The Corsican (42 page)

He ran a hand along her delicately formed cheek. “It's much too well hidden,” he said. “Even someone with all your resources wouldn't be able to find it.”

“Ah, a challenge.” She moved away from him. “Then I'll have to use feminine wiles. Reduce you to your baser instincts and discover all your secrets.”

He stepped forward and leaned down to kiss her, but again she moved away.

“Men are always weaker in bed. They tell themselves it's where they are strongest, but it's not. The bed is woman's domain.” She looked at him pleasantly. “But now you've disappointed me. You told me you understood oriental subtlety, and now you show me that you don't.”

Chapter 26

He was still fascinated by Molly Bloom's ability to outmaneuver him the previous evening. They had played a delicately balanced game, each seeking information about the other, each receiving no more than the other was willing to give. In the end she had offered him a sexual challenge he had foolishly accepted. And again, she had walked away the winner in their little war of wits. He was forced to laugh at his own foolishness.

Peter was still thinking of that difficult woman when he was called into Colonel Wallace's office at 0900. Colonel Duc was there when he entered, sitting primly on a small sofa, as if struggling to avoid any wrinkle in his uniform.

Duc and Bently greeted each other formally, then Peter was offered a straight-backed chair opposite Wallace's desk. There was an air of unpleasantness in the room, and Peter had the feeling that the two had been arguing.

“Something new's developed, Bently,” Wallace began. “And our friends at ARVN have need of some help.” He looked across the office at Duc. “Perhaps it would be better if you explained,” he said to the Vietnamese.

Duc looked Peter up and down. “I understand you speak Lao as well as the language of my country. How fluently do you speak it? I know your Vietnamese is good.”

“I speak them equally,
dai ta
.”

Duc nodded. “Then you may prove of value to us.” He paused to check the crease in his trousers, then continued without looking up. “A high-ranking official in our government has received reports of Viet Cong command activity in the area around Vientiane. This, of course, is something we cannot tolerate. The people involved are said to be establishing new routes of supply, which is even less tolerable. If they are allowed to escape punishment, it might produce additional support in Laos, and, of course, this affects our efforts against the communists.”

Duc stood, straightened his uniform, then slowly began to pace the office. “It is felt that a Vietnamese agent would have difficulty getting close to this operation, that the communists would recognize such a person for what he was and quickly eliminate him, or simply disappear. An occidental, however, would not be suspected, and since few speak any of the local tongues with anything more than barroom proficiency, conversations among sympathizers would not be feared in his presence.” Duc stopped and looked down at Peter, his face giving off a hint of displeasure.

“What we would like is for you to make occasional trips to Vientiane to see if you can determine the location of this new command activity. If you can, you are to bring the information to us, along with any prisoner you might capture. If not, you are to eliminate them there, disrupt their activity and bring back a photograph of their remains.” He stopped again, this time smiling at Peter.

“Beheading would be a nice touch,” he said. “It has a very strong effect among my people, especially the Buddhists. They believe the spirit will be forced to wander endlessly if one dies in that manner.”

Wallace picked up a manila folder from his desk and tossed it across to Peter. “In there you've got information on NVA cadre suspected of operating in Laos. We're not supposed to be in Laos, so you take as much care as you feel you need to protect your own ass.”

“But not too much care,” Duc interjected. His look was contemptuous. “We do not want those communists to escape because of excess caution, do we, captain? Do you object to eliminating these people?”

Peter offered Duc a thin smile. “Not at all,
dai ta
.” He turned back to Wallace. “When do I leave, sir?”

“Tomorrow. Take two days this first trip. No longer unless you came across something exceptional. After that your trips will be determined by reports of observations that come back into ARVN.”

Peter nodded again.

“Use civilian aircraft and wear civilian clothes. Officially our military personnel do not go into Laos. But you'll have the full cooperation of friendly people in their government there, if you need it. Those names are in the folder too. And no one but us is to know about this. Understood?”

“One more thing,” Duc interjected. “To ensure against any future disclosure about this operation, by someone who might wish to raise questions about its legality, I think a code name would be helpful. All reports would then be signed just with that designation.”

“Yeah, I like that,” Wallace said. “Wouldn't want these fucking newshounds to get wind of any operation going on in Laos. If they ever did come across any documents, we could say it came from friendly forces inside that country.”

Duc gave Peter another contemptuous smile. “Do you have any preference for a code name, captain?” he asked.

“No,
dai ta
,” Peter said. “I will be happy to leave that to you.”

Duc looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then back at Peter. “What year were you born, captain?”

“In 1940,
dai ta
”

“Ah, the same year as my son, the Year of the Dragon. A very favorable sign.” He glanced down at Wallace. “Shall we make it Dragon, then?”

“Fine with me,” Wallace said. “You got any problem with that, Bently?”

“No, sir. Dragon will do just fine.”

Duc laughed softly to himself. “Very well, Dragon. I hope your hunt goes well.”

He stood in JFK Square, watching her leave the front of the cathedral. She was dressed in a pale-blue
ao dai
, and as she had at her father-in-law's house, she seemed to glide rather than walk.

He moved quickly across the square to intercept her. “What a pleasant surprise, Ba Lin,” he said in Vietnamese.

She bowed her head slightly, then smiled at him. “And what good fortune for me. I was wondering who I could find to help me carry flowers to my home.”

“Look no more,” Peter said. “Not to do so would certainly violate the treaties between our two countries. And we must never allow that.”

They moved away from the cathedral, then stopped at the next corner to wait for a white-uniformed Saigon police officer to halt the rush of midday traffic. Peter watched the small man standing in the midst of the vehicular madness, and he recalled how Americans referred to Saigon police as white mice, because they always seemed to scurry off and hide whenever trouble developed.

