Conspiracy (34 page)

“The Vietnamese?”

“I don't have any details. I'm not in the working group.”

“I thought you were in charge.”

“That'll be the day.”

“Well, if Bolso retires, you'll be a top candidate,” said Jimmy Fingers. “And there's always the McSweeney administration.”

“Give me a break. You guys have so many IOUs out, you're going to have to triple the size of the government to pay off.”

There was actually a lot of truth in the remark, and Jimmy Fingers smirked good-naturedly. “So tell me more about this Vietnamese thing,” he said.

“You didn't get it from me.”

“You? I don't even know you.”

 

THE CRAZY VIETNAMESE
conspiracy theory was so good, so delicious, that Jimmy Fingers wasn't entirely sure it wasn't some sort of ruse. He decided to call Jed Frey, the head of the Secret Service, to see if he could smoke anything else out.

Frey had an assistant call him back. While technically that was the proper etiquette—aides dealt with aides—it still angered Jimmy Fingers.

“What's this rumor I hear that the Vietnamese were trying to assassinate my guy?” said Jimmy Fingers.

“I'm not prepared to discuss that,” said the aide.

“Well, what the hell are you prepared to discuss?” said Jimmy Fingers, tongue-lashing the assistant. The senator deserved to know what was going on, the Service was not unassailable, the American public deserved better, blah blah blah. When he finished, Jimmy Fingers actually caught himself feeling sorry for the poor sap, who could only sit there and take it.

Having softened him up, Jimmy Fingers moved in for the kill.

“So, listen, between you and me,” said Jimmy Fingers. “Is this thing true or not? Should I tell the security guys to screen out anyone from the hall with squinty eyes or not? I don't want to give this guy another chance, you know what I'm saying?”

“It is a valid theory that's being pursued,” said the aide. “But it's not the leading theory.”

“What is the leading theory? The nut-job assassin?”

“I wouldn't quite put it that way.”

“And you're still looking at those e-mails, right? You know we got that other one the other day. You never told us what came of it.”

“We're definitely investigating. If you don't hear from us, it's only because we have nothing of interest to say.”

By the time Jimmy Fingers hung up the phone, he was convinced that the Secret Service had no idea what was going on. He was also convinced that the Vietnamese theory, as off-the-wall as it was, would benefit McSweeney immensely.

Which reporters, Jimmy Fingers thought, thumbing his cell phone's phone book open, did he want owing him a big favor?

 

DEAN AND KARR
were just finishing dinner when Telach told Dean to stand by for a communication from Rubens.

“Mr. Dean, Mr. Karr, it's time for you to leave Vietnam,” Rubens told them.

“Aw, and I was just getting used to the place,” said Karr.

“Please, Tommy, don't interrupt,” said Rubens. “We believe the security forces are looking for you. Therefore, we have arranged alternate transportation. A boat will meet you in the Saigon harbor at one
A.M
., your time. It will take you to a rendezvous with a helicopter five miles off the coast. The helicopter will take you to Thailand, and from there you will use commercial transport.”

“Commercial transport as in first class?” said Karr.

“I believe coach will suffice,” said Rubens. “Do you have any other questions?”

“Don't you think that's a long flight for coach?” said Karr.

“Any serious questions.”

“Who are these security people?” asked Dean. “Where are they?”

“Mr. Rockman can give you the details,” said Rubens. “They appear to be working at Cam Tre Luc's behest. I would not take them too lightly.”

“I'm not,” said Dean.

They paid their bill and left, gassed up the motorbike, and then headed in the direction of the port. The damp night air was thick with fog, but the breeze from the back of the bike felt good as it rushed past. Because of the fog, Karr drove
conservatively, at least for him; they stayed under the sound barrier.

The rendezvous spot was a short, bare pier. Even in the dark, it seemed to be falling apart.

“We can't wait out there,” said Dean. “Anybody going by on the street, or even on one of those other piers, can see us.”

