The Violent Century (24 page)

A giant question mark forms over his head. He crosses the street, he can see people’s thoughts hovering over their heads, he sees a man with a giant smile etched into his too-pale face. He sees a man climb like a spider up a wall.

He falls.

Down into an opium darkness, he tries to open his eyes, a part of him is still in that hotel room, lying on the mattress on the floor, the naked body of another holding on to him, a pipe still burns, the night is humid, full of minute sounds, the lazy buzz of a mosquito but he falls, his eyes close and the inner world takes him and he:

Is bitten by a radioactive spider, falls into an acid vat, is trapped inside an Intrinsic Field Subtractor, is given a power ring by a dying alien, he is strapped to a table and experimented on by military scientists until he becomes the ultimate warrior, he is sent as a baby from his dying planet to Earth, he sees his parents murdered in front of his eyes leaving the opera, he is bombarded by cosmic rays, he dials a number in a telephone box, he is exposed to a gamma-ray bomb as it detonates, he eats spinach, he discovers a strange meteor, he finds an ancient mask that belonged to a god, he … he … he …

Oblivion whimpers on the naked bed, the bedsheets soak his sweat. A warm hand on his brow, Hush, hush, Oblivion whispers Hold me, another body presses into his, caresses, comforting, Oblivion thrashes, No, no, until at last the frames which hold him blow open, like windows, and set him free. Hush, now, the other man says, and Oblivion settles, like a child, on the bed and closes his eyes until, at last, he sleeps.

96.
VIENTIANE, LAOS
1967

Rough hands shake him awake. We watch, we see: Oblivion on a mattress on the floor, the open window, the last remnants of a burning mosquito coil, that thick, nauseating smell, the humid bedsheets, rumpled, that nude sleeping form beside Oblivion, the pale flesh of a beautiful boy. Oblivion opens bleary eyes, they’re gummed together, his head, what happened to his head, thieves came in the night and took it, memory won’t come, where had the missing hours gone?

– Get up, you lazy son of a bitch, a voice says, the hands keep shaking him, they irritate Oblivion, he swipes a hand, it hits a table and obliviates the wood, a lamp comes crashing to the floor, the voice says, Whoa there, buddy, the sleeping form beside Oblivion stirs to life, alert, the voice says, Scram; the young man blinks sleepy eyes and smiles and touches Oblivion, briefly, on the shoulder; and scrams.

Oblivion sits up, leaning his back against the wall. The door slams shut. He stares.

–
Tigerman?
he says.

– Hi, buddy.

– It’s been a while, Oblivion says.

– No shit it has.

– What the hell are you doing here? Oblivion pats the mattress with a vague air. Where’s…? he says and trails off. What time is it?

– Time to get up, Tigerman says. Hi ho, hi ho. It’s off to work … and so on. Here, drink this.

Oblivion accepts the bottle of water. Drinks. The cold water revives him. So what, he says, you’re a spook, now?

– I’m me, Tigerman says. Oblivion examines him. Does not look any older than when he’d last seen him, when was it, forty-six? Forty-seven? Same arrogant grin, that mane of hair, that muscled physique. But something different about the eyes. The look in them is older, colder, hard. It feels, to Oblivion, for just a moment, like staring into a mirror. A sensation like falling. Whatever happened to that partner of yours, Tigerman says, Oblivion says, Who, Fogg?

– Slippery character, never trusted him, Tigerman says. Do you know, in forty-six … trails off. Never mind all that, he says. You’re here sniffing about for the Old Man, I know, Bob told me, sniffing for Übermenschen.

– Are there any? Oblivion says.

Tigerman shrugs. Sure, he says, Thai, Lao, Vietnamese … who the fuck cares?

The balance, Oblivion thinks. The Old Man’s old maxim. Übermenschen on both sides cancel each other out. So? he says. Stands up, starts to gather his clothes. What
had
he done last night? he thinks. Tries to remember.

– So I’ve got one you
will
be interested in, Tigerman says, and when he speaks his mouth shifts, lengthens, his teeth become a tiger’s teeth, wet with saliva. Who? Oblivion says, and the other grins and says, Der Wolfsmann.

97.
LAOS
1967

The chopper rises beyond the city, the Mekong left in the distance. Mountains ahead, peaked in snow.