He glanced at Lin, wondering if she had ever heard the term. As they started across the street, he looked back over his shoulder. Two men he had noticed earlier in front of the cathedral had stopped ten feet behind them. Now, as Lin and he crossed the street, they too had begun walking again.

He inclined his head toward Lin and spoke softly. “There are two men behind us, and they seem to be following you.”

“Yes, I know. They are my bodyguards. I'm afraid Saigon is not safe for Vietnamese either.”

Peter's face clouded with concern. “I hope our meeting will not cause difficulty for you with your father-in-law,” he said.

“Because of my bodyguards? No, not at all. They have been with me for many years, and were selected by me. Their loyalty is to me, not to the colonel.”

They continued along the sidewalk, keeping a respectful distance between them. Several blocks down, as they turned into Nguyen Hue Street, the crowds along the sidewalk intensified, pushing them closer together, forcing their bodies to touch as they stopped before a flower stall.

“You told me you were very fond of flowers,” Lin said. “Was that true, or simply an excuse?”

“Very true,” Peter said. He reached out and picked up a lotus blossom from a water-filled tank. It was ten inches in diameter, and its yellow petals, tinged with red, seemed to capture the afternoon light.

“Do you know the Vietnamese name for the flower?” Lin asked.

He nodded.
“Sen.”
He pointed to the pale, bell-like blossom in the next container. “This I do not know.”

“It is from the portia tree, and next to it, the mahoe.” She reached out and touched the small, delicate flowers, some red, others a solid yellow.

“That one I know,” Peter said. “A member of the hibiscus family, and as delicate as a beautiful woman.”

“We are not so delicate, captain. This country forbids anyone to be delicate. Especially now.” She turned and began walking among the stalls, with Peter following close behind. He stopped beside her at another stall, and she looked up at him and smiled. “Are you learning to enjoy Saigon?” she asked.

“I hope to begin very soon,” he said. She turned her head away, but he could tell she was still smiling. “I took an unofficial residence off base today, so life should soon be more pleasant,” he added.

“And where did you find quarters?”

“The Continental Palace Hotel.”

She inclined her head. “That should prove very convenient. But then, I imagine anything would be a great improvement over a military base.”

“I'm hoping it will be,” Peter said. “It's a suite of rooms, with a small kitchen, which, I hope, will allow me to entertain some friends.”

She looked up at him, and he saw the trace of a smile on her lips.

“I would be pleased if you would be my first guest,” he said.

“Perhaps when you return.”

The look of surprise on his face made her laugh, and she covered her mouth with her hand.

“My father-in-law mentioned at breakfast that you would be performing a service for him. He did not say what, or where. Just that you would be leaving Saigon.”

“Only for two days,” he said. “It's more of an errand than a service.”

“I'm sure you're too modest,” Lin said. “If it was only an errand, my father-in-law would not have been so displeased.”

“Was he displeased?”

“He's always displeased when he is forced to ask the Americans for help. It injures his sense of national pride.”

Peter stopped himself from smiling, from revealing his own pleasure at anything that would offend Duc's immense sense of pride. He caught her watching him, observing his reaction.

“When I return, will you have dinner with me?”

“In your
rooms
?” She forced her eyes to widen slightly.

“I thought it would be more …” He struggled to find the correct word.

“Discreet?” she offered.

“For lack of a better word, yes.”

“I'm afraid I shall be out of the city then,” she said.

“Oh, I see.” There was obvious disappointment in Peter's voice. “May I ask where you're going?”

She smiled at him. “Of course. I am going to Vung Tau, what the French used to call Cap St. Jacques. It was once my home, and my mother is still there. She is very old now, and I wish to visit her.”

“I've heard about the city,” Peter said. “I'm told it rivals the Riviera as an ocean resort.”

“Yes, it is most beautiful,” Lin said, her eyes distant, almost as if recalling more pleasant days. “And it is the one place in my country where the war does not exist. Both sides use it as a rest area.” She smiled. “Odd, isn't it? Enemies each using its beauty to refresh themselves, then returning to continue killing each other.”

“I would like very much to see it,” Peter said. He hesitated, then continued. “Perhaps when I return in two days. If that is possible, how would I find you there?”

Lin looked down, then back at him. When she did she was smiling. “My mother's name is Ba Trang Do, and her home is well known in the city.”

“If it is possible, would you be offended if I called on you there?”

Her eyes remained on Peter's face. “We shall see when you return, captain. But now you must help me carry flowers.”

Chapter 27

Peter drove the rented car west, along the road that led to his grandfather's plantation. The trip evoked memories, even though everything seemed different. No, not just different. Smaller, out of scale. The road seemed narrower, and closer to the Mekong River than he remembered. The river too appeared duller, dirtier, far less exciting than it had been to a twelve-year-old.

He glanced into the bush, at places where he thought the sentries might be. He saw none, but was sure they were still there. He had been told as a child they were protection against the Pathet Lao, and the bandit tribes who occasionally raided outlying homes. Now he wondered if that too had been a part of the charade, something needed to keep the truth from a child, to obscure the dangers that had always surrounded his family.

When the road ended at the two narrow paths, Peter took the most southerly, and continued until it opened onto the broad plain. There he stopped the car to pause and remember. To the south was the river, and the dock where he had played as a child. To the north, the house—always a safe harbor—shaded by the mangosteen trees on either side. Everywhere else the forest, dense and immovable.

He drove on to the front of the house, got out and looked back toward the river; a sense of truly returning home seized him for the first time. Days of playing with Luc, of chasing Max, his dog; of playing pranks on Auguste, and always being caught.

When he turned back to the house, his grandfather, dressed in a white suit, stood on the veranda looking down at him. Peter stared back at him, at this man who had kept him safe all these years. A smile spread across his face, and Peter bounded up the stairs.