They planted a pair of video bugs to cover the area and then drove a few blocks before settling on a secluded alley where they could wait. While Karr looked at the feed from the video bugs, Dean took out his sat phone and called Qui Lai Chu.

A man answered.

“Is Ms. Chu there?” said Dean.

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

“I'd like to speak to Ms. Chu,” said Dean.

The man said something to a companion that Dean couldn't make out. Another man came on the line and asked in English whom he was speaking to.

Dean hung up.

“Rockman, can you track down the location of the phone I just called?” Dean asked.

“Why?”

“Because I think Qui Lai Chu is in trouble.”

“Charlie, I don't think—”

“Track the phone for me, Rockman. Do it now.”

There was a pause. Marie Telach came on the line.

“Mr. Rubens wanted you to come home as soon as possible,” Telach told him.

“Then you'd better give me the location of that phone,” said Dean. “Because we're not leaving here until that woman is safe.”

 

QUI LAI CHU
sat on the wooden chair with her legs pressed together, staring at the floor. It had been quite a long time since she had had trouble with the police, but remembering how to deal with them did not require any great effort. The most important things were to remain calm and to do nothing to provoke them.

The door opened. Two of her jailers and a short, older man entered the room. As usual in Vietnam, the older man was in charge. The others stepped back from him deferentially.

“You, Qui Lai Chu—what did you do in Quang Nam?” said the man. The words shot from his mouth like crisp gunshots; he had a slight frown on his face, as if already angry that she was wasting his time.

“Who are you?” Qui asked.

“You are not in a position to ask questions! What did you do in Quang Nam?”

“I accompanied a business tourist there. I am a licensed translator,” Qui continued before the man could say anything else. “He was an American and he obviously felt war guilt. He spoke to several people and inquired about a dead man. He met with a government official. I assume it was an old enemy who had vanquished him, and he had come to make his respects.”

“What official?”

“He did not take me inside,” she said.

“Why bring a translator and not use her?”

“I cannot explain an American's whims.”

“You were paid?”

“Yes.”

Perhaps, thought Qui, he is looking for a bribe. But after several more questions about how she was paid—Qui knew better than to say that he had paid with American dollars, for that would have been a crime—her interrogator changed the subject.

“What was this man like?”

“An American. Stupid. Lazy. Fat.” They were the stock answers one was expected to give.

“Don't lie.”

“He was a typical American.” Qui held out her hands. “He said he was with a relief organization. He seemed intelligent, but spoke little. Like all Americans, I assume he had more money than he knew what to do with.”

Once again, the subject was changed, with Qui asked how the man had come to hire her. This was somewhat tricky ground. She was licensed by the government to translate, and driving Dean in her private car was, potentially, a crime if she charged for it, even though it was a common practice. With no way of knowing what her interrogator was after, Qui gave as little information as possible, leaving open the obvious but not stating it for the record.

“Do you still wish to know who I am?” asked the man finally.

“Yes.”

“My name is Cam Tre Luc. I am the director of the Interior Ministry Southern Security District. Do you know what that means?”

“You are an important man,” said Qui, lowering her gaze.

“It means that if I lift my fingers you will be reeducated in the countryside.”

“Reeducation” essentially meant banishment to a poor area where, if one was lucky, he or she might be looked on as a community slave. Reeducation could last a year or two or ten, depending on a number of factors, including bureaucratic whim and the emotions of the village's headman.

“I wish to speak to this Mr. Dean,” said Cam Tre Luc. “You will arrange it for me.”

Qui had not given Dean's name, but she was not surprised that Cam Tre Luc knew it.

“I don't know how to contact him,” said Qui.

“He called you a short while ago,” said Cam Tre Luc. He gestured to one of the younger men, who produced Cam Tre Luc's cell phone. “Call him back. Tell him to meet you at the Inchine Hilton.”

Qui took the phone, trying to think of how she could warn Dean while still appearing to do Cam Tre Luc's bidding. The phone provided its own answer—Dean's phone number had registered as gibberish on her directory.

“I don't have a way to contact him,” Qui told Cam Tre Luc.

