Conspiracy (23 page)

Glove on his right hand, Dean tucked his pistol into his belt and slipped down the stairs. The guard stood just inside the open doorway; Dean could see his shadow as he tiptoed down.

The man who'd taught Dean how to use the “doping glove” was a former Special Forces soldier. He'd made it look easy, pulling his subject back with one arm held around the neck while clamping the open area near the throat with the glove. Dean, however, worried that in the frenzy he'd
accidentally hit himself with one of the needles, and so he improvised: he stepped from the doorway, grabbed the bodyguard's ponytail, and yanked him sideways. As he did, he jabbed his gloved hand at the man. Dean missed the bodyguard's throat, getting his face instead. He held on as the surprised Vietnamese man struggled and attempted to scream. Dean took two hard punches to the chest before a third missed badly and told him that the drug had begun to do its job. He dragged his victim away from the door, making sure to leave him on his side so that if he vomited—unfortunately, a common side effect of the drug—he wouldn't drown in his own puke.

“First door on your right,” said Rockman. “Go!”

No shit, thought Dean. He could have done without the runner's encouragement.

Dean pulled the pistol from his belt, took a breath, then walked quickly to the door of the room. He pushed through the beads and saw Cam Tre Luc lying on the bed, his face between the legs of a blond whore.

“Cam Tre Luc?” said Dean.

“Who the hell are you?”

“I'm sorry. I came for a friend—Gerald Forester. He's hoping you have information for him.”

“You have no business here,” Cam Tre Luc told the man, staring into his eyes. “Out.”

They stared at each other for several long seconds.

“Charlie, Madonna has a pistol behind her back,” warned Rockman.

Dean ignored the girl. Though obviously angry, Cam Tre Luc looked pathetic, naked from the waist down; his legs were spindly and his butt creased with sagging fat.

“Forester needs your help,” Dean told him. He reached into his pocket for a card. “Call this number.” He dropped the card on the bed. “I didn't want to approach you at your house or office. No one else knows. Don't, lady,” Dean added, pointing his pistol at the prostitute as she slipped out of bed. “I know you have a gun. I'm not here to hurt anybody.”

Cam Tre Luc continued to glare at him.

There was a shout in the hall.

“The phone number,” said Dean, pointing at the card. “We can make it worth your while.”

Miss Madonna started to scream.

“Time to go, Charlie,” said Rockman.

“I'm on my way,” said Dean, backing out of the room.

 

CAM TRE LUC
felt himself tremble with rage and embarrassment and—worst of all—impotence. Who did this American think he was?

Cam Tre Luc had no idea who this Forester was, nor would he have helped a Westerner under any circumstances. But in this case—in this case he would have revenge for his humiliation.

“Give me that gun,” he told Miss Madonna. “Then get my pants.”

 

DEAN HAD REACHED
the stairs by the time Rockman warned him that Cam Tre Luc's guard was coming down the hallway. With his first step downward, Dean lost his footing. He shoved his hand in the direction of the railing and grabbed it for a moment, temporarily steadying himself. But the railing then gave way and Dean shot forward, pirouetting down six or seven steps to the landing on the second floor.

It sounded as if everyone in the whorehouse was shouting. Rockman and the interpreter in the Art Room were both talking at once. A gunshot cracked in the far distance. Wood splintered near Dean's head. Someone was shooting at him, the bullets flying just a few feet away. For some reason, the sound was different than bullets usually sounded, more brittle, less real.

Dean started to crawl around the landing to the next run of steps. Suddenly the stairway exploded with a loud crash. A brutal flash of light blinded him. Dean began to choke. Then he felt himself fall or fly—he couldn't tell the difference.

A voice came out of the swirl below him.

“Hang on, partner,” said Tommy Karr, who'd hoisted Dean to his shoulder. “One more flight to go.”

 

AS KARR REACHED
the alley behind Saigon Rouge he dropped the second small tear gas grenade he had in his hand, then turned toward the motorbikes they'd stashed earlier.

“Let me down,” growled Dean from Karr's shoulder.

