“So why can’t you find him?”
“It’s not as easy as you think.” Mandarin got up. “Listen, I gotta get going. I have to find something for my son’s birthday. Then I have to get up to Albany because McSweeney’s due there. You’re welcome to join us if you want, OK? Or if you want more help here, let us know. But I think you’re spinning your wheels here.”
“How old is he?”
“Who, my kid? Thirteen. Good kid, but a tough age.”
“Forester had a son around that old,” said Lia.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Would you commit suicide knowing how it would affect your son?”
“I’m not Forester.”
59
Madonna was a blonde — not natural of course, though all her parts matched. She was older than the girls who had been downstairs. She wore a tight-fitted vinyl bodice and leather boots over fishnet stockings, apparently imitating one of the singer’s many incarnations, though the resemblance was distant at best. Karr couldn’t tell if the subdued belliger-ence she met him with was part of her act.
“Who are you?” she said, almost angrily.
“Just a guy.”
“Just a guy.” She picked up a cigarette pack from the nightstand next to the bed and knocked one out. “What do you want?”
“The obvious,” said Karr.
She smirked. Karr scooped the lighter from the table and lit it, holding the flame for her. Madonna hesitated, then leaned in. She took a long drag and blew the smoke in his face.
“You like that, huh, Joe?” she said.
“Name’s not Joe. And no, not really.”
“Strip.”
“You first.”
Madonna took a long puff from her cigarette. “All right,” she said.
Karr sat down on the bed, watching as the hooker unbuttoned her top. Her breasts sprang free with the last button, round oranges each topped by a pert red cherry. She raised her boot and put it on Karr’s leg.
“Lick it,” she said.
“I don’t think so.”
Miss Madonna pretended to pout. Karr took hold of the boot and helped her pull her foot free. He did the same with the second, then got up and brought the shoes to the side of the room. As he straightened them, he positioned a video fly on the wall just under the window.
The prostitute threw one of her stockings at him as he turned back around. He caught it, and waited for the second.
But instead of tossing it, Miss Madonna dropped it on the floor.
She rose, then tugged at the zipper of the vinyl girdle she was wearing. The garment fell away, revealing a white lace thong.
“Tommy, Cam Tre Luc is in the building,” said Rockman in Karr’s ear.
“And we were just getting to the good part.” Miss Madonna gave him a quizzical stare.
“Well, don’t stop,” Karr told her.
She pushed her arms back and let her vest slide off her shoulders. Then she paused, taking another drag from her cigarette.
“The madam’s on her way up in a frenzy,” warned Rockman.
“Mmmmmm,” said Karr, as Miss Madonna hooked her thumbs into the panty’s thin strings.
Before she could get any further, the madam’s strident voice was heard in the hallway.
“Mister, mister, big mistake. You go quick. Right now, quick.”
“His bodyguards are right behind him, Tommy,” said Rockman. “Get out of there.”
“Charlie, I’ll talk to him,” said Karr.
“No, I’m on my way over,” said Dean. “Hang out there and back me up.”
The madam burst into the room. “You go,” she told Karr.
“Right now?”
“Get dressed quick,” the madam told Madonna, adding something in Vietnamese that prodded the whore into motion.
The madam grabbed Karr’s arm.
“Come with me,” she told him, tugging him out the door and then pushing him down the hallway toward the back stairs. One of her bodyguards trailed silently behind.
Cam Tre Luc, meanwhile, was diverted at the top of the opposite stairs by a girl from another room who sensed trouble. Though out of view, Karr could hear her attempt at seduction and Cam Tre Luc’s protests.
“Where are we going?” Karr asked the madam as they reached the stairs.
“You done.”
“I didn’t get my money’s worth.”
“No charge. Full refund. Come back tomorrow.”
“How about a substitute?” he asked as she pushed him into the stairway. “Someone who doesn’t smoke.” dean circled around the back of the building and came out in the alley directly across from Saigon Rouge. Cam Tre Luc had left a single bodyguard in his SUV; according to the Art Room, one of his men was in the “reception” area and another had gone up to the third floor, waiting discreetly by the stairs while his boss conducted his business.
The original game plan called for Dean to go down the block to a four-story building next to the Saigon Rouge.
He’d climb the fire escape, get on the roof, jump down to Saigon Rouge, and then go down the stairs. The guard there would be disposed of with a shot of fast-acting anesthesia; Dean would then have a clear path to the room. While Karr was supposed to be back in the other building watching him, Dean decided there was no reason it wouldn’t work with him inside the whore house.
“Tommy’s in a room on the second floor,” said Rockman as Dean pulled down the fire escape and began climbing up the side of the building. “He convinced the madam he’d take someone else.”
“What’s Cam Tre Luc doing?”
“What do you think?”
* * *
Cam Tre Luc was not a fool. He knew that someone had been with his whore before he arrived, and he did not like it. Even though he had come earlier than normal, he expected that the girl would be ready and available — and alone. He paid considerable money for her attention and he was, after all, an important member of the government.