“You will find a way,” he said, abruptly turning and leaving the room.

 

AS HE WALKED
down the hall from the interrogation room, Cam Tre Luc reached into his pocket and retrieved a small lump of misshapen metal, turning it over in his fingers as he walked. It was an unconscious habit; he had had the metal for going on forty years, ever since it was pulled from the rib where it had lodged, a few inches from his heart.

“Without luck,” the nurse who had pulled it from him said, “you would be a ghost.”

Lieutenant Son, the head of the division that had detained Ms. Chu, was waiting at the end of the hall.

“Keep questioning her about this American, Charles Dean,” Cam Tre Luc told him. “In the morning, I want her taken to his hotel.”

“He has not gone back, or I would have been informed.”

“My goal, comrade, is simple,” said Cam Tre Luc. “I wish Mr. Dean to be brought to me. If you have a better way of achieving that goal, by all means proceed. Just do not fail in the end.”

“What if this Dean has already left the country?”

“He would have been picked up at the airport. No, he is
still here. He hasn't checked out of his hotel. Detain him, take his passport, and alert me.”

“Absolutely, Comrade Director.”

Cam Tre Luc stepped out in the humid night air, still turning the metal lump between his fingers. The American would pay for his impertinence. They had not fought the war to be treated like peons.

 

LIA SLID THE
small dongle into the computer's USB slot as the librarian approached. She sat straight up and clicked on the Web browser, quickly typing in the address.

“Got it?” she said in a stage whisper.

“We're in,” said Telach back in the Art Room.

“Young woman,” said the librarian. “That's the third computer you've been on.”

“I couldn't get used to the keyboards on the others,” Lia told her.

“They are all the same brand of computer!”

“But the keyboards are different. Here, look at this one.” Lia pointed her to the computer at the next desk. “The support isn't quite level. It wobbles. Try it.”

The librarian frowned and sat down. She typed a few sentences.

“It seems perfectly level to me.”

“It felt odd to me,” Lia insisted.

“Some people,” muttered the librarian under her breath as she went back to the circulation desk.

“They need about ten more minutes,” said Telach.

“Fine,” said Lia, not bothering to keep her voice low. She checked the browser history on the top line; there were only two requests logged, both sites for free recipes.

“This one may have been it,” said Telach, relaying information from the technical people. “It looks like files have been erased. The entire history file has been erased.”

“Can you get it back?”

“They can get back whatever wasn't overwritten easily. As for the rest, I'll have to talk to Mr. Rubens to get approval to take their hard drive. Stand by.”

Lia looked up from the screen and saw that the librarian was staring at her.

“Just talking to myself,” said Lia.

“Well, please be considerate. Other people are trying to concentrate.”

“Sure thing.”

 

CHRISTOPHER BALL HAD
killed at least three dozen people in his life. Most were in Vietnam, where as enemy soldiers or guerillas they had clearly deserved it. Most of the rest were criminals, or involved in criminal activity, generally with Ball during the five or six years after Vietnam when he had parlayed his portion of the Key Tiger money into a sizeable nest egg by selling Asian heroin. Their deaths were also easily rationalized, as was the revenge killing of Jason Evans, the developer who had robbed Ball of much of his money in the mid-1980s, squandering over a million dollars in a scheme to build condos outside of LA. And then there was Reggie Gordon, whose murder—disguised as a suicide—was an absolute necessity. Gordon had clearly been the one to tell Forester about the theft of the Vietnamese payoffs: the only other people alive who knew what had happened were McSweeney and Ball himself. Killing Gordon was easy, in fact, pleasurable, though it had been more than a decade since Ball had found it necessary to use the skills he had learned as a young Marine.

But Amanda Rauci was different, and Ball couldn't precisely say why. It wasn't just that she was a woman; he had killed two women in Vietnam, both guerilla leaders, at least according to the CIA. It wasn't just that she was a federal agent. He'd killed a DEA agent during his drug dealer days, albeit one who was dealing on both sides of the law.