Casca 8: Soldier of Fortune Read online

  Casey turned his eyes to Ling, immaculate in western morning dress as if he were preparing for a breakfast of kippers in England. His age was undeterminable: anywhere from forty five to sixty five. Lean, ascetic, his hair thinning slightly and gray on the sides.

  "Mr. Romain, why are you here? Surely you know of my feelings toward you, and the fact that you have removed Ch'ung is of no concern to me. It would be a mistake for you to believe that he is my only employee of that caliber. You have exactly one minute to secure my attention, and if you fail to do so, I will have you killed before the next minute enters your life. Now, begin!"

  Casey saw additional figures emerge from the shadows, one holding a long barreled, broom handled Mauser pistol, a relic from World War I. Ugly but damned effective.

  "Major Shan, Mr. Ling. The major sends his regards."

  Ling's head jerked slightly at the name. Sucking his breath in back of his teeth, he indicated the door to his office. "Won't you enter and take tea, Mr. Romain?"

  "No, Ling! You're not one of my favorite people, either. The only thing I want from you is information for Major Shan, the dashing young officer who castrated your brother with baling wire just to get your attention and cooperation in a small matter you were involved in last year. He allows you to keep your own nuts only because you can occasionally perform a small task for him. If you do this particular service well, it is important enough to him that he may let you off the hook entirely."

  Casey grinned, enjoying holding the hammer. "Bring Sou Phang to me in one week, if he still lives. If you lie to me or fail, I can promise you that you'll never have to worry about your sex life again."

  Ling shuddered. In his mind he again relived witnessing Major Shan tying the wire around his brother's testicles and ordering two of his men to rip them from the scrotum. The major had been kind enough to allow Ling to shoot his brother and end his suffering. That memory nurtured the fear of the security officer in Ling's mind. The mere mention of Shan's name could produce cold sweats and cause tremors to run throughout his body, as if an attack of malaria had struck him.

  Ling K'ai nodded, taking care to control himself. "Phang will be there. Now leave my house and know that the matter between us is not ended. I will have my way with you, and my brother's death would be a blessing compared to what I shall one day do to your filthy white skin. Leave my house! You will be contacted before the week is out."

  Casey nodded. There was no need to tell Ling where he lived; the man most likely had known for some time. If he didn't, Casey knew that he would before the next ten minutes had passed. Ling made it a point to know things.

  As he left, he thought. Good, if Phang is alive, just maybe I can pull this off.

  Ling K'ai turned from Casey and entered his office, closing the door behind him. He went to his desk and sat silently, his head between his hands, trying to get control of himself. He hated Romain. Time and again the man had entered his life, and each time his presence had brought misfortune to Ling. "But enough of these thoughts that torment me," he mumbled. "I will have my day with that swine. For now I must take care of the problem he has posed. Perhaps he is telling the truth; maybe this service I do shall take Shan the butcher's mind and attentions elsewhere and leave me in peace."

  He rose and went to a large carved cabinet that Doctor Caligari would have envied. Taking the key from his pocket, he unlocked the doors. Inside was one of the finest shortwave radios that money could buy, with the capability of long range transmission and the security feature of allowing one to insert and remove the transmission frequency crystals.

  Ling checked the instruction notes beside the radio and removed a small box from the drawer beneath it. From the box, he extracted the proper crystal for that day's transmission. Each day a different frequency was used that only he and his agents were aware of.

  He turned on the set and waited. Another two minutes until it would be time to transmit. There were several periods set aside each day for all in his service, no matter where they were, to monitor their receivers and see if their call letters had been broadcast. If no signal was received or they had no message to send, they were to wait for five minutes before turning off the set. Each station had a different time in one hour increments to monitor. If anyone was caught listening to his master's broadcast to another without being previously instructed to do so, there was only one response, and it was exceedingly Chinese in nature and unpleasant in the extreme.

