Conspiracy (14 page)

Lu answered in Vietnamese that he, too, was happy to meet Dean and welcome him to his country.

“The car is outside,” he added in English. “I will take you to the hotel.”

“How about a drive around the city first?” asked Karr.

“You want scenic road?”

The juxtaposition of “scenic” and Vietnam seemed highly ironic to Dean, and yet as they drove to the hotel he realized that the country was indeed beautiful. Even the developing outskirts of Saigon, which looked a lot like the smaller cities of China, with cranes and bulldozers scraping the earth, had plenty of lush greenery to set off the yellow machines and the buildings they passed.

The city itself looked almost nothing like the Saigon Dean had visited as a Marine. New high-rises were sprinkled among the colonial-style buildings that had completely dominated then. Instead of casting shadows on the older, smaller buildings, the high-rises seemed to light them up, pulling them out of the past.

Motorbikes flooded around the car as it circled a city square marked by a fountain and leafy green trees. Dean noticed a family of four clinging to an older bike, a three-year-old leaning precariously toward the ground.

“The New World Hotel,” said Lu as they pulled up. “You enjoy it very much.”

Built in 1995, the New World was one of the city's finer hotels. Located not far from the Tao Dan Culture Center and Lelai Park, it towered over the downtown area, pushing the lesser buildings in its shadow toward the murky Saigon River. Sleek marble panels lined the hotel's glass-enclosed atrium, and the lobby looked as luxurious and modern as any Dean had seen.

Karr whistled as they took it all in.

“We better get some serious sales to justify this bill, huh, Charlie?”

Lu helped them with their bags, then gave them a card to call if they needed a driver again.

They checked out their rooms, which were next to each other on one of the executive floors. Karr examined the rooms for bugs while Dean planted some of their own, positioning
dime-sized video cameras so the Art Room could see not only their rooms but also the hallway, elevator, and stairs. The bugs sent their signals to a booster unit the size of a paperback book, which he placed on the interior window ledge of his room. The small case looked like a battery waiting to be recharged.

Their rooms secure, Dean and Karr ambled out of the hotel and began what looked like a haphazard walking tour of the area. They spent a few minutes oohing and aahing, “doing the tourist thing,” as Karr put it—checking out the general area to make sure they were familiar with possible escape routes.

Then they became more serious. They rented motorbikes from four different shops, stashing them at different parking areas so they would have them if necessary. Dean rented a car as well, though in Saigon, cars tended to stand out and were not as useful as the more ubiquitous motorbikes.

Karr, meanwhile, made a visit to a small notions shop several blocks from the hotel, emerging with a pair of large suitcases. Inside the cases were weapons and other equipment pre-positioned in the country. The weapons included an assortment of pistols and a specially designed assault gun called the A2; its boxy magazine held ninety-nine caseless 4.92mm bullets, which could be fired in three-round bursts—or all at once, which would take a little more than ten seconds.

“See anything familiar yet, Charlie?” asked Karr, when they hooked up again. He had already stashed some of the gear in a locker at the bus station and now filled the trunk of the rental car with the rest.

“No.”

Dean glanced around. The Saigon streets were very different from what he remembered. Even allowing for the fact that he had only been here briefly, very long ago, the place bore almost no resemblance to anything he remembered. He tried to scrub away the obvious anachronisms of his memory—the drab green military vehicles, the rock music that occasionally blared from the most unexpected places,
strategically placed sandbags and gun emplacements. There were just too many things to add—tall skyscrapers, a multitude of motorbikes, billboards that, except for their Vietnamese characters, could have been sitting over an LA freeway.

“Feels like I've never been here before,” said Dean, though that wasn't 100 percent true.

 

AFTER SPREADING BACKUP
gear around the city, they found a spot to park the car where it wouldn't be disturbed and went back to the hotel.

“You think you'll be all right at the reception on your own?” Karr asked Dean as they got into the elevator.

“You think you'll be all right breaking into the ministry on your own?”