– The Soviets are supporting North Vietnam, Tigerman shouts over the sound of the rotors. Warm air rushes inside. Oblivion nods, more politeness than interest. Money, training, equipment, Tigerman says. The usual deal. Jerks a thumb at the pilot and grins a feral grin. These boys, our very own Air America, they’re flying bombing missions over the Ho Chi Minh Trail, on the Lao border—

At Oblivion’s questioning look, Tigerman explains – The trail links North and South Vietnam, passing through Laos. Jabs his finger in Oblivion’s face. That’s where
he
is.

– The Wolf man.

– Working for the fucking
Russians
, can you believe it? Tigerman roars with laughter. Of all people, he says. Oblivion shrugs. So what’s the difference, he seems to be implying. What is he doing for them? he says. Tigerman says, Same as he always did. Hunting Übermenschen. Only difference, he’s got a different paymaster now. He has a whole new gang working for him. A couple of old comrades from the war, the ones who didn’t die or go on the ratline to Argentina or were— Tigerman stops, looks, if that’s even possible, a little sheepish.

– Were not picked up in Operation Paperclip by your own government, you mean?

Tigerman shrugs it off. The rest are all locals, he says, Vietnamese, Lao, some Chinese.

– So what’s the problem? Oblivion says. Why the interest?

– He’s stopped taking orders from Moscow, Tigerman says. Shrugs. I don’t know how he ended up with them. Somehow they’d pulled the wolf man out of the war. They saved him: but that meant he was theirs, for good.

– The
Russians
want him dead? Oblivion says.

– Once he stopped taking orders there was only one thing they could do, Tigerman says. And that’s to try and get rid of him.

– So let the Russians do it, Oblivion says.

Tigerman grins at him and lights up a joint.

What, Tigerman says. And miss out on all the fun?

98.
LAOS
1967

Chop, chop, chop, chop
, the helicopter rises over crags and narrow dirt tracks, terraced rice fields, their yellow is startling to the eyes,
chop, chop
, the rotor blades swish through the air, down below Oblivion can see a boy leading goats, women with wide-brimmed hats sheltering their faces from the sun,
chop, chop
the helicopter rises, higher, higher, these mountains seem immense to Oblivion, what is he doing here?

– Kill that motherfucker, Tigerman says, Oblivion feels odd, Tigerman’s eyes are like two yellow moons in a dark sky, rising. What
did
he do the night before? Tigerman is smoking a joint, it’s an enormous thing, a tapering cone, the smell fills the inside of the helicopter, Tigerman passes it to Oblivion who takes a drag – how many now, he thinks. And can’t remember.

‘The Age of Aquarius’ plays full blast inside the helicopter. Oblivion starts to giggle, what do the people below them make of it, I’m a hero! he screams. I’m a fucking hero! Tigerman growls, his eyes are enormous, that smell of weed, seductive and sweet, fills the mind, You had some opium last night, didn’t you, Tigerman says, and Oblivion, as though it’s the funniest question in the world, laughs so hard as memory suddenly returns. Man I had the craziest dream! he says.

The helicopter drops suddenly, the landscape changes as they come around a bend in the mountain, the fog lies over the distant land, clouds below them, could Fogg shape clouds, Oblivion wonders, the laughter leaves his body like alcohol leaving a drunk’s. The fog clears in snatches and a bright red shines below, as far as the eye can see the slopes are covered in deep-red flowers, and Tigerman sobers up, too, The poppies, man, he says. The fucking
poppies
!

The helicopter descends, out of the clouds there rises a village of low-lying huts built against the side of the mountain, men appear behind a rock outcrop, they’re carrying guns, someone fires, into the air, Tigerman swears, the pilot, all this while, cool. Not much of a talker, maybe as stoned as they are, Bill, Oblivion thinks, was his name Bill, or Tom, something like that, anyway. Lands the helicopter right there on the slope, turns, There you go, sirs! he shouts. Oblivion and Tigerman climb out, the pilot gives them a thumbs-up, in moments they’re surrounded by men with guns, all around them are poppies, red as blood, a river of blood flowing down the mountainside. Oblivion hears footsteps, the men, silently, part. A short figure, stocky, muscled, the material of his costume tight over his chest—

– You?
Oblivion says.

– Me, the Red Sickle says.

99.
LAOS
1967

Crates and crates and crates inside a bamboo hut, the men, Hmong, carrying them up to the helicopter. No one pays Oblivion any attention. He opens one of the boxes and things fall into place at last.

