Conspiracy (24 page)

 

“
ARE YOU COMING
for me, Charlie?”

Dean blinked his eyes open. He'd dozed off.

“Charlie?”

It was Longbow, calling him. He was in the sniper nest, waiting for Phuc Dinh.

A dream. It's a dream.

“Charlie? Are you coming? Charlie?”

The air began popping with gunfire.

Charlie?

 

“
YOUR DRIVER IS
downstairs,” said Rockman, talking to Dean via the Deep Black com system. “Charlie—are you awake?”

The phone rang. Dean jerked upright in the bed. He'd lain back to rest and drifted off.

He'd seen Longbow in his dream. And Phuc Dinh. They were both alive.

Nonsense.

“Answer the phone, Charlie,” said Rockman. “Are you there?”

“I'm here, Rockman.” Dean picked it up. “Yes?”

“Mr. Dean?”

“I'm Charles Dean.”

“You need someone to take you to Quang Nam?”

“Yes.”

“I'm in the lobby.”

“I'll be there in five minutes.”

 

LIA PACED AROUND
the hotel room, unable to sleep though it was going on 1:00
A.M.
After meeting with Mandarin, she'd spent the day and much of the night with an FBI agent who was checking on three different disgruntled constituents of McSweeney's, in and around New York City and Westchester. The only thing she'd learned was that FBI agents had a particularly poor sense of direction.

More and more, the whole thing seemed like a wild-goose chase.

Then again, what Deep Black assignment hadn't?

Maybe tomorrow would be better. Lia had an appointment with the doctor who'd examined Forester's body the night he was found.

She sank into the chair at the side of the room and flipped on the television. The volume blared, even though she had her finger on mute.

The person in the next room banged on the wall.

“Sorry,” Lia said, turning it down.

Lia trolled through the channels. There was nothing on that interested her. She left it playing and went to the window, staring out at the stars, thinking of Charlie Dean.

Vietnam was eleven hours ahead—it'd be around noon.

“Hope you're doing better than I am, Charlie,” she whispered to the night.

 

ORIGINALLY, JIMMY FINGERS
thought of it the way he thought of any grand election strategy: a story for the voters. It had an arc and a hero. It also had a set end point, which they'd reached.

But like all good campaign strategies, this one had been overtaken by events. It had succeeded incredibly. Yet there were also signs of problems. Not only were Secret Service people everywhere; now there were FBI agents and U.S. marshals and for all he knew CIA officers combing through the files and shaking the trees for suspects. With that many people involved, someone was bound to stumble onto something that would upset the overall campaign. They might begin focusing on the wrong things. He could easily lose control of the narrative.

“Another Scotch?” asked the bartender, pointing at Jimmy's glass.

There was a shout and applause from the other room, where several hundred campaign workers had gathered to watch television coverage of the primary results. Senator McSweeney, upstairs taking a shower, would be down in an hour to declare an unprecedented victory in the Super Tuesday polls. With the exception of Arkansas, where he'd taken a close second to the state's favorite-son candidate, McSweeney had swept.

It was all due to the assassination attempt. Not so much because it had made McSweeney seem sympathetic as well as important, but because it had given people a chance to
listen to his message. So maybe the senator had been right after all—maybe sticking with the issue spots at a time when there was plenty of “soft” news about his personality was the right thing to do.

He'd mention that, Jimmy thought, glancing up at the television screen to see that the media had just put Florida in the McSweeney column. Jimmy Fingers lifted his Scotch in a toast to the state and its electoral votes.

Jimmy Fingers' phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket, knowing it was McSweeney.

“So?” asked the senator. “What do you say?”

“Have a quick drink and come on down,” said Jimmy Fingers. “I'd invite you to join me at the bar, but I'm not sure you'd make it through the crowd.”

“I'm coming down right now,” said McSweeney. “Meet me backstage.”

“You got it.” Jimmy Fingers snapped the phone closed and downed his drink before getting off the stool.

