“A little more to your left,” counseled Rockman. “You got it.”
Dean wouldn’t have needed Rockman’s guidance. Though the vegetation had reclaimed the land, the ground was indented where the recovery team had dug two years before. Dean turned around. It was only ten yards from the road, if that.
“I didn’t think you were a fortune hunter, Mr. Dean,” said Qui.
“How’s that?”
“You came to Vietnam for lost treasure?”
“No.” He smiled faintly, then began walking around the edge of the area where the body had been found. There were several other excavations, all farther from the road.
The body should have been easy to find.
Dean glanced back toward the car and saw that Qui wasn’t there. He found her a short distance down the hill, standing next to fallen tree limbs.
“There was a village here during the war,” said Qui. “It’s gone. It must have been Catholic.”
“How do you know?”
She pointed to some rocks a short distance away. They were the foundation of a small building. Beyond it, Dean found several stones laid flat—gravestones. There were other signs—an overgrown path that went to the road, scattered pieces of wood and branches, worked stones that would never have appeared here randomly.
“When the VC took over, some loyal villages were razed,” said Qui. “I would imagine this was one.”
“That’s a shame.”
“The whole war was a shame,” said Qui. “To the victors, the spoils. To the losers, death.”
“We fought very hard,” said Dean, suddenly feeling that he had let her down by not saving her country.
“I’m sure you did. But someone always loses.”
94
CHIEF BALL’S HOUSE was dark when Lia got there. She got out of her car and walked toward the front door, not quite sure what she was going to say to him until she pressed the doorbell.
She rang twice before she saw a light flick on inside and heard footsteps.
A short, frumpy middle-aged woman dressed in a red terry-cloth robe opened the door. She stood behind the screen door, eying Lia warily.
“Yes?”
“I’m looking for Chief Ball,” said Lia. “The chief isn’t here right now.”
“He’s not here?” said Lia. “Where would he be?”
“I don’t know,” said the woman, eying her up and down. “Who are you?”
“Lia DeFrancesca. I’m with the federal marshals.”
“Is there trouble?”
“I have to discuss something with him, about a case.”
“I can have him call you in the morning.”
“I’m here, Elizabeth,” said a voice behind her. “Thank you. Go back to bed now.”
The chief appeared behind his wife. She glanced at him as if she was going to say something, then moved away. Ball opened the door and stepped outside. He’d taken the time to dress, even putting on his shoes.
“What is it you want?” he asked Lia.
“Amanda Rauci. She’s disappeared. We’re hoping to track her down.”
“Rauci is who?”
Lia’s explanation leaned fairly heavily on the possibility that Amanda might have run away because she was somehow involved in murdering Forester, and hinted that she might have retrieved some evidence from the area. Lia left out the fact that Rauci had done a credit check on Ball roughly six hours before.
“Rauci.” Ball squirreled up his face. “Was she the one in my office this afternoon?”
“Was she?”
“Well, it was someone. She was a Secret Service agent, right? Wouldn’t tell me what the hell it was about.”
“Did she have a notebook with her?”
“Notebook. Maybe. The one you asked about?”
“Did she have it?” Lia asked. “She might have. I didn’t take inventory.”
“What did she want?”
“She asked whether I’d spoken to Forester before he died. I told her the same thing I’ve told everyone else. No. You people don’t seem to take no for an answer.”
“Do you?”
Ball frowned. “You telling me she’s missing?”
“She’s in this area.”
“How do you know?”
“She used her credit card locally.”
“So why do you think she’s missing?” asked Ball.
“No one’s seen or heard from her in days.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s missing. Maybe she doesn’t feel like talking to anyone.”
“But she did talk to you.”
“If she comes back, I’ll be sure to tell her to call home,” said Ball. He started to open the door and go back in, but Lia held it closed.
“What exactly was she asking about?”
“Besides looking for the notebook,” said Ball, “she asked me about Forester’s wife, whether I’d seen her in town. Pretty ridiculous. She showed some picture that probably fits half the people in town.”
“Forester’s wife?”
“You know, I’ve never seen so much damn fuss about a jerk who killed himself before,” said Ball. “Waking people up in the middle of the night—can’t this wait until morning?”
“Can you think of anything else she might have said?”
Ball shrugged. “We only talked a few minutes. I got the impression she was on her way somewhere.”
“Where?”
Ball shrugged. “She went down One Ninety-Nine after she left the office. Could be going anywhere.”
95
CHIEF BALL WATCHED the federal agent back out of the driveway and onto the road.
These people were worse than cockroaches. Blind, but persistent.
He was all right for now. This changed his plans for the morning, though. He had to move Rauci’s car tonight—right now, if possible.
Drive it over to Rhinecliff and leave it near the train station. That part was easy. Getting back without a car wouldn’t be.
He could go down to Poughkeepsie, take a train to the city, then another over to Harlem Valley.
Too much. And he had too much to do anyway.
His wife was waiting upstairs, just as he knew she would be.
“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice halfway between whining and pleading.
“I’m working on something with the federales,” he said, opening his bureau drawer.
