South China Sea wi-8

by Ian Slater

  A policeman approached him, but Chong’s air of confidence stayed with him, there being no discernible difference in his pace or manner. The policeman pointed at the pavement behind Chong. “You dropped your keys.”

  “What?” Chong said. Usually when they saw Koreans, they wanted to see ID. “Oh,” Chong said. “Thank you,” and he bowed before he bent down to retrieve the keys and two or three tissues that he’d dropped, wondering as he did so how it was that facial tissues always ended up in tight little balls in your pocket, and knowing instinctively that the cop was going to recognize him before they got much farther apart.

  The air of confidence he’d had evaporated suddenly, and he turned right, into the first alley he saw, and ran down the dimly lit canyon. He turned right once more, stopping, slamming himself back hard against a cold brick wall, panting, fighting hard to slow down his heart, which was banging inside his chest so loudly he was afraid someone would hear it.

  It was only a second later that Chong heard the whistle and the cop running. But would the cop turn into his ill-lit alley, or into the one on the left? He could hear the policeman stopping momentarily, could hear him breathing — or was it his own breath? Then the cop started running again. Chong saw the policeman’s shadow the moment he turned right. He leapt forward then, and stuck the knife in the cop’s heart. He wrenched it out, the policeman sliding down, his eyes bulging, his left hand clawing in the dim-lit air, his right trying futilely to grab the brick wall. Chong stabbed him again, leaving the knife embedded deeply in his chest.

  Chong was half running, half walking, attempting to slow down his excitement. Plunging the blade into one of his persecutors had been one of the most satisfying things he’d done in a long time. But with it came fear too, gobbling up his earlier confidence, and he was afraid that when he hit the stream of pedestrians and late-night shoppers, he would have that hunted look that hunters so easily spot.

  Relax, he told himself. Breathe the air deep into your stomach. That’s it. No, don’t force a smile or even a grin. Try to adopt that slouched, anonymous, expressionless look — meld into the crowd. Now he had two phone calls to make to confirm a rumor he had heard from the third agent in his political cell, the second agent having been Tazuko Komura, who had been killed along with all her other victims on the bullet train. The rumor he’d heard concerned the loading of supplies aboard the U.S. hospital ship, the SS Tampa—specifically, blood supply.

  It was a common enough guide to impending war for a country’s intelligence community, especially NATO and the Warsaw Pact, to keep tabs on such things as the movements of VIPs in departments of defense and associated industries and on the present state of blood supplies, any sudden increase of plasma and blood supplies a sign that hostilities were about to take place. In the case of the SS Tampa, it was only natural that blood supplies would have been maximized before she had set sail for the South China Sea to serve as USVUN’s hospital, but Chong had wanted more telling information. Though he’d intended to make the two calls in the morning, after he had sobered up, the fright of his knowing that the death of the policeman, in addition to the JDF agents and the American he had killed, would be sparking the biggest manhunt in Tokyo’s history quickly persuaded him to risk using a public phone booth to make the confirmation calls under the guise of being a furnace salesman.

  The first number rang until the message machine came on. Chong hung up, watching the reflections in the Perspex bubble of the phone booth. When he dialed the second number, one of the man’s children answered. No, her father wasn’t at home. Could she take a message?

  “No, thank you,” Chong replied and hung up, conscious of two things simultaneously: that he was starting to get a pounding headache and that someone was standing behind him. He whirled about, only to frighten a teenage schoolgirl who stepped back a few paces and stared at him. He mumbled an apology and walked off, joining the crowd, where he became aware of people now looking at him, glancing down at his trousers. Holding his aching head, his gaze followed theirs and he saw a long streak of blood from his crotch to the knee of his right trouser leg. “Shit!” he groaned, and kept his eyes open for a drugstore. There, he took a plastic shopping bag to try to hide the blood, bought a package of acetaminophen gel capsules, and went over to the store’s fridge for a guava juice. The druggist had a good look at him, and when Chong left the store, rang the police.

