“All right, I’ll do it as soon as I get rid of Qui.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to tap the building phone network?” Rockman asked.
“I’m not sure,” said Dean. “There were no guards in the lobby. There looked like there was a door at the other side of the staircase. But anyone could come right down and see me.”
“You could say you were lost.”
Dean looked up and saw Qui returning.
“Yeah, well, I’ll make sure to update you tonight,” Dean said into the phone. “Take it easy.”
Qui gave him a soft smile as she sat. “Reporting in?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you know Phuc Dinh during the war, Mr. Dean?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I know you’re not here for your job, Mr. Dean. Not for the International Fund, at any rate.”
“What would I be here for, if not that?”
“Your conscience would be my bet.”
A waiter approached. Dean let Qui order two large bottles of water, and then meals.
“Do you remember the people you killed?” she asked when the waiter retreated.
“Some I remember,” Dean told Qui honestly. “Every one of them wanted to kill me.”
“I’m sure.”
“What side were you on during the war?”
The waiter appeared with their water before Qui could answer. She waited until he was gone.
“The proper answer today in Vietnam, Mr. Dean, is that we were all on the same side. The proper answer is that we all fought for liberation in our own way.”
“And what was your answer during the war?”
Qui sipped her water. She was a beautiful woman, Dean realized, too old to be pretty, but age had given her a presence that a younger woman could never emulate. She looked up at him and caught him staring; something flashed in her eyes—anger, maybe, or resentment—and then she looked down.
Dean, too, changed the direction of his gaze, turning his head and looking across the street. Two girls were jumping rope in front of a small shop across from the café. One wore a matched top and pants in pink; the other had Western-style jeans, complete with sequins down the side. They were laughing and singing a counting song as they skipped over the rope.
“Many times I have driven men who came to the country as a kind of penance as well as curiosity,” said Qui. “I think it odd, apologizing for necessity.”
“Maybe that’s not what they’re apologizing for.”
“Maybe not.”
“I won’t need you to come back with me,” Dean told Qui. “You can take the rest of the afternoon off. I’ll see you for dinner.”
She nodded slightly.
Neither of them spoke as they ate. Dean wanted to ask her about the country—ask what it was like now, and what it had been like when she was growing up. He felt an urge to ask a lot of questions, not just of her, but of everyone in the country: if the North had been defeated, would things have been better? But he couldn’t.
AFTER LUNCH, DEAN took a seemingly aimless walk around town. He spotted a Dumpster behind the municipal building that would serve as a perfect hiding spot for the signal booster; pretending to toss out a bag he’d found in the road, he slid the device under the Dumpster.
“Much better, Charlie,” said Rockman. “Thanks.”
Dean took another walk. When he returned to the municipal building, he walked inside, strode to the steps at the back, and quickly opened the door to the basement. He couldn’t find a light switch; he took out his key chain and used the small LED light he kept on it to guide him down the steps.
“Network interface is going to be somewhere in the western side of the basement,” said Rockman, who’d been studying an aerial photo of the building. “At least it ought to be.”
The only things in the basement were metal stanchions helping to support the floor, and miscellaneous utilities. Dean found the telephone network access boxes and the small computer they fed in the far corner of the basement. He took what looked like two large pens from his pocket, unscrewed the tops from them, and then put them together. Then he took a thick wire from his pocket and connected one end to the tops of the pens. Standing on his tiptoes, he slid the pen onto the block ledge where the telephone trunk wire came into the building. To finish off, he wrapped what looked like a Velcro strap around the trunk line and connected it to the wire he’d inserted into the pens.
Dean’s device was a listening system that used the phone line to send its data back to the Art Room. The device allowed the NSA to hear internal intercom calls, and made it easier to pick up regular calls as well.
Dean had one worrisome moment as he came up the steps. He had planted a pair of video bugs so the Art Room could warn him that someone was approaching, but the coverage left a blind spot on the second-story stairs right near the hallway entrance. As he came up out of the basement, turning to go up the main staircase, a young man confronted him, asking in angry Vietnamese what he had been doing.
The translator told Dean how to say that he was lost in Vietnamese, but Dean knew it would be considerably more effective to simply use English.
“Mr. Phuc Dinh? I can’t find his office,” said Dean. “Where is it?”
“Do you think we have offices in the basement?” demanded the man in Vietnamese.
Dean held up his hands. He took a piece of paper with Phuc Dinh’s name on it from his pocket.
“Dinh,” he told the man. “Phuc Dinh.”
“You are an ignorant American,” said the man in Vietnamese. Then he added in English, “Upstairs.”
“He’s still watching you, Charlie,” warned Rockman as Dean went up the steps.
As long as he focused on his immediate tasks—moving the booster, bugging the phones, appearing nonthreatening to the suspicious worker—Dean was fine. The moment he reached Phuc Dinh’s office, however, Dean hesitated, remembering Longbow, remembering the shot he’d taken some thirty-five years before.
How cruel was fate to bring him together with this man?
“Charlie, is something wrong?” asked Rockman.
