Finally, Dean spotted something that didn’t look like vegetation about ten yards away. He wasn’t sure if it was a man, let alone whether it was Phuc Dinh.
Dean moved forward so slowly it was as if he were only leaning in that direction. The gun was at his hip, ready to fire. The gray shape became the side of a chest. Something above it moved.
Eyes.
Dean fired.
The bullet punched a quarter-sized hole through Phuc Dinh’s chest. In the sparse second it took Dean to chamber another bullet, life had ebbed from the VC commander; he fell straight back, collapsing against the trunk of a tree.
Dean’s heart beat three times before he reached the body. A pistol lay next to Phuc Dinh; his mouth gaped open. There was no question he was dead.
Dean, like all scout snipers at the time, carried a small Instamatic camera to record kills. He pulled it from his belt pouch and took two pictures. Then he took the VC officer’s pistol, slid it into his waistband, and went to find out what had happened to Longbow.
29
WHEN NATIONAL SECURITY Advisor Donna Bing asked Rubens to convene a joint briefing session on the Vietnamese Assassin Plot, as she called it, Rubens tried to demur, telling her he thought it was premature. But she had insisted, and so late that evening he and Ambassador Jackson trekked down to Washington via Admiral Brown’s helicopter to meet with representatives of the CIA, FBI, and Secret Service to, as Jackson put it, sing for their supper.
It was easy to see how much credence the various agencies placed in the theory by how high-ranking their representatives at the meeting were. Collins was there for the CIA; the initial information was theirs and she had turf to protect. But Frey had sent one of his deputies and a mid-level member of the investigative task force on the McSweeney investigation. Rubens didn’t even know the FBI officials representing the bureau.
He understood the skepticism. His agency’s review of Vietnamese intercepts found nothing that indicated a plot existed.
“Of course they would be careful about it,” said Bing briskly. She badgered the other agencies for opposing theories—a disgruntled constituent was preferred by both the FBI and Secret Service, though he had yet to be identified—and then disparaged them. For once, she dropped her belligerent attitude toward Rubens and actually seemed—not nice, exactly, but human.
Rubens saw why when she summed up the session.
“Looking at this from the macro level, it makes utter sense,” Bing declared. “The ultimate players here are the Chinese. They’ve helped the Vietnamese set it in motion—I would be looking for that connection in the intercepts.”
Rubens was hardly a fan of China. But if there was still scant evidence that the assassination plot had been backed by the Vietnamese, then there was even less—as in nil—that the Chinese had a hand in it. He exchanged a glance with Jackson, who, diplomat that he was, returned only a hint of a smile.
“Was there something else, Bill?” asked Bing.
“I would only emphasize that we have yet to develop hard information about Vietnam’s involvement, let alone China’s.”
Disappointment fluttered across Bing’s face. But she quickly banished it, saying, “Well, then we have to keep working. Unfortunately, this is the sort of development where I would expect future attacks to bear us out.”
She rose, dismissing them.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I’m sure the President will be pleased.”
“Interesting theory,” said Jackson on the helicopter home.
“That’s one word for it.”
“Sometimes it’s useful to know why the wind is blowing at your back.”
“In Donna Bing’s case, it nearly always signifies there is a hurricane seeking to overtake you,” replied Rubens.
30
BY NOW, THE rifle fire in the distance had stopped. Dean decided it was worth the risk to save time by taking the trail, doubling back to the sniping position to make sure Longbow hadn’t returned. When Dean saw the nest was empty, he went back down, circling away from the trail and then paralleling it as he slowly worked toward the spot where Longbow would have gone for water.
It took Dean nearly an hour to find the first body. He couldn’t be positive, but he guessed from the clothes that it belonged to one of the men he’d let go past him on the trail. Even in death, the man clutched his AK-47 so tightly Dean had to use a knife to pry it from the man’s hands. Dean took two magazines from the guerilla’s body, tucking them into his pockets before continuing across the ridge.
