 that evening. Their work involved the random interception of junks and sampans to search for contraband. The chances of coming across a lone swimmer at night were remote, but the launch passed within less than twenty yards of Ho, and his screams carried clearly to Tarrant on the bridge. He ordered the patrol boat about immediately and within minutes the searchlight had picked him out in the water.
Three Chinese crewmen used a gaffe to pull the exhausted man aboard. Ho Kuan-ling was shaking from hypothermia and shock and there was a dark and jagged tear in his trousers at the level of his left thigh muscle. Watery blood poured onto the deck. The ship's medical officer covered him with blanket and put wound dressings on his leg to staunch the blood flow.
“Another poor bastard trying to get away from Mao's utopia,” Tarrant muttered.
Tarrant's commanding officer emerged from below decks. “Will he live?' he said.
“Looks like the sharks have been havin' a go at the poor bleeder. I doubt it.”
Police 48 turned about and headed for Northern Division base at Tai Po Ko. Tarrant radioed ahead for a helicopter to take Ho to Kowloon. Perhaps, if they were quick, he might make it.
Chapter 10
Vientiane
December, 1960
I T WAS the day of her twenty third birthday, and the scene of Bonaventure's traditional nativity celebrations. She had been born on Christmas Day, 1937 - hence the name, Noelle - and every year Bonaventure invited le tout Vientiane to his home, an occasion that had become one of the city's great social gatherings. As Noelle looked around the lawns, she recognised some of the tiny nation's most prominent leaders; King Savang Vatthana, his huge frame draped in the uniform of the Commander in Chief of the Army, looking more like an admiral from a comic opera; General Ouane Rattakone, resplendent in his white uniform, emblazoned with so many decorations Noelle wondered that he didn't topple over onto his face; the Prime Minister, Phoui Sananikone; and General Phoumi Nosovan, an American in a seersucker suit clinging to his heels like a bird-dog. Rumour had it that Nosovan was the CIA's man in Laos.
A red silk pavilion had been erected on the lawn, with food laid out for the guests in hand-wrought silver bowls. For the Europeans there was chicken cooked in coconut milk with fennel, cinnamon and mint; and diced raw fish marinated in lemon juice and herbs. His Lao guests had their choice of pig's feet, bat's wings, buffalo steaks, and lao , a strong white spirit distilled from rice.
Many of the French guests had taken shelter from the heat inside the pavilion; French diplomats and their wives mingled with members of the Corsican milieu from Bangkok and Saigon, who had flown in especially for the occasion. Marcel Rivelini was deep in conversation with Rattakone's sister. When he saw Noelle he excused himself and came over.
He kissed her hand in greeting. “Bon Noël, belle Noelle.” She had heard that joke more times than she could count.
“Thank you,
What was that?
Then he saw the red and green navigation lights on the cross trees of a motor launch, perhaps no more than two hundred yards away.
“Help me! He shouted.
He felt something swim past him in the water, very close. Then something hit him very hard, just above his left knee, and he felt himself being dragged below the surface.
***
It was a small one, no more than five feet, a hammerhead. A larger one would have taken his whole leg.
He had no idea what was happening to him. Choking, he scrabbled desperately at the thing that held his leg, trying to tear himself free. The fish shook him like a dog with a bone, tore a chunk of meat from his thigh and veered away. He bobbed back to the surface like a cork.
It was his shrill scream of panic that attracted the attention of the duty watch on Police 48.
***
Sergeant David Tarrant was one of only three white officers aboard police launch 48 that evening. Their work involved the random interception of junks and sampans to search for contraband. The chances of coming across a lone swimmer at night were remote, but the launch passed within less than twenty yards of Ho, and his screams carried clearly to Tarrant on the bridge. He ordered the patrol boat about immediately and within minutes the searchlight had picked him out in the water.
Three Chinese crewmen used a gaffe to pull the exhausted man aboard. Ho Kuan-ling was shaking from hypothermia and shock and there was a dark and jagged tear in his trousers at the level of his left thigh muscle. Watery blood poured onto the deck. The ship's medical officer covered him with blanket and put wound dressings on his leg to staunch the blood flow.
“Another poor bastard trying to get away from Mao's utopia,” Tarrant muttered.
Tarrant's commanding officer emerged from below decks. “Will he live?' he said.
“Looks like the sharks have been havin' a go at the poor bleeder. I doubt it.”
Police 48 turned about and headed for Northern Division base at Tai Po Ko. Tarrant radioed ahead for a helicopter to take Ho to Kowloon. Perhaps, if they were quick, he might make it.
Chapter 10
Vientiane
December, 1960
I T WAS the day of her twenty third birthday, and the scene of Bonaventure's traditional nativity celebrations. She had been born on Christmas Day, 1937 - hence the name, Noelle - and every year Bonaventure invited le tout Vientiane to his home, an occasion that had become one of the city's great social gatherings. As Noelle looked around the lawns, she recognised some of the tiny nation's most prominent leaders; King Savang Vatthana, his huge frame draped in the uniform of the Commander in Chief of the Army, looking more like an admiral from a comic opera; General Ouane Rattakone, resplendent in his white uniform, emblazoned with so many decorations Noelle wondered that he didn't topple over onto his face; the Prime Minister, Phoui Sananikone; and General Phoumi Nosovan, an American in a seersucker suit clinging to his heels like a bird-dog. Rumour had it that Nosovan was the CIA's man in Laos.
A red silk pavilion had been erected on the lawn, with food laid out for the guests in hand-wrought silver bowls. For the Europeans there was chicken cooked in coconut milk with fennel, cinnamon and mint; and diced raw fish marinated in lemon juice and herbs. His Lao guests had their choice of pig's feet, bat's wings, buffalo steaks, and lao , a strong white spirit distilled from rice.
Many of the French guests had taken shelter from the heat inside the pavilion; French diplomats and their wives mingled with members of the Corsican milieu from Bangkok and Saigon, who had flown in especially for the occasion. Marcel Rivelini was deep in conversation with Rattakone's sister. When he saw Noelle he excused himself and came over.
He kissed her hand in greeting. “Bon Noël, belle Noelle.” She had heard that joke more times than she could count.
“Thank you,
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