Marcel.”
“Your father spares no expense.”
Noelle forced a smile.
“I hope you liked your present,” he said.
Noelle remembered. Some trinket of jade. “I cried over it,” she said, and looked around, searching for an escape.
“Perhaps we might talk later.”
“Of course.” She was about to move away.
“How is your friend? The one with the car. Is he still a guest of the Vietnamese?'
“I think you know the answer to that, Marcel.”
“It was very bad luck. But then, no man is above the law.
“Whose law, Marcel?'
“You look beautiful,” he said, as she turned away.
She hesitated, turned back. “You know your trouble, Marcel?' she whispered.
Rivelini gave her a mocking smile. “Tell me.”
“You were born.”
***
Rocco Bonaventure watched the celebrations from his study window. Even a week ago such a gathering would have been unthinkable. Four months before a captain in the paratroopers, a man named Kong Le, had staged a coup, citing corruption as the reason for making his move. Phoumi had fled to Savannakhet with his American advisers. His army was still deployed against the Pathet Lao in the north, and he had not been able to move against Kong Le until late November. It was only a week ago that government troops had finally retaken Vientiane, after three days of street fighting.
And it's not over yet, Bonaventure thought. While Phoumi's officers celebrated their victory in the brothels, Kong Le made an orderly retreat north with all the trucks and artillery he had captured in the coup, as well as the supplies the Russians had flown in. The Americans still expected him to take route 13 towards the ancient royal capital of Luang Prabang. But what if he took route 7 and headed north to the Plain of Jars? If he captured the air strip at Phong Savan, his opium supplies would be cut off.
Communists. May they all rot in hell.
Noelle's entrance tore him from his brooding. She looked glorious,. The rich blue silk blouse set off her eyes. There was an ivory Buddha at her throat and her hair was braided and hung in a coal-black stream down her back. Sometimes when he looked at her, all he saw was her mother. She had been a beauty too; but what a bitch she could be when she set her mind to it. He understood why Rivelini wanted her so badly; he and every other eligible Frenchman in Vientiane, bachelor or not. Another problem to be solved.
“You wanted to see me, papa?'
“Come in,” he said, and gave her his most indulgent smile. “Are you enjoying your party?'
“It's lovely,” she said, in such a way that he understood she was hating every minute of it.
She had changed somehow, ever since the Crocé business. She was always pleasant to him, but also a little vague, as if her mind was somewhere else. She showed no interest in any of the distractions he arranged for her. All right, he understood how she felt about Rivelini, the man was too old for her. But he had arranged introductions to any number of very suitable young diplomats from the Embassy and while you could not say she had been rude, she had treated them with a casual indifference that made sure none of them came back for more.
Surely she was not still carrying a torch for Crocé?
“I want to give you something.” he said.
“Not advice, I hope.”
“Good God, no.”
A hint of a smile.
He unlocked the drawer of a lacquered bureau and took out a long, black box. He came around the desk, kissed her lightly on the cheek and handed it to her.
“Happy birthday, Noelle.”
She took the box and opened it. A necklace nestled on a bed of soft purple velvet. It was eighteen carat gold, set with diamonds. The centrepiece was a huge Burmese ruby, pigeon-blood red, cabochon-cut.
She took it out of the box. It was heavy and very, very expensive. “Oh papa, it's beautiful.”
“I'm glad you like it,” he whispered. He put it around her neck, and fastened the clasp. Then he turned her to face the gilt mirror on the
“Your father spares no expense.”
Noelle forced a smile.
“I hope you liked your present,” he said.
Noelle remembered. Some trinket of jade. “I cried over it,” she said, and looked around, searching for an escape.
“Perhaps we might talk later.”
“Of course.” She was about to move away.
“How is your friend? The one with the car. Is he still a guest of the Vietnamese?'
“I think you know the answer to that, Marcel.”
“It was very bad luck. But then, no man is above the law.
“Whose law, Marcel?'
“You look beautiful,” he said, as she turned away.
She hesitated, turned back. “You know your trouble, Marcel?' she whispered.
Rivelini gave her a mocking smile. “Tell me.”
“You were born.”
***
Rocco Bonaventure watched the celebrations from his study window. Even a week ago such a gathering would have been unthinkable. Four months before a captain in the paratroopers, a man named Kong Le, had staged a coup, citing corruption as the reason for making his move. Phoumi had fled to Savannakhet with his American advisers. His army was still deployed against the Pathet Lao in the north, and he had not been able to move against Kong Le until late November. It was only a week ago that government troops had finally retaken Vientiane, after three days of street fighting.
And it's not over yet, Bonaventure thought. While Phoumi's officers celebrated their victory in the brothels, Kong Le made an orderly retreat north with all the trucks and artillery he had captured in the coup, as well as the supplies the Russians had flown in. The Americans still expected him to take route 13 towards the ancient royal capital of Luang Prabang. But what if he took route 7 and headed north to the Plain of Jars? If he captured the air strip at Phong Savan, his opium supplies would be cut off.
Communists. May they all rot in hell.
Noelle's entrance tore him from his brooding. She looked glorious,. The rich blue silk blouse set off her eyes. There was an ivory Buddha at her throat and her hair was braided and hung in a coal-black stream down her back. Sometimes when he looked at her, all he saw was her mother. She had been a beauty too; but what a bitch she could be when she set her mind to it. He understood why Rivelini wanted her so badly; he and every other eligible Frenchman in Vientiane, bachelor or not. Another problem to be solved.
“You wanted to see me, papa?'
“Come in,” he said, and gave her his most indulgent smile. “Are you enjoying your party?'
“It's lovely,” she said, in such a way that he understood she was hating every minute of it.
She had changed somehow, ever since the Crocé business. She was always pleasant to him, but also a little vague, as if her mind was somewhere else. She showed no interest in any of the distractions he arranged for her. All right, he understood how she felt about Rivelini, the man was too old for her. But he had arranged introductions to any number of very suitable young diplomats from the Embassy and while you could not say she had been rude, she had treated them with a casual indifference that made sure none of them came back for more.
Surely she was not still carrying a torch for Crocé?
“I want to give you something.” he said.
“Not advice, I hope.”
“Good God, no.”
A hint of a smile.
He unlocked the drawer of a lacquered bureau and took out a long, black box. He came around the desk, kissed her lightly on the cheek and handed it to her.
“Happy birthday, Noelle.”
She took the box and opened it. A necklace nestled on a bed of soft purple velvet. It was eighteen carat gold, set with diamonds. The centrepiece was a huge Burmese ruby, pigeon-blood red, cabochon-cut.
She took it out of the box. It was heavy and very, very expensive. “Oh papa, it's beautiful.”
“I'm glad you like it,” he whispered. He put it around her neck, and fastened the clasp. Then he turned her to face the gilt mirror on the
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