POSTHUMAN

Chapter Twenty

Water dappled in moonlight rippled gently with the movement of an oar. The boat cut through the river sped on by a seasoned smugglers' steady hands. Marcus could barely make out the shapes of distant farmsteads far from the banks of the Beilun River. Reeds at the river's edge rendered seeing what was there quite the challenge. The man who held the rudder hummed something in Vietnamese, Marcus did not listen closely enough to catch any of the meaning. He was too intent on studying how the moonlight played on surfaces around him.

        Everything took on a haunting quality this late at night, so much so that the boatman's little song, even if most of the meaning was lost on him, became an ethereal call from some other world. These strands wove together to lull Marcus into a kind of trance which meant that he barely noticed time's passage.

        He was asleep when they arrived in Mong Cai, just over the border China shared with Vietnam. Philip had to nudge him into wakefulness; he blinked a few times to focus on the figure stood on the makeshift jetty next to them. The figure in question appeared to be a woman, possibly middle-aged. She wore a white ao dai and a pointed rice hat, the hat made it difficult to judge how she looked in this light. Philip had disembarked first and stood cautiously on the jetty, uncertain of putting all his faith in corrugated tin lashed to plastic barrels. The woman showed no sign of wavering whatsoever in her tan mules. Marcus stepped onto the jetty, stumbled but stopped himself from tumbling into the Beilun River. A musical laugh accompanied him as he hauled himself up off the floating firmament.

        "I do hope you are not inclined to clumsiness, Mr Sewell, otherwise this may be a very short crusade," the woman held out her hand to the agent, her English was spoken in an enchanting, subtly accented way. Her other hand held a delicate, folded silk fan.

        "I'm usually not this stupid. No honestly, I'm not," Marcus felt the tiniest bit emasculated.

        "Walk with me gentlemen, is there anything I can do for you?" she had still not offered her name as she strolled with poise and grace along the jetty, the two men followed unsteadily behind.

        "What's your name?" Marcus asked as they finally found dry land.

        "Danh Dieu Thu-Lan, at your service. Has Dr Albion not mentioned my name before? Well, good, that's a clever boy," she patted Philip on the cheek with her fan, the doctor looked somewhat bewildered. Marcus decided he liked Thu-Lan, "I hear you are searching for someone?"

        "Yes, a white American man called Tristan Lawrence," Marcus marvelled at how Thu-Lan could be leading them through the streets of Mong Cai but stay perfectly balanced, felt no hesitation in describing her grace as feline.

        She tapped her fan against the palm of her hand and on her chin as she thought for a short while, she replied, "There are Americans here from time to time: secretive sexual tourists mostly."

        "What about a man called Liu Tian-rong?" Philip offered roughly what Tristan's Chinese name would be.

        "Yes! He lives out in the Pacific, I think, visits Indochina to trade. Around this time of month he makes a quick supply run," Thu-Lan sounded very pleased with not having been stumped.

        "I'd like a meeting set up between us and Liu Tian-rong," Marcus had not seen Tristan in years; he hoped he would recognise him.

        "That's more than possible; I'll have my men contact him straight away. Oh, we're here. This gentlemen, is your palace!" she gestured grandly with her fan to a miserable block of concrete flats, her smile dripping with sarcasm.