Saigon

by Nick Carter

  Then the voice. Imitation American, pitched in an unnatural key as if trying to disguise itself.

  "Stop playing games with me, my friend. I know you are not armed. I will get you sooner or later if you keep this up. But there's no reason why you should. The girl was a menace to us both. Now that she no longer troubles us we can pool our knowledge without fear. She has lied to you. We can talk together like reasonable men. I promise I will not shoot if you show yourself."

  "Then throw your gun down," Nick yelled. "Let me hear it drop."

  There was a low laugh, then a brief pause. Something clattered down the rock face yards away. Nick's hand roamed until he found another stone. The other man called out: "I have done my part. Now let me see you."

  "If that was a gun, then so is this!" Nick shouted. He threw his stone at the voice and scrambled sideways. A gun barked. It made so much better a target than the crooning voice. Nick fired twice and heard a yowl of pain. Something fell heavily down the side of a rock and thundered down to the sand. Not a man — a boulder, Nick thought, and fired again. This time, no scream. A shot whined over his head. He ran along the outside edge of his sheltering rock toward the sound, cursing the blackness and straining his ears to sift through the sound of wind and waves for the telltale sound of a man. But there was nothing. Only the sea.

  He fired again, at nothing, weaving and running as he fired. Nothing. No answering shot.

  And then he heard the sound of Saigon's wet summer. Rain. It came down in a sudden drenching downpour as if the plug had been pulled out of the sky, beating down on the rocks and the sand and the sea until it drowned out all lingering vestiges of sight and every surreptitious, soft sound. He fired again into the night, hoping for an answer. There was none.

  He waited. One minute, two minutes passed. There was a lull. One of those freak pauses when the rainclouds seem to take breath before a fresh onslaught. Then he heard the running. Feet running from sand to pebbles to snapping twigs, scraping across fallen boughs and leaves and kicking at stones, crashing through the underbrush that led up to the road. Nick ran after the sound until it faded. Stopped, barely conscious of the rain pouring down his body. Thought — the car! Ran again.

  There was no sound ahead of him. No car started up; no footsteps kicked at the twigs and stones on the sloping shoulder of the beach. But if he followed he might yet find the man, groping for Toni's car or more likely the one that brought him here.

  Toni. Lying under the drenching rain with the blood trickling down her soft body. She could still be alive, and needing him. If there was the slightest chance of helping her — and he remembered how sincerely he had promised to help — he would have to go back now.

  He turned back, hesitantly at first, and then he ran toward her in the blinding rain.

  And Saturday Morning

  She was there, lying quietly next to the low boulder where he had left her, with the hard rain lashing at her naked body.

  Nick picked her up in two strong, gentle arms and carried her over to the relative shelter of the rocky barrier. He put her down as if she were a sleeping child and pushed the wet hair back from her pale face. The rain had almost washed the blood away. He wondered why he could see that, and then realized that the sky had lightened almost imperceptibly. He placed one hand on her temple and another on her soft, wet breast. After a moment he got up and made his way to their soggy bundle of clothes. He picked them up and carried them back to where she lay, unclipping his tiny pencil flashlight as he walked.

  Its thin beam shone down at her as he took her hand and held it. Soon, he doused the tiny fight. He put his jacket over her, very, very gently. She was so cold and wet, little Toni who had been so warm and vibrant and so very troubled such a short time ago. Even the jacket was cold and wet, but it would keep out some of the biting rain.

  When he had dressed himself in the rest of his wet clothes he moved his jacket and dressed Toni in her few slight, filmy things. Then he wrapped the jacket around her once again and lifted her in his arms. His fingers curved around her. Fang glistened in the rain.

  "Next time, Fang," he whispered. "We'll meet the bastard again. We'll get up close before he runs and let him have it."

  He walked up the beach toward the road, wondering briefly why the killer had decided to run. But it didn't really matter. Knowing why wouldn't help. The jacket over the limp form didn't matter either. It wouldn't do any good.