  * * *

  The censors in General Jorgensen’s HQ in Hanoi knew they couldn’t stop the story of the MIAs getting out, but they tried, under Jorgensen’s instructions, in “the interests of security,” by which Jorgensen meant in the interests of the Pentagon MIA and POW office, to limit the damage. Jorgensen insisted that from CNN Center in Atlanta the satellite feed, sped all over the world to millions of viewers, would consist of a two-part story: first, that turncoat American MIAs from the Vietnam War had “reportedly” been sighted in Vietnam’s central highlands; second, that a column of fifty to one hundred Khmer Rouge had “reportedly” crossed the Vietnamese-Laotian border. In this way, Jorgensen hoped that in the viewer’s mind the renegade MIA story would be connected with the Khmer Rouge, so that any public demand to have the MIAs found would not automatically become a call to commit U.S. forces to fighting the Khmer Rouge — with whom the Pentagon had no intention of closing.

  But Jorgensen had been too clever by half, as American viewers coast to coast were jamming Washington’s and CNN’s fax lines, clamoring for the return of the MIAs immediately, because if they had been turncoats in ‘Nam, weren’t they now “allies” with the U.S. against China? The spirit of forgiveness was across the land and the call was, “Bring ‘em home.”

  It didn’t occur to anyone except Freeman, Marte Price, and a few others on the spot that “Salt and Pepper Two” might not want to go home. But Freeman didn’t care. In a roundabout and unpredictable way, Marte Price’s report had done what Freeman had hoped for. It galvanized U.S. public opinion to send in U.S. troops if necessary to bring out those two MIAs and the others the Vietnamese would now be hopefully willing to release — if they wanted to count on continued USVUN assistance in repelling the Chinese invasion.

  Freeman immediately requested and received, albeit reluctantly, permission from Jorgensen to send in an “MIA reconnaissance force,” but Jorgensen insisted that Freeman change the name from “Operation Eagle” to “Operation Homecoming.”

  “I don’t give a damn what it’s called,” Freeman said on receiving Jorgensen’s instruction. “It’ll be carried out by a Special Forces task force of about a hundred men, assorted USVUN commandos chosen mainly from the U.S. Delta, British SAS, and the British Gurkha regiment.”

  “I thought you’d only need ten men,” Jorgensen countered on the secure phone, the explosions of U.S. TACAIR from the carrier and Chinese triple A in the background making it difficult for Freeman to hear the commander. Jorgensen waited for a lull in the bombing. There was none and so he shouted again, asking why Freeman was sending in so many men.

  “We might accidentally bump into the Khmer Rouge,” Freeman answered.

  “Now, Douglas, you listen to me. This is purely a recon patrol to find out about those two MIAs.”

  “Exactly!” Freeman yelled, not bothering to duck as enemy mortar rounds exploded in the trees around the MUST tent. “It’s a reconnaissance in force!” Before Jorgensen could object, Freeman added, “I’m sure you’ll agree, General, we owe it to the folks back home to give it our best shot, to rescue any MIAs. Be a feather in your cap, General.”

  “I don’t care about feathers in my cap, Douglas.”

  “ ‘Course not, sir—” Suddenly the line was frying with static, and it was several seconds before contact was reestablished and Jorgensen made it clear that under no circumstances was his Special Forces group to engage the Khmer Rouge.

  “That’s a political decision,” Jorgensen said, adding, “That’s Washington’s call.”

  “Of course,” Freeman said, and they signed off
amicably enough.

  “What’s up?” Cline inquired.

  “I’m sending a force west. We’re gonna kick ass, Major.”

  “You heard what General Jorgensen said, sir?”

  “It was a bad line,” Freeman replied.

  “Witnesses,” Cline said.

  “Our boys’d have no option if they were attacked.”

  Cline paused and from habit looked about for the press aide. “If young Boyd was here, General, I think he’d point out—”

  “Young Boyd was a good officer, Major. So are you, but you’ve got to remember you’re in the field. Here we’ve got a chance to teach those Khmer Rouge bastards a lesson. Leave it up to the politicos, and they’d wine and dine the sons of bitches.”

  “It’s possible we could rescue some MIAs.”

