by Darin Gibby
“You must have the wrong person,” Addy responded. “I am a patent attorney, here at a conference. You’ve seen us in your store.”
She realized he couldn’t possibly understand what she was saying. She pointed to the only building that rose above the shacks. “My hotel.”
The man took a small step toward her, and Addy contemplated crashing an elbow into his nose. Realizing the odds were against her, Addy turned to run. But as she did, her heel caught the edge of a cobblestone and she tripped, sending her sprawling onto the pavement where her forehead struck the ground. Immediately, a pair of muscular arms wrapped about her, hefting her upright. Her nose burned with the smell of a strange liquor. She felt a stinging sensation above her left eye.
Her initial assailant lunged forward, craning his head toward her face. “Go home to where you belong. No talking to anyone. Vietnam doesn’t want you. And, trust me, you don’t want to talk to anyone here at the conference. Nobody. Mind your own business. If anyone approaches you to talk about some invention, you leave it alone. Just leave it alone.” He stepped closer, their noses nearly touching. “Understand?”
Addy nodded slowly.
The strong, ruthless arms of the person behind her shoved her forward, toward her hotel, snapping her head back.
She mustered her courage and turned to face the man who had shoved her. “You must have the wrong person. This is a mistake.”
He shook his head. “We know you’ve spoken to a Korean named Quinn. Twice. Once in America, now here.”
Addy gaped at him. Yes, she’d just had a conversation with such a person, but not in America. And this man spoke perfect English. She tried to see his face, but his baseball cap was pulled low, casting a dark shadow across his face. “But—” she protested.
“Your car, the one with the blimp. He was right behind you. We saw him pull you from the wreckage.”
Addy jerked and paled. “You!” she spat out. “You shot my car. It was you.”
“As a warning. Don’t get involved with that Korean.”
She heard the distant voices of other conference attendees making their way back to their hotels. The man with the baseball cap turned and looked up the street. The chatter grew louder. He swooshed his hand in the direction of her hotel.
“Go! And don’t come back.”
* * *
Addy hurried through the revolving doors of the hotel and rushed to her room where she fumbled her key card twice trying to insert it into the slot. Safely inside her room, she collapsed onto the desk chair and tried to collect herself, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. What should she do? She was more furious than scared, though there was plenty of scared, too, especially since the stinging sensation above her eye persisted.
Hindy had been impounded, and now someone had given her a stern warning, all because of this Quinn character. Who was he, and why had he been following her? More important, what did he have that someone didn’t want her to know about?
She decided to make a cup of tea, and sipped the warm beverage while she tried to sort through what had just happened. She chewed her lower lip. What would happen if she did stay? Her anger swung to fear. She was now terrified.
Yet this might be part of her destiny—her belief that she was going to find a world-changing technology. Perhaps she’d just stumbled on it. Why else was Hindy’s balloon torched? Why had Quinn wanted to talk to her about fuel cells? The two events had to be related.
She rolled her cup in her hands. Terrified or not, she couldn’t leave yet, not until she had some more answers, not until she discovered the source of these bizarre events. Some kind of new technology was at the core of these events, and she was determined to find out what it was. It was time to confront Quinn.
She set down her cup and squeezed her temples in a feeble attempt to get rid of an excruciating headache. She blinked and then widened her eyes a few times, hoping the double images would somehow come back into focus. Hopefully, whatever was ailing her was nothing more than a serious case of jet lag.
In her bathroom she tapped out a few painkillers, gulped them down, and cleaned and treated the abrasion above her left eye. After taking a closer look, she decided it was small enough that a heavy dose of makeup could cover it.
With her phone tethered to one hand, Addy kicked off her shoes, tugged back the duvet with the other hand, and collapsed onto her plush bed. Sinking into luxury, she could feel herself fading away.
