by Chuck Logan
She squinted at him. “I’m not in a mood for fooling around.”
“Sleep,” said Broker. He left her room and unlocked his door. Trin had taken off his shoes and sprawled, slack-jawed, passed out on the bed. Broker took the smoldering cigarette from his fingers and turned off the TV.
He returned to Nina’s room with his toothbrush. She was already under the covers. He pulled the blinds against the late afternoon light and showered quickly, brushed his teeth, and slid in beside her. He dimmed the lights with a knob on the console beside the bed.
“Can you believe it,” said Nina. “I’m in Vietnam and I’m freezing to death.”
“I can turn down the AC.”
“No, just…spoon with me.”
He snuggled up to her back. In bed, bare skin touching, she unbuckled some of her armor.
“You two aren’t planning to ditch me? Go after the gold alone?” she mused.
“No.”
Her toe dug into his leg. “Get me lost somewhere?”
“No, goddammit.”
“Men lie,” she purred.
“Some men,” said Broker.
57
In the morning Trin was gone.
Broker fingered the scrawled note he found laying in an oval impression in the bedding. “I’ll be back. T.” Yeah, maybe, and after doing what? Despite his protestations to the contrary, he was less certain about the conflicted character of Nguyen Van Trin in the morning than he’d been the night before. He muttered through a shower and shave and, still grumbling, went next door, informed Nina, and showed her the note.
“Why am I not surprised?” she said. But she smiled gamely and put on the silver earrings with the little jade half moons. Like a token of peace.
They went down and checked at the desk. No message. They also discovered that Trin had reserved their rooms for only one night. After they’d settled up and had their passports back, a smiling hostess seated them in the restaurant that took up one end of the lobby. Warily, they bent over their croissants and coffee. The hotel was their small fort of broken English and indecipherable smiles. Beyond the plate glass windows Hanoi looked increasingly hostile. Gray clouds hung like crepe.
Nina allowed Broker to have one cup of thick, not quite hot coffee. Then she started.
“I’m calling the MIA people. You agree?”
“Give it half an hour.”
“C’mon, Broker, he was expecting something-maybe a payoff from Jimmy. When he didn’t get it he made conversation, drank all the booze in sight, and passed out. Now he’s bugged on us.” She aimed a pointed stare. “We shouldn’t have confided in him. Every bartender in Hanoi probably knows our story.”
“Wrong,” said Broker, gesturing toward the hotel entrance with his coffee cup.
Trin marched through the lobby carrying a shoulder bag and a small plastic attache case. He stopped at the desk and was directed toward the restaurant by the receptionist. He had changed his black T-shirt for an ugly patterned shirt that reminded Broker of the road-killed couch in his Stillwater house. His face was scrubbed, his hair was combed, and he wore sunglasses above a brilliant Stevie Wonder smile.
Trin sat down, officiously opened his briefcase, and ordered a glass of hot tea. Nina folded her arms. Trin grinned. “I had to get my clothes and do some things,” he said.
“I’ll bet,” said Nina.
Trin smiled. With zany enthusiasm, he countered, “But we are agreed. We all jump over the cliff together.” He zipped open his case and pulled out a pile of papers. “Our itinerary, so we look official.”
Broker went to the buffet and refilled his coffee. Trin and Nina leaned forward, heads and shoulders over the tablecloth, and discreetly rehashed their MIA office debate.
Broker resumed his seat and watched the intersection in front of the hotel with the professional interest of a patrol copper. Bicycles, cyclos, motor scooters, motorcycles, handcarts, left-over Russian Jeeps, military trucks, occasional cars, and even one old mamasan with ocher betel nut-stained teeth, shiny black pantaloons, and bare splayed feet carrying poles heavy with vegetables slung over her shoulder-they all convened in front of his eyes. No stop light. No stop signs. No right of way, no white lines on the pavement. A heavy volume of traffic.
Everyone in that street aimed dead center at the middle of the intersection. Even inside the air-conditioned lobby he could hear the cacophony of horns and bells. They carried a tonal range as varied as the five potential accents that could mark each vowel in the Vietnamese language.