“I was hoping you'd say that,” answered Karr, but he didn't let go of Dean until they reached the bikes. There were shouts now all along the block, and Karr could hear the sounds of engines starting and people running. No one was in the alley, however; confusion was still on their side.

Dean stood woozily, putting his hand against the wall for balance.

“Get on my bike. Come on,” Karr told him, tilting it to the side.

“I'll take my own.”

“Suit yourself,” said Karr, kick-starting his to life.

Dean got on the other bike woozily.

“You OK, Charlie?”

“Yeah.” His bike purred to life.

Someone appeared in the alley behind them, yelling at them to halt.

“I'm going to throw a flash-bang,” said Karr, grabbing at his belt. “Go. I'll meet you back at the hotel.”

As Dean thundered off, the person who'd yelled at them—one of Cam Tre Luc's bodyguards—began shooting. A bullet bounced off the wall opposite Karr, spraying pieces of clay from the brick. Karr tossed the flash-bang grenade over his shoulder and then hit the gas, hunkering down as the grenade exploded behind him.

The grenade was enough of a diversion to keep the bodyguard from following, but either one of his bullets or the shrapnel from them punctured Karr's rear tire. He didn't notice until he hit the main street and tried to turn; by then the air had run out completely and the rubber shell was so mangled that it whipped off with a screech a cat might make if its skin was pulled from its body. Karr felt the bike shifting abruptly
to its side. He tried to let it fall beneath him, hoping to walk away from the wipeout just as he would have done as a teenager on his uncle's farm a few years before. But Karr's foot caught on the frame of the bike; knocked off balance, he spun around and landed on his back in the middle of the street.

Karr jumped to his feet just in time to narrowly miss being run over by a bus. He tried chasing it down to hop on the back, but it was moving too fast and there were no good handholds besides.

“Hey, Charlie,” he said, continuing down the block. “I need a lift.”

“He's circling back for you,” said Rockman. “Run to the north.”

“Which way is north?” said Karr.

“Take the next left. Bodyguards have gone back to the building,” added Rockman. “Cam Tre Luc is really angry.”

“Guess he's not the guy we're looking for, huh?”

“I wouldn't be too sure about that, Mr. Karr,” said Rubens from the Art Room. “Let's give it some time and see what develops. For now, please get as far away from the area as possible.”

“Good idea, boss,” said Karr, hearing Dean's bike approaching in the distance.

 

MARIE TELACH TURNED
to Rubens.

“We'll have Cam Tre Luc's voice patterns analyzed,” she said. “But I'd say his surprise seemed fairly genuine. I don't think he was the one communicating with Forester.”

“No,” said Rubens. He folded his arms.

“Is it worth sending anyone north to check on the last possibility?” asked Telach. “Thao Duong looks like he's got to be involved.”

Thao Duong was involved in
something,
thought Rubens. That much was clear.

“He's positioned perfectly to funnel money from the government to the people in America,” continued Telach. “He speaks with people in different American cities.”

“True,” admitted Rubens. “But how would Forester have found him? And why would he think he'd talk?”

“Because a source here told him he would. Or he knew something about his background.”

“Yes,” said Rubens vaguely. He wasn't convinced. “What's the third man's name?”

“Phuc Dinh. A minor government official in the area near Da Nang,” said Telach.

“Have Charlie contact him. Mr. Karr can continue watching Thao Duong. Have him keep his distance. Let's give the intercepts a few days and see what they turn up.”

 

RUBENS WAS JUST
picking up the phone to call Collins at the CIA and update her when National Security Advisor Donna
Bing called wanting to know what the status of the “Vietnam thing” was. He gave her a brief rundown.

“So this Thao Duong is in the middle of it,” said Bing, her excitement obvious. “Can you get him to talk?”

“I'm not sure that he is in the middle of it,” said Rubens. “I'm not even sure there is anything for him to be in the middle of.”

“No need to be so circumspect, Bill. You're not talking to the Senate. I suggest we pick him up and talk to him.”