Yes, the story definitely needed a new direction, just to keep it going.

 

QUI LAI CHU
was not what Dean expected. For one thing, she was considerably older—his age, he guessed, though it showed mostly at the corners of her eyes. She was also taller than most Vietnamese. It turned out that she had a French mother—a fact Rockman supplied as Dean followed her to her car, a two-year-old immaculately white Hyundai parked in front of the hotel.

“Grandfather was in the French diplomatic corps. Mother married a Vietnamese—well, that's obvious from the name, huh?”

Dean grunted.

Qui took two quick steps and opened the rear door of the car.

It felt odd, having a woman open the door for him.

“I thought I'd sit in the front with you,” said Dean. “If that's OK.”

“Your bag?”

“I'll just keep it with me. It's not a problem.” Among other things, Dean had his Colt in it, and preferred to keep it close.

Qui bent her head slightly, indicating that she understood, and went around to the other side of the car. She moved with a grace that seemed to take possession of the space around her.

“Where in Quang Nam are we going?” she asked when she got behind the wheel.

“The capital. Tam Ky.”

“One thousand American. You pay for gas and meals,” she said. “And lodging. We won't be able to go and come back in the same day, unless you have very little business.”

“My business may take several days,” Dean told her.

She bent her head again. “Two hundred for each additional day.”

“Do you want to be paid in advance?” Dean asked.

“I trust you for when we get back, or I wouldn't be here. The weapon that you have in your bag—you won't need it.”

“I hope not,” said Dean.

“Vietnam is safer than you think, Mr. Dean. I'm surprised that your superiors at the International Fund allow you to travel with a weapon.”

“I don't tell them everything.”

Qui put her key in the ignition and started the car. She pulled out smoothly into the stream of motorbikes, blending with them as she wended toward the highway.

“Saigon is very different from when you were here during the war, is it not, Mr. Dean?” she asked.

“How do you know I was here during the war?”

“A guess. You look at the city in a certain way. I have seen this before.”

“I was here during the war,” said Dean. “In Saigon for a few days. Most of my time was in Quang Nam.”

“You were in the Army?”

“Marines.”

“Ahh,” said Qui, as if this explained everything.

“What did you do during the war?” Dean asked.

Qui's lip curled with a smile, but it faded before she spoke. “The war lasted a long time, Mr. Dean.”

“You can call me Charlie.”

“It was a long war, Mr. Dean. It began before I was born. I grew old well before it was over.”

Qui didn't elaborate. Dean turned his attention to the scenery. The factories, office buildings, and apartments gave way to stretches of green. Houses poked out from behind the foliage in the distance, as if they were playing a child's game of hide-and-seek. The trucks that passed from
the other direction were mostly Japanese made, though here and there Dean was surprised by a Mack dump truck and a GMC Jimmy, among others. A half hour out of Saigon, Dean spotted an old American tank left from the war sitting off the road. Though surrounded by weeds, the tank appeared freshly painted, its olive green skin glistening in the sun.

Dean kept his cover story ready, expecting Qui to ask about it. His preparation wasn't necessary, however; she seemed to have no interest in small talk, let alone quizzing him about his bona fides. He wondered why Tang told him he needed a new cover until they passed a large piece of bulldozed land off the highway in the Central Highlands, more than two hours after setting out. Qui muttered something loudly to herself as they passed, then realized Dean had heard her.

“They tear down everything,” she said.
“Pourri,”
she added, beginning a riff in very profane French about corrupt corporations and equally corrupt government officials raping the land. She spoke far too quickly for Dean's very limited French, but the depth of her feeling was clear.

“Without the curses, she said, ‘Corporations and politicians suck,' ” Rockman told him.

“I guess I didn't catch too much of that,” Dean told her. “But you're angry about the bulldozers?”

Qui smirked. “It's a beautiful country.”

“It is.”

“You're only just realizing that?”

Dean stared at her, noticing again the lines around the corners of her eyes. They looked softer now.