  Rain doesn't harm the dead.

  * * *

  Lin Tong's bare feet slapped lightly against the tarmac road high above the beach. His shoulder ached abominably from the tearing bite of that unexpected bullet. Hell's Dragons! Who would have thought that bare-skinned American would suddenly pull a gun from somewhere — or that his own would fail him so soon afterwards? As long as he had been the only one with a gun there had been some point, some pleasure, to the proceedings. He could have gone on enjoying himself until morning light. Imagine, the American trying to escape him, and naked as a baby! But the sudden return fire was not so very amusing. And when his own miserable Russian-made automatic jammed — he cursed the Russians bitterly as he ran — the situation became impossible.

  He wondered if the man was still following him. There had been moments when he had been sure that doom was close behind him, but it had been some minutes since the last shot was fired in the distance and there was no sound on the road but the slap-slap of his own feet and the pelting rain. He should have done something to Toni's car when he had first seen it. Now… Where was it now? He must have passed it. Better not look for it. No time. He might be discovered in the act. By a man who would not hesitate to murder him, or even torture him for information. And he had such vitally important work to do. But it was a pity that he had been so cautious before. His car must still be half a mile away, and it seemed as though he had been running for an hour.

  Nevertheless, he had been quite clever. So Antoinette had thought she'd told no one about the cove! Of course she had. Her little rock shelter, where she had played so happily as a child. And taken two or three sailors one night when she was a little older. Of course she had told him about it, as she had told him so many things while she was riding high on those drug-borne clouds.

  It was sad about her, in a way. If he had managed to kill the American first she might still be alive. But somehow all that talk of hers had made him lose his bead. He had shot wildly, out of anger, and he had killed Toni. And not the man.

  Lin Tong had almost loved her. At least, he had loved the things that he could do to her. He would get that man some day.

  At last! His car.

  He scrambled into it, his clothes clinging uncomfortably to his body. Back to the city. Perhaps an hour or two of preparation, no more, and then he was on his way. No need to tell anyone else what he had discovered.

  La Farge. A belt. Moreau.

  How fortunate, that he knew this land so well.

  The car shuddered to a start.

  He travels the fastest who travels alone… After all, the Executioner had done all the groundwork. Why should he not reap the glory?

  Raoul Dupré's face was a study in anguish and despair. Shock struggled with disbelief, outrage with suspicion, hatred with overwhelming sorrow, bitter self-reproach with a growing desire for revenge. Even with Nick's unassailable credentials he would have had a hard time proving his own innocence of Toni's murder if it had not been for Saito's evidence.

  The big man stood stolidly by, only his eyes betraying his deep sympathy for Dupré. Over and over, with unvarying patience, he had told his brief story of the scene outside the house earlier that evening, fitting in his observations with Nick's tale of shots and a fruitless chase.

  The party was over. Toni's body lay upstairs in her bedroom.

  "I will not believe it!" Dupré said, for what seemed like the hundredth time. "She was wild — yes, I know that. But drugs!" He swept his fingers through his unkempt hair. "God knows I warned her about that swine of a Chinaman. But that
she gave him information in exchange for drugs — that I cannot credit. It is too much. Too much!"

  "You saw the marks," Nick said quietly. "When your doctor friend comes he will bear out something of what I say. She told me the story. Why should she lie to me — or I to you?"

  Dupré threw up his hands and shook his head. "How could she inform on me? She did not hate me, I know that."

  "She loved you," said Nick. "She was in torment, you must understand — she couldn't help herself. It took tremendous courage for her to tell me what she did. And she told me because she loved you."

  "Oh, yes, she told you! And look where she is now. Dead." His voice rose. "How could you let it happen? Why did you take her out there…"

  "Hold onto yourself, Dupré!" Nick's voice lashed out at him. "It was necessary for her to talk to me, since clearly she couldn't bring herself to talk to you. I'm sorry for what happened. Desperately sorry. But to blame myself is useless — just as useless as trying to decide, at this late stage, what made her into the kind of girl she was."