While the vegetation here was sparse, there were still plenty of places to hide, and Dean had to stop every few minutes to search the terrain and listen for movement. The impulse to rush to his friend’s aid felt like a dog growling at his side, nudging him forward. But moving too quickly could get Dean killed, and he struggled to keep his emotions and adrenaline in check.
It took a good twenty minutes to find the second man. He lay a hundred and fifty yards from the first, curled in a fetal position, huddled around his gun. The top part of his head had been split open by one of the M14’s bullets, revealing an oozing black mass where his scalp and forehead had been. Though hardened to death, Dean had to turn away as he searched the body for ammo and anything else that might be useful.
A third Vietnamese guerilla had died a few yards away. He was a small man, barely five feet, and thin; his chest and back were pockmarked with bullets. It had taken six to put him down for good.
Dean found Longbow next.
Longbow’s bush hat had been blown off during the battle, and it lay like a discarded rag in the pebbles near the water hole. The soldier lay on his side a yard and a half away, the M14 leaning against his body, as if it had been propped there.
Dean bent down on one knee, looking at his friend’s face, hoping that he would be breathing, not believing what he knew was true. Longbow stared back at Dean, his expression twisting pain and bewilderment together.
Was he asking where Dean was when he needed him?
A shot ricocheted across the nearby rocks and into the water. Dean threw himself flat, smacking his rib on the butt of the AK-47 he’d been holding. He rolled right as another shot ripped through the ground nearby. Dean pulled the automatic rifle up and fired off a burst before jumping to his feet and running in search of cover.
There was no answering fire, but he knew he hadn’t hit his enemy. The guerilla was firing from behind a large clump of jungle grass and rocks about fifty yards away. Dean decided that his best bet was retreating downhill, then circling back to flank the guerilla from the slope of the nearby ridge. The hardest part was the first twenty feet—under heavy fire, Dean climbed up the side of a large boulder, squeezed through a tumble of rocks, then crawled through a cluster of brush. His enemy emptied his rifle in the few seconds it took for Dean to reach safety.
Nearly fifteen minutes later, Dean reached a point where he could look down on the guerilla’s position. It was empty. Bent grass showed the way he had gone.
By now tired, hungry, and thirsty, Dean considered whether it might not be better to let the man go. Probably it was, but logic didn’t rule Dean that day. He slipped down the rocks and moved as quietly as he could into the thick vegetation.
He nearly tripped over the guerilla, who’d collapsed only a few yards from the grass where he’d fired from earlier. He was wounded but still alive.
Dean saw the man’s body heave right before he fired point-blank into the bastard’s head.
“ARE YOU AWAKE?”
Dean opened his right eye warily. The man sitting next to him on the plane smiled awkwardly. A stewardess stood behind him.
“Are you awake?” she repeated.
“Yeah,” said Dean, straightening.
“We’re about to serve breakfast.”
“Sure.”
He rubbed his eyes, then accepted a cup of coffee. The stewardess passed him a plate of French toast.
“I find it impossible to sleep on a plane,” said th
e man next to him. “Even in first class.”
“I usually don’t sleep that well myself,” said Dean. He cut up the wedges of bread, wondering when he had fallen asleep. He drained his cup of coffee and asked for another, trying to purge his memory of the look on Longbow’s face.
31
TOMMY KARR SAW Dean as soon as he came out of the customs area on the first floor of Narita Airport in Tokyo. Karr watched the crowd, making sure Dean wasn’t being trailed by anyone. Satisfied, Karr circled around outside and found Dean waiting at the taxi stand.
“You’re on the wrong line,” Karr told Dean.
“Do I know you?”
“I hope so.” Karr winked at him, then nodded with his head, leading Dean back into the terminal.
“I thought we were staying over,” said Dean.
“We are. There’s a courtesy van from the hotel.”
“Wouldn’t we rather take the cab?”
