Giri (17 page)

Sparrowhawk found Chihara more than slightly reptilian in appearance. Chihara also had the Japanese reserve with strangers, and kept his home and family apart from his business dealings. From the beginning, Sparrowhawk doubted Chihara could be trusted. His airline flew CIA agents to and from the north; the roads and surrounding countryside were almost entirely in the hands of the North Vietnamese and air travel was not merely the safest way of travel. It was the only way.

Chihara also arranged for CIA agents to receive the high black-market rate for dollars, and used his considerable influence with Saigon politicians, when asked by the Americans. All of this, plus Chihara’s legitimate business had made him rich. He was to grow even richer from his association with Paul Molise, an American Mafioso who had come to Saigon for opium. Chihara saw that he got all he needed.

Robbie knew quite a bit about Paul Molise, a lean, intense man who insisted on wearing three-piece suits at all times and actually had a university education, something Sparrowhawk would never have associated with the son of a wog thug.

“Paulie’s different,” said Robbie. “Smooth. Like spit on a doorknob. College, computers. Got smarts up the ass. Father heads the biggest ‘family’ in New York.
Capo di tutti capi.
Boss of bosses. Paulie’s king shit. He’s got generals on his payroll. American generals, man. Has gooks bought and paid for, too. Politicians, generals. That’s how he gets all the dope he needs.”

Sparrowhawk, like most Brits, found American criminals fascinating. “I thought the Mafia was getting its heroin out of Turkey and Marseilles.”

“No more. American and French cops put a stop to that. Busted people in the States, France, Sicily. Plus the Turks aren’t letting their people grow opium anymore. You got brown heroin and pink heroin coming out of Mexico. But addicts like white. Best white around is over here. Fry your brains, that shit. Get it right from ‘the Golden Triangle.’ Burma, Thailand, Laos. Figure a way to get it to the States and, man, you’re in business. Molise has a few other things going for him, too.”

“Such as?”

“Well, major, it’s like this. Construction. Somebody’s got to build bases, roads, airfields, movie theaters, bowling alleys, ice cream parlors. I mean you got to have those things, right? Army figures Americans can do it better than the gooks, so they hire Americans. Lot of money changes hands, but what the hell. Enough left over for everybody. Then there’s slot machines for the soldiers’ clubs, liquor, food, jukeboxes, furniture, kitchen equipment. You name it. See, you got to have these things, else GIs go crazy. I bet Molise is copping a fortune out of this war. Far as he’s concerned the war can goddamn go on forever.”

Sparrowhawk’s nose wrinkled in disgust. Not at the profit being made. God knows he was not that naive. What he found disgraceful was the pampering of field soldiers. No wonder America was losing the war. The Viet Cong went all day on a handful of uncooked rice and ditch water. No comparison.

He said, “I gather Mr. Chihara isn’t exactly destitute himself.”

“If you mean he’s getting his out of this war, you’re right. Gold, dope, his businesses. Ol’ George—

“You said gold.”

“Seen it myself, me and Dorian. We had to go into Cambodia. Bring back an agent before they wasted his ass. Gook agent. Should have left him there, but that’s beside the point. Used one of Chihara’s planes. Made a stop in some fuckin’ town, can’t remember the name, but it was gold bars we picked up. Seen it myself, me and Dorian. See, major, you got to remember right now paper money ain’t worth diddley squat. Gold, diamonds, dope. That’s worth something. If you want to leave this armpit of a country and have something to show for it you go for something hard like that”

“Gold, diamonds, dope.”

“There you go.”

Robbie lowered his voice. “Tell you something else. Ol’ George is buying all the gold and diamonds he can get his hands on. Buying it from all over the place, here, up north, Thailand, Laos. All over the place. Sends them planes of his out and they come back nice and heavy. Be willing to bet that ol’ George has a pile of shit hidden somewhere.”

“How do you know he hasn’t sent it all out of the country?”

“Some of it, sure. Not all of it. He’s got it coming in every week. Couldn’t possibly have sent it all out.”

April 1975. Paul Molise took his time stubbing out a cigarette. “How many days you figure before this city falls to the Cong?”

Sparrowhawk said, “Hours. Days. For certain, within the week. There’ll be the usual bloodbath, phony trials, the customary purge. A lot of people will die and their deaths won’t be easy. Communists are puritanical and puritans are among the most sadistic bastards on God’s green earth. I’ve seen what they’ve done in other countries. I don’t expect it to be any different here.”

