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  La Passionara frowned, then blessed the candlelight of her room. “And you,” she said, bidding her caller to sit, “you are much younger than I had imagined.” La Passionara decided at this moment to play the scene coquettishly. Throughout the day she had rehearsed variations, from an imperious grandness to show business hip. Now that Lobo was in her room, she was not sure how to deal with him. He could not have been much more than twenty-five, she surmised, although with Oriental men it was difficult to affix age. And he walked with the grace of a dancer; La Passionara could always tell when a body was well tuned and controlled. But it was his face that held fascination. Lobo wore the caste of Asia, his skin was antique gold, but in alternating moments he seemed completely Western, like a man holding up different masks. Whatever, he was sexy and he knew it. She would flirt with him, but she would not let him any closer than the sound of a merry laugh.

  For a few moments they studied one another. Then Lobo broke the spell. He smiled broadly. It was difficult, he began, to address her as La Passionara. Could he know her real name? “Of course,” she answered quickly, preparing to hand out one of many stage names she had used in her career. But there was something about Lobo that denuded her. He would know if she was lying. She felt compelled to tell the truth. “Esther,” she said. “Esther Markowitz. Of New York.”

  “Manhattan?” asked Lobo.

  “Brooklyn,” confessed Esther.

  “Esther is a beautiful name,” said Lobo. “Do you speak French?”

  She nodded dumbly. She had lived two years in Paris. But why did this Asian man from Macao wish to speak French?

  He preferred it. It was “the language of negotiation.”

  For half an hour they conversed in French. Esther fell easily into her biography, how she studied ballet as a child, how, after failing an audition with a minor dance company, she fled in despair to Europe. In Paris she studied with one of those ferocious women from the Ballets Russe de Monte Carlo who smoked black cigarettes and carried an ebony cane to rap shins and ankles. In Madrid, on holiday, she had become enamored of flamenco and studied it, becoming so accomplished that she appeared “on the best stages of Madrid, Rome, Paris, and London.” As she talked, Esther used the same florid language she did in interviews, on the rare occasion when a newspaper sent a reporter to speak with her.

  Lobo listened attentively, then presented his view of the woman before him. He found La Passionara to be an exciting performer with the potential to become an international star. But her act, as currently presented in the Club Rouge et Noir, did not flatter her. Esther agreed. Absolutely! The conditions here were primitive. What Lobo envisioned was to present La Passionara as the star of a new international revue on the stage of his casino in Macao. Choreographers, set designers, lighting experts, a full orchestra, a troupe of dancers—all would be engaged to support her. Expenses be damned! Perhaps, he mused, perhaps she could combine Spanish flamenco with the classical dances of India. If the act were successful, as he was certain it would be under his tutelage, then La Passionara could undertake a world tour with his management. Hong Kong, Tokyo, Beirut, Paris, New York! He had contacts in Las Vegas.

  Suddenly, abruptly, Lobo rose and took his leave. He would see Esther again tomorrow night, after her show. So absorbed was she in the fantasies that danced in her head, Esther did not notice Lobo studying her room, mentally marking its dimensions, stepping calculatedly on the carpet to measure its pile. Then he was gone. For a long while Esther Markowitz remained in delicious semi-shock, half expecting that moment of crushing disappointment when a dream ends and consciousness returns to wash it away.

  When it was almost 2 A.M., Esther, unable to sleep, wrote a hurried letter to her fiancé, a guitarist working in Tokyo. The exciting news poured from her pen, cautioning that she was still crossing her fingers, but fairly certain that she was on the threshold of international celebrity. “I am trying not to get excited,” she wrote, “but it would be fun to go to Macao and earn ‘plenty’ of money. How I love you! And the Chinese man, Lobo, said he would be glad to hire you to accompany my flamenco!” Later this letter would become one of the most important documents La Passionara ever wrote.