“Is that where you were all night?”
Ball sighed. There were times when her voice drove him completely up the wall. Yelling at her would shut her up, but in the long run it was counterproductive. He looked at her and shrugged. “I’m not supposed to say.”
“Not even to your wife?”
“It has to do with a Secret Service agent.”
“Not the suicide.”
“Yes. The suicide. It’s complicated, Elizabeth. Please don’t go blabbing.” He took two pairs of socks from the drawer.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to be doing a little legwork over the next few days. I won’t be around. I’ll check in from time to time.”
“Leg work? With female marshals?”
“I don’t go for those Asian chicks, especially when they’re teenagers,” he said. He turned around and gave his wife a kiss on the cheek. “But thank you for thinking she’d be attracted to me. Now get some rest, all right? And don’t go blabbing, all right? This is an important case we’re dealing with. The wrong word in the wrong place, and some murderer goes free.”
“Murder?”
“Forget I said that, and keep your mouth shut. Please.”
96
ABOUT HALFWAY BACK to Saigon, Qui turned to Dean and asked again if he had been in the Marines.
“Yes, I was.”
She asked which unit. He hesitated a moment, wondering if somehow she knew of the ambush against Phuc Dinh. But she had a different motive.
“I met a young man, a Marine, from First Division,” she began. “It must have been 1966
. This was before I married, very much before. I was such a younger woman.”
Dean glanced at the side of her face. The memory or the telling of it seemed to make her very old, drawing deep lines at the corners of her eyes and furrows above her brow.
“He was a good young man. We met in Saigon while he was on leave or furlough; I forget the word. He spoke French—he’d studied it in school, and was not very good.”
Qui smiled at Dean.
“He tried very hard. It was charming. And he was handsome. Like you were, I’d imagine.” Qui turned back to look at the road. “When he died, they didn’t allow me to go to the funeral. One of his friends came to our house and told me. He died while on patrol. Three other men were wounded taking back his body.”
Not knowing what to say, Dean said nothing.
“It seems odd that they would bury a Marine here,” said Qui. “Even in haste. If they knew where the body was.”
“I agree.”
“You aren’t with the Monetary Fund,” said Qui.
“No,” said Dean. He imagined Rockman wincing back at the Art Room.
Qui reached over and tapped his hand. “Good luck.”
Dean caught her fingers, and held them for a moment. “Thank you,” he said. “Good luck to you.”
They drove the next hour in silence.
DEAN NOTICED THE car following them when they stopped for gas about ten miles outside Saigon. A white Toyota pickup pulled past as the attendant filled up the truck and two jerry cans Qui kept in the trunk; Dean noticed the truck again as soon as they were back on the road.
He reached to the back of his belt to make sure his com system was on, then pointed out the truck to Qui.
“Are you sure he’s following us?” she asked.
“Pretty sure,” Dean said. “White Toyota pickup, two middle-aged guys in it,” he added, describing the truck for the Art Room, though of course Qui thought he was talking to her.
“Maybe someone became interested in you in Quang Nam,” said Qui. “Or maybe it’s a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences.”
The Art Room asked Dean if he could get the license plate numbers of the truck, but the sun was starting to fade and the vehicle wasn’t quite close enough for him to do that while they were driving.
“Charlie, Tommy Karr is about ten minutes away,” said Rockman a short while later. “He’ll get a look at who’s following you and we can decide what to do then.”
“Stay on the highway,” Dean told Qui. “I want to figure out what’s going on here.”
“We’re almost in the city. If it’s the security forces, they’ll follow us everywhere.”
“Let’s just keep going for now.”
Dean slid lower in his seat, trying to see the driver and passenger of the other car in the side mirror. The passenger seemed to be frowning. Dean leaned over, trying to get a better view into the cab of the truck.
Qui suddenly veered sharply to the left. Before Dean knew what was happening, she had crossed over the center meridian and was heading in the other direction. She veered far to the right and got off the exit, pulling another sharp turn at the end of the ramp and sliding onto a road going under the highway.
“What are you doing?” Dean said.
“I don’t care to be followed.”
“That’s just going to tip them off that we made them,” said Dean.
“So?”
“If there’s a whole team, the other cars will move in. We won’t shake them.”
Qui took a quick succession of turns and ended up on another highway.
“We’re not being followed now,” she told him as she accelerated. “If we were being followed earlier.”
“We were,” said Dean.
“I’ll take your word for it.”
TOMMY KARR HAD just started looking for the white pickup truck when Rockman told him to stand by.
“Kinda hard to stand by when you’re driving a motorcycle,” said Karr.
“Dean’s off the road. I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Which way?”
“North of you. A mile.”
Karr leaned down close to his handlebars, urging the bike to go a little faster. He tucked past a pair of tractor-trailers and neatly bisected a pair of sedans.
“They went off that exit that’s coming up on your left,” said Rockman. “His driver is trying to shake them. Find a place to turn around.”
