Chant shrugged. “If you want the man who tortured and killed your son, you’re going to have to cooperate with me.”
“I am cooperating with you!”
“I need to know about the whorehouses and drug trafficking, the pornography.”
“None of that goes on the list; I’ll tell you all the details of those operations.”
“Well, I guess that’ll have to do. You’re going to have to do something about the Hmong. That’s the next item on the agenda.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“The housing complex you’ve forced them to live in is one big shithouse. They feel trapped because they are trapped, and they’re miserable. You may think of them as passive, but you never saw them fight the Pathet Lao. They’re passive now because they’re in an alien culture and disoriented, physically weak because of the lousy food you force them to buy in your company store. Their passivity could end very quickly, and you’ll have a few thousand very angry Hmong running through all these nice, clean county streets. I told you that the paper necklace was a symbol of hope. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that part of Sinclair’s plan for fleecing and destroying you is to stir up the Hmong; you’ll be distracted and unable to prevent him from hitting you in other places where you’re vulnerable. Move, counter-move. Think military, Baldauf. You’re going to have to neutralize his initiative on that front.”
“Jesus Christ,” Baldauf said weakly. He’d gone pale. “You talk like I’m in a war.”
“Oh, you are in a war. And I’m right next to you in the bunker.”
“Against one man?!”
“Want to see his press clippings?”
Baldauf swallowed hard, cleared his throat. “What should I do?”
“Sinclair wants to exploit their misery, so you remove the sources of misery; Sinclair wants to keep them stirred up, so you calm them down. If you give the Hmong back their dignity, you’ll remove a very powerful weapon from Sinclair’s arsenal. Start fixing up the complex. Send in an army—and I understand that you’ll need an army—of plumbers, carpenters and masons to make needed repairs. There are a lot of sick people in that shithouse who either can’t afford medical attention because of the sub-coolie wages you pay them, or who are afraid to go to a hospital because your men have made them afraid to leave the complex.”
Baldauf averted his gaze. “Listen, Fox. I’ve helped a lot of people in this county. You make it sound as if, uh, I’m a—”
“Shut up,” Chant said evenly. “You haven’t helped the Hmong; if you’re president of the local Rotary, it’s the blood and lives of the Hmong that got you elected. I know exactly what you are, but I’m interested neither in your sins nor your excuses. I’m only interested in killing John Sinclair, and I’m telling you how we’re going to do it.”
“Go ahead,” Baldauf mumbled. “What you’ve said so far makes sense. I don’t need those gooks giving me labor problems.”
“Send in a team of doctors and nurses to go door-to-door to treat anyone in need of medical attention—compliments of Baldauf Industries. There’s a lot of malnutrition in there, so you’d better send in a few truckloads of good food and vitamin supplements—also compliments of Baldauf Industries. Announce that, starting immediately, they’ll at least be paid the state’s guaranteed minimum wage for the industries they work in. You might even consider giving each worker a lump sum to make up for all the back wages you’ve stolen from them. You don’t have to say that you’ve been cheating them, Baldauf; call it a bonus.”
“Holy shit,” Baldauf whispered hoarsely. “This could end up costing me a fortune.”
Once again, Chant shrugged. “I have no idea of your net worth, Baldauf. I was just making a suggestion. You have to decide what percentage of your wealth you’re willing to shell out in order to save the rest of it, and get Sinclair. One thing is certain; if this man has a mind to, and he’s not stopped, he’ll stop you of everything you have; he’ll rip through this county like a brushfire. If you want to risk letting him start that fire with the Hmong …”
“Okay, okay,” Baldauf said quickly. “I’ve already said I agreed I have to do something about the Hmong.”
“Good idea. If I were you, I’d start right after lunch.”
“Yeah.”
“Have you received an extortion note?”
“No.”
“Mmm. Too bad.”
“What the fuck do you mean, ‘too bad’? You expect me to pay off the man who murdered my son?”
