Chasing clay, p.34
Chasing Clay, page 34
part #3 of The DeWitt Agency Files Series
The rain also washed some of the humidity out of the air. It’s damp but not sweltering (yet). Ironically, this is the nicest morning we’ve had since we entered Myanmar.
“Ironically,” because my stomach’s turned into a pretzel.
The soldiers set up a cordon between us and the rest of the village. The village guards flank us outside the ring of Wa. A few villagers watch the show from outside the screen of guards. I can’t tell if the security is to keep the villagers out or to stop us from escaping.
The chief and the Wa honcho have a long exchange that sounds like telling each other how wonderful each other are. Savannah moves her mouth next to my ear. “He’s Colonel Kyon.” Pronounced chon. “He’s in charge of the Wa troops around here and runs the local poppy grow.”
“So the Rolex is real?”
“Probably.”
“Met him before?”
“No. Pensri’s always kept me away from him. He didn’t need to know about western visitors until now.”
Colonel Kyon is round-faced and stout, but I don’t get that he’s soft. His eyes are dark, sharp, almost piercing. He stands straight with his shoulders square, but it’s not a pose; it looks natural on him. “You’re sure he doesn’t speak English?”
“That’s what Pensri says.”
“We’ll need to test that.”
Two teenage girls bring out stools for the six of us. The chief and Kyon get the nice, shiny white plastic ones, while the rest of us get handmade wooden ones that have been around the block a few times.
The chief hands Kyon the booze and cigarettes we brought, then finally gets around to introducing me. Kyon lights a Marlboro and shifts his stare to me.
I doubt this is what the DEA expected, but I’m about to cross off the last item on my checklist. “Nin hao ma?” Savannah told me this is Mandarin for how are you? This is where we shift from Burmese to a language Savannah can speak… and cut out everybody else.
Kyon bobs his head and says something short. His voice is semi-tenor, not quite what I expect for someone his shape or position.
Savannah says, “He says he’s very well, thank you.”
“My name is Richard Hoskins.” Since pointing is considered rude, I nod toward Savannah. “This is my interpreter.”
She translates. He answers. “He asks if you’re American.”
I had to do this a few times at the gallery. One rule I remember is to always speak to the person I’m talking to, not the interpreter. “Yes, I am. So is she. She works for me. I like to have control over my interpreters. Is Mandarin acceptable to you?”
“He says he understands, and Mandarin is fine.”
I nod once to him. “The soldier standing behind you is about to shoot you in the head.” I say it like I’m commenting on last night’s game.
Not a flicker. Kyon switches his focus to Savannah, expectant. I guess Pensri was right.
Savannah says, “I told him that you appreciate the opportunity to discuss business with him. He said he’s willing to discuss business with anyone serious about it. He asks if you had a pleasant journey here.”
Ah. We have to chat first. So we chat through Savannah, who keeps a perfectly blank face through the whole exchange. I finally notice that her stool is shorter than mine. That probably isn’t accidental.
The two teenagers bring out ceramic cups for all of us and pour tea from a scorched metal pot. I lean in to Savannah and whisper, “Is it safe to drink this?”
“It’s hot. You probably won’t catch anything too serious.”
Great. I don’t drink tea—it tastes like dirty water to me—but I can play the game.
We chat some more. I look more closely at the cup. A slender cone, white thin-bodied ceramic, vibrant underglaze cobalt blue on the lower half, a cloud-like blue figure on the white ground above. It could be Nam Ton work.
Is it? If so, it’s perfect—no chips, no fading, no crazing on the glaze, no stains from being underground for hundreds of years. Pristine. Hmm.
More chat straggles by. Savannah says, “He says he doesn’t recall you mentioning who you represent.”
“Does this mean we can start talking business now?” She nods. “Tell him that I understand his partners in America were just taken off the table.”
She gives me a slow blink. “This isn’t the approach we discussed.” Her face is still carefully neutral.
“I thought about it. The approach you fed me doesn’t give me any leverage. This one will. Tell him.” It’s not that I have so much experience making international drug deals—I don’t—but I do have experience negotiating sales. In any bargaining situation, both the seller and the buyer each need to have some amount of leverage over the other. The buyer needs to be able to refuse to buy; the seller needs to be able to refuse to sell. Savannah’s version gave all the power to the Wa. I’m taking some back.
Savannah watches me for a moment, then turns to Kyon. His eyebrows perk up as she delivers my message. He buys himself some time with a long sip of tea, then answers. “He asks what makes you think that’s so.”
“Because I’m in touch with the people who took them off the table.”
Kyon’s mouth puckers. He scans me up and down.
“He asks again who you represent.”
I haven’t worked out exactly who, yet, though I’ve narrowed it down to two or three three-letter agencies I don’t mind dragging into the mud. I almost went with the Mexican drug cartels, but the people here have recent-ish experience with American spooks. “I’m bringing you a business opportunity in another market. One that should be more lucrative than the one in America, and easier to exploit.”
He finishes his tea. One of the teenagers hops to refill his cup. He considers me for a few beats, then growls something.
“He asks why you think he’s interested in another market.”