  Freeman looked exasperated, like George C. Scott with a cigar between his teeth. “What the hell’s the matter with you, Major? Some MIAs—you know as well as I do that by now most of those MIAs are long dead and buried or went nuts, paddled off upriver, and shot ‘emselves. ‘Sides, the only damn MIAs I’m interested in right now are those two shitbags running with the Khmer Rouge. By God, I’d like to meet those two — gentlemen.”

  “We couldn’t allow them,” Cline began, “I mean, our reconnaissance force — to cross over the Vietnamese border — into Laos.”

  “Who said anything about crossing over into Laos?” With a cigar in his mouth, Freeman gave Cline the impression that he was grinning.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Marte Price had not yet returned from Hanoi to Second Army’s rear HQ in Phu Lang Thuong. Even so, Pierre LaSalle knew he had to hurry if he was to find the photo of Freeman shooting one of his wounded men. There was no doubt in LaSalle’s mind that such a photograph existed. There were simply too many rumors for it to be untrue, and LaSalle didn’t know a photographer in the world who wouldn’t keep such a shot. He’d had a duplicate key made from the one he “borrowed” from her purse in the aftermath of their lovemaking, and now he had it in the lock of the gray metal asbestos-lined box. In another second he had the lid open and was rifling through its contents: several nine-by-twelve brown envelopes filled with blowups and negatives, each print marked and numbered according to what roll of film it belonged to.

  Even so, LaSalle could tell at once that there were considerably fewer photos printed than there were negatives. “Merde!” It would take him hours to examine every negative. There were hundreds of them. Like most professionals, she’d taken dozens of shots in an effort to capture a story she wanted to file. He was avidly searching through the box for some kind of master index but could find none, only a Sharp electronic organizer notebook. Excitedly he pressed the On button, but couldn’t access it, as it was asking for a password. “Merde!” The Frenchman heard a noise outside, a Hummer coming to a stop, then voices, hers among them, thanking someone for the ride.

  “Anytime, ma’am, anytime!”

  Quickly, LaSalle’s hands shoveled the contents of the gray box back in, closed the lid, took out the key and sat on her bed, grabbing a magazine from a small pile she had by the bed.

  “What the — Pierre!”

  “At last!” he said, rising from the bed, taking her hand and gallantly kissing it. “I thought you’d never come. So — how was Hanoi?”

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, still in a mild state of shock.

  He straightened up and looked at her with a surprised, quizzical gaze. “Waiting for you, of course. I hope you don’t mind. It was raining earlier on, so I let myself in.” He was still holding her hand. “You look — positively ravishing.”

  She took off the Vietnamese-style cap and shook her hair loose. “Raining?”

  “Oh,” he said, “just a little, but I have an aversion to rain.” He paused, took a step back and gazed at her with mock concern. “Oh dear, you are angry with me for letting myself in.”

  “What? Oh, no, not really,” she said. “Just surprised, I guess.”

  “Pleasantly, I hope?” he said, a grin passing into a wide smile.

  She visibly relaxed and threw her cap over onto the bed. “I didn’t know you’re a fan of Cosmo.”

  “What? Oh, the magazine.” He winked at her. “I only look at the pictures.”

  “Hmmm,” she said, smiling. “I suppose you’re too sophisticated to read the love advice?”

  He glanced down at the pouting beauty dressed in a tight gold lame dress and read aloud, “ ‘How to keep your man— once you’ve landed him.’ “ LaSalle shrugged. “I don’t need advice.”

  “Oh,” she answered playfully. “Really?”

  “Really. But that’s easy to say. Perhaps we had better put me to the test — yes?”

  “Hmmm, maybe,” she responded. “I don’t mean to be unkind, but maybe you should give me time to shower. I’m perspiring like a—” She hesitated.

  “Go on,” he said. “Like a what?”

  She sat down on the bed, shucked off her Army-issue walking shoes, and began massaging her foot. “Let’s just say I’m sweating, okay?”

  “Okay. I love it.”

  “What — perspiration?”

  “In a woman, yes. How do you say it? It turns me on.”

  “You’re sick.”

  “For love — yes.”

  “Be a sweetie and come back later. I really am dog tired.”

  “Dog tired?” He approved of the phrase but wasn’t quite sure why it involved a dog.

