The guard pointed to the chair on the other side of the table and said, “Sit, please.”
Rice sat.
“Mr. Rice,” Osa said, “this is Ricky’s brother. We hope you can give us some information.”
“Moon Mathias,” Rice said, extending a hand.
“I’ll be damned. You finally got here. Ricky thought you were the greatest thing since sliced bread.”
The guard stepped forward. “No touch,” he said.
His expression said he was embarrassed by this rudeness. He looked at Moon, his eyes asking forgiveness.
“I’m glad to meet you,” Moon said. “Ricky told me a lot about you too. I guess you were his right-hand man.” A small white lie, but harmless as it was, Moon regretted it, just as he regretted the small ones he told Debbie. All Moon remembered hearing about Rice was a couple of anecdotes about his escapades.
“Don’t believe all you hear,” Rice said, grinning. And then, to Osa, “Damn’, did you come like the prince came to the tower where the princess was”-he searched for the proper word-“was incarcerated against her will? I trust that is your motive.”
“It would be nice if we could,” Osa said. “But we-”
Rice interrupted her. He turned to the guard. “This is my friend Mr. Preda. Mr. Preda, these are my good old friends, Mrs. van Winjgaarden and Mr. Moon Mathias. Good people. Good friends of President Ferdinand Marcos and Imelda.”
“How do you do,” Moon said. Osa said something that sounded like it might be in Tagalog, and Mr. Preda smiled shyly and nodded.
“Mr. Preda speaks English,” Rice said. “But when it comes to La lengua of Shakespeare, to the multiple-syllable latinate vocabulary, then it’s a different ball game. You two will understand without any explanation from me the advantage this linguistic situation will have for us.” He looked back at Preda, who smiled and nodded.
Rice smiled back.
“I understand,” Moon said glumly.
“You don’t have to be a Houdini for the first step,” Rice said. “I guess you noticed that coming in. A low hurdler could do the palm log. This isn’t Sing Sing. That’s not the problem. The problem is getting a drawbridge across the moat.”
“The Sulu Sea,” Moon said. He wasn’t happy about the direction this conversation was taking.
“Exactly,” Rice said. “Or, in our case, it would be the South China Sea.”
“Mr. Rice,” Osa said, “to tell the truth, we don’t have any way to build bridges over moats. We are trying to find the baby. Eleth’s baby. And Ricky’s. She was supposed to be brought out to Manila, but she didn’t get there. And we want to get my brother out of his mission too. Mr. Brock told us that you might-”
“Little Lila didn’t get to Manila?” Rice said, frowning. “Well, now, she should have.”
“And I would also like you to tell me some way I can reach my brother.”
“Oh,” Rice said. He leaned his elbows on the table, hands folded, lip caught between his teeth, thinking. He looked at Moon, blue eyes bright under bushy white eyebrows. And then at Osa. And then down at his hands.
Young Mr. Preda took a small step backward, leaned against the wall, looked out the window, exhaled a great sigh. Moon became conscious of the perspiration running down his cheekbone, down the back of his neck. The smell of mildew reached him, reminding him of something he couldn’t quite place.
“Where would she be?” Rice asked himself. He glanced up at Moon. “I take it you’re telling me they didn’t get her onto the flight to Manila,” he said.
“Apparently not,” Moon said.
Rice sighed. “The way it was supposed to work, we’d handle it at the Nam end and that lawyer- Castenada, I think his name is, the one that Ricky retained for R. M. Air-was supposed to meet the plane and get the kid sent along to the grandmother in the States.” Rice paused, lip between teeth again, remembering.
“I flew her up to Saigon,” Rice said. “Lo Tho Dem was there at the airport. He had his wife with him. They took the little girl. Dem said he thought everything was going to be okay but he might need a little more cash”-he glanced up at Moon as he rubbed his fingers together, making sure he understood such things-“because things were getting tense in Saigon already. The rich folks wanting out. People standing in line at the embassy for papers and visas. There was already a big run on the airlines for tickets. But Dem-”
Moon interrupted. “Who is Lo Tho Dem?”