The opium bars are stacked up tight inside the box, the processed opium packed and sealed in bags. Its smell still tingles Oblivion’s nose, that musk, that sweet or sour scent. The smell of dreams.

Glances at the chopper. So Air America is shipping opium, he realises. Tigerman materialises by his side, smoking a cigar. So you found out our little secret, he says, his teeth bite into the leaf in his mouth. You wouldn’t tell on us now, would you? Oblivion.

– What do you do with it? Oblivion says, Tigerman shrugs: Funding the war effort, he says. From here to Wattay Airport or Long Chen, from there onwards – I don’t know.

Oblivion thinks of men in white smocks in secret labs, beakers in hand. A special kind of science. Turning opium into what the Germans, when Bayer first marketed it in eighteen ninety-five, called
Heroin
– from the word for hero.

– So
this
is why the CIA want the wolf man dead? he says.

– He’s burning down the poppy fields, Tigerman says, and shakes his head like he just can’t believe it. He has a Vietnamese comrade working for him, Mr Van, a fire starter. They’re costing the CIA millions in lost revenue.

– That’s why he has to go?

– That’s why he has to go.

– And you’re teaming up with the Russians. With the Red Sickle.

Tigerman smiles, almost wistfully. Remember Cecilienhof? The Potsdam Conference. He used to sit with Stalin and the rest of the Russian team.

– I remember, Oblivion says. Remember Berlin in forty-six. Thinks of Fogg, who was always scared of the wolf man. Everybody has a bogeyman.

– So you’re going to come along? Tigerman says.

Oblivion thinks of Fogg. He should be thinking of Tank in Auschwitz, of the botched Paris operation or bloody Transylvania, but all he can think about is Fogg.

– I’ll do it, he says.

100.
LAOS–VIETNAM BORDER
1967

They walk through dirt trails across the mountains, their guides with machetes, Oblivion can hear furtive sounds in the forests, bears and wolves still live here, clouds hide the world down below.

Besides Oblivion, Tigerman has transformed. He stalks ahead in animal form, and there is that smell, a wild musk coming off him. Almost as if for him, it is sexual, Oblivion thinks uneasily.

Three days on the trail … somewhere on the Lao border, a no-man’s-land. At some point even the guides left. There are only the three of them, Oblivion, Tigerman, the Red Sickle. A mini-United Nations of Übermenschen. Poppy fields give way to rice paddies, give way to wild, primal forests. They are alone, the heat is unbearable, mosquitoes savage their skin, Oblivion waves his hand desperately, erasing them, but more and more of them come. We don’t age, the Red Sickle says, and grins. But we can die.

Tigerman stalks ahead, the human form abandoned. The night before he left them to make camp and disappeared into the trees, at night they heard growls, the scream of an animal, in the morning there was fresh, bloodied meat waiting for them. He won’t change back to human form, has gone feral. Crazy Yank, the Red Sickle says, the blood around his mouth as he eats is a darker shade of his uniform. He still wears the crossed-sickle-and-fist legend of the Russian Sverhlyudi. Oblivion thinks of a slender woman with haunted dark eyes and eternally wet, long black hair, a blue uniform with that same legend on. How is Rusalka? he says, the Red Sickle scowls, Siberia, he says, and says no more.

On the third day they reach the camp.

Oblivion is alone in the forest. Tigerman is prowling, the Red Sickle is in his own vantage point. They have triangulated the camp, gone into deep cover. Oblivion thinks longingly of hot showers, soap, food. The stench of his own body startles him.

The first one he kills is a boy. Oblivion is by a brook and the boy comes with bottles to be filled. He does not even feel Oblivion approaching behind him, Oblivion lays his hand on the boy’s head like a benediction. He rips a trough of nothingness through the boy’s skull and holds him, gently, as he falls. Later he buries the remains as best he can. It’s easier than trying to erase the entire body.

In the night he hears a growl in the distance and a scream, cut short.

The next day no one comes out alone from the camp. They come out in groups, armed men and Übermenschen. Their talents are odd, startling. Oblivion hides. In the distance he hears shouts, and gunfire, the Red Sickle laughing, the sound of sharp metal tearing into human flesh, screams, then silence again.

The third night no one comes out of the camp.

We can’t touch the wolf man, Oblivion says.

A negator, Tigerman says. Shrugs. We wait, he says, and the Red Sickle grunts assent beside him. We wait for the wolf man to come to us.