  The first thing she did upon arising the next afternoon was to telephone the vice-president in charge of entertainment at the hotel and yell that the atrocious lighting in the Club Rouge et Noir made her look a decade older. No wonder that the audiences had been small and, to an extent, unappreciative. Had she known the harsh spot was turning her into a crone, she would never have set foot in such a place. Two weeks remained in her engagement, and if the hotel did not wish to duel with her agents and attorneys, then best it find a soft and flattering pink gel to illumine her dance.

  The rest of the day she spent trying unsuccessfully to reach her fiancé by telephone in Tokyo. “It is urgent,” she shouted at the operator, and in truth it was, for Esther had no idea what to pry from Lobo’s purse as salary. There was no agent, no attorney, no one to counsel her. She was a woman alone in the East, now jumpy and wildly nervous, wondering if she could even get through her next performance.

  A second midnight had come and gone, and Esther was once again jilted—and consumed by disappointment. Lobo had not attended either of her two performances. Now that she at least knew what he looked like, she could peer through the cracks of the screen and eye the audience. He was not there! He had not even made a reservation with the maître d’. Nor was there a message in her box at the reception desk. What an infuriating man! Morosely she washed her face of makeup and patted on cold cream, wondering if the cosmetics she was forced to purchase here in the East were causing the crinkle marks about her eyes and the darkening pockets beneath them, or was it the thirtieth birthday, unwelcome but due in a few months? She took a Valium and was almost asleep when the telephone beside her bed rang urgently. At first she thought it was the long overdue call to Tokyo. But then came the sensuous voice of Lobo, speaking apologetically, his manner both soothing and seductive. Could he come to her room to conclude the arrangement? Esther refused, worried that she might thus annoy him, but unwilling to receive a man of Lobo’s stature in nightgown and cold cream. But it must be tonight, countered Lobo. He was leaving Delhi on one of those infernal flights that always seemed to depart from the capital of India between 2 A.M. and dawn. Finally Esther agreed, hanging up and flying to the bathroom to redo her aging face.

  When the soft rap at the door came this time, Esther opened it promptly, discovering not one but two young men. The first was Lobo, dressed less elegantly for this meeting, in work pants and turtleneck. Beside him stood an attractive but somber young blond man. He was introduced as Pierre, a copain from Paris. He was carrying a small canvas bag that appeared to be heavy. Were there fat contracts inside?

  For several minutes, Esther plied Lobo with questions—the size of his stage, the condition of his dressing rooms, the time she would need for rehearsal, the necessity of a substantial orchestra. She inquired about everything except money, having decided that it would be more shrewd to wait for his offer. Her plan was set. When Lobo revealed the kind of salary he was thinking about for his new star, La Passionara would pronounce it penurious. He would counter with more, she would pretend to be insulted, perhaps even show him the door. But finally, in her fantasy, they would agree, and the rest would be champagne. Esther had played this scene more or less non-stop all day long.

  But after a time, she began to notice that Lobo was restless, his answers vague, his eyes studying not her, but her hotel room. Was she boring the young impresario? Offending him? “Excuse me,” Lobo said abruptly, “may I use your bathroom?” Esther gestured toward the door, remembering that the toilet was a jumble of cosmetic jars, spilled white face powder, and towels wadded in balls on the floor. Lobo would think she was a slovenly person. “I’m afraid it’s rather a mess,” she called out, adding that under normal conditions she had a dresser to keep things neat. The hotel management had refused to provide her with one.


  Left momentarily alone with the new blond Frenchman, Esther studied his face. He had not uttered a word since entering the room. Esther attempted a warming smile, but his countenance in return was cold and unyielding. She tried to draw him out. He was from Paris? Pierre nodded. How long had he been in India? A shrug.

  Getting nowhere, Esther grew uneasy. Where was Lobo? What was he doing in the bathroom? Why didn’t he come out? Several minutes had passed. She had heard the toilet flush. His business must be done in there. She rose and lit another candle, wanting to turn on the lights but afraid these men would find her disrespectful of India’s emergency blackout. The soft new glow revealed more of Pierre’s thin face. On his cheek, a jagged, cruel scar ran from beside his eye to beneath his chin, as if marking a dangerous road on a map. He touched it, knowing that Esther found it fascinating, his finger lightly tracing its course. And for the first time he smiled, empty and false.