“I'm not breaking in, Charlie. I'm visiting. After hours.” Karr smiled. “There's a difference.”

 

A SMILING WOMAN
in a long red dress approached Dean shortly after he entered the reception in the Ben Thanh Hall on the second floor of the hotel. She looked Asian but was taller and younger than most of the women Dean had seen in the hotel so far.

“You must be Mr. Dean,” said the woman. “Kelly Tang. I'm with the U.S. Department of Commerce.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Just get in?” asked the covered CIA officer.

“This morning.”

Tang asked him about his flight, glancing to the right at two men who had come in just behind him. She cut him off as he answered, excusing herself and then going over to speak to them.

It was a pretty clever move, Dean thought, designed to show anyone watching that she wasn't really interested in him.

Or maybe not. Maybe she really wasn't interested. It was sometimes hard to read the CIA people they worked with.

Dean walked over to the bar and ordered a seltzer. A Japanese businessman standing nearby pretended to do a double take when the drink was delivered.

“No alcohol?” asked the man in English.

“I'm afraid it will make me fall asleep,” said Dean.

“You are the first American I have ever met who did not drink. What do you do?”

“I sell farm equipment for Barhm Manufacturing.”

“Barhm? In Minnesota?”

“Yes,” said Dean.

“You are my competitor,” said the man, who stepped backward slightly and then bowed, as if they were two sumo wrestlers facing off. “Toshio Kurokawa. I with Kaito.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Dean, lowering his head.

“You have a very good machine, RD-743.”

“The rice cultivator,” said Rockman from the Art Room. “Kaito's rival model is AG-7. They outsell you about twelve to one in the States.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” Dean told Kurokawa.

“Say something about his machine, Charlie,” prompted Rockman. “To show your bona fides.”

That was the problem with the Art Room. They were world-class kibitzers, always trying to tell you what to do. The last thing Dean wanted to do was talk shop. Rockman might have all the facts and figures at his fingertips, but there was no way to finesse the nuances. A really skilled bull artist might be able to get away with it, but Dean had never considered himself very good at lying. The best thing to do, he thought, was simply change the subject.

He turned and pointed vaguely across the room, singling out no one in particular. “Is that man from the agricultural ministry?”

Kurokawa squinted across the room. “Yes,” he said finally, but Dean got the impression that he was just being agreeable and didn't want to admit he had no idea whom Dean meant.

“Have you been in Vietnam before?” Dean asked Kurokawa.

“Many times.”

“This is my first visit,” said Dean.

“An interesting place to do business.”

“So I've been told.”

Dean saw Tang approaching out of the corner of his eye. He asked Kurokawa what part of the country he liked best. The Japanese businessman said diplomatically that all parts of the country were interesting.

A waiter with a tray of American-style appetizers appeared,
relieving Dean of the onerous task of making meaningless conversation. Kurokawa took a small barbecue-flavored piece of chicken and a fried dumpling.

“Mr. Dean, I'm sorry to have left you. I hope you don't think I was rude,” said Tang. She brushed a lock of her shoulder-length hair from her face as she spoke. Tang had a rounded face on a slim body, as if she were the product of a genetic mismatch. But she smiled easily, and the vivacious energy that emanated from her made her attractive.

“This is Mr. Kurokawa,” said Dean, introducing his drinking partner. “He's with Kaito. My very successful competitor.”

The Japanese salesman bowed.

“There's someone I would like you to meet, Mr. Dean,” said Tang. “He can be very useful to your company as you do business in Vietnam.”

They left Kurokawa and went across the room to a short, narrow-faced Vietnamese bureaucrat.

Thao Duong, the first of Dean's three contacts.

“Mr. Duong, I would like you to meet my friend Charles Dean,” said Tang, allowing a hint of formality into her voice. “His company makes a very good rice cultivator, which could help you increase your yields.”

“This would be very good,” said Duong. He had a plate of appetizers in his hand; it was heaped high with food.