  Dupré's eyes widened. He stared at Nick. "You mean that I…?"

  "I mean nothing that I don't come right out and say. We have no time to quarrel. She's dead. Nothing's going to bring her back to life." Nick made himself sound brutal. "You chose your line of work, Dupré. Now get on with it. Lin Tong is obviously going to make some use of all his information. In the first place he will have alerted his people about the Moreau message. That means he is either on his way already, himself, or he will have gotten word to other agents closer to the scene. In the second place, he has blown your cover…"

  "And yours," Dupré snapped, showing the first sign of returning reason. "Which you made so easy for him."

  Nick chose to ignore the last comment. "Mine is not so important as yours. My job here is limited, but your entire operation is in danger. If I know our Chinese friends — and believe me, I know them well — they'll make every attempt to take you and your staff alive and keep you alive only as long as it suits them. You will not enjoy the experience. So you had better avoid it."

  "I intend to," Dupré said coldly. "But the first thing I am going to do is bend every effort to catch up with that murdering filth and make him suffer. With my bare hands I will kill him — hurt him until he screams for mercy and then choke the devil to death. Why do we wait here, talking? Let us be on our way."

  He threw himself toward the study door.

  "Just a minute," said Nick sharply. "You're not going anywhere. Where do you think you'll find him? Waiting for you on the road to the plantation? Uh-uh. You have no more idea of where he is than I have. But if he's headed north, I'm the one to find him. You will stay here in Saigon."

  Dupré turned a look on him that was almost hatred. "You will deprive me of my vengeance? No, Carter. I will find that man wherever he is and I will kill him in my own way…"

  "Dupré. Listen. You'll have your revenge. But Toni died trying to help. Help, don't you understand? You will make a mockery of what she did if you go flying off like a madman and endangering our whole mission and your own work in Saigon. He may still be here. Someone has to stay in the city in case he is. And not only that. Now that you know what he is, you have to take steps to protect your own organization and find out something about his." Nick's eyes bored into his. "I have to leave here and leave immediately or another woman is going to die. Perhaps horribly." Saito, unobtrusive in a corner, stiffened and stepped forward. "Would you like to have that on your conscience?" Nick went on. "You will, unless you stop acting like a wild man and start planning. If we work together and you play your cards right, we should be able to string Lin Tong up by the toes and wreck his entire organization in this city. Do you know, for instance, where he works from, who he works with, who gives him his orders? No, you don't. Well, this is your opportunity. I can't understand a man who'll settle for a petty little slice of revenge instead of the whole cake. Or one who seems to have forgotten that he's supposed to be an intelligence agent — with the lives of a lot of other people in his hands. You'd throw them to the wolves, would you, Dupré?" Nick stopped abruptly. If reason could not reach this man, they were in very bad trouble indeed. There was too much at stake for him to let Dupré go galloping into the jungle with blood lust in his eye. Besides, Nick's orders were very explicit: the La Farge mission had been turned over to AXE, and he was AXE.

  "How is it my opportunity?" Dupré asked, almost conversationally. But there was, Nick saw, a gleam of interest in his eyes.

  "I've told you. You are now known to Chinese Intelligence — all right, both of us are. And now you also know a little about them, enough to guard yourself. So you must be careful — but not too careful. They will want to find out more, but you won't let them. You are in a position to be the perfect decoy. That, at least. At best, you will be able to use them to lead you to the heart of their operations. There you may find Lin Tong, or the men he works for. You're needed here, Dupré. There'll be too much left undone if you insist on leaving with me. And I can't wait much longer. We have already waited long enough."

  A harsh sound came from Saito. "Too long. The little lady is much mourned. I feel great sorrow for her. But other bad things will happen if we do not go at once. Monsieur Dupré, this man speaks true. It is for us to go and for you to do — the things that you know best how to do, here in the city. I must go now. I must go to my lady."

  Nick watched Dupré. If he was going to make a nuisance of himself instead of helping, he would have to be… immobilized.

