Part 8 (1/2)

”This is for stubborn suspects,” he said, running his hand slowly along the tapering lash. ”It can be connected to the mains and the electric current doubles the pain.” He paused to check Devraux's reaction and found the Frenchman gazing expressionlessly into the case. Mistaking his uneasy silence for approval, he turned and laid a hand on a long steel corkscrew. ”if this is inserted slowly into the male p.e.n.i.s and withdrawn with sudden force, a confession is usually not difficult to obtain. And these tongs” - he indicated with one finger a pair of large metal pincers - ”can be applied to the temples to give a suspect the impression his eyes are being squeezed from his head. Or these is this black box in which I carry an ant nest. If the arms and feet of a female suspect are securely tied, the nest of ants can be introduced into the v.a.g.i.n.a ”That's enough! Close it up!” Devraux's sudden shout startled the metis, and he looked up in alarm.

For a moment there was a strained silence in the room, then the telephone at Devraux's elbow jangled. He picked up the instrument angrily without taking his eyes from the face of the torturer and unhooked the bell-shaped earpiece.

”Have you got anything new yet, Jacques, on that meeting tonight?” The voice of the special commissioner was curt. ”Time's slipping away.”

For a second or two Devraux continued gazing at the stooped figure of the metis as he refastened his case of tools; then his jaw tightened suddenly. ”I hope to have something shortly,” he said in a low voice and replaced the earpiece in its holder with unnecessary care. Motioning to the metis to follow him, he led the way out of the room, his face composed in grim lines.

They descended to the cellars of the building and an Annamese warder carrying a ring of keys led them along an echoing whitewashed corridor to the interrogation cells. Behind the door he unlocked they found a diminutive female figure crouched on the plain plank bed. She didn't rise as they entered but looked up at them with eyes that were both frightened and defiant.

The metis cast a practiced eye around the cell without looking at her, then returned to the corridor, walking along with his instrument case until he found an electricity supply point. He unreeled a cable until it reached back to the cell and without a word pulled the frightened girl to her feet to secure her wrists with handcuffs. Pus.h.i.+ng her face-down on the plank bed, he wrenched off her cheap cotton trousers and underclothing, manacled her ankles and rolled her effortlessly onto her back.

The girl's eyes widened in terror as he uncoiled several loops of copper wire and fastened one terminal with clips to her bare upper arm. She let out a startled squeal of pain as he pushed the other end of the wire roughly between her thighs. Still without looking at her, he picked from his case a ”h.e.l.l box” that resembled in miniature a dynamite detonator, connected it to the wires and turned to look inquiringly at Devraux.

”Ask her in which paG.o.da tonight's cell meeting of the Quoc Dan Dang is being held,” said the Frenchman, turning towards the door. ”I'll wait outside.”

The metis nodded and repeated the question in Annamese, holding the ”h.e.l.l box” close in front of the girl's face so that she could see its plunger clearly. ”I will tell you the answer within three minutes,” he said quietly and pushed the little plunger sharply downward.

As the Frenchman banged the heavy steel door gratefully behind him, he heard the girl's first high-pitched shriek of agony. He lit a cigarette with trembling fingers and stood staring hard at the whitewashed wall on the opposite side of the pa.s.sage as the screams increased in intensity. It was almost exactly three minutes before the screaming stopped and the metis stepped smirking into the corridor to give him the information he had promised.

8.

At normal times the narrow cobbled lanes of Hanoi's native quarter were jammed until late into the night with a noisy throng of people, produce carts, rickshaws, and occasional honking motor cars; even elephants bearing swaying loads of timber still sometimes plodded slowly through the confusion. But by eight o'clock on the eve of Tet, at the moment when Jacques Devraux was receiving his torturer's report in the Surete cellars, the ancient streets stood silent and deserted; Only the iron-wheeled rickshaw bearing Dao Van Lat to the secret cell meeting in a little paG.o.da behind the Street of Coffins broke the stillness as it clattered noisily across the cobbles.

Lat had known that most of Hanoi's ninety thousand citizens would by then be cl.u.s.tering around their ancestral altars to celebrate with traditional reverence the advent of the Year of the Horse. He had considered traveling more stealthily through the empty lanes in one of the new wire-wheeled rickshaws with pneumatic tires, favored by the French, but having decided that Surete agents would least expect a revolutionary to ride openly through the city by rickshaw, he had followed this tactic boldly to its conclusion and chosen the noisiest vehicle he could find.

The blue-and-white nameplates on the alleyways through which he rumbled still reflected the trades and crafts that had been carried on in the old quarter for hundreds of years. The Rue de Ia Soie - Silk Street - and the Rue des Medicaments - The Street of Herbs - linked and intertwined with the streets of Rice, Iron, Veils, Lacquer and many others named after the sources of their inhabitants' livelihood. In the Street of Coffins where gilded and lacquered caskets built for rich Chinese corpses were piled high in the workshop windows, Lat paid off his coolie and melted quickly into the shadows. He stood motionless in the doorway of a coffin- maker's for several minutes peering along the street in both directions, watching for signs of pursuit; when he was satisfied he hadn't been followed he slipped into a narrow, flagged pa.s.sageway that led to the pillared entrance of a tiny Buddhist paG.o.da.