“Of course not,” Chant answered mildly. “But if he thought you’d go for a payoff, we might be able to grab him at the drop site. Sometimes he does that—elects to take the money and ran, so to speak. If he hasn’t contacted you about money, it could make things more difficult, and much more dangerous.”
“Why?”
Leaning on his cane, Chant bent down and picked up a dead rose from the ground. He held it up to the light breeze, which tore away the remaining petals. “Sinclair is deadly,” Chant said, casually tossing away the stem. “If he hasn’t asked you for money, it could mean he has other plans. If he’s on a killing spree … He’s a man who takes no prisoners, Baldauf.”
Wilbur Baldauf put his fingertips against the shaved sides of his head and swallowed hard. “Then you think he definitely plans to kill me?”
“It could be,” Chant said easily. “After he toys with you for a while. Assume that’s his plan. Hire bodyguards.”
“I’ve got bodyguards.”
“What about the rest of your family?”
“The rest of my family?”
“Like you said, there are a lot of Baldaufs in the county.”
“True, but—”
“And all of them own a piece of Baldauf Industries, right?”
“Yes,” Baldauf said softly. His face now had a haunted look about it.
“Sinclair may consider all of you—the men, at least—fair game, no matter who knows what about the illegal activities. That’s too many targets, too many potential distractions. Get rid of them.”
“How the hell am I supposed to do that?!”
“Have all the Baldaufs go to Europe for at least a month. By then, Sinclair should be dead. If there are problems with the business end of things, arrange to get their powers of attorney before they leave. Also, that will insure that Baldauf Industries remains intact, even if Sinclair shifts the focus of attention to somebody else in your family.”
“Christ, Fox, I don’t know if I can get the others to agree to that.”
“It’s just a suggestion,” Chant said casually. “It’s your problem. I’m here to get Sinclair, not babysit the Baldaufs. You’ll have to protect everyone’s interests the best way you can.”
Baldauf looked away and was silent for some time. When he finally spoke, his voice was trembling and barely audible. “When we get this guy, he’s mine … to do with as I please.”
“Agreed. Just as long as you don’t let him get away, and he winds up dead.”
“He’s going to be dying a long time, Fox. There’s a big acid vat up in my paper mill. We’ll see how he enjoys being lowered into it an inch at a time.”
“Sounds delightful. I’m going back to my hotel to pick up my things, if I’m working alone, it’s inefficient and dangerous for me to be that isolated. With your permission, I’ll stay here. I’ll need a room with an office in your house so that we’ll have instant communications and coordination, also, that will give me a lower profile than if I had to commute back and forth from town. Can it be arranged?”
“It can be arranged.”
“Good. Tell the other members of your family that you’re putting up your new CEO until he can find a house. Don’t tell anyone who I really am. I’ll be coming and going at odd hours, so I’ll need a private entrance.”
“Yeah,” Baldauf replied absently, obviously still thinking about John Sinclair being lowered into an acid vat. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Good-bye, Baldauf,” C
hant said, and abruptly started to walk away.
“I don’t like you, Fox. You tread heavily.”
Chant stopped, turned back. “That’s all right, Baldauf, because as you’ve undoubtedly noticed, I don’t much care for you, either. Isn’t it fortunate that we both dislike John Sinclair more than we dislike each other?”
“How the hell do I know you’re who you say you are?”
“Are you kidding me, Baldauf?” Chant asked with a harsh, mocking laugh.
The other man’s expression was stony, appraising. “I don’t have much of a sense of humor, Fox,” he said at last. “I’m definitely not kidding.”
“We spent a good fifteen minutes debating whether or not I should call the Pentagon and have them send—”
“I don’t care what we talked about. You could have been bluffing.”
“You want me to make the call now?”
“No. How else can I check you out?”
“Call the number on the card I gave you, for Christ’s sake. That’s the private number of my boss in the Pentagon His name’s General Maxwell Carter, and he’s authorized to discuss me and my mission with you in order to verify my credentials. He knows I’m here, so he’s probably expecting your call.”