But not yet. She needed to call Perry, and jerked herself awake to dial the office. She rehearsed what she was going to say, and how she would avoid any mention of the attack. Perry wanted to talk to her about Hindy, and Addy wanted to know why the police had decided to keep the Shelby Mustang under lock and key.
If Perry was upset, his mild answer didn’t reveal it. Although they were separated by the Pacific Ocean, Perry’s voice was as clear as if he were there in her dimly-lit hotel room.
“Look, I’m really sorry about Hindy,” she began.
Perry cut her off. “No need to apologize. I’m taking care of it. I just want you to worry about getting some more clients.”
“So you know about my citation?”
“For not having a hydrogen permit? Yes, it’s all in the notice. Totally bogus. They just want to keep the car until they can confirm this wasn’t some act of terrorism. We can go to the hearing together and let them have their say then. Like I said, this is all going to be fine.”
Addy sat up and tucked her hair behind her ear. Perry was always controlling. While she appreciated his help, sometimes she wanted to handle her own issues without his interference.
“Could have been worse,” she said trying to lighten the conversation. “I could have been hiding drugs.”
“Not funny. I know you too well.”
Perry was right. She’d never felt the slightest temptation to take any illegal substance. “This is my problem, you don’t need to—”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Now that you’re part of the partnership, things are different. We look out for each other. And before you say anything else, I need to tell you that I’m really sorry about what I said before you left—that bit about you being Vietnamese. Please don’t think for a minute that I sent you to the conference because of your ethnicity. You’re there because you’re good at landing clients. Really good.”
Addy rolled her eyes. While Perry had apparently recognized his blunder and tried to smooth over an apology, she didn’t believe it was real. That was Perry—always finding a way out of his slip-ups.
It wasn’t like Perry was unfamiliar with her past. She’d told her story to her coworkers at least a dozen times. On one occasion, she even revealed that after her single mother turned to drugs, Addy sometimes wished that she’d never been adopted and hauled off to America. Vietnam sounded like a better place. She actually packed a duffle bag after her two best friends copied her answers on a test and she was the one accused of cheating. She had nowhere to turn and was ready to run away and find passage on a boat to Vietnam.
Now that she was in Vietnam, she realized how foolish she’d been.
“No need to apologize. Let’s put it behind us,” Addy said, knowing it was pointless to dwell on the issue.
“Good, tell me about the conference.”
Addy smiled. Perry would always be Perry.
She enthused about the Asian culture, then went on to tell Perry about her new lead, carefully avoiding any mention of the attack.
“Be careful,” he said. “Nearly everyone there will tell you they have a client for you. Remember that US law firms generate most of the work for foreign law firms, and they’ll do just about anything to tap into the firm’s US clients. You’ll need to vet them and make sure you’re getting someone who can really deliver.”
6
THE PHONE ALARM buzzing on the nightstand startled Addy out of a sound sleep. She tugged her eyelids, but they were too heavy to pry apart. She slapped her hand on the nightstand and fumbled with her phone until
the annoying racket was silenced.
Her mouth was pasty, and her tongue thick, like she’d had too much to drink. So this was the glamorous life of international travel. Addy sat up and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, then skimmed her fingers above her brow, feeling the roughened skin. If she had to, she could explain it away as an errant step into the bathroom door.
She stumbled over to the corner table, switched on the desk lamp, and shuffled through her registration materials. Today was “excursion day,” and the attendees were encouraged to select one of a few dozen activities designed to help the attorneys mingle business with pleasure. At least she’d be with a large group of attendees all day, so she’d be safe.
Activities ranged from trips to museums, cultural events, and golf. She was probably stuck with whatever Perry chose when he submitted his registration. She ran her finger down the page until she came to Group H, some kind of fundraiser described as a reverse treasure hunt. It was designed to let the conference delegates see a bit of the city while also raising money for several local charities.