Rice laughed. “I never was quite sure who the hell he was,” he said. “Anyway, he was Ricky’s man in Saigon. Your brother had a talent for finding useful people. I’m pretty sure Mr. Dem sometimes did a little work for the CIA. That must have been where Ricky got acquainted with him: when Dem was working on one of those little jobs for the Company.”
“Oh,” Moon said. “And Ricky sometimes did a little work for them too?”
“And that’s why Dem figured he could get the paperwork through in a hurry. And get the airline ticket. All that. From what little I know about it, the Company owed your brother a few favors.”
“You think that was the problem?” Moon asked. “Dem couldn’t get a visa?”
“Well, now,” Rice said, “when you get right down to it I gotta admit the real problem was me being stupid. The problem was, Ricky was dead. To make it worse, the Company knew he was dead. No more favors expected from Ricky Mathias. And the CIA don’t have a reputation for paying off favors to people who can’t do ’em any more good.”
Rice was biting his lip again. He gave Moon an apologetic look and slammed his fist into his palm.
“Son of a bitch! I should have thought of that.”
Mr. Preda shifted his weight against the wall, looked at his watch, sighed.
“So how can we find the child now?” Moon asked. “Did you have some sort of backup plan? Would this Dem guy keep her, or what?”
“I don’t know,” Rice said.
“How can I find Dem, then?”
“He lived in Saigon. Ricky had his address and telephone number in his file.”
“At Can Tho?” Moon asked.
“We were pulling out of there,” Rice said. “I guess Ricky’s files would be downriver at Long Phu.” He shook his head. “That is, if they got all the stuff out of Ricky’s office moved.”
“This Dem had a Saigon telephone,” Moon said. “How’s chances of calling information, getting it that way?”
“From what I’ve been hearing in here about the war the past few days, I say about a snowball’s chance in hell. You can’t get a call through to
Saigon without some sort of special pull. And if you got it through, you couldn’t get the number. And if you got the number, the system wouldn’t be working. Not out to the residences.”
“So what do you recommend?” Moon asked.
Rice leaned back in the chair and rubbed his beard, thinking about it.
He will tell me we will have to just forget it. It’s absolutely impossible, like finding a needle in a haystack. He will tell Osa there’s no way to reach her brother. That the Khmer Rouge have already found him and made a martyr out of him and she should go home and pray for the repose of his soul.
“You have to have a pilot,” Rice said. “Ricky wanted you to come out and help run the place. But he said you didn’t fly.”
“I don’t,” Moon said. “And while you’re thinking, do you have any ideas about an urn Ricky was bringing out of Cambodia for an old Chinese man named Lum Lee?”
“Urn? Oh, yeah. Lee’s ancestral bones, wasn’t it? I’d forgotten about that job.”
“Know where it is?”
“Sure,” Rice said. “Or where it was. Ricky had gone up-country to get it. And he called in to say he had it. And then he stopped at the Vinh place and dropped off the kid to visit Eleth’s mother there. And there wasn’t any sign of an urn in what was left of the helicopter. So I’d say it had to be back in the Vinh village.”
“Just a matter of getting there,” Moon said.
; “Yep,” Rice said. “And getting yourself out again. Alive and with all your arms and legs still in place.”
Osa had been sitting silently, hands folded in her lap. She leaned forward. “I think we could do it easily enough in a helicopter,” she said. “Just as we did last summer when you flew me up there. It took less than an hour.”
“I remember, darlin’,” he said. “It was a most pleasant little trip. But that was last summer. Pol Pot’s bloody little bastards, with their tripod-mounted antiaircraft machine guns and little hand-held missile launchers, had not yet come down from the north.”
“Are there any copters left at your hangars? Would any pilots still be there?”
“Copters, I’d say yes. We had eight or nine being fixed when I left, some of them ready to go. And two pilots. That was then. Now I’d say you could subtract two pilots and two copters from that number.”
“No pilots?” Osa said.
“Not if they have any sense. And they were sensible fellows. Smart enough to know the Vietcong wouldn’t like ’em.” He thought about it. “It’s Viet Cong territory-the Mekong Delta is. if the ARVN Yellow Tiger Battalion is still there, maybe. But I doubt it. Why stay? They could fly one of those copters away to Bangkok or get it down to Jakarta or Singapore and get a ton of money for it.”