“You may not be yet, but you will be soon. The American market is closed to you now. You can’t get back in. If you keep trying, the people I represent will be very offended. You won’t succeed and things will go badly for you.”
“I can’t say that to him.”
I remember Carson’s advice: they respect strength. “It gets worse the more he pushes back. Tell him.”
She does. Kyon gets very still. He gives me the grimmest smile I’ve seen since I left PEN. When he finally speaks, it’s very slow.
“He asks which market you refer to.”
“China. Shanghai.”
That makes him straighten a bit.
“He says that’s a difficult market to reach.”
“But a very lucrative one once you do.” At least, that’s what Savannah told me last night. “The synthetics”—fentanyl—“have all kinds of downsides, not to mention they’re commodities now. You have a unique product. It’ll appeal to a whole different slice of that market—the people who want something natural, something predictable, and can afford to pay for it. A luxury good, if you will.” The part about luxury goods is all mine. It worked on Bandineau.
As Savannah talks, Kyon sets down his cup and leans his hands on his knees. His eyes dart from her face to mine. I can’t tell what his reaction is yet, but at least he’s listening.
Savannah says, “He says to go on.”
I try to keep my expression as calm as I can. I have a plan for this conversation. “Okay. The premium price also extends to the packaging. The blue-and-white wares”—the Nam Ton pieces—“are very popular in China, unlike in America. You can get a much higher price for them in Shanghai. This means you can give the villagers here a larger credit for those wares and still come out ahead.”
Pensri’s giving the others a murmured play-by-play. She’s the only other one here who can understand what I’m saying. I’m trying to pitch this to her as well as Kyon. She’s the one who’ll have to talk the chief out of throwing me a blanket party.
“He wants to know who these people in Shanghai are.”
“It doesn’t matter right now. They’re interested in doing business with you. You need someone to do business with. You’ll make more money with less effort. They’ll make money. The people here will make more money. My people will be pleased that your product isn’t coming into America anymore. Everybody wins.”
Savannah murmurs, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Of course I do.” Not.
Kyon grimaces when Savannah starts translating. Probably the “you don’t need to know” part. His mouth softens when she gets into the win-win part.
“He asks if you control the people in Shanghai.”
“We have an understanding with them. They’ll be… reluctant to go against our interests. Especially with the upside they’ll enjoy from this deal.”
The colonel rocks back on the stool and crosses his arms. His eyes narrow. He talks for what seems like a long time for him.
“He says you’ve mentioned ‘your people.’ You’ve said they’ll stop him when he re-enters the American market. Who are ‘your people’ exactly? Why should they concern him?”
He’s finally forcing the issue. What we’ve done so far was easy; now it gets harder. I have to convince him I have the hammer without being specific about who owns it.
I take a moment to finish my tea and set the cup on the ground next to my stool. “The people I represent have… let’s say, global interests. I assume you’re aware my country and China compete around the world. Politically, economically, militarily, socially. They don’t always play fair and, frankly, neither do we. Chinese synthetics are causing us a lot of trouble.” It’s a good thing that I read the L.A. Times every day at work. “It’s in our interest to make sure the Chinese have a similar headache to deal with. Why should you care? You have a problem. We can present you with a solution that furthers our goals. Can we get to specifics now?”
I assume that DVDs of American movies make it to Myanmar—they’re everywhere else. I hope Kyon reads between the lines of what Savannah tells him, assumes I’m talking about everybody’s favorite American three-letter intelligence agency, then draws some conclusions from the movies he’s seen. The long pause after Savannah finishes tells me he’s thinking.
“He says he’s interested in more specifics.”
Phew. Now we’re haggling over prices. I know how to do that. One problem: Savannah doesn’t know how much a kilo of normal heroin goes for in China. (I know… what kind of art advisor is she?) She knows the maximum price her friends will pay—$32,000 a kilo—but I have to decide where to start the bidding. I haven’t got a clue.
I force a smile. “The people in Shanghai will take your entire production for 132,000 yuan a kilo.” About $20,000. “You can use yuan in Pangkham, right?” Pangkham’s the unofficial capital of Wa State.
Savannah’s eyebrows tangle. “That’s…”
“The opening bid. Tell him.”
He snorts, shakes his head. Clearly, that’s too low.
“He says that’s less than it costs to buy four Vietnamese women. His product’s much rarer than that.”
I’m disturbed that he knows the market rate for trafficking Vietnamese women. “No offense meant, Colonel. I’m simply establishing a floor for our negotiations. Perhaps you’d like to suggest a ceiling?”
Kyon purses his lips, rocks a little, frowns.
“He says making a product like his is very expensive. He can’t make an acceptable profit at less than 260,000 yuan.”
A bit shy of $40,000 a kilo, which I figure out because his offer’s almost double mine. Now’s when I wish the yuan traded at a whole-number multiple of the dollar.
“I appreciate that you have expenses, and I want each side to make a fair profit. Of course, trucking your product over the border to China will be much cheaper than shipping it across the Pacific to America. The bribes will be lower, too. In the interests of fairness, I’m sure the people in Shanghai can pay 145,000 yuan a kilo.” That’s $22,000.