Addy shrugged. It could be worse. If Perry had chosen golf, the day would likely have been a disaster. She’d only golfed once, and after taking more than a hundred shots on four holes, she’d called it quits. Addy slid her finger further down, searching for the most crucial piece of information—what to wear. Perry had warned her that Asians tended to show up in suit and tie, even if jeans were appropriate. It was then she noticed that her bus was leaving the hotel lobby in fifteen minutes. There was no time to vacillate about what to wear.
To be safe, Addy slipped on a skirt and casual blouse with some low-heeled pumps, hoping that they wouldn’t be doing too much walking. A touch of lipstick added some color to her face, and she applied some concealer above her left eye. With her hair pulled back into a ponytail, she could easily pass for a local. She threw a round piece of pink fruit that she’d never seen before into her purse and hustled down to the lobby.
Three buses were already lined up in front of the Marriott. She found the one labeled Group H, skipped up the stairs, and plopped down into the first available seat. She’d barely tugged her purse open when another conference delegate slipped into the empty seat beside her. His cologne smelled familiar.
She worked her eyes upward. Instead of a dark suit, her seatmate was dressed in jeans and a tight-fitting shirt, revealing a toned, fit body.
It was the stranger from last night—Quinn.
Her first instinct was to blurt out a demand for an explanation. But she kept her cool. For all she knew, the bus could be loaded with spies wanting to eavesdrop.
“I see you’re on the same tour,” he said. “Do you know what we’re doing today? Addy, isn’t it?” he said holding out his hand.
She played coy, nonchalantly sliding her eyes down to his name tag. “That’s right, Quinn.”
“I hope you got everything ironed out. You left in such a rush.”
“Yes, all taken care of. Ready for a day of helping out a few charities.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a squawk from ceiling speakers. In broken English, their Vietnamese guide began informing them of the day’s events. Addy could barely see him over the seats in front of her. Half the passengers kept talking, busily engaged in business conversations. Addy strained to hear his announcement.
“I hope you are ready for a fun day,” their guide began. “My name is Tran, and we go to the Old Quarter, named Paris of the East, to treasure hunt.”
The bus jerked, the air conditioning began blasting, and they bolted off. Despite the lack of attention, Tran continued his spiel.
While the bus wound its way through the narrow streets, Tran pointed out the historic sites, beginning with the Ho Chi Minh Complex that boasted Ho Chi Minh’s mausoleum, his former stilt-house residence, and the Presidential Palace. Then they moved on to the Hoa Lo Prison, and finally to their destination in the Old Quarter, bordered by Hoan Kiem Lake.
Addy watched modern cars, Mercedes and BMWs, weave around bicycles and rickshaws, as she calculated her next move. How was she going to find out why Quinn was so interested in her, and why had she been forbidden to speak to him?
The sidewalks were busy, with restaurant owners squatting and cutting their vegetables on the bare cement. She decided to wait until they were off the bus, perhaps in front of one of these shops, before confronting Quinn.
The bus parked in front of a yellow stone building built in the French colonial style, with green awnings and shutters.
“Everyone look at this,” Tran said. “If you are lost, come here. This famous building is the Green Tangerine restaurant, and serves most delicious food in North Vietnam.”
The hot sun was already beating down, the temperature seeming even hotter thanks to the chill from the bus’s air conditioning. Tran moved them under the shade of a Bael tree.
“Who knows about geocaching?” Tran asked.
A blond Australian wearing aviator Ray Bans stepped forward with his hand raised. “Do it almost every weekend.”
“Good! Please describe it for your fellow passengers.”
“Right,” said the Aussie, folding his arms and pushing out his chest. Addy noticed he was the only one wearing shorts. “It’s pretty simple. Several years ago some guy came up with the idea of hiding a treasure and then using the internet to challenge people to find it. The word cache just means to hide. The old trappers in Canada coined the name when they stashed their furs until they were ready to haul them to market.”
“How does it work?” Tran said, trying to move the Aussie along.