As he approached, a shadowy figure emerged suddenly from behind one of the pillars. ”Lat, is that you?” whispered an anxious female voice.

The Annamese girl was wearing a dark coat of filmy black tulle over her paler tunic and trousers to help her blend into the shadows but there was enough natural light from the sky for him to recognize Lien and see the warmth of her welcoming smile.

”Yes, it is me,” he whispered. ”Didn't you hear me coming in my deafening rickshaw?” Leaning closer he pressed his cheek gently against hers and for a brief instant they allowed their breaths to mingle in the traditional kiss of their race; then they moved apart and entered the paG.o.da separately.

In the first hall where flickering candlelight illuminated the gaudy statues of Quan Thanh, the G.o.d of War, and Diem Vuong, the Lord of h.e.l.l, a doorkeeper waited to scrutinize them. While they were identifying themselves three other figures crept stealthily into the paG.o.da behind them, and Lat and Lien exchanged whispered greetings with Ngo Van Loc and his sons, Dong and Hoc. Like all the other members of the cell, the three Annamese who had escaped from the Vi An rubber plantation four months earlier were known to other members only by their secret code names. Ngo Van Loc was Son Thuy, or ”Waters of the Mountain,” his son Doug was Lam Giang, ”Blue River,” while the younger boy was Manh Tung, ”The Persuader,” Lat himself had been dubbed Giao Nhan - ”The Educator of Men” - and Lien was Trinh Chinh - ”Warrior Maiden.”

When he was satisfied with their ident.i.ties the doorkeeper beckoned them to follow and led them past the closed gates of the innermost shrine, where gilded images of the Amitabha and Maitreya Buddhas gazed down impa.s.sively on the festive mounds of fruit and flowers heaped on the altars around their feet. He motioned them towards a little room at the back of the paG.o.da normally used by the bonzes for informal meetings, and there they found a dozen other Annamese already huddled around a table. The darkness was relieved by only a single candle set in a wall niche, and individual faces were barely distinguishable in the gloom.

The cell leader at the head of the table was a bespectacled Tongkingese teacher in his early thirties. Known to the cell members as Thanh Giang --”Limpid Stream” -he still had the round cheeks and tilted nose of a boy. When the five newcomers had taken their places he nodded impatiently towards the last unfilled chair that waited for the girl who at that moment lay sobbing with pain in the Surete jail. ”Can anybody explain the absence of Minh Quon?” he asked quietly.

When n.o.body replied, he glanced uneasily at his wrist.w.a.tch. ”We can't wait any longer. We may all be in danger now. Listen carefully to what I have to tell you.” He paused dramatically. ”The moment, we've all been working for during the past two years has finally come, comrades. Our party leaders.h.i.+p has decided we must strike at the French now - without further delay!”

The conspirators around the table, leaned forward excitedly in their chairs, and one or two of them gasped in surprise. Behind his spectacles the eyes of the man they knew only as Limpid Stream suddenly gleamed more brightly.

”Two years of patient propaganda work among our brothers serving in the French military garrisons have prepared the way! All over the delta of the Red River they are ready now to rise up and turn their guns on their French officers. But they need us, comrades, to lead them in revolt. Each cell of our party has been a.s.signed to a different garrison for leaders.h.i.+p duties. If we all act bravely, we shall soon be marching together in triumph into Hanoi and Haiphong!” He paused and glanced down at a little sheaf of papers on the table before him. ”Our cell has been a.s.signed to lead the mutiny at Yen Bay sixty miles from Hanoi on the Red River. It is the headquarters of the Second Battalion of the Fourth Regiment of the Tirailleurs Tonkinois. We must raise a force of sixty partisans. Weapons have already been made and hidden close to the fort. I have visited the garrison myself and laid concrete plans. There are four companies of our brothers - a thousand men, all of them sympathetic to our cause!” He turned a page and held it towards the light. ”There are only eight commissioned officers under Chef de Battaillon Le Tacon. Captains Jourdan and Leonnard, Lieutenants Caspian and Devraux command the companies He raised his eyes again and gazed fiercely round the table. ”Four days from now, comrades, all the Frenchmen and the noncommissioned officers too shall taste the steel of those sabers we have smelted in our secret furnaces.”

As the list of French names was read out, Ngo Van Loc had stiffened in his chair. Now he felt his elder son, Dong, pluck at his sleeve and he leaned forward urgently to interrupt the cell leader. ”Comrade, what is the full name and age of Lieutenant Devraux, please.”

Limpid Stream glanced down irritably at his notes again. ”Lieutenant Paul Devraux is aged twenty-three - a graduate of St. Cyr military academy; Yen Bay is his first post.” He looked keenly at Loc for a moment. ”Why do you ask? Is he known to you?”

Loc shook his head hastily. ”Excuse me. I misheard. But I want to make it clear, comrade, that I and my two Sons wish to be included in the first a.s.sault party.”