Savannah says, “You’re not buying rugs, you know.”
“Same idea. You do this for your clients, right?”
She grinds her teeth a bit, then relays my offer. “He says he hopes your people in Shanghai have the resources to sell his product to their customers. It concerns him that they can pay so little. Maybe they’re new to the business and need help getting started. He thinks he may be able to reduce his price temporarily to 250,000 yuan.” Around $38,000.
On it goes. We each mildly diss the other’s last offer and ratchet our next one up or down by a grand or two. It’s all very calm and polite. Only my stomach reminds me that we’re dickering over superpowered heroin that’ll soon be blowing off the tops of people’s heads in a megacity 1600 miles away. I never, ever thought I’d do something like this. Funny how your ethics change when freedom and survival are your goals.
After more tea and more back-and-forth, we reach what should be the endgame: I’m at $29,000 a kilo, he’s at $33,000. It’s my move. I should go to $31,000, splitting the difference, and he should take it. Except he didn’t move off his current price after my last offer. That’s a bad sign—he thinks he’s at his floor, or wants me to think that.
I say, “You know you can’t go back to the American market.”
“He says he remembers you telling him that.” Savannah motions for me to lean toward her. She whispers, “Are you really doing this? He’ll walk away.”
“He won’t walk away. He needs a new customer.”
“Don’t turn this into some penis-size contest. Give him what my friends offered. They’ll still make plenty of money.”
“He’ll wonder why I’m caving. It’ll show weakness. Predators like that.”
She sighs. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
Sort of. “You want this to stick, right?” I sit up and smile at Kyon. “Look, we both want to make a deal. I’ll go to 200,000 yuan.” A smidge over $30,000. “That’s as far as Shanghai can go. What do you say?”
Kyon rocks a little on his stool. He looks like he’s sucking on a lime slice as he stares at me. He knows it’s on him now. He gets to decide whether we make a deal. I normally don’t like to give that power away, but I’m aiming for a different outcome than usual.
“He says that you told him he has a unique product, a luxury good. He wonders if you mean that when you try to lower his price the way you are. He understands that a luxury good comes with a premium price. Perhaps you should reacquaint yourself with that concept.”
The colonel stands and talks some more.
“He says this has been very interesting, but unfortunately you and he can’t come to an agreement. He thanks you for demonstrating that his product is worth more than he’s been selling it for. He’ll make his own arrangement with people in China. He wishes you a pleasant journey home.”
Savannah twists to glare at me. She hisses, “What did you do?”
Exactly what I set out to do: I tanked the deal.
Kyon offloads his gifts on one of his posse, then says goodbye-sounding things to the chief and his relatives. Savannah tries to punch holes in me with her eyes, but I’ve been death-stared at by pros and she just doesn’t have the knack.
When Kyon and his merry men head down the path toward the river, Savannah scurries to Pensri, who’s in deep discussion with the chief. They slip off for a sidebar. Their hand gestures get choppy, and Pensri shoots increasingly dark glances my way. Savannah must be blaming me for what happened. It’s fair—I did it. But for a good reason.
The chief barks at the village guards, then points at me. Before I know it, I have two guys with rifles flanking me. They drag me off the stool and march me up the hill through the village.
My gut tells me they’re not going to throw me a party.
.
Chapter 54
The house they put me in last night wasn’t very comfortable, but at least it was a house with a floor. This time I’m in a house in the middle of the village, tied to a post downstairs on the dirt where the animals live. The smallish pigs peek around the corner of their enclosure at me, and the black chickens keep their distance. Maybe they know I’m not popular right now.
I’d more-or-less prepared myself for the guards to haul me into the forest and shoot me. Not my preferred outcome, but at least I wouldn’t go out a major drug trafficker with the blood of thousands on my hands. There aren’t a lot of things I won’t do with the proper motivation, but that’s one of them.
Instead of an instant execution, I get time to think about it. That may be part of the punishment. The second-guessing and self-recriminations start almost immediately after the guards wander off toward the village’s center. Should I have just played along? Not if I ever want to sleep again.
Should I have talked to Savannah about this? No—if she knew what I was up to, she would’ve changed what she told Kyon and made the deal work.
I screwed up her plan instead. I can’t blame her for being pissed; if it’d worked out, it would’ve been her first steady income in seven years. Is she sore enough to let Pensri’s goons feed me to the Wa?
All this keeps me occupied through the afternoon and into early evening. A guard returns a couple hours after he left me here, parks himself on the stairs to the porch, and watches me between smokes. People walk past in both directions but hardly anybody looks my way.
I should be scared, but I’m not. Maybe I really did come to terms with death while they marched me here. Maybe it’s not real to me yet. Maybe I’m just too tired to care. Whatever’s going to happen, I just want it over with.
Savannah strides up the path when the clouds turn fuchsia in the sunset. I recognize her outfit, but I also recognize her walk. It’s the same one she uses on a city sidewalk when she’s wearing designer dresses and heels, nothing like the local women’s flat-footed, functional gait.
She swings through the gate in the fence surrounding the yard, murmurs a few words to the guard, then squats facing me. “I won’t untie you this time.” Her face is dark, borderline angry.
