Wild Nights by Natasha Peters

Author:Natasha Peters
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0-449-90118-1
Publisher: Ballantine Books
Published: 1986-06-05T16:00:00+00:00

“But why must you leave me?”

Emma slipped on her dress, buckled her sandals, and made sure her shoulder bag contained her notebooks and plenty of sharpened pencils. Janvier lounged on the bed, a bottle of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

“I’m meeting a contact. I have the feeling something important is going to happen tonight.”

“Ah ha, another man. I am very jealous.”

Emma smiled at him. “You don’t need to be. You know you’re the only man in my life. I will never love anyone the way I love you.” She gave him a hasty kiss, which he wanted to prolong, and then wriggled away from him. “I’ll be back in an hour or two. Don’t get too lonely.”

She was five minutes late for her rendezvous with Ngoan at the Church of Saint Jerome. She hoped he hadn’t given up on her. Twenty minutes later, he appeared at her elbow.

“Come,” he said. “We must go at once.”

“Go?” Emma was startled. “Where?”

“They want to meet you. Now. Tonight. We must go now. Right away!” Ngoan was insistent.

“Who are we meeting? How far is it?”

“You ask too many questions. Come, we have a long way to go.”

They entered the dimly lighted church and walked along a side aisle to an exit near the sanctuary. As the door closed behind them, Emma saw that they were in a small walled graveyard. Ngoan hissed and beckoned to her. Hoping her sandals would survive a long journey, Emma followed. They left the churchyard through a rusty gate in the wall at the far end, passed along a narrow alley that reeked of rotting vegetables and cooking oil, and found themselves on a narrow jungle path.

They walked for three hours, with only a fitful moon lighting their way. Just when Emma was limp with fatigue and about to declare that she could not go any further, they arrived at a small clearing in the mountains high above Luang Prabang. A sentry challenged them, but he let them pass when Ngoan spoke to him. He and Emma approached the entrance of a limestone cave. Inside they found a half dozen men seated on matting woven of the same tough elephant grass the local tribesmen used to thatch their roofs. Ngoan went up to the man in the center of the group, a powerful-looking Lao with thick black hair, wide intelligent eyes, and the tanned complexion of one who has spent his life out of doors. Ngoan made a deep obeisance, then pressed his palms together and touched his fingertips to his forehead. The other man nodded impatiently and switched his glance to Emma.

“Welcome, Mademoiselle Vaughan.” He spoke perfect French.

“Who are you?” she asked, unable to contain her curiosity a moment longer.

“I am Souphanouvong,” he said simply.

Emma gasped. This was the notorious Red Prince, who had founded the communist-oriented Pathet Lao, or Land of the Lao, movement. Her patience with Ngoan had paid off. She was about to score a real journalistic coup, a scoop:

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