“Right. Each cache is identified by geographic coordinates that you download to your GPS device. Something like north at a certain degree and west at another degree. The GPS tells you where to go. It’s really cool. Down Under, we hide stuff on the beach, in the Outback, even in the Sydney harbor.”
“What do people hide?” a Japanese lawyer asked.
“Oh yeah, I forgot. Each cache has lots of stuff, usually little trinkets like an old watch, a piece of jewelry, or real cheap stuff like a pack of gum. When you open the cache, you sign your name on the register, and if you take anything, you need to replace it with something better, kind of like trading down.”
“Sounds fun,” Addy said to Quinn, sensing her moment of opportunity drawing near.
“I’m up for it,” he said.
Their guide raised his hand to regain their attention. “Good, good, but this time is little bit different. Each treasure site has a box where you make a donation to a local charity. We make it easy. With these gift cards you can leave in the boxes. Cards can be used to buy at local stores here in Hanoi. The gifts for victims of land mines, adoption agencies, schoolteachers, and many others. You deposit gift card that is good for that charity, then take out your little prize, a souvenir or memento of your visit to lovely Hanoi.
“The treasure sites are hidden all over the Old Quarter to also make it a tour of this famous place.” He swept his arm in front of him. “So you don’t get lost in the narrow alleys, called the thirty-six streets, you have your own rickshaw with driver. Maybe doesn’t speak English, but he does know his way around. You go in teams of two, and here is a GPS unit for each team.”
Addy’s bleary eyes gleamed. “This could be fun. I love this kind of stuff,” she said, hoping to hide her anxiety about being alone with Quinn. She was leery of being lured into another dark alley.
“I know,” Quinn said.
Addy gave him a once-over. “You do?”
“Don’t think I’m some kind of creepster, but I Googled you last night. I see you really like adventure.”
“Sounds like creeping to me.”
Quinn pointed to a three-wheeled rickshaw that was being pedaled by a spindly Vietnamese man wearing torn leather flip-flops and calf-length pants. A wide-brimmed bamboo hat protected him from the burning, ever-present sun. “I think this is ours. Hop in and I’ll explain.”
Vietnam had two kinds of ri
ckshaws, also known as tuk-tuks—ones with motors, and ones with pedals. For Vietnam, like many other third world countries, this was an important means of transportation.
Their driver smiled while they settled into the cloth seats, revealing a near toothless grin. Addy tucked her skirt under her legs, watching Quinn’s eyes slip down for a glance.
“So, you were stalking me?”
“Nothing like that. Well, kind of. I just planned to look up your background on your firm’s website, but your name popped up all over the place. Looks like you’re some kind of local celebrity. Sorry about your car. Hindy, wasn’t it? I love the idea, but it kills me you castrated a Shelby. Why couldn’t it have been a VW bug?”
“What do you know about muscle cars?”
“Enough. Still, your idea is very clever. Tell me more about how it runs. Fuel cell, I presume. But why the hydrogen balloon? You couldn’t have used that to supply hydrogen to the fuel cell.”
“I replaced the gas tank with a canister filled with compressed hydrogen. Pretty standard stuff. The blimp was my nonconventional way to promote my patent practice.” Addy tugged her phone out of her purse, pulled up her browser. “Spell your last name.”
Quinn paused.
“No, it’s only fair. Spit it out.”
As Quinn answered, she tapped in the letters, wondering what she was about to discover. She clicked on a few links while he hovered over her.
“Isn’t that interesting? It looks like you are a talented fencer. An Olympic hopeful at one point.”
“Put that away,” Quinn said, reaching for her phone. “Those days are over. I get your point. No more creeping on you. I promise.”
The driver stopped. “Where now, Mr. Quinn?”
Addy’s eyebrows raised, and Quinn gave the driver a stern look. Addy didn’t recall telling the driver their names.
Quinn quickly cleared his throat, and the man shrugged his shoulders and jabbered something in Vietnamese. The rickshaw didn’t budge.