“Without any proof of ownership?” Moon asked.
Rice grinned at him. “Mr. Mathias,” he said, “we are now in Southeast Asia. I don’t think the Republic of Vietnam is going to be around long enough to file suit.”
Mr. Preda cleared his throat and pushed away from the wall. “It is about used up, all the time you have. You have to go pretty quick now.”
“Back to the subjects of moats and draw-bridges,” Rice said, voice urgent. “Getting across.
“What was the blueprint you had in mind?” “We don’t have any,” Moon said.
“I do,” Rice said. “You good at memorizing?” Moon nodded.
“Eighty-one. Ninety. Twenty-two. You got it?”
“Eighty-one, ninety, twenty-two,” Osa said. “The man’s name is Gregory. He does the same thing a robin does. Or a crow. Or a seagull. Tell him the aviary for the robin will be at the end of the Puerto Princesa runway.” Rice paused. “What day is today?”
“April twenty-third,” Moon said, feeling sick as he said it. “But wait a minute now.”
“April twenty-fifth, then,” Rice said. “In the wee wee hours. The witching hour.”
Moon said, “Hold on now. We-”
Mr. Preda said, “Now we go.” He put his hand on Rice’s shoulder, nodded to Osa. “Have a good day.”
Rice, moving toward the door, turned suddenly. “At Imelda’s?”
Osa said yes.
Rice said, “Until the wee hours.” And to Moon he said, “Across the moat and I can find that little girl for you.”
MANILA, April 22 (UPI)-The U.S. Navy has assembled a fleet of five aircraft carriers, eleven destroyers, four amphibious landing craft and other vessels off the coast of South Vietnam for a possible evacuation mission, a well-informed source at the Subic Bay Naval Base said today.
The Thirteenth and the Fourteenth Day
April 25-26, 1975
IT DEPENDED ON HOW you looked at it. You could call it a coup. A stroke of good fortune. Gregory, whoever he might be, would fly in from wherever. They’d get George Rice aboard undetected. Gregory would transport them across the South China Sea to the R. M. Air repair hangars on the Mekong. There Rice would fire up a copter, they’d fly away to the Vinhs’ village and pick up Mr. Lee’s urn, hop up to the Reverend Damon van Winjgaarden’s mission to collect him, and then out of there. Safely. Then Rice, the old Asia hand, would talk to the right people, -pull the right strings, find where Lila had been dropped off. They’d make another copter flight, snatch up the kid, and away they’d go.
On the other hand, it could be an unmitigated nightmare, which is the way it seemed to be working out, with Osa and he doing about twenty years, plowing rice paddies, for scheming to break a convict out of a Philippine prison. Having had plenty of time to think about it, Moon sat in the dim moonlight behind Imelda’s hotel wondering how he could have been so stupid.
Recognizing the stupidity had been quick enough.
“You know what we’ve done?” he asked Osa as soon as the log gate had been pulled across the road behind them and they were jolting away from the Palawan prison. “We have conspired to commit a felony.”
Osa put a finger to her lips and signified the cabbie with her other hand.
“Okay,” Moon said. “So we don’t need another witness against us. But you know what I mean?”
“Of course I know,” Osa said. “Exactly, I know. But what else could we do?”
Moon had thought of several things they might have done by the time the jeepney dropped them off at the hotel. But instead of doing any of them, he had just sat there like a ninny and let Rice take charge of the conversation.
Now it was almost dawn, a day and half after the conversation, and no sign of George Rice. if Moon had enough optimism left to hope for any luck, he would have been hoping that Rice had fallen fatally down a cliff or become victim to whatever predators Palawan Island ’s jungles provided. Probably snakes, at least. But Moon’s optimism was all used up. Rice would appear, probably at the worst possible time, and they’d have to talk him into going right back to the palm-log gate and turning himself in. And what if he wouldn’t?
There was nothing else they could do with him. Except perhaps strangle the bastard and drag his body out into the bushes.