Baldauf continued to stare hard at Chant. “How do I know this General Carter isn’t a phony? I know something about phone blinds, Fox. I’m not a fool The guy I reach at this number might charm my ass off, but that doesn’t mean he might not be a garage mechanic who’s a friend of yours.”
“You’re crazy, Baldauf. Why the hell should I give you a phony number and name? If I’m not who I say I am, who the hell would I be?”
The fat man slowly raised his right hand and cocked his thumb and forefinger like a gun aimed at Chant’s head. “What if you’re this John Sinclair?”
Again, Chant laughed, then shook his head in apparent bewilderment. “That’s great material, Baldauf; really good stuff. I’m John Sinclair—come to inform you of my existence when you knew nothing about me, confess that I killed your son, and warn you that I’m going to steal the family business before I kill you. It’s definitely an intriguing thought, but I’m damned if I can understand why John Sinclair would do that.”
Baldauf’s lips curled back to reveal crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. “I have my own ways of finding out things, Fox.”
“Then use them!” Chant snapped abruptly. “But you’re not going to get anywhere calling any other number in Washington except that one. Even if you do get hold of somebody who knows about me, that person will deny my existence to you. Nobody is going to identify a field operative on an ultrasensitive mission unless strict procedure is followed. Carter is the only person authorized to talk to you about me.” Chant paused, then sighed heavily. “Frankly, Baldauf,” he continued in a softer tone, “I don’t know what to tell you. This is crazy; the problem’s never come up before.”
Baldauf continued to stare at Chant for some time, then suddenly grunted and stuffed Chant’s card into his pocket. “Don’t worry about it,” he said with a broad gesture of dismissal.
“You’re the one who’s worried, not me.”
“Not really. I was just putting you on. I know you’re who you say you are.”
“Oh? How?”
“I told you I wasn’t a fool. I can smell a bullshit artist a mile away.”
“Really? What a remarkable talent I wish I could do that.”
“Cross me and I’ll kill you, Fox. I don’t go down easy for anybody, not for this Sinclair bastard, and not for the U.S. Army.”
“I’ll be back in an hour or two, Baldauf,” Chant said, turning and starting to limp away. “Sorry about your son.”
FIVE
Vietnam, 1971
Thomas Maheu, CIA bureau chief for all of Southeast Asia, nodded to his two permanently assigned bodyguards; the two Rangers, martial arts experts, wheeled and walked out of the base commanding officer’s office, closing the door behind them. Maheu, a thick man who always seemed to smell of stale smoke, ran his fingers through his longish, gray-brown hair at the same time as he tapped the fingers of his other hand on the top of a desk, which was bare except for Chant’s orange personnel file.
“That uniform looks like shit, Sinclair,” Maheu said, wrinkling his nose and smacking his lips in distaste. “Don’t you ever get it pressed?”
“When I have time between firefights up in the jungle, sir.”
“You never looked right in a uniform, anyway.”
“Thank you, sir,”
“I wonder why the hell the army puts up with you?”
“Sir, I wonder if I might talk to you about the Hmong? I’m concerned—”
“No, you may not—not now, anyway. Sit down, Sinclair.”
Chant sat down in the straight-backed chair that had been placed exactly in the center of the austere, antiseptic office, then watched as Maheu idly leafed through the file.
“You’re quite a mystery man, Captain,” Maheu continued at last, closing the folder and looking at Chant inquiringly.
“Sir?”
“You heard what I said.”
“If I’m not mistaken, that’s my personnel file you have in front of you.”
“Oh, there’s all the usual stuff here. The usual stuff isn’t what I want to know.”
“What would you like to know, sir?”
“Who taught you?”
“I was trained by the U.S. Army, sir I believe that’s in the file.”
Maheu flushed. “Don’t be a smart-ass with me, Sinclair That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
“Who taught me what?”