”Good, good! Thank you, Son Thuy,” replied the cell leader briskly, looking quickly round the table. 'I hope everybody will be as eager as you to volunteer for their tasks.”

”I think anyone who risks his life in this rash venture will be a fool,” said Dao Van Lat in a gentle voice. ”You are wrong. The rime is not ripe for an uprising. The people are not yet prepared.”

The naked hostility of Lat's words produced a stunned silence in the paG.o.da and the cell leader glared at him suddenly white-faced with anger. ”I have done the propaganda work at Yen Bay myself. Many other garrisons are ready to rise too. The party leaders.h.i.+p has proof.”

”The French have proof too, haven't they - of our intentions! It's no secret any longer that hidden stores f our arms have been found and confiscated. The French are on their guard now.”

Furious at the sustained challenge to his authority, Limpid Stream banged his fist violently on the table. ”Yes, all right, some of our hidden arms have been discovered! But that only makes the need for action more urgent. If we don't strike now, more weapons will be lost, more of our comrades will be arrested. If we delay, our people will lose the desire to rise against France!”

”If what you call 'our people' rise up flow, they will surely die,” insisted Lat quietly. ”The Quoc Dan Dang members.h.i.+p is still only a few hundred people.”

”It is better to die like brave men than live as you would wish us to - like cowards.” The cell leader's voice rose to a shout. ”If we fail we shall at least leave behind an example of sacrifice and struggle for others to follow.”

”A wiser leader might decide it is better to wait - to live to fight another day. To bring destruction on ourselves before we are fully prepared achieves nothing. The Communists of Nguyen the Patriot have refused to join with us for that reason - because they can see the time for a national revolution is not ripe.”

”Nguyen the Patriot is so patriotic that he hasn't set foot in his own country for twenty years.” Limpid Stream spat his words out contemptuously. ”He is a tool of the Bolsheviks in Moscow. He is frightened to come home. He is not fit to call himself a Vietnamese patriot. We want no agreement with his supporters.”

Lat held the gaze of Limpid Stream steadily. ”At least he knows something that you and higher leaders of the Quoc Dan Dang refuse to acknowledge - that numbers make strength. I am determined to arouse the whole of our people. If we can do that we are millions against a few thousand French. And then we must be victorious!” He paused and leaned back in his seat, his face pale but composed. ”I refuse to join your uprising, Thanh Giang. That is all I have to say.”

Limpid Stream saw Lien squeeze Lat's arm as he finished speaking. Lat acknowledged her show of affection with an easy smile and the anger of the cell leader, who was not attractive to women, was sharpened to a new pitch by his unconscious envy. ”The Quoc Dan Dang has no use,” he said in an icy voice, ”for those who seek only personal glory and strike vain poses. Those who wish above all else to be seen in a false heroic light by pampered bourgeois 'concubines' posing as 'Warrior Maidens' should exercise their empty powers of rhetoric elsewhere. Especially those who lack the courage to face pain or death for their country!”

Lat's fists clenched suddenly on the table-top in front of him and his voice shook with the pa.s.sion of his words. ”I love my country, comrade, more than life itself. Soon you will see The sound of frantic footsteps approaching at a run through the darkness of the paG.o.da halted Lat in midsentence, and several of the conspirators, gathered around the table, rose anxiously to their feet. A white-faced boy who had been posted as lookout at the entrance to the flagged pa.s.sageway emerged into the light, gasping for breath and pointing behind him. ”Two Surete cars have entered the street! They are heading this way!”

The cell leader rose without a word and ushered the group silently towards a side door. Each of the conspirators had his appointed escape route through the maze of alleyways, leading to a prearranged cellar or storeroom. Within one minute of the warning being given the paG.o.da was empty and there was no moving figure on the streets within half a mile of the meeting place.

When Jacques Devraux and two dozen armed Annamese Surete gendarmes into the candlelit paG.o.da, he found it deserted. Several chairs had been knocked over by the departing conspirators in their haste, and a cigarette still burned in one of the ashtrays on the table. Devraux stood in the incense-scented darkness for several seconds, cursing beneath his breath; then he strode angrily back to the car that had been parked to no avail a hundred yards away in the shadows of the Street of Coffins.

9.

The moment they reached his room, Dao Van Eat locked the door behind them. Both he and Lien were breathless after their flight from the paG.o.da, and when they had recovered he took her quietly in his arms. Beneath the silken tunic he could feel the tantalizing softness of her small b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his chest, and a little groan of desire welled up in his throat. Standing motionless, neither sought to cover the lips of the other; instead they inhaled the delicate scents of each other's skin as their warm breath flowed back and forth in gentle rhythms between their two bodies.

When at last they drew apart Lien smiled up into his face, an expression of undisguised love lighting her eyes. ”You spoke very movingly tonight,” she whispered. ”I'm proud to be the one closest to a man who's sure to become a great and famous patriot.”

He gazed back at her unsmiling for a moment then dropped his eyes. ”I intend to make this a very special night, Lien - for us and for our country. I'm very glad that you could be with me for Tet.”

Alarmed by his grave expression she wrinkled her smooth forehead suddenly in a worried frown. ”What do you mean, Lat?”