Free Black Tiger by Jennifer Kewley Draskau Page A

met my first prince—your handsome, intellectual brother.’
    Pim stiffened. She looked down at her hands. Chee Laan suddenly noticed that her eyelashes were like dark fur, spiky and glossy, owing nothing to art and all to nature—unlike Salikaa’s, which lived in a sequined case concealed beneath her mattress and were glued on every morning. Chee Laan had caught her in the act of applying them once. There had almost been another flare-up.
    Now, for the first time since they had known her, it was Pim who was offended. Silently she rose and went back to her own bed, without so much as a murmured goodnight. Salikaa laughed again, tossed her black mane, and was gone, throwing the curtain closed behind her. Chee Laan lay for some time staring into the dark. She did not sleep for many hours—and when at last sleep did come to her, it was dreamless and deep.
    In the cool, watery moonlight, Sister Marie-Hélène paced the creaking boards, her rosary beads sliding softly through her fingers. She peeked in on the three sleeping foreign students, their heads dark against the snowy starched linen. The young princess lay still and straight as a medieval martyr in a vault, her hair spreading out in a dark cloud. The Chinese girl lay curled knees to chin, clutching a pillow, muttering occasionally. The wild girl, who so alarmed gentle Sister Marie-Hélène, tossed and turned restlessly in the tangled bedclothes, making little clicking noises and sometimes grinding her teeth. The nun watched for moment, then crossed herself.
    ‘A restless spirit,’ she murmured. ‘Une âme inquiète!’
    The thought crossed her mind that these three dark-haired girls had the air of beautiful lost children, stolen away by some creature in a fairy tale. Far from home, outside the faith, they seemed to her creatures of legend. She clacked her tongue at herself for a fanciful old woman. The sound was loud in the silent dormitory, but the girls did not stir. Sister Marie-Hélène seized another bead and embarked upon another Ave. Tomorrow she would speak to them of St Theresa. Surely that would touch their hearts.

Bangkok, Thailand
    From the diary of General Blaze van Hooten, United States Army, Director General, South East Asia Treaty Organization [SEATO]
    March 14, 1968
    I knew it was more than a social visit when King Rama’s uncle, General Worawong, said he wished to see me. He gave no notion of his agenda, but I had my suspicions, which turned out to be correct. There was no question of refusing or postponing the meeting, even though I needed this royal visit like a hole in the head.
    I had a lot on my mind at the time. The unfortunate My Lai ‘massacre’ episode was a fresh wound that continued to fester. It had caused acute embarrassment to the United States, and the issue was still sensitive. Public consciousness is never even-handed, especially when manipulated by the left-wing propaganda of the prejudiced media. They seemed intent on promulgating the concept that our involvement in Vietnam was foolhardy and doomed to disaster. The media did their best to ensure that My Lai was remembered, while the atrocities of Hue, where Viet Cong terrorists massacred several thousand Vietnamese, were forgotten.
    If I had my way, I would line those pinko hacks against a wall and blast them to kingdom come.
    This is not happy time. The U.S. military engagement in Vietnam has developed unforeseen complexities. Every objective achieved, every substantive gain, is followed by setbacks. Like the mythological hydra, it seems that, where we succeed in chopping off one head, ten more spring up in its place.
    In the course of my posting to Thailand, I have met with many members of the Thai royal family, including this old rascal General Worawong. They tend to wheel the old guy out on official occasions with a military flavour. He is a frail older gentleman with wispy grey hair and beard, exquisite manners, and the wise, mild face of an ancient saint. My sources