“And blow our expense account?”
Karr led Dean around to the minivan, which he had used earlier to get here. The driver hopped from the cab as soon as he saw them coming, greeting Karr with a loud “hello” and taking Dean’s bag.
“Loves country music,” said Karr, climbing in through the sliding door. “How’d the sales go?”
“Not bad,” said Dean, not missing a beat.
“Make quota?”
“Just barely.”
Karr kept up the sales banter all the way to the hotel. Dean, though he played along, seemed even more somber than usual.
“Somber” wasn’t the right word, exactly. “Contemplative,” maybe. Or just “taciturn.” Guys who didn’t talk much always seemed like they were thinking about something. Karr wasn’t sure whether that was true or not. Dean always denied he was thinking about anything, so how would you know?
Dean got a room two floors above Tommy’s. They scanned it for bugs, then turned on a white-noise generator so they could talk.
“So how was your flight?” Karr asked Dean.
“Long.”
“Where are we going?”
“They didn’t tell you?”
“Telach said you’d brief me.”
“Vietnam.”
“What are we going to do, get a do-over on the war?”
Dean frowned. He wasn’t much for Karr’s jokes, which struck Karr as more fun than if he had been.
“Let’s go get something to eat,” Karr told him. “And worry about it later.”
“Yeah, all right.”
“There’s this sushi place downstairs that looks really good.”
“I’m not eating anything that hasn’t been cooked,” said Dean.
“Where’s your sense of adventure?”
THEY ENDED UP in a restaurant several blocks away, circling around and splitting up at one point to make sure they weren’t being followed. Dean knew the precautions were overkill—no one had any reason to be following them at this point—but he didn’t object when Karr suggested them. He let Tommy be Tommy, cracking sardonic jokes in the restaurant and making funny faces at the emotionless waitstaff, trying to get them to laugh. He was in many ways just a big kid—a very, very big kid—and Dean knew that Karr had a tendency to deal with stress by pretending to be the class clown. He was one of those guys who would probably be telling jokes in the helicopter as it touched down in a hot LZ.
Better than puking, Dean thought.
Personally, he found it better to be quiet.
Maybe the mission was a “do-over” in a sense. Phuc Dinh—how could he have missed him?
He hadn’t. Phuc Dinh was definitely dead. And it had definitely been him—the photo was positively ID’d when Dean got back to camp. The scar cinched it.
Better to be quiet before battle, Dean thought. Quiet your mind as well as your mouth—he tried to push the memory of Longbow and Phuc Dinh away, focusing on the here and now of the Tokyo restaurant.
“What do you think this is?” Karr asked, holding up a piece of sashimi.
“Fish.”
“Sure, but what kind? Sea urgent, you think?”
“Urchin.”
Karr winked, then swallowed the food whole. “Definitely urgent.”
Dean couldn’t help himself; he cracked a smile and raised his hand to signal the waiter for another beer.
“How was your vay-kay?” Karr asked.
“If you mean vacation, it was fine.”
“Bag any mooses?”
“I was hunting mountain lions.”
“Get any?”
“One. Almost bit off my head before I brought it down.”
Karr thought it was a joke and smiled. “Why do you like hunting, Charlie? What’s the attraction?”
The waiter came over with Dean’s Sapporo. He took a sip, and then answered Karr’s question by asking if he had ever gone hunting himself.
“Only for girls,” said Karr. Then he laughed so loud everyone around them turned to see what was so funny.
32
AMANDA LOOKED AT the clock on her stove. She was supposed to meet with a member of the Agency’s human-resources staff to discuss her “official status” in an hour.
Or was it a member of Internal Investigations? Amanda couldn’t remember; she’d been too far gone when she took the phone call, and in fact could barely read her handwritten note showing the person’s office number.
It didn’t matter. Amanda wasn’t going to keep the appointment.
Not because she was drunk. She was sober, as her pounding head and dry mouth reminded her.