Jesus-a Honda with a kid, maybe four years old, planted between the driver’s arms, with a wife, infant in arms on the back. Headed straight into a three-way crunch with a minivan and a cyclo. The minivan leaned on its horn, the cyclo and the Honda adjusted slightly, and miraculously all three passed through the bull’s-eye unscathed. The flow did not pause.
Amazing.
Nina said, “I’ll just check them out. I’ll be vague.”
“No, no, not yet,” protested Trin. “You’ll be on a police list in five minutes.” They resumed their argument. Broker continued to study traffic.
He was beginning to sense an underlying pattern to the rolling mayhem. Just had to knock his American road sense a little cockeyed, recalibrate his vision a few degrees…
An American would create instant carnage on the street. An American would want to know the rules so he could then measure himself against them, either obey or break them. At least test them. These people moved instinctively like water, all part of the same stream. Connected.
Nina said, “How do I know you and Broker won’t dig it up and load it on the fishing boat and leave me stranded?”
Trin protested, “It’s not much of a boat. The fact is, it’s a lousy boat. We’d have to hire a bigger seaworthy boat and men to crew it; my people couldn’t do it. The minute we let anyone else in on the secret, that’s when our throats get cut. The same problem that Cyrus has.” Exasperated, Trin waved his hands. “Where would we take it? I’m no sailor.”
Broker glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes,” he said. “Probably two thousand people on a thousand assorted means of transport went through this intersection-no light, no signs, in constant motion and not one pile-up. Now I know why we lost the war.”
“Bullshit,” said Trin dryly, “accidents are common.”
Broker turned back to them. “So what’d you two decide?”
“He has a kind of plan. We go to the beach and see if the stuff’s there, then we go to the MIA folks, if Cyrus takes the bait,” said Nina. She smiled tightly. “I presume you guys will leave some of it as bait.”
Trin and Broker exchanged fast glances. “If there’s a lot, we’ll just set some…aside,” speculated Broker.
“We could do that, figure out how to move it later,” Trin said quickly.
“Okay. What about some guys with guns and handcuffs? Some cops?” asked Broker.
Trin nodded. “Nina was right last night. We need some assault rifles on the scene, not a bunch of disabled Viet Cong.”
Nina inclined her head, accepting Trin’s sop.
He went on. “But not cops. There’s a militia post five kilometers from the vet’s home. A platoon of local farm boys. They guard a lighthouse. I’m on good terms with them.”
“How good?” asked Nina.
Trin shrugged. “I pay them regularly to look after the home. And, anyway, they respect the old fighters, my guys. They have enough firepower to deal with a band of thieves. Unless Cyrus has an army.”
Broker clicked his teeth. “I doubt he has a dozen people all told. That’s my job. I’ll find out.”
Trin smiled cautiously. “So we find it. Phil continues on to Hue. He contacts Cyrus. The timing will be tricky. If Cyrus goes for it we can’t tip off the militia too soon. The whole Communist bureaucracy is just a radio call away. Once they hear buried gold…phew!” He tossed his hands in the air. “Many four-wheel-drive vehicles with capital A on the license plates.”
Broker nodded in agr
eement. “Ass deep in office guys…”
Trin nodded. “Trying simultaneously to steal it themselves and take credit for catching the American pirates.”
“What do you think?” Broker asked Nina.
She leaned forward and said, “Pardon me,” as she carefully removed Trin’s sunglasses and peered into his eyes. “Black holes for pupils. At night he drinks, during the day he takes speed, bet you anything. We’re taking our lives in our hands, Broker.”
“Nina, will you let us do this damn thing?” growled Broker.
Trin smiled tightly and replaced his glasses. “She should meet my ex-wife. They’d get along.”
“Are we agreed?” asked Broker.
“I don’t like being isolated with a bunch of militia troops, but you’re right. If we telegraph, we’ll have a carnival,” said Nina. “It could work. Cyrus is loading the goods, the militia hits them…calls in the officials.” She squinted at Broker. “It’s your neck. You’ll be alone in Hue City with LaPorte. And you’ll be on that beach with him. Could be hairy if they resist-”
“True,” said Trin, smiling broadly. “The militia are good kids, but not real great shots. Hopefully, they’ll loan some weapons to my men at the home. They’ll be a steady influence.”