No place better than right in front of him, thought Karr. He hit his brakes and skidded across the narrow meridian strip, power-gliding in the new direction. The bike wasn’t that familiar and his timing was off; he nearly went under the wheels of a large bus. But Karr managed to flick away at the last moment, squeezing between the bus and a van. He missed the exit but got off on the shoulder just beyond it, bumping down the rocky slope to the pavement.
“So I’m looking for a Toyota pickup?” he asked, following Rockman’s directions to the highway Dean and Qui had just gotten onto.
“White Toyota. That’s right.”
“Don’t see it.”
“They must have lost him.”
“Too bad,” said Karr.
DEAN TOLD QUI to drop him off at the riverfront. He didn’t want her going anywhere near the hotel—whoever was following them might be waiting for him there. As Qui wended her way around toward the water, she told him that they were being followed again.
“Big guy on a motorcycle,” she said. “He has a helmet with a dark visor.”
“Yeah, I know him,” said Dean. “He’s on my side.”
Qui glanced at Dean but said nothing.
“You can pull in over there,” he told her.
“What is your real name?” Qui asked when she stopped the car.
“Charlie Dean.”
“Well, good luck, Mr. Dean.”
Dean grabbed his bag and began walking, looking for a place where he could plant a video bug to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Karr, meanwhile, had taken a turn behind him and was circling around, also checking for surveillance.
It took them nearly twenty minutes to make sure no one had followed. Karr drove up to Dean as he stood watching some small boats unload.
“Man, I’m starving,” said Karr. “Let’s go get some noodles.”
“Our hotel’s probably being watched,” Dean told Karr and the Art Room. “We can’t go back there.”
“Agreed,” said Telach. The Art Room theorized that the security people had been sent by Cam Tre Luc, who had made inquiries about Dean following their “meeting” at Saigon Rouge. “He may just want to keep an eye on you, but there’s no sense finding out.”
“You want us to get new digs, or are we bugging out?” said Karr.
“Probably leaving, but that’s Mr. Rubens’ call. Lay low for a few hours. Avoid the police.”
“Let’s go get some food,” suggested Dean, worried about Qui though he wasn’t sure exactly what to do.
“Now there you go,” said Karr. “For once, you’ve got your priorities straight.”
97
AS HE WALKED up the path to the tidy brick Georgian, Rubens nodded at the plainclothes guard. Dressed in a black suit despite the prospects of a blisteringly hot day, the man was the only visible component of an elaborate security team and system covering the upscale suburban Maryland home. Without him, the house would have appeared completely unremarkable, little different from the cardiac specialist’s home next door or the upper-level manager’s across the street.
That was the idea, though as Rubens rang the bell to Admiral Devlon Brown’s house, the thought occurred to him that it was perhaps slightly galling that the man responsible for the NSA should live in a house that symbolized only a moderate amount of achievement. Architecture reflected a man’s worth, at least in Rubens’ opinion, and while one might choose to be subtle, even subtlety showed.
Admiral Brown apparently did not share that opinion. He was waiting for Rubens inside the family
room off the kitchen, sitting on a couch with his legs propped up on a nearby ottoman. He wore a blanket and his face was as white as the night Rubens had seen him in the hospital after the heart attack. But his voice was stronger.
“William, thanks for coming by. I hate doing business by telephone. I’ve come to hate it more and more,” said Brown, motioning him to sit. “Breakfast?”
“I had a bagel earlier.”
“Not with butter, I hope.”
“As a matter of fact, no.” Rubens chose a chair that had been borrowed from the dining room, pulling it close to the admiral’s legs.
“I’ve been listening to my doctor’s scoldings so much I’m becoming a scold myself,” admitted the admiral. “Coffee?”
“I’m trying to cut back.”
“Too bad. I’m not allowed any myself,” said Brown. “I have to live vicariously, smelling the aroma.”
Rubens had come to discuss several matters, the most important of which was the investigation into the Vietnamese assassination plot.
Or, more accurately, non-plot.
“Whether the CIA plot was a figment of an agent’s imagination remains to be seen,” said Rubens, who suspected as much, “but in any event, neither the attack on Senator McSweeney nor Special Agent Forester’s death is related to it. What they may be related to, however, is the theft of government money some forty years ago.”
Brown seemed to gain back some of his color as Rubens continued, briefly summarizing the story.
“Two suicides and an assassination attempt,” said Brown. “They would all seem related somehow. But why is it coming to a head now?”
“I simply don’t know. I assume there is much more here than we have uncovered. The question is whether to turn this over to the FBI or to continue investigating it ourselves. The NSC finding is open-ended,” Rubens added. “It states that we should investigate the assassination attempt. But it was issued with the idea that a foreign government was behind the attempt. This would seem to be a domestic matter.”
“Have you discussed this with the President?”
Rubens had a long-standing personal relationship with President Marcke. Nonetheless, Rubens felt slighted at the question, for it suggested that he might subvert his boss. It was the sort of thing that Bing would accuse him of.
“I don’t see a need to go directly to the President,” said Rubens. “I’ve briefed Ms. Bing, and as far as the missing money goes, there’s no proof that it’s a consideration here. And in any event, I would come to you first before briefing the President,” said Rubens.
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