“I didn't appreciate beauty the first time I was here,” he told her.

“Do you now?”

“As I got older, I started to see things differently.”

There was a knot of traffic ahead. Without answering him, or even making a sign that she had heard, Qui turned her full attention to the car, maneuvering to pass.

Dean stared out the passenger-side window. A man plowed a field with an ox-drawn plow, struggling to overturn the
earth. Smoke curled in the distance, a small brush fire set to remove debris.

The scene was both common and familiar. His brain plucked a similar one at random from its memory—an image from a helicopter, a flight out to Khe Sahn early in his tour here, when he was still being tested.

When he was still fresh meat.

“You're here to assuage your guilt,” said Qui.

“How's that?” Dean asked.

“You're a do-gooder. Most do-gooders, if they're not young, are making up for something. You're making up for the war, aren't you?”

“I don't think so,” Dean answered without thinking. Belatedly, he realized he should have said she was right—it fit with his cover.

“It's all right,” said Qui. She turned and smiled at him. “I'm a bit of a do-gooder myself.”

 

TOMMY KARR TOOK
a sip of the white liquid, swished it around in his mouth, then swallowed.

“Good?” asked the old man who had offered it to him.

“Good's a relative concept,” squeaked Karr. The liquid tasted like digested coconut mixed with rubbing alcohol.

“You want?”

“I'll take a Coke, I think.”

The man gave Karr a small bottle of the cola. Karr held out a ten-thousand-dong note for the man. A look of disappointment spread across the vendor's face.

“No American?”

“How much American?”

“Ten dollar.”

“For a Coke? I want soda, not cocaine.”

The old man didn't understand.

“One dollar,” said Karr, reaching into his pocket.

“Five dollar.”

“Then I pay in Vietnamese.”

“Two.”

“Tommy, Thao Duong is leaving his office,” warned Rockman from the Art Room. “He told his supervisor he's going for lunch.”

“Here, take the soda back.” Karr thrust it into his hand.

“OK, Joe. One dollar.”

“Next time!” said Karr over his shoulder as he jogged for the bike.

“Fifty cent!” sputtered the old man. “Dime! You pay dime!”

 

KARR REACHED THE
front of the office building just as Thao Duong came out. The Vietnamese official turned left, heading in the opposite direction. Karr turned at the corner, then spun into a U-turn, barely missing two bicyclists and another motorcycle.

“Don't get into a traffic accident,” hissed Rockman.

“You know, Rockman, you take all the fun out of this job,” said Karr.

As he joined the flow of traffic on the main street, Karr saw Thao Duong walking about a block ahead. He was headed down in the direction of the port, just like yesterday. Karr drove ahead four blocks, pulled up on the sidewalk, and parked. Then he leaned back against the side of the building, waiting for Thao Duong to catch up.

Karr was still waiting ten minutes later.

“Tommy, what's going on?” asked Marie Telach.

“Must've gotten waylaid somewhere,” said Karr, starting up the street in search of Thao Duong.

“All right, it's not a crisis if you lose him,” said the Art Room supervisor. “He may be trying to spot you.”

“Gee, thanks, Mom. Hadn't thought of that,” said Karr.

Karr checked the storefronts along the street as nonchalantly as he could. When he reached the block where he had spotted Thao Duong earlier, Karr turned right down the cross street. There were a dozen noodle shops lined up on both sides of the block. He guessed that Thao Duong was inside one, having an early dinner, but most were located in the basements of the buildings and it would have been difficult to spot him without being seen himself.

“What's the situation, Tommy?” asked Telach.

“Must be having lunch somewhere down this block,” said Karr. “No way to find out without exposing myself.”

“Hang back then.”

Karr felt his stomach growl. He was debating whether he
might not go into the noodle places anyway when he spotted someone who looked like Thao Duong coming up from one of the shops near the end of the block. Karr slapped a video bug on the light pole near him, then walked up the street.