“I invited you and Robbie here for a reason.” Molise poured scotch into two glasses. Robbie had previously shook his head in refusal. The three men were in Molise’s suite in a hotel on Nguyen Hue Boulevard. Three stories below in the street an overturned jeep still burned where looters had left the vehicle and its dead driver. Smoke from midnight fires floated from the U.S. embassy, the presidential palace and a handful of government buildings, where documents were being burned to keep them out of Communist hands. Power and peace of mind now belonged only to those able to buy their way out of the doomed city.

Molise said, “I want to talk about George Chihara.”

Sparrowhawk looked at Robbie. Dear God, we pay for everything in this life. Molise had promised Sparrowhawk the job of a lifetime, the presidency of a private intelligence firm in New York at a salary larger than anything Sparrowhawk had ever dreamed of. Tonight that promise had given Molise the right to drag Sparrowhawk and Robbie out into Saigon’s dangerous streets for a little chat. After curfew, no less.

Sparrowhawk was already a part-time employee of Paul Molise. With CIA permission the Englishman occasionally served as his bodyguard, particularly when the American was carrying large amounts of cash around Saigon to pay for heroin or morphine base. Molise, Chihara, Ruttencutter, the French underworld and South Vietnam’s leading politicians all knew one another. Narcotics, Sparrowhawk observed, had a way of bringing people together.

“Before I get into Chihara,” said Molise, “I’d like to start by saying I want you”—he pointed to Sparrowhawk—“to delay your departure from Saigon.”

“You must be mad. I’m booked on a helicopter leaving this cesspool in forty-eight hours.”

“Call it a favor. To me.”

Has me by the balls, thought Sparrowhawk, and all because of that New York job. Having taken the bugger’s bread, I must now sing his song. On the other hand, what good is the promise of lucrative employment to a dead man?

“I have no wish to rot in a Viet Cong jail cell,” Sparrowhawk said.

“Five hundred thousand dollars for twenty-four hours of your time,” said Molise. “The money will be waiting for you when you arrive in New York. Or I can put it in a bank of your choice anywhere in the world.”

Sparrowhawk’s eyes narrowed.

Molise finished his scotch and poured another. “I was to go back to my father with the biggest heroin deal since we first started dealing with these assholes. But I can’t do that now, thanks to Mr. Chihara.”

Sparrowhawk knew why. Two days ago Saigon customs officials had received a tip that someone planned to smuggle 100 kilos of heroin out of the country. Ordinarily the officials would have been bribed and the heroin allowed to continue on its way, in this case to Canada, then down to New York. All of Saigon knew the heroin, purchased at a cost of several million, belonged to Paul Molise. And the city knew that someone he trusted had betrayed him.

“Chihara fucked me,” Molise said. “Don’t ask me how I know. I know, that’s all. The people who told me are very reliable. Chihara and everybody else want to get out of Saigon with all the money they can. He’s got people in his pocket I can’t touch and I’m talking about the presidential palace, which is as high as you can go in this town. It’s a crazy time over here now. All of us, we’re playing a game without rules. Saigon’s going down the toilet and nobody gives a rat’s ass. So nobody keeps their word anymore.”

Molise shook his head. Down on the street there was the w
hack
of a single pistol shot. None of the men moved. In Saigon gunshots were as common as motorbikes.

“My money, my heroin and I can’t do shit about it. Chihara arranges a deal for me, then screws me and I’m supposed to walk away and keep quiet” He said something softly, in Italian, eyes glazed with hatred. Sparrowhawk didn’t understand the word, but the meaning was clear.

Vengeance.

Sparrowhawk ignored his drink. He had a feeling his life was going to change forever. Best keep a clear head for the next few minutes.

Molise said, “Fucking Chihara got a third of what the Buddha-heads took from me. They had me set up all the time. Anyway, couple days from now Chihara’s moving one last load of gold and diamonds out of Saigon. Along with his share of my heroin. Cong’s overrun the airfield at Bien Hoa, so there goes Chihara’s planes. He’s made arrangements to get out by ship, which is tied up right now in the Saigon River.”