“I believe I'd need a little more information before I went ahead and
picked him up,
” said Rubens. “We'll require a finding.”

A “finding” was an order based on specific intelligence, approved by the NSC and signed by the President directing Desk Three to take a certain action. Activities that had the potential of causing extreme international trouble—like forcibly kidnapping an official of a foreign government in his home country in a nonemergency situation—could only be carried out pursuant to a finding. It usually took at least two meetings of the NSC before one was prepared.

“Don't worry about the finding,” Bing told him. “I'll arrange that. Are you in a position to bring him back?”

“Certainly if he volunteers to come back, we can accommodate him,” said Rubens.

“That's not what we're talking about.”

“I can have a full team in place seventy-two hours after the finding,” said Rubens.

“Get it in place now.”

Rubens hung up. Was Bing being overly aggressive because she wanted to prove her theory about Vietnam and the Chinese? Or was he being more cautious than warranted?

Rubens couldn't be sure. The one thing he did know was this: for a man who prided himself on being logical and unemotional under pressure, he felt a great deal of foreboding every time he spoke to Donna Bing on the phone.

 

“
LO IS COMPLAINING
that you stiffed him,” Kelly Tang told Dean early the morning after the adventures at Saigon Rouge. They'd arranged to meet for breakfast at Saolo, a cafe near his hotel. “He wants five thousand U.S. from me.”

“I would have paid if I saw him,” Dean told her. “And I only owe him five hundred, not five thousand.”

“You should pay him. If you don't, I'll have to, just to shut him up.”

“I will,” said Dean. “Eventually.”

Tang folded her arms. “It's not easy developing people, especially people like Lo. They're a necessary evil.”

Dean slipped his hand into his pocket and retrieved the envelope with Lo's five hundred dollars. “So pay him.”

Tang frowned. “It's not counterfeit, I hope. He'll know the difference.”

“It's not counterfeit.”

Tang took the money and slipped it into the waistband of her pants.

“I need another favor,” said Dean.

“What?”

“I need to get to Quang Nam,” Dean told her. “I need a driver I can trust.”

“Quang Nam?”

“It's a province near the DMZ.”

“I know where Quang Nam is,” said Tang curtly. “And there is no more DMZ. The war ended a long time ago.”

“Sorry.”

“A driver? Why don't you fly to Da Nang?”

“I prefer to drive.”

The real reason was that the airports were always watched and Dean didn't want to be seen traveling around any more than necessary. Besides, he'd need a vehicle once he was in Quang Nam.

“You can come if you want,” added Dean. “I'm going to Tam Ky.”

“I can't. I'm sorry, I have too much to do here. I'll find you a driver, though. Trustworthy. To a point.”

Dean started to interrupt, but she continued, explaining what she meant.

“We're in Vietnam. No one is completely trustworthy. Not even yourself. Don't worry. She's nothing like Lo.”

“She?”

“You have a problem with women?”

Dean shook his head.

“You won't be able to use your same cover,” Tang told him. “You'll have to say you're an aid worker. It will arouse less suspicion. With her. She doesn't like conglomerates. It'll be easier.”

“OK.”

“How soon do you want to leave?”

“As soon as possible. Today would be good.”

Tang frowned. “I'll do the best I can. No guarantees.”

Dean took a sip of tea, then nibbled on the sugared pastry he'd ordered blind off the menu. It was made of very thin layers of what he thought was phyllo dough and enough sugary syrup to send a dentist's entire family to college. Karr would have loved it; Dean found it far too sweet but was too hungry not to eat.

“I heard there was some excitement in District Four last night,” said Tang.

“Oh?”

“There were some explosions in a house of ill repute. The police were even called.”

“Don't know anything about it.”

“I'll bet.”

Tang smiled, then reached across the table and put her hand down on his.

“You'll be careful?” she said.

“Sure.”

“I like you, Mr. Dean. You're old-school.” Tang patted his hand, then got up. “Check your phone messages in about an hour.”

Dean thought about the soft tap of Tang's hand as he walked back to his hotel.