by Chuck Logan
Nina put out her hand for the lighter, read the inscription, and looked back to Trin. “Iron elephants?” she repeated.
Trin smiled. “When farmers dig up old U.S. mortar rounds in their fields they refer to them as iron potatoes. Elephants imply something grander.” His smile broadened. “Jimmy has played a joke inside his joke.”
For a moment Trin relished the suspense of holding them in thrall.
“You see,” he said, “they carpeted the beaches with two thousand-pound bombs. Hundreds and hundreds of them. They were dropped from very high so they would burrow into the sand and they were set with time delayed fuses so they would go off at random intervals…get it?
“Except they didn’t go off as planned. They’ve been going off at odd times ever since. Everybody left. People avoid the place. Jimmy knew what he was doing.”
Alcohol had turned Trin’s nicotine-colored skin as scarlet as a chili pepper. His scars blanched. He directed this molten face at Nina.
“There are two kinds of Vietnamese. If you go out in the street and hail a cyclo and ask him to take you to the Manila Hotel he will smile and say, yes. Who cares that the Manila Hotel is in the Philippines. He will say yes and take you on a merry ride forever.
“If you call the MIA office and tell your story some smiling Vietnamese will eventually appear and say ‘yes’ and you will sit in this hotel until your money runs out and you will call them on the telephone and they will say ‘yes’ and then maybe they will give you your passports and maybe they will let you leave the country. They will be very polite.”
Trin’s scars bunched. Livid. “There is another kind of Vietnamese who lives in a big house and drives a late-model four-wheel-drive vehicle with a license plate with the letter A on it. This is a party official. And he will grab up your gold and then if Ray’s bones are indeed under it, he will then call the MIA office and let the Americans dig—”
“There’s evidence,” protested Nina.
“But if the bureaucrats get there first there will be no crime that involves Cyrus LaPorte today. The remains will be turned over to the Ministry of Missing Persons for verification along with all the items found at the site. If there is evidence it will disappear between the cracks in some ministry office.”
“What makes you so sure?” said Nina.
Trin fumed, gesturing brusquely. “Cyrus LaPorte is dangling millions of American dollars, talking about joint ventures. I work sometimes at the reception desk at the Century Hotel in Hue. All people talk about these days is deals. They won’t jeopardize those deals on the basis of a theory.”
Broker interrupted. “It’s all timing. We have to catch him stealing. Digging it up and putting it in his boat. If we do it right, we can have all kinds of people show up.”
“Correct. It is…policework,” said Trin. “Then we call in everybody so they all arrive at the same time. The press, too. There’s always some Australian reporters around, and the French. CNN has an office here. If we can manage that, it will stink all the way to Washington, which is what you want, Nina.”
“The three of us.” Nina’s voice was grim, unconvinced.
“And my men,” said Trin with an enthusiasm that showed more evidence of alcohol than good sense.
“What men?” said Broker.
“The men at the home. From my old battalion in the Front. You don’t think they’d let me set up a home for soldiers who backed the south, do you?” Trin said indignantly.
“How many men?” asked Nina.
“A dozen.”
Nina’s voice strove for patience. “Trin, I talked to Kevin Eichleay in Lansing, Michigan. He helped you set up the home—”
Trin nodded. “I know Kevin.”
“Those men are paraplegics. Cripples.” She made a face. “I’m sorry. I mean no disrespect, but it’s laughable.”
Trin scowled at her and drew himself up. “I held the flag tower in the Citadel in Hue for twenty-five days during Tet with those men.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “You weren’t laughing then.”
“Okay,” said Broker, stepping between them. “Time out. Take a break.”
“Ah,” yelped Trin, pointing to the TV. “Four hundred and sixty-five dollars an ounce. Twelve troy ounces to a pound. That’s, ah, five thousand five hundred something to the pound times two thousand…”
Nina turned and stalked from the room. Broker followed her.
56
THEY FROZE IN THE HALL, PARALYZED BY THE INNOCENT smile of a passing Vietnamese maid. Nina unlocked her door and they quickly entered her room. She closed the door and leaned against it.
“That guy has me jumpy as a coot.”
“He is a little paranoid,” said Broker.
“A little? He drinks too much and he has a grandiose streak.”
“True, Trin always figured there were three sides in the war: the Commies, us, and him.”
“And…” She wagged her finger in a no-no gesture. “He pulled a knife on me.”
She stomped into the room and fell backward on the bed. “No shit,” she said in a disbelieving voice. “Their Vietnam vets are more fucked up than our Vietnam vets! Is that possible?”
“I need him.”
“He’s seriously cracked, Broker.”
“Maybe. But he knows his way around.”
She sat up and hugged herself. “You go out on some deserted beach with Trin and his army of cripples and dig up a fortune in gold and get your throat cut. Not me.”
“We just have to wing it a little. I have a hunch Trin’s all right.”
“Don’t be cavalier. This is serious.”
Broker exhaled. “And I’m serious. Look, it would be great if Trin was sober, industrious, and reliable. But he’s been pretty roughed up. That means he’s had to scramble to survive.” A grim smile played across Broker’s lips. “He’s taken a dive from regimental commander to street hustler, Nina. And I know how to handle street hustlers.”
“Look out the window. I don’t see the steeples of Stillwater, Minnesota…”
Broker waved her quiet. “I’ll bet he’s doing this tour guide number without a government license. The fact is, with his background, he’s got more to fear from the cops right now than we do.”
“It’s a stretch,” said Nina. Her tone was cautious but no longer adamant.
Broker shrugged. “My kind of scene. Of course it works better when you know the turf and everybody speaks the same language.”
She sat up and folded her legs Indian fashion. “And what really pisses me off is that he makes some sense, especially about the MIA office. Damn.” Frustrated, she sprang from the bed, paced two steps, and spun, one hip pushed out, arms hanging loosely.
Broker studied her. She was so close and eager to take her shot. Like David, she had the guts to cool it in Goliath’s shadow and the murderous concentration to bet it all on one throw.
But she was young and the petticoats of her ambition were showing—as was her need to control events. She wanted to be identified officially with the project from the start; she wanted it documented.
Nina Pryce, mentioned in dispatches.
Yeah, he was probably in love with her and she was a goddamned careerist. She’d be gone the second this thing was over.
“Okay,” she said reluctantly. “We’ll play it by ear with Mister Trin. But if he gets funny, we head for the liaison office. Agreed?”
“Deal,” said Broker.
“You have the map,” she worried suddenly.
“Right here.” Broker tapped his waist.
“Didn’t think I’d be this jumpy,” she said. “We haven’t even left the hotel yet.”
“We’ll do better once we’re in the countryside.”
“Broker, I just had this really terrible image: Bevode Fret in Hanoi.”
Broker grimaced. He hadn’t thought about Fret for a whole continent. “Look, are you hungry or anything?”
She shook her head. “I’m clogged with airplane food. I need some s
leep. About fourteen hours.”
“We both do. I’ll check on Trin and be right back. I’m sleeping here.”
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 attaché 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 agreement. “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 attaché 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?”