  Dupré took a deep breath. "What do you want me to do?" he asked quietly.

  Nick let his own breath out in a small explosion of relief.

  "First," he said, "you will have to make arrangements about Toni. Say she has gone away or whatever you like, but no one must know what happened to her. No officials, no police. Only friends you know that you can trust. Next, alert your headquarters. Tell them about Lin Tong and have them pass the information on to AXE. I'm not sure that I'll have time for sending reports, and I must rely on you for that. Next, as to your security arrangements…"

  The dawn was coming up over the rain-swept city by the time they had finished planning Raoul Dupré's part in the action. Saito, seething with impatience to be off, had padded off in the wet night to pick up certain of Nick's gear from the hotel and come back to arrange for simple food supplies with Maru.

  When all the talking trickled to a stop Raoul Dupré sat in silence for a moment and then said something that made Nick stare at him in surprise and then feel a rush of pity.

  "Do you know," said Dupré, "she bought new bamboo curtains for the patio…?"

  Nick slept for two hours in a musty spare room across the hall from Toni's. His back ached from the creasing of Lin Tong's bullet, but the sleep and the shower that followed made him feel refreshed and ready for the journey.

  He made one quick trip into downtown Saigon before leaving. For about forty-five minutes he was closeted with a high-ranking U.S. Army officer who listened to him suspiciously, placed one swift phone call, and then gave him a map. He drew two small circles on it.

  "Here's your pick-up point," he said. "Twenty-five miles north-northeast of Saigon. Go by the numbers. Between seven and eight north-south, three and four east-west. There's a hollow there, a clearing. Only place like it anywhere in the vicinity — can't miss it. Anyway, you'll hear the chopper. I can give you a convoy to within five miles. After that you're on your own. You understand that I can't spare any of my men to go with you?" He looked fiercely at Nick. "Too many casualties, far too many casualties already."

  Nick nodded. "I know that. This is strictly a two-man job anyway."

  "Ah. Good." The officer looked relieved. "He will drop you — here." A thick forefinger pointed to the map. "That's as close as we can get you, I'm afraid. That leaves you with… um… thirty-eight miles to go. Rough territory, riddled with Reds. I could get you closer to the border — here — but that means you'd have to hike along its length to g
et where you want to go, and that's no picnic either. This is your best bet. Not good, but still the best. No landings, you realize. Hope you're good at climbing."

  "Fair enough," Nick answered, wondering how Saito was going to enjoy the ride. "Thanks very much; that'll do fine. About this convoy — when can we leave?"

  "You have half an hour. Can you make it? Good. There's a routine patrol leaving then. If you're on it, I can set your pick-up for… let's see… 1330… better make it fourteen hundred hours to be sure. Rough trek, through that thick stuff. Got all the gear you need?"

  "All we can carry," said Nick. "We meet at Checkpoint Chester? Right. And thanks again."

  When he and Saito met the military convoy at Checkpoint Chester twenty-five minutes later, they looked sufficiently like an American «advisor» and his Vietnamese counterpart to pass casual inspection. That, with any luck, would be all they'd have to face until they left the cover of the patrol.

  Several blocks away, Maru chugged off in the ancient auto he had borrowed from a trusted friend to start the travelers on their way.

  Nick followed Saito into the transport truck and stretched his legs gratefully. Maru's borrowed car, he refleeted, had come in very handy, but the truck was almost luxurious in comparison.

  The American lieutenant in charge of the patrol acknowledged their presence with a curt nod and strode off to have a special word with the lead driver.

  In his study, Raoul Dupré locked away his private telephone and made two carefully guarded calls on his standard phone. The first concerned a meeting between himself and a colleague in Dalat. The other dealt with the final disposition of his one and only daughter.

  Upstairs, Antoinette Dupré lay under a sheet, not knowing that she was waiting for a limousine to come for her that night and take her to a "holiday resort" where her resting place would be marked, when there was time, by a simple gravestone.