Molise leaned forward and aimed his drink at Sparrowhawk. “I want you to bring Chihara’s ass to me. Bring that bastard to me, along with his diamonds and gold and my heroin. No way I can face my father again until I’ve dealt with this fucking business and believe me, I’m going to, one way or another. You lose respect you lose everything and, mister, no way am I going to lose respect I don’t have my own people here. I’ve got an accountant who’s down the hall in his room with the runs and I’ve got one construction man meeting with some people tonight to get whatever he can for the equipment I’m forced to leave behind. But no shooters. I don’t have shooters. Anyway, I don’t want Chihara dead. Dead isn’t good enough. Want him to bleed. Want him to wake up every morning and know that what’s happening to him is because of me.”

Chihara has planted thorns, thought Sparrowhawk. Therefore he can hardly expect to gather roses.

Molise said, “I’m turning him over to the Cong. They have a price on his head and they’ll be glad to see him. When they finish with Mr. Chihara the bastard will wish he was dead a hundred times over.”

“He’s got a wife and two daughters,” Sparrowhawk said.

“They go, too. But you do a job on them. Something special before you kill them. Use your imagination. I want Chihara to suffer and I want him to know I did it.”

Sparrowhawk took his first sip of scotch. Well, that would certainly settle Mr. Chihara’s account. Sparrowhawk, however, could see no reason to do anything special to a man’s wife and daughters. Should he agree to handle this dirty business the women would be treated respectfully. A double tap for each and that’s the end of it.

“I think you can bring Dorian in on this, too,” Molise said. “Where is he anyway?”

“Fucking his brains out over on Tu Do Street,” Robbie said. “Whores are practically giving it away. Some of the girls figure if they’re nice to Dorian maybe he’ll help them to get out before the Cong takes over.”

Molise said, “I’ve got a rundown on Chihara’s villa. Guards, servants, all the information you’ll need. He’ll move the gold and diamonds out on a truck. Seven guards armed with automatic weapons. You’ll have to take them out”

Robbie shrugged. “No problem.”

Using a thumbnail, a thoughtful Sparrowhawk stroked a waxed end of his mustache. Robbie, lad, there was a problem.

Behind a narrowed gaze the Englishman leaned toward Molise and said coldly, “Now let’s have the real story.”

The Italian stared at him for a long time, then looked away. “I’m paying you—”

Sparrowhawk was on his feet, punctuating his words with a clenched fist “You’re not bloody well paying me enough to get myself killed. No more games, sir.
If. You. Please.
Chihara’s a CIA agent. You’re too close to Ruttencutter to do this on your own. You had to have clearance first, which means someone has concocted an altogether different brew from the one you’re describing to me. Before you remove a country’s agents from the face of this earth you get permission.”

Molise rubbed his unshaven chin. “It’s been cleared. Believe me, it’s been cleared.”

“Oh, I do believe you. And since this concerns my life and Robbie’s, I’d prefer you keep me fully informed. Why do Ruttencutter and the CIA want to destroy George Chihara, a man who, until now, has served the Company well and true?”

Molise stared at the ceiling, where a small lizard crawled from behind a slowly revolving wooden fan to begin a long trek across the ceiling and toward the front door. “Two reasons. Actually, one. They want to trade him for one of their guys the Cong’s had for over a year. An American.”

“Why Chihara? Why not some other poor unfortunate?”

“Like I said, it’s all part of the same big picture. The CIA plans to leave agents behind here in Saigon when it moves out. Locals. Vietnamese. Something it’s been working on for weeks.”

“I’m aware of the plan.”

“Supposed to be a secret. Anyway, a few days ago a couple of very important Vietnamese approach the CIA and threaten to blow the plan sky high unless the CIA pays what is called a ‘tax.’ They threatened to give a list of those agents to the Cong.”

“Unless the CIA paid up.”

Molise nodded. “That wasn’t all. There was also talk about the South Vietnamese setting up mortars and rockets on rooftops near the American embassy, attacking the embassy and the helicopters taking people out to the American carriers offshore. Unless the CIA paid the tax.” Molise sighed. “Ten million.”

“Jesus.” Sparrowhawk took his first sip of scotch.

Robbie whistled. For a while the room remained silent. Outside, rockets and artillery could be heard in the distance. The Viet Cong was inching closer with each second.

Molise said, “This ‘tax’ shit came from the Vietnamese but Chihara was behind it He gave them the list of agents and he came up with the idea of putting on the squeeze while everybody’s in a panic to quit this fucking place. For which I don’t blame them in the least.”