  “Oh, gimme a break,” she said. “Let me shower and rest for a while. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “I am—” He thought hard for a moment. “—devastated!”

  “You’ll live,” she said, and changed the subject. “How are things on Disney?”

  LaSalle gave a Gallic shrug, his bottom lip saying it all. “Who knows? They are bombing the turd out of—”

  “The shit,” she corrected him playfully.

  “The what?”

  “They’re bombing the shit out of the Chinese.”

  “No, out of the northern side of the hill to keep the Chinese in their tunnels till morning. Jorgensen is sure the Chinese will have had enough by dawn, that they will surrender in droves. Freeman—” He shrugged again. “—he’s not so sure. The ones not damaged by the bombing might come out fighting.”

  Marte yawned. “So, can you give me a lift up there tomorrow?”

  “Of course — but we won’t be allowed close to Disney.”

  She winked at him. “I have ways.”

  “I know,” LaSalle replied.

  “Ah,” she said in mock disgust. “Don’t you guys think of anything but sex?”

  “La guerre and sex!” he proclaimed, spreading his hands in the air. “What else is there, chérie?”

  When he left, Marte began to undress, sniffing at her underwear to see if it would last another day unwashed and looking down at her khaki pants. She’d been walking through fairly tall elephant grass, yet there were no water stains on the pants. It must have been a short shower of rain Pierre had sought refuge from, or maybe he thought that being there, ready for her, she’d fall into his arms. He was a little conceited in that way. Weren’t most Frenchmen, thinking they were the best lovers? Of course, she admitted to herself, Pierre was no slouch. Hell, neither was she. And that bit about him saying he liked women perspiring was disgusting and deliriously naughty.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Jae Chong sought refuge in a four-movie-theater complex off the Ginza strip, and in the flickering darkness he had time to think. The difficulty would now be how to get out and make his way home, let alone make the two calls about the blood supply shipment. He tried to remember whether there was a phone in the lobby, but he couldn’t recall. He’d been moving too fast for the clerk in the box office to look down and see the bloodstains on his pants.

  Inside the theater the smell of the fake leather seats triggered a smell memory i
n him, and momentarily he was back during his first meet with the other two agents in his cell, eleven years before. Tazuko Komura was just fifteen then, and Chong recalled that the last time he’d seen her, only a few days before she blew up the Tokyo-Niigata express, her eyes were those of an old woman, weary and frightened that the next knock on the door or the person behind you was from Japan’s counterespionage service.

  Chong had thought then that she wouldn’t risk leaving her bag — any piece of unaccompanied luggage would immediately raise suspicion, inviting the conductors to inspect it. No, he’d known then that she’d stay with the bomb till the end. And that’s what he’d do too. Only a crazy would think he had a chance, now that every cop in the Tokyo prefecture would be looking for him.

  Maybe there was a phone in the rest room. The movie, which he hadn’t been following, now moved from a vast field of corn and blue sky into a dark passage. He eased out of his seat then and made his way out toward the men’s room, passing several teenagers and an elderly couple sitting down in the lobby waiting for the next show in the adjoining theater to start. None of them took any notice of him.

  There was no phone. Another man entered, in his late sixties or early seventies, suit and tie, and stood at the urinal two down from him, trying to hit the piece of camphor ice with his stream. He’d do nicely, Chong thought, noting that the man was alone and about his size. The man had a paunch, but better too large than too small. Chong waited until the man was behind him, then struck out with his elbow, slamming him against one of the cubicle doors. Chong’s right foot followed, smashing the man on the right side of his face, the force of the kick driving him straight into the cubicle. Chong went right in after him, stamping on the flush ball set into the floor, causing the toilet to roar as the old man began to push himself back from the cistern. Chong hit him with a left. The man fell again, knocking himself out on the edge of the toilet. Chong heard the washroom door open. He stepped out of the cubicle, kicked the kid he saw in the groin and smashed his right fist against the boy’s temple, knocking him unconscious. Then Chong returned to the cubicle, pulled off the old man’s jacket and pants, put them in his plastic drugstore bag, and walked out. A teenager, a boy, was approaching the washroom.