Broker was not sure whether to be encouraged or to make his will. He saw spooky old bones from the past get up and walk around in Trin’s smile. But it was so crazy it just might work. “So that’s it,” said Broker. “My end’s getting Cyrus to go for it.”
“One more thing,” said Trin. He reached in his attache case and produced a sheet of paper with a list in crisp, printed English. “CNN, Reuters, the Australian News Service. This afternoon, before we catch the train, you and Nina must visit these offices and get business cards from the reporters.” Trin grinned broadly. “Lay groundwork. Hint that something is going to happen. Then, when Cyrus comes ashore, we get to the nearest telephone and call them in. CNN can afford a helicopter. Maybe they can film it live.” Trin jammed his finger dramatically into the air. “A scoop. Video uplink! That way Cyrus LaPorte will get his face on television in America.” He turned to Nina. “You like it?”
“Aw, God,” groaned Broker.
“You just might have something there,” said Nina, narrowing her eyes. “Put it in plain view.”
“Put you in plain view,” muttered Broker. Nina wrinkled her nose.
“So,” said Trin, replacing his sheet of paper in his case and zipping it shut. “We have a plan. We catch the train at seven tonight; I’ve already called. A car is arranged for us at Quang Tri City, noon tomorrow. Tomorrow night we check the site.”
“You’ve had a busy morning,” said Nina.
“I could be the best tour guide in Vietnam if the government would let me open my own business,” lamented Trin. “But I served the South. I can only moonlight. I can arrange cars and drivers and hotels. I can’t handle visas or tickets in and out of the country. Maybe after we do this-”
“So what do we do until the train leaves?” asked Broker.
“Play tourist, stay surrounded by people,” said Trin. “When our driver gets here we’ll visit the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum, then maybe the Dien Bien Phu Military Museum. This afternoon we visit the press.”
Broker tried to sound upbeat about the thin plan. “If we pull this off, the government might buy us lunch for returning the gold.”
“You mean on top of what you’re planning to steal yourself?” Nina’s voice was laced with sarcasm.
“First let’s find out if there is gold,” said Trin.
“Just a thought,” said Broker.
Trin exploded with laughter. “I think a government official would give you a mathematics lesson. He would point out that you dropped more bombs on Indochina than on the armies of Germany and Japan. That we took a million dead. That we have three hundred thousand of our own missing. And then he would look you straight in the eye and say, ‘Fuck you, Yankee, we won.’”
“I said it was just a thought,” said Broker.
Trin lit a cigarette and stared dubiously at the smoke. “One thing bothers me,” he said.
“Only one?” quipped Broker.
“Seriously,” said Trin. “If ten tons of government gold would have been laying around the northern provinces in nineteen seventy-five I would have known about it. And Cyrus LaPorte is taking a hell of a risk for a hundred million dollars…”
Hundred million. How many zeros and commas was that? Broker sat stunned.
Trin continued. “That’s the world to you or me but he’s a multimillionaire. He doesn’t need it that much.”
“He’s hooked on the action. His ancestor was a famous pirate,” said Broker. But he rubbed his chin. Shrewd point. He remembered Jimmy’s sinister comment: It’s not just gold…He and Nina exchanged fast glances. They had said nothing about Jimmy’s story, the disguised pallet sitting outside the bank for a month.
Trin tapped his cigarette nervously in the ashtray and said, “Something is missing.”
58
The hotel faced a traffic circle at the edge of the Old City. The van arrived and, as they snailed through the cramped, smoky medieval alleys, Broker began to see evidence of the strip-malling of Hanoi. Gaudy mini-hotels and satellite dishes sprouted like brick and plaster burdock among the ramshackle twelfth-century architecture. Hanoi’s callused palm had been crossed with silver and hope rode a shiny new motor scooter.
All the bicycles in the world jostled the van with anthill North Vietnamese energy and aggravated Broker’s jet lag. His eyes ached. He wanted to get out of the city. Into the countryside and fresh air. Get the thing moving.
Mr. Hai, the driver, turned with a sturdy grin. “Roger, wilco, wait one,” he said.