  It was time now. Ling pressed the button on his mike and gave the signal letters for his man in charge of the opium trade coming from the triangle in Laos. Part of that trade came through the hands of the bandit Sou Phang, who'd returned to his old occupation as soon as the Americans had left and had quit paying him for other missions more profitable than dope.

  Ling spoke to his man in quick, short bursts, letting the half caste Portuguese Chinese listen and understand and leaving no doubt as to the seriousness of his orders. Ling instructed him to leave his base of operations on the small island where he now waited, between the new People's Republic of Vietnam and Cambodia, and to find the bandit Sou Phang. He was to return to his island, accompanied by Sou Phang, and Ling would dispatch a small plane from Singapore to pick Phang up within five days.

  "Do not fail in this matter," Ling admonished unnecessarily. The half caste was fully aware of his master's temperament.

  Ling signed off and sighed deeply. "It is done; now back to the business at hand." He rose from the cabinet after locking it carefully. "Perhaps now I should personally inspect the new shipment of girls from Malaya," he muttered.

  There could possibly be one, he thought, who might be worthy of his attentions before he turned her over to the lesser houses that serviced the sailors and shoremen of Singapore's busy waterfront.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Casey took a rickshaw to Padang Park near the town hall. The coolie pulling him moved in a smooth, apparently effortless flow as he weaved in and out of the already crowded traffic of people, automobiles, rickshaw, and bicycles. As they headed down Victoria Street, Casey looked over to his left, where Fort Channing lay, and thought of the war memorial fourteen miles from town, where twenty four thousand servicemen who'd died in World War II were buried. Their remains had been brought here from the battlefields in Malaya and from prisoner of war camps in other occupied countries.

  The coolie turned to the right, toward the harbor, and let Casey off between the Victoria Memorial Hall and Theater and the town hall. He walked briskly along the streets, enjoying the sight and smell of the city and its myriad peoples and flavors. A block before the bridge crossing the Singapore River, prior to its reaching the harbor, Casey turned into a shaded alleyway and entered a cool haven from the rising level of human activity on the streets.

  The Club New York was a small bistro that offered two things that he'd missed most about the States: refrigerated air conditioning and iced beer.

  Casey adjusted his eyes to the dark interior of the dimly lit room and then moved to the bar and ordered a stengah, or whiskey and soda, and an ice cold mug of beer for a chaser.

  He used this period of rest to let the events of the morning sink in. Relaxing, he sipped the stengah and swallowed the beer. Now that's the way to enjoy beer! The Germans say you taste beer when it's quaffed, a mouthful thrown to the back of the palate, where it's tasted before sliding down with a cool, slightly burning sensation, deep in the throat. "Damn, that's good!"

  He checked his watch, a Japanese model; he'd learned to like them in Nam. Exactly eleven ten, April 4. The Moslems would soon be celebrating Hari Raya Pusa, their festival at the end of Ramadan, where Moslems would neither eat nor drink until sundown. The thought reminded him that he hadn't eaten since the major had laid the problem on his back.

  Finishing his stengah and quaffing the last of the beer, Casey again ventured out into the increasing heat of the day. Should hit about ninety degrees soon, he thought. Flagging down an old taxi, he had the driver, a nondescript Mala
yan, take him to the intersection of Cross and Robinson Road. From there he walked to a small restaurant overlooking the Telok Ayer Basin. He seated himself at a table inside with his back against the wall, a habitual gesture, a hangover from the days in Nam and Algeria when it was not uncommon for a grenade to be tossed through the window or open door of a bar or any other place where American soldiers gathered.

  Ordering a bowl of chicken and noodles, he lit up a butt and thought of the money. Two hundred thousand! He and the boys would be set for a while. Maybe they'd open a club or hotel outside Kuala Lumpur, or K.L., as the inhabitants had dubbed it, meaning the muddy river mouth. And, he recalled, it damned sure was muddy. Or maybe they would buy a plantation near the Cameroon highlands, where the weather was cool and the hunting was good. A man needs some dreams. Even if he doesn't believe them, he still needs them.