Amanda had decided to leave town, though where she was going she wasn’t sure. There was no reason to hang around. The Service would surely fire her. It wasn’t fair, but that was the way it was going to be. She could tell from the way Frey had looked at her the other afternoon; he wanted her gone. And he would get what he wanted.
She didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything.
She cared about Jerry Forester, but he was gone. She was mad at him and sad for him, devastated and angry at the same time.
How could he do this to her? And to his boys. To his older son.
She had more questions for Jerry—many—but they would never be answered. The only way to deal with them was to get far away from them. If she didn’t, the questions would consume her.
As would the booze.
The smell of Lysol and vomit stung her nose in the bathroom. She’d spent nearly two hours cleaning the place, and still the scent of half-digested gin clung to the ceramic tile. She pushed at the window, though it was already open as far as it would go.
The doorbell rang. Her first thought was that it was someone from the Service, coming for her because she’d missed her appointment. But that was impossible—she hadn’t missed it yet. And they wouldn’t bother to fetch her.
Amanda went to the front door and peered through the tiny peephole. A short Asian woman and a much older man stood in the foyer. The woman reached to the bell again.
“What is it?” said Amanda.
“Ms. Rauci?”
Amanda hesitated. If they knew her name they weren’t Mormons or someone else she could easily send away.
“We’re with the federal marshals’ service, Ms. Rauci,” said the woman. She held up a government identification card. “We need to talk to you.”
Marshals?
“Why?”
“It’s about Gerald Forester,” said the woman.
Well, of course it was. Amanda turned the dead bolt but left the chain on the door, opening it a crack.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“This isn’t a good place to talk,” said the woman.
“I’m due at work in an hour.”
“This shouldn’t take long.”
The woman’s face was hard; Amanda realized she wasn’t going to be put off.
“It would be more comfortable for all of us inside,” said the man.
Even if Amanda hadn’t known and practiced most of the games a two-person inve
stigation team would play, she would have pegged the older man as the good guy a mile away. He seemed to have cultivated a grandfatherly look to help him with his interviews.
She slid off the chain and took a step back.
“I’m Lia DeFrancesca. This is Hernes Jackson.”
“Hi.” Amanda remained in the hall.
“Maybe if we sat in the living room or kitchen?” suggested Jackson.
Amanda led them to the kitchen.
“You have a bag packed,” said Lia. “Coming or going?”
“Coming,” lied Amanda. She felt her lip quiver, and longed for a drink. “Thirsty? I’ll make some coffee.”
“No thank you,” said Lia. Jackson shook his head.
The two officers pulled out chairs but didn’t sit down. Neither did Amanda.
“We were interested in knowing if Agent Forester ever discussed cases with you,” said Lia.
“That would be against the rules.”
“True,” said Jackson. “But sometimes things are said anyway. It’s not going to be held against him, I assure you.”
“He’s dead. How can you hold anything against him?” said Amanda.
“Did he?”
Amanda shook her head. “Jerry wasn’t like that. He …”
The tears began flowing. She couldn’t help it. She ran to the bathroom and buried her face in a towel.
LIA GLANCED AT Jackson. She had spent the entire ride to Amanda Rauci’s house exhorting herself to keep an open mind. But seeing Amanda convinced Lia once again that there was no way this was suicide. Amanda wasn’t beautiful; she was a bit on the plump side, and though she was only in her early thirties her face was already showing the signs of age. But still, it was impossible for Lia to believe that someone would walk out on both his kids and a girlfriend, especially one who obviously loved him.
“Maybe you should see if she’s all right,” Jackson suggested.
“Yeah.”
Lia went down the hall. The apartment smelled as if it were a hospital.
“Ms. Rauci? Amanda?”
“What?”
The sharp bite of her voice, stronger than Lia had expected, took her by surprise. “Hey, look, I know this sucks,” she told Amanda.
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