But achieving his position had required considerable dis-cipline. Cam Tre Luc realized that things had to be dealt with at the proper time, and in the proper order; placing emotions above rational thought doomed one to failure. His first priority was to be pleasured; he would deal with Miss Pu, the proprietor of Saigon Rouge, when that was accomplished.
Cam Tre Luc had first visited prostitutes during the American War, when he was still a young man. He was in fact married at the time, but his wife was a world away across the border in North Vietnam. While seeing prostitutes was frowned on by his superiors, Cam Tre Luc had had no difficulty justifying it to them — when living among the corrupt, one must wear their clothes.
Justifying it to himself would have been more difficult, so he did not bother doing so.
Things were now considerably different. His superiors, much higher now in government, would certainly not be as understanding — but there was no need for them to be, as he had more than enough information on any of them to do significant harm should they use this against him. As for his wife, she was here in Ho Chi Minh City. But their years of separation had conditioned her to accept completely their separate lives. If she knew that he visited prostitutes — he suspected she might — she did not say.
Miss Madonna slipped her hands around his chest from behind and began unbuttoning his shirt. He began to breathe more quickly — which was unusual. Generally the stroke of her fingers relaxed him.
Perhaps he was becoming too old for this.
60
The roof door was bolted from the inside, and to open it Dean had to use a super-magnet tool that he carried in his vest. Unhooking the latch to get the rod to slide required a bit of body English, and Dean lost a good three or four minutes before he could get the rod far enough off the stop to allow the door to open.
He leaned in far enough to see that the coast was clear and there was enough light so that he wouldn’t need his glasses, then hunched back to get ready. He unzipped the small pouch at his belly and took out what l
ooked like an oversized gardening glove. The glove was actually a hypo-dermic device, studded with needles that would feed a quick-acting synthetic opiate loaded into a bladder stored in the palm. While it was easier than using a regular doctor’s needle, the device required Dean to get extremely close to his victim. It was also highly preferable to inject the drug into the neck area and hold on for a good five seconds. All of which meant getting up close and personal with a very un-happy person.
Glove on his right hand, Dean tucked his pistol into his belt and slipped down the stairs. The guard stood just inside the open doorway; Dean could see his shadow as he tiptoed down.
The man who’d taught Dean how to use the “doping glove” was a former Special Forces soldier. He’d made it look easy, pulling his subject back with one arm held around the neck while clamping the open area near the throat with the glove. Dean, however, worried that in the frenzy he’d accidentally hit himself with one of the needles, and so he improvised: he stepped from the doorway, grabbed the bodyguard’s ponytail, and yanked him sideways. As he did, he jabbed his gloved hand at the man. Dean missed the bodyguard’s throat, getting his face instead. He held on as the surprised Vietnamese man struggled and attempted to scream.
Dean took two hard punches to the chest before a third missed badly and told him that the drug had begun to do its job. He dragged his victim away from the door, making sure to leave him on his side so that if he vomited — unfortunately, a common side effect of the drug — he wouldn’t drown in his own puke.
“First door on your right,” said Rockman. “Go!” No shit, thought Dean. He could have done without the runner’s encouragement.
Dean pulled the pistol from his belt, took a breath, then walked quickly to the door of the room. He pushed through the beads and saw Cam Tre Luc lying on the bed, his face between the legs of a blond whore.
“Cam Tre Luc?” said Dean.
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m sorry. I came for a friend — Gerald Forester. He’s hoping you have information for him.”
“You have no business here,” Cam Tre Luc told the man, staring into his eyes. “Out.”
They stared at each other for several long seconds.
“Charlie, Madonna has a pistol behind her back,” warned Rockman.
Dean ignored the girl. Though obviously angry, Cam Tre Luc looked pathetic, naked from the waist down; his legs were spindly and his butt creased with sagging fat.
“Forester needs your help,” Dean told him. He reached into his pocket for a card. “Call this number.” He dropped the card on the bed. “I didn’t want to approach you at your house or office. No one else knows. Don’t, lady,” Dean added, pointing his pistol at the prostitute as she slipped out of bed.
“I know you have a gun. I’m not here to hurt anybody.”
Cam Tre Luc continued to glare at him.
There was a shout in the hall.
“The phone number,” said Dean, pointing at the card.
“We can make it worth your while.”
Miss Madonna started to scream.
“Time to go, Charlie,” said Rockman.
“I’m on my way,” said Dean, backing out of the room.
* * *
Cam Tre Luc felt himself tremble with rage and embarrassment and — worst of all — impotence. Who did this American think he was?
Cam Tre Luc had no idea who this Forester was, nor would he have helped a Westerner under any circumstances.
But in this case — in this case he would have revenge for his humiliation.
“Give me that gun,” he told Miss Madonna. “Then get my pants.”
* * *
Dean had reached the stairs by the time Rockman warned him that Cam Tre Luc’s guard was coming down the hallway. With his first step downward, Dean lost his footing. He shoved his hand in the direction of the railing and grabbed it for a moment, temporarily steadying himself. But the railing then gave way and Dean shot forward, pirouetting down six or seven steps to the landing on the second floor.
It sounded as if everyone in the whore house was shouting. Rockman and the interpreter in the Art Room were both talking at once. A gunshot cracked in the far distance. Wood splintered near Dean’s head. Someone was shooting at him, the bullets flying just a few feet away. For some reason, the sound was different than bullets usually sounded, more brit-tle, less real.