  He felt a tug at his insides then, an ache that he had not experienced for some time, as he recalled that one day Van and George would age and pass on and once again he would be alone. As you are, so shall you be until we... The hell with that shit. He pushed it from his mind. He had them for the time being, and that was more than some men had. Casey finished his food, left a substantial tip for the waiter, and returned to his room near Maxwell Market and the Hindu temple.

  He glanced at the knuckles of his right hand. An old scar had opened during contact with Ch'ung's ankle in the scuffle earlier. He grinned. It had already healed and was again scar tissue. Casey entered the room to the sound of Van and George arguing vehemently over who'd drunk the last beer. As he entered, they looked at him and shut up. No words from him were needed; they knew something was in the wind.

  "Men, we got a job," Casey laid it out for them afterward, issuing instructions. "Van, you and George get your asses back to K.L. and get our gear together. Also, pay all of our outstanding bills while you're there. I don't want anyone looking for us, especially the Chinese gamers you owe, Van. Settle everything there and get back here no later than day after tomorrow." He checked his watch. "That'll be the sixth. And Van, keep George the hell away from Mama Chin's girls or he won't be worth a damn for days."

  Casey handed Van a thousand from Shan's envelope and grinned. "That ought to be enough to get you home and settle our accounts. When you come back, use Harrison's seaplane. Land near one of the outlying islands and come in from there. Don't forget our special gear, and stay clear of the customs officials, or cops of any kind for that matter. Tell Harrison I'll pay him when he gets here."

  Van nodded in understanding and agreement. "No sweat. This refugee from a zoo," he indicated George, "and myself will be most correct in all matters, my dear boy. Never fear that we shall not prevail over all obstacles, even Mama Chin's darling nieces." Van's father had been an embassy official in London for several years and had sent Van to Eton for two of them. He could speak with an almost uncannily snobbish British accent when he chose, and he chose to often, knowing that it irritated the hell out of Casey.

  "Van, just knock off the bullshit and get George the hell out of the John. Both of you get dressed, get fed, and get the hell out of here."

  Van laughed, his almond eyes smiling, his boyish face beaming as he hauled George from the bathroom and backed out of the room, bowing to Casey. "Yes, mastah. This boy so happy you honor him with your presence. We now go to do white god's bidding. Thank you, mastah."

  Van roared with laughter as he pulled George out of the way of Casey's beer bottle missile and ran down the hall. Before they descended the stairs, George detached himself from Van's tugging arm and pulled himself erect to what he considered to be the majestic height of five foot eight, saying with a great deal of indignation, "Trung Si Casey, you are not a nice man today." With that, he turned and fell down the stairs, accompanied by Van's critique of his diving technique.

  Casey smiled to himself as they left. He knew that by the date he'd given them, they would be back with all details taken properly care of.

  He felt an affection for these two, a blend of paternalism and brotherhood. The three of them had shared too much together too many times not to love each other in the way that brave and adventurous men do, with respect and laughter.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  On the day Casey had indicated, a small seaplane set down not twenty miles from where another seaplane, belonging to the Englishman, Harrison, had discharged its cargo of Van, George, and several trunks of special equipment.

  But this plane was Ling's, and it carried the key to Casey's entire plan of operation as it taxied in with spray whipping up beside its windows. The man inside wondered why he was being brought here. If it were not that the half caste had told him that his blood brother waited for him, he would never have left his people.

  Things were much too touchy now, with the purges that the Khmer Rouge were inflicting on their own people. Percentage wise, the Khmer Rouge were making Hitler and Stalin look like amateur schoolboys. Already whole areas of the country were empty of life, the fields overgrown and the crops unharvested. He'd heard that one out of every four had been put to death. Men, women, children, even entire families and villages had been wiped out of existence by the liberators of the New Order. "Ah," sighed Sou Phang, "politics is such a danger to the minds of men. It always means someone is going to kill someone else for their own good."