Tang drifted away. Dean, struggling with small talk, told Duong his company was very interested in doing business. The Vietnamese official merely nodded and continued to stuff his face. He was very thin, and Dean wondered if he didn't get a chance to eat regularly.

“I haven't been in Vietnam since the war,” said Dean. “A great deal has changed.”

“Yes,” agreed Duong.

“I spent a lot of time in Quang Nam Province,” said Dean. “Has it been built up a great deal now?”

Duong shook his head. “Not much. The industry is concentrated here. Factories.”

Duong looked around the hall. He seemed nervous, as if he thought someone was watching him.

A good sign or a bad sign? Tang hadn't been told exactly what they were up to, so there was no way that Duong knew, either—unless, of course, he was the man Forester had contacted. In that case, Duong would probably think it was more than a coincidence that he had been invited here and that he was now being approached.

“I think we might have a mutual acquaintance,” said Dean, deciding there was no reason to beat around the bush. “Jerry Forester.”

Duong shook his head immediately.

“I thought you might have spoken with him recently by e-mail.”

Duong said nothing.

“I thought maybe you had something you'd like to say to him.”

“Excuse me,” said Duong, and without saying anything else, he turned and walked toward the door, not even stopping to put his half-empty plate down.

 

LIVING AND WORKING
in a communist country under a dictatorship had certain severe disadvantages for citizens, but it did make some things easier for spies. Case in point: official-looking documents were rarely questioned, as long as they had official-looking signatures.

The papers Tommy Karr had directing him to appear in the office of the deputy chief of trade on the third floor of the interior ministry were signed and stamped in three places. The guard at the front door squinted at each stamp, then opened the door and waved Karr inside.

The man at the desk proved suspicious. Noting that it was after hours, he decided to call the deputy chief's office.

His vigilance earned him a severe tongue-lashing from the deputy chief's “assistant”—aka Thu De Nghiem, who answered the phone after the call was routed to him by the Art Room's hackers. Red-faced, the security officer personally escorted Karr to the elevator, even leaning inside and pushing the button for the third floor.

“What'd you say to him?” Karr asked the Art Room as the elevator started upward.

“He asked why the deputy chief was working late,” Rockman told him. “Thu told him to save his questions for his performance review.”

“That'll fix him.”

“Once you're out of the elevator, the stairs should be the second door on the right.”

“Feel blind without video surveillance cameras, huh?” said Karr.

“They would help.”

“Makes it easier for me,” said Karr, who didn't have to worry about the guard following him upstairs through the monitors. He did, of course, have to make sure he got off on the right floor, which was why he headed for the stairs as soon as he got there. Thao Duong's office was on the fifth floor.

“Just plant plenty of video bugs as you go, OK?”

“Sure will. How's the one downstairs?”

“Guard's still there.”

“Fire code violation,” said Karr when he found the door locked. He bent down to examine the lock. “Wafer tumbler lock,” he announced. He reached into his lock pick kit for a diamond pick.

“Tommy, we have a shadow from one of those offices down the hall on the right,” said Rockman. “Someone's coming.”

Karr had already heard the footsteps and straightened.

“Who are you?” asked the man in Vietnamese.

The Art Room translator gave Karr the Vietnamese words to reply, but the op had already decided on a better strategy.

“ 'Scuse me,” he said. “I wonder if you could direct me to Mr. Hoa's office? I seem to have gotten lost. I'm supposed to be there like five minutes ago.”

“Who are you?” repeated the man, again in Vietnamese.

“See, I have this paper.”

Karr took out the paper he had used to get into the building.

The man was unimpressed. “Mr. Hoa has gone home,” he told Karr. “Leave.”

“I'm sorry, I don't understand Vietnamese,” said Karr, though what the man was saying would have been clear even without Thu De Nghiem explaining it in his ear.

“Tommy, get out of there,” said Telach.

“Go!” said the man, using English this time. “Go!”