  “Please sit down, Esther,” came the voice of Lobo. He emerged from the bathroom and went to the dancer and touched her shoulder. In his fingers was strength. Esther dared not even draw back when his hand moved to stroke her naked neck. She looked up at Lobo, standing over her, and she knew at this moment that there was more to their meeting than an appreciation of her art. “Esther, it is time to tell you that I have a secondary proposition,” said Lobo, crouching before her until their eyes were level. She did not want to look at him yet found it impossible to turn away. His eyes were like magnets that locked her. Slowly, theatrically, Lobo raised his hand and held before La Passionara a fistful of golden objects that glittered in the candlelight, throwing off sparks that danced in his hornrimmed glasses. For a moment, Esther thought selfishly that Lobo was paying her tribute, offering jewels before the negotiations commenced. Then she realized that this man was clutching her own bracelets and the precious antique necklace. Obviously he had found them in the bathroom. Now he held them like a hypnotist.

  India, he began, sounding like a tour guide, was a land rich in gems. Sapphires, rubies smuggled from Burma, topaz as big as doorknobs and less than ten cents a carat. Did Esther know that? She nodded. Often she had spent afternoons prowling the bazaars, searching for old ivory bracelets, or smoky gray sapphires with a star that appeared mysteriously when held at just the right light.

  Lobo lectured briefly on the nature of gems, then suggested to Esther that when she traveled to Macao, she could bring stones with her. There was money to be made. At least four thousand dollars. Now Esther was totally confused. “I don’t understand,” she said honestly. Lobo was quick with enlightenment. He needed someone, a courier, who could transport gems discreetly from India to various distant cities, someone to whom customs officials would pay scant attention.

  “You want me to smuggle jewelry?” gasped Esther incredulously. Lobo nodded. A great many respectable people did just that for him, he continued. Esther shook her head vigorously. “Well, not me,” she said. Even if she were inclined to conceal contraband in her luggage—and she most certainly was not—she would be the most unsuitable courier that Lobo could possibly engage. “As a child I turned beet red every time I told a fib,” she informed him. Any customs officer would read guilt writ large across her face.

  Quickly Esther assessed her predicament. First there had been an engraved calling card on a silver tray, then a fascinating young impresario in a French-cut suit, now they had become two dangerous men in her room, one importuning her to become a smuggler, the second standing immobile like a lance waiting to be thrown. In indignation, Esther rose and went for the telephone. Lobo made himself a roadblock. His face was now a threatening storm.

  “Is there really a casino in Macao?” she asked, her voice much meeker than she had intended it to be. Lobo nodded, steering her back to the chair.

  “Unfortunately,” he answered, “my only connection with it has been to lose great sums of money there at baccarat.”

  Esther began to weep. Why were these men in her room?

  “Because you have the good fortune to be a resident of Room 289,” said Lobo. “A very nice room.”

  “I hate this room,” said Esther truthfully. She had pleaded with the Ashoka management to give her a chamber nearer the elevator, so that she did not have to walk the length of a football field in full makeup and costume for her descent to the main floor and the Club Rouge et Noir. The reply to her complaint had been brusque. Her contract called for 2,000 rupees for a month’s dancing, plus room and board. It did not specify which room.

  “It is a very nice room,” emphasized Lobo. Had Esther ever wondered who lived beneath her? Lobo tapped lightly with his foot against the carpet. As a matter of fact, agreed Esther, she had, particularly on the nights when she rehearsed to dance flamenco and warmed up by stamping her heels against the floor. She had expected a call of complaint. But none ever came.

  Lobo went directly to the point. Directly below Room 289 was the Rajasthan Emporium, an elegant shop containing some of the most desirable jewelry in India. For two months, Lobo had studied the layout of this hotel, even spending a week in residence. The plan was not an impulsive one. It was, he revealed, the creation of half a dozen colleagues in his profession. Already several thousands of dollars had been lavished on this night, ranging from air tickets from Hong Kong to Teheran and back, on special equipment, even on the calling cards which Lobo had commissioned in a sudden change of direction. The original scheme had been for him to personally rent Room 289, but when the hotel management assigned it to the night club dancer, then new arrangements were dictated.