Dean started to crawl around the landing to the next run of steps. Suddenly the stairway exploded with a loud crash. A brutal flash of light blinded him. Dean began to choke. Then he felt himself fall or fly — he couldn’t tell the difference.
A voice came out of the swirl below him.
“Hang on, partner,” said Tommy Karr, who’d hoisted Dean to his shoulder. “One more flight to go.” as karr reached the alley behind Saigon Rouge he dropped the second small tear gas grenade he had in his hand, then turned toward the motorbikes they’d stashed earlier.
“Let me down,” growled Dean from Karr’s shoulder.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” answered Karr, but he didn’t let go of Dean until they reached the bikes. There were shouts now all along the block, and Karr could hear the sounds of engines starting and people running. No one was in the alley, however; confusion was still on their side.
Dean stood woozily, putting his hand against the wall for balance.
“Get on my bike. Come on,” Karr told him, tilting it to the side.
“I’ll take my own.”
“Suit yourself,” said Karr, kick-starting his to life.
Dean got on the other bike woozily.
“You OK, Charlie?”
“Yeah.” His bike purred to life.
Someone appeared in the alley behind them, yelling at them to halt.
“I’m going to throw a flash-bang,” said Karr, grabbing at his belt. “Go. I’ll meet you back at the hotel.” As Dean thundered off, the person who’d yelled at them — one of Cam Tre Luc’s bodyguards — began shooting.
A bullet bounced off the wall opposite Karr, spraying pieces of clay from the brick. Karr tossed the flash-bang grenade over his shoulder and then hit the gas, hunkering down as the grenade exploded behind him.
The grenade was enough of a diversion to keep the bodyguard from following, but either one of his bullets or the shrapnel from them punctured Karr’s rear tire. He didn’t notice until he hit the main street and tried to turn; by then the air had run out completely and the rubber shell was so mangled that it whipped off with a screech a cat might make if its skin was pulled from its body. Karr felt the bike shifting abruptly to its side. He tried to let it fall beneath him, hoping to walk away from the wipeout just as he would have done as a teenager on his uncle’s farm a few years before. But Karr’s foot caught on the frame of the bike; knocked off balance, he spun around and landed on his back in the middle of the street.
Karr jumped to his feet just in time to narrowly miss being run over by a bus. He tried chasing it down to hop on the back, but it was moving too fast and there were no good handholds besides.
“Hey, Charlie,” he said, continuing down the block. “I need a lift.”
“He’s circling back for you,” said Rockman. “Run to the north.”
“Which way is north?” said Karr.
“Take the next left. Bodyguards have gone back to the building,” added Rockman. “Cam Tre Luc is really angry.”
“Guess he’s not the guy we’re looking for, huh?”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Mr. Karr,” said Rubens from the Art Room. “Let’s give it some time and see what develops. For now, please get as far away from the area as possible.”
“Good idea, boss,” said Karr, hearing Dean’s bike approaching in the distance.
61
Marie Telach turned to Rubens.
“We’ll have Cam Tre Luc’s voice patterns analyzed,” she said. “But I’d say his surprise seemed fairly genuine. I don’t think he was the one communicating with Forester.”
“No,” said Rubens. He folded his arms.
“Is it worth sending anyone north to check on the last possibility?” asked Telach. “Thao Duong looks like he’s got to be involved.”
Thao Duong was involved in something, thought Rubens.
That much was clear.
“He’s positioned perfectly to funnel money from the government to the people in America,” continued Telach. “He speaks with people in different American cities.”
“True,” admitted Rubens. “But how would Forester have found him? And why would he think he’d talk?”
“Because a source here told him he would. Or he knew something about his background.”
“Yes,” said Rubens vaguely. He wasn’t convinced. “What’s the third man’s name?”
“Phuc Dinh. A minor government official in the area near Da Nang,” said Telach.
“Have Charlie contact him. Mr. Karr can continue watching Thao Duong. Have him keep his distance. Let’s give the intercepts a few days and see what they turn up.” rubens was just picking up the phone to call Collins at the CIA and update her when National Security Advisor Donna Bing called wanting to know what the status of the “Vietnam thing” was. He gave her a brief rundown.
“So this Thao Duong is in the middle of it,” said Bing, her excitement obvious. “Can you get him to talk?”
“I’m not sure that he is in the middle of it,” said Rubens.
“I’m not even sure there is anything for him to be in the middle of.”
“No need to be so circumspect, Bill. You’re not talking to the Senate. I suggest we pick him up and talk to him.”
“I believe I’d need a little more information before I went ahead and picked him up, ” said Rubens. “We’ll require a finding.”
A “finding” was an order based on specific intelligence, approved by the NSC and signed by the President directing Desk Three to take a certain action. Activities that had the potential of causing extreme international trouble — like forcibly kidnapping an official of a foreign government in his home country in a nonemergency situation — could only be carried out pursuant to a finding. It usually took at least two meetings of the NSC before one was prepared.
Conspiracy db-6 Page 17