Just trying to be friendly.
Broker winced as a woman on a bike scraped the side of the van. He saw his first cop: gray shirt, Kermit green trousers with a red stripe. “The cops don’t carry guns,” he said.
“There are lots of guns, never very far away. Just criticize the government. You’ll see,” said Trin.
Nina sat quietly, meditating on the street scene. She toyed with one of the silver earrings, turned and smiled. “You know. If the people doing it are crazy enough, it just might work,” she said.
They came out of the dense side streets and onto a broad French boulevard on which thousands of people waited patiently in line. Trin pointed at the top of a gray stone pyre that poked through the trees. They parked and waited while Trin ran into an office. He returned with tickets and slipped a guard a U.S. dollar. The guard escorted them to the head of the line. American tourists were allowed to take cuts. Broker averted his eyes from the squints of dour peasant veterans, their shirts clanking with medals, who stood patiently in the sun.
They joined a procession of elementary school kids who wore white shirts, blue trousers and skirts, and had red scarves tied around their necks. The kids walked in orderly ranks minded by their teachers.
“Pioneers,” sniffed Trin. “Communist youth movement.”
The shrine rose in blocky tiers of pharaonic Russian granite. Soldiers in red-trimmed rust-brown uniforms stood mannequin-stiff at attention. White gloves. Gleaming carbines. Huge urns of bonsai flanked the carpeted entrance. Trin smiled tightly. “I’ve never been in here.”
“Me either,” said Broker. The joke died on their faces under the quiet brown gaze of the Young Pioneers. Feeling like someone being initiated into a solemn pagan ritual, Broker walked up the steps, around a corner and shuffled down a ramp into the chilled, dimly lit inner sanctum. Nina squeezed his hand. “This is our first real date,” she whispered reverently. Holding hands, they filed past the glass sarcophagus that held the frail, embalmed cadaver of the little man with the goatee who had stared down the Free World.
Back in the sunlight Trin fidgeted and lit a cigarette in an explosion of nerves. He muttered in Vietnamese. Broker put a hand to his shoulder. “You all right?”
Trin bared his teeth. “We
said a lot of things. He said a single thing, ‘Vietnam is one.’” Trin exhaled and recited under his breath. “The mountains can be flattened, the rivers can be drained, but one truth remains: Vietnam is one.” Trin shook his head ruefully. “That guy was focused.”
“I know somebody like that,” said Broker playfully.
Nina punched him softly on the arm, then she raised her hand. “Listen,” she said.
Broker cocked his head and heard music in the trees. A PA speaker played Hanoi Muzac near the tomb. The procession of Young Pioneers marched away to a twanging rendition of “Oh Susannah.”
Broker stared at Trin. Trin shrugged and shook his head. “On traditional instruments, too.”
Nina laughed, really starting to enjoy herself. “I’m beginning to see how this place could screw up your mind.”
Trin reverted to tour guide, leading them past an opulent French Colonial building to the contrasting austere wood house on stilts where Ho had lived, pointing out the pool where the carp would come when he clapped his hands.
“There’s a debate in the party,” said Trin on the way back to the van. “In his will President Ho specified that he wanted to be cremated and have his ashes scattered on three mountain tops. Maybe he will finally get his wish and be liberated from that Russian meat locker.”
“Now what?” asked Nina.
“The military museum,” said Trin, giving directions to Mr. Hai. The museum was a few minutes away, through the swarm of bicycles. Nina sat up abruptly and said, “Hello! Is that what I think it is?”
“Absolutely,” said Trin. “The last statue of Lenin in the world, I think.” The statue dominated a square directly across from the museum.
“I should have brought a camera,” said Nina. Trin immediately dug in his bag and produced an Instamatic.
“I want you two in front of the statue,” said Nina. Trin had Mr. Hai pull over and explained the simple camera mechanism to Nina. They got out and a swirl of street kids surrounded them like blown gum wrappers. Selling postcards. Trin brushed off the kids and they walked up the shallow steps into the paved park toward the obstinate charcoal-gray statue. Paralyzed in larger-than-life bronze and contradictions, Lenin clasped his right lapel in one hand and knit his sooty devil’s eyebrows.