“You’ve got quite a rep, Sinclair, and it extends a good distance beyond your army unit and your fellow spooks Even those two Rangers out there know of you—and I don’t mind telling you that they’d love to have at you They’re competitive men, and more than a little envious of that rep.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Chant said, stifling a yawn “I didn’t sleep well last night, I’m not used to the quiet.”
Maheu narrowed his lids “You came into boot camp, fresh out of college, and proceeded to beat the shit out of the army’s best martial arts instructors—in every discipline. They wanted to put you in charge of all martial arts training right then and there. Christ, you could have spent the entire war in the States.”
“I wasn’t interested in spending the war in the States, sir. I convinced my superiors that I wouldn’t make a very good instructor.”
“You usually get what you want, don’t you, Sinclair? Christ, you even get your way in the U.S. Army.”
“I’ve never thought of it in those terms, sir. As I said, I presented an argument to my superiors, and it was accepted.”
“That isn’t the way it was with Operation Phoenix. You didn’t present an argument; you as much as told me to go fuck myself.”
“As I recall, I was being asked to volunteer. I merely declined.”
“Who taught you all the tricks you know?”
“Tricks?”
“Don’t play games with me, Sinclair. Who taught you?”
In all likelihood the “Langley Jap,” Chant thought, and he wondered if even Maheu knew the real identity of the Japanese man. Somehow, Chant doubted it. Also, if the Japanese was who Chant thought he was, and if the Japanese wanted him, it was definitely not for the U.S. Army’s or CIA’s purposes.
The Japanese was an old and bitter enemy. If the Japanese had insisted that Maheu contact him, it meant that Maheu—as well as the top echelons of the CIA—was being manipulated to send him a strictly personal message to the effect that the man whose thirst for vengeance seemed implacable always knew where Chant was, could track him over barriers of space and time, and could touch his life at any time. Also, Chant thought, Maheu was almost certainly being used as a pawn in some sort of complex plot to destroy him, and he had to assume that, from this moment on, he was in a great deal of danger—possibly from his own people.
“I grew up in Japan, s
ir,” Chant said. “That’s also in my file. If you grow up in Japan, you pick up things like that. Japanese kids practice martial arts the way American kids play baseball.”
“Bullshit. All American kids don’t grow up to be Babe Ruth. I’m told you’re the Babe Ruth of the shit you do.”
“I’ve had many teachers, sir.”
“Greg King came to see you last night, Sinclair. I didn’t tell him to do that, which makes it an act of insubordination.”
“Insubordination? He’s my controller.”
“Well, I’m his goddamn controller, and he wasn’t even supposed to know you’re here. What’d that sneaky bastard tell you?”
“He didn’t tell me anything,” Chant replied evenly. “He wanted to debrief me, as usual, and he was leery of the security on this base regarding civilian employees. That’s why he approached me the way he did. He was just doing his job.”
“You’re a liar.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Did he say anything to you about the possibility of reassignment?”
“No, sir. Am I being considered for reassignment?”
“What’s your opinion regarding dissidents back home?”
“I don’t have one. I’m a soldier, not a politician.”
“You don’t believe they’re sapping the will of the United States to gut this thing out?”
“I can’t speak for the United States, sir. They don’t sap my will to fight. They mean nothing to me one way or another.”
“It doesn’t bother you that a bunch of peacenik politicians, ministers, student leaders, and various other chickenshits are supporting the enemy while that enemy is trying to shoot your ass off?”
“No, sir. What they choose to do has nothing to do with what I choose to do.”
“What you choose to do?”
“Yes, sir; that’s what I said.”
“You’re a fucking idiot, Sinclair.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“We’re losing this fucking war at home!” Maheu shouted, pounding his fist on Chant’s personnel file. “If it weren’t for those filthy, fucking traitors, we’d be set free to do what we have to do to win this war. Because of them, everything is going down the goddam tubes! Don’t those idiots realize that their gooses would really be cooked if the Communists take over everything?!”
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