  “If you want, blame it on karma,” suggested Lobo. “Fate brought us together in this room.” And now fate was giving La Passionara a very simple role to play. There were no lines of dialogue to learn. All she had to do was sit on her bed and remain absolutely silent. Midway through the explanation, Esther noticed that Lobo was now holding a gun—small, black, gleaming in the candlelight. She could not stop staring at it, wondering if it was a toy, but somehow knowing it was not. Dialogue from cheap theatrics rained on her ears. We don’t want to hurt you, Esther. Nothing will happen to you if you stay quiet, Esther. If you cry out, Esther, it might be tragic. We are both black belts in karate, Esther. Dimly, Esther looked at Lobo’s proffered hands, observing that the knuckles were enlarged, the edges of the palms toughened and calloused. She nodded. She believed. “We don’t want to hurt your legs, Esther,” whispered Lobo. “Then you could not dance again.”

  “I promise,” said Esther, whimpering. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  She watched as Lobo nodded and gestured at Pierre to begin the work. First the canvas bag was opened and a walkie-talkie pulled out. Lobo pressed a button, murmured something, received a staccato barrage of static in response. There were two accomplices in the hotel, warned Lobo, positioned near the room as lookouts. If Esther entertained aspirations of escape, she should know that these men would be waiting for her.

  Then Lobo paced off several steps, paused beside the bathroom door, peeled back a corner of the carpet, and nodded at Pierre. The blond man took out a pneumatic drill and assembled it. He wrapped blankets about the contraption and handed it to Lobo.

  “Within three to five hours,” said Lobo, “provided you remain very quiet, we will be done.” The scheme was bold: they intended to drill a hole large enough for the slim bodies of Lobo and Pierre to drop from Room 289 to the jewelry store below. There, presumably, they would fill their sacks with jewelry and—thanks to war fever-make an easy exit in the blackout. But hardly had the drilling bit begun to chew against the floor when Lobo grew worried about the noise. Cursing, he shut it off to study another way to muffle the machine. At that moment Esther intruded. Boldly. Somewhere in the depths of her fear she had relocated the haughty air of La Passionara.

  “Did you really like my dancing?” she demanded.

  Lobo looked up from his labor and smiled. Not untenderly. But he shook his head. “I haven’t had the pleasure,” he said. “Perhaps another day.”

>   At that, La Passionara began to laugh, softly at first, then building to wild crescendo, drunk for a moment on the irony, rolling about her prison bed on the precipice of hysteria. Only when Lobo started toward her with his palm quivering like a just sprung trap did she stop, wondering whether she would go mad before the sun rose, or before they killed her.

  Book One

  CHARLOT

  CHAPTER ONE

  Behind bamboo screens, in the charity ward of the Catholic hospital in Saigon, lower-class women in final labor screamed. They beseeched their gods and cursed their bellies and received small solace from the nuns who always found out which girls had no legal husbands and whose sins should thus be reprimanded by Mother Church. It was April 1944. The room swam in thickest heat. The women, most of them very young, lay in pools of sweat and listened to their fears and to the crackling of an electric storm that hurled bolts of lightning at the hospital. Everything stank. The bed that contained Song was filthy when they brought her to it, and now, after two days of trying to squeeze the child from her thin frame, it was a battlefield.

  Song suffered in silence. The pain was second nature now and screaming did not soften it. She envied the other girls who had come to this room and endured the contractions and the sharp tongues of the nuns and were wheeled away. Presumably they were holding babies now in contented arms, the progeny of war. One girl was pregnant with the baby of a Japanese naval captain, part of the invading force that had seized Indochina in 1940 as easily as plucking a mango from a tree. Of course, this captain could not marry Song’s friend—not until the war was done and the Japanese possessed the entire world—but the fortunate creature would live in a nice apartment near the river and have a servant to send out for sweets and cigarettes.