  As the plane pulled up to the small wooden pier, Sou Phang rose from his seat. It took, him a moment to figure out how the seat belt worked: He'd worn it for the entire trip. These contraptions are not good, he thought. Man should not leave Mother Earth except in the arms of his god or those of his woman when in passion.

  The plane came to a halt, and the door was opened immediately. A young Chinese, his face marked heavily by smallpox, motioned for Phang to come ashore and follow him.

  "Hurry, old man!" The youngster was evidently impatient.

  Phang stretched the muscles in his back and legs from the long period of sitting, walked to the edge of the pier, and dropped his pants. He pissed, joining his yellow stream with the brown waters of the harbor. Giving a sigh of great relief and scratching himself contentedly, he pulled up the bottoms of his Chinese type pyjama suit and turned to the pockmarked lad.

  "Be careful how you speak to me, young one, or I may eat your liver before I leave this place."

  The young Chinese looked carefully at him, swallowed deeply, and bowed. He'd heard stories of how mean these men were, and more gruesome tales came to mind as he felt his eyes move away from the direct stare of Sou Phang, a chieftain of the Kamserai, one of the last of the free peoples of Indochina.

  "Good, young one. You have just taken a step toward knowledge and wisdom. Do not irritate your superiors."

  Ling sent a man to Casey's room with the message that Phang had arrived and would be brought to meet him shortly. Ling had further added through the messenger that he desired no more communication with him and prayed that this service would satisfy Major Shan. Casey grinned after hearing Ling's words and told the messenger to leave and to pass on to his master that the feelings were mutual.

  Preparing the room for his guest's arrival, beer cooling in a bucket of ice, he laid out the area maps of Cambodia, Vietnam, and Laos neatly on the table. Anticipating his arrival, Van and George were acting like children. Both had a deep liking for the wily chieftain. To Casey, he was a cross between Jesse James and Morgan the pirate.

  Time seemed to drag interminably until a voice outside the door announced finally that Sou Phang had arrived.

  In a combination of broken English, Vietnamese, and French, Phang yelled from the doorway as to where his welcoming party was and why they had hidden the young women. Casey met him at the door, and it was like stepping into a whirlwind as the chief encircled him with arms like steel, nearly cracking several ribs in the process. Before Casey could catch his breath, Phang was repeating the same act of aggression on George and Van, who were responding in a like manner, each bellowing welcomes between curses and threats against their priva
te parts.

  The laughing suddenly ceased as Phang spotted the maps displayed on the table. Silence set in as he leaned over the map showing north to where the Annamite Range entered Cambodia from Laos and Vietnam.

  "That is a bad place you have circled there, my son. What can have your interest in that region? There is nothing there for you but death, if you're lucky." He cast his wizened eyes around the room, taking in the equipment that Van and George had brought with them. The folding stock of a Swedish submachine gun extended slightly from beneath the blanket on the bed. That and the expressions on the faces of his three hosts told him that he had struck home with his questions.

  Sou Phang sat at the table, exhaled deeply, and, spoke. "What is it that you have need of me for, my children?"

  Casey explained to him that in the region indicated on the map, a group of Chinese had taken refuge in some caves used previously by Chinese soldiers during the Japanese occupation and that the location of the caves was now known only by the merchant's family, who were assumed to be still safe and unfound. Han's niece's husband, Huan, was one of the band who'd waited and fought from these hills during those desperate years. Now they served again, but Huan was not young. The years and sickness had taken their toll. He had been able to lead the family members there but was unable to take them out and to safety. He'd managed to communicate his location to Han by radio only short minutes before the soldiers of the Khmer Rouge had forced them to flee the small store where they sold and traded with the villagers and hill people. Now they waited. The caves were stocked with food, but it could not last forever. The former Nationalist soldier had been more aware than his employer. He'd seen the signs and had made ready for when the time came. His group consisted of himself, his wife (Han's niece), his eldest daughter, and two small sons, aged four and six.

  Phang nodded. "Then what you want to do is get this man and his family out of the caves and return them to their people on Taiwan?"