They’d placed the call to Gregory from the telephone in Moon’s room, checking first with the desk to be sure making a connection across the Sulu Sea on a Filipino telephone required no special skill. It didn’t.
The telephone made the expected ringing sounds, then clicked. A woman’s voice said, “What number were you calling?”
Moon told her the number, and waited, trying not to think about how dreadful this was going to be if- “I’m sorry, sir. That number is no longer in service.
“What?” Moon said. “You mean it’s out of order?”
“No, sir. That number has been disconnected.”
“Could you try again? Could you check? Maybe he just left the receiver off the-”
“Of course.”
Moon waited, listening to the sounds telephones make during this sort of operation, thinking there would be no one named Gregory flying in to make George Rice disappear.
“I’m sorry, sir. That number has been disconnected.”
“When?”
“I’m sorry, sir. You will have to check with our business office for that information. Shall I transfer your call?”
“No. Thanks. Just let it go,” Moon said. He put down the phone.
“He wasn’t there,” Osa said.
“The telephone has been disconnected,” Moon said. Osa would say maybe he just wasn’t in. Osa would say maybe he left the telephone off the hook. Osa would ask- Osa raised her eyebrows, made a wry face, said,
“I don’t think Mr. Rice gave us the wrong number. I think Mr. Gregory moved away.” She paused, staring past him, deep in thought. She grimaced. “Now, what to do with Mr. Rice? The prison people, I think they will come looking for him.” She paused. “And looking for us.”
“How about we kill him and bury him?” Moon said.
“He won’t want to go back,” she said. “I don’t think so. He’ll want us to hide him somewhere.” She shook her head, gave Moon a wry smile, tapped her purse. “I can’t fit him in here.”
They sat side by side on Moon’s bed. The sound of the lobby television drifted up through the floor. Canned laughter, then drums, then music, then what seemed to be a life insurance commercial.
Osa put her hand on his knee.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Mathias. You’ve had too much to worry about. Your mother. Your poor little niece. And back home there must be the job you had to leave so quickly. Too much to worry
about. Don’t worry about this.”
Surprised, he looked at her. He saw nothing but total sympathy. Her eyes glistened with it. She was ready to cry for him.
Moon wasn’t sure what emotion this provoked in him. Whatever it was, it caused him to give a shout of laughter, thrust his arm around her shoulder, and hug her to him. “Mrs. van Winjgaarden,” he said. “Osa, you are absolutely something else.” He laughed again. “What do you mean, don’t worry about this? We’re standing here on the edge of the cliff, and it’s crumbling under our feet, and Osa van Winjgaarden is advising me not to worry.”
“Ooh,” Osa said. “Too tight. You hug too strongly.”
“We have a magazine in the States,” Moon said. He eased his grip. “Mad magazine, with this stupid guy grinning on the cover and saying, ‘What? Me worry?’ It’s the American symbol for craziness.”
Osa was free now. “Well,” she said. “The Italians have a useful phrase. Che sara sara. You know it?”
“It’s the same in Spanish,” he said. “And I guess they’re both right.”
And so he had picked up the telephone again and repeated the process with the number Rice had given them. The operator was different but the results were the same: disconnected.
“I think you should be calling me Osa,” she said. “Mrs. van Winjgaarden is too long. And you never get it quite right.”
“And everybody calls me Moon.”
Then he called information and got the number of the Pasag Imperial Hotel in Manila.
Mr. Lum Lee was in.
“Ah, Mr. Lee,” Moon said. “I think I know now the location of your urn of bones.”
He heard the sudden sound of Mr. Lee sucking in his breath.
“We found a man named George Rice. He
worked closely with my brother. Rice told us that the day Ricky was killed he called in on his radio and said he had picked up the urn someplace up north in Cambodia. He said he was leaving it off at the home of Eleth Vinh’s parents. The name is Vin Ba and it’s a tiny little village in Cambodia near the Vietnam border.”
“Ah,” Lum Lee said. “Mr. Mathias, this is very kind of you. Very generous. It is difficult for a Westerner- for anyone who is not a Buddhist-to understand how important these bones are for our family.”
Finding Moon Page 15