Dean answered by knocking on the doorjamb, then going in to speak to the woman at the desk.
It was a different, older woman.
“I came earlier and left a message for Mr. Dinh,” he told her in English. The woman didn’t seem to understand and so he repeated the words the translator gave him in Vietnamese.
“What is this about?” asked the secretary.
“I’m not sure I should discuss Mr. Dinh’s business with you,” said Dean, carefully repeating the translator’s words. He got the tone wrong at the end, and had to repeat it before the secretary understood.
She frowned, then got up from her desk and went to find Dinh.
There were photos on the wall—a ceremony with Phuc Dinh in a Vietnamese-style suit receiving a certificate, a parade, Phuc Dinh in a row of other men …
And one, much older, showing Phuc Dinh standing next to the charred wreckage of a Huey, smiling.
Anger surged over Dean, like the wave of a tsunami. It was the most useless emotion, a deadly emotion for anyone, most especially a sniper. To succeed, a sniper had to operate without anger. He could live with fear, he could live with sadness, but he could not operate with anger. When he stalked his enemy, he had to be emotionless, his movement and perception incorruptible by hate or lust. When he pushed against the trigger he had to be stone-cold steady, empty of anything that would blur his aim.
“He will see you,” said the secretary, returning. “For a moment.”
Dean tried not to think of Longbow as he walked to Phuc Dinh’s office.
The man Charles Dean had killed sat behind a small metal desk, surrounded by paper. His hair was thinner, his face a little plumper, but his scar was the same, his eyes were the same, his nose and mouth precisely as Dean remembered. Dinh was a ghost rising from the past, a dead man who had not died.
“I am Phuc Dinh,” he said in
perfect English. “Who are you?”
“Charles Dean.” Dean forced the words from his mouth. “Can we go somewhere and talk?”
“What about?”
“A mutual friend.”
Dinh started to scowl.
“Gerald Forester,” said Dean. “I believe you may have exchanged some e-mail with him.”
“I don’t think so.”
I could kill him easily, Dean thought. I could drop to my knee, grab the gun at my ankle, shoot him. It would be done in three seconds.
“Forester was murdered,” Dean said. “This won’t go away.”
Dean stared at Phuc Dinh, expecting that he would deny knowing Forester and tell him to leave. But to Dean’s great surprise, he rose.
“Come with me,” Phuc Dinh told him.
“He’s telling his secretary he’ll be back in a few hours,” said the translator.
“Home run, Charlie,” said Rockman. “Home run.”
76
NONE OF THE houses in the subdivision looked any smaller than four thousand square feet, and if there was a single blade of grass out of place on any of the lawns, Lia couldn’t see it through the high-powered night vision glasses.
“This doesn’t look too good,” she told Mandarin.
“Yeah. But you never know.” Mandarin cruised past Meadowview Court, slowing to get a view of the front yard. It was a little before 5:00 A.M.; even the early birds hadn’t gotten up yet.
“They have a wireless network without any security,” said Lia. She held up her handheld computer; the screen showed that she had just successfully signed on. “Anybody could have used the network.”
“Probably. Doesn’t explain the gun questions and the chat rooms, though.”
“I bet there’s a teenage boy inside,” said Lia. “One who plays basketball and is thinking he’d like to hunt.”
She’d seen a basketball net and was guessing the rest.
“Maybe,” admitted Mandarin. He jabbed his thumb toward the roof of the car. The helicopters delivering the tactical team were nearly overhead. “We’ll know in a few minutes.”
TWENTY FEDERAL AGENTS, backed up by six state troopers and their cars, had been assigned to raid the Hennemman residence, the origin of the latest e-mail threat—a vow to “finish what’s been started”—against Senator McSweeney. The government had been granted a search warrant to seize the Hennemmans’ computers and other papers and material possibly related to the threat. The evidence was not just the e-mailed threat but also inquiries from a computer on the same home network in several public forums about weapons, rifles in particular.
Two members of a special DEA team took down the door; Mandarin and Lia came in right behind them. Within ninety seconds, the house had been searched and the three occupants of the house found themselves pinned in their beds by agents.
Lia helped secure the basement—nothing more threatening there than a dehumidifier—then came upstairs to find Mandarin holding his credentials out to Mrs. Hennemman, explaining what they were doing there. Her husband lay next to her, blinking up as if he wasn’t sure whether this was part of a dream or not.
“Where are the computers?” Mandarin asked.
There were four in the house, including one that was packed away in a box.
“We want our lawyer,” said Mrs. Hennemman belatedly.
“Give him a call,” said Mandarin, handing her his cell phone. “We’ll be downstairs.”
“Do you know whether your wireless network is secure?” Lia asked.
“What’s that?” said Mrs. Hennemman.
77
PHUC DINH LED Dean to a restaurant two blocks from the municipal building. He nodded at the maître d’ as they entered, and walked straight to the back, taking a large table set with eight places. Within moments, two waiters appeared and whisked the extra places away.
“You will have a drink?” Phuc Dinh asked Dean.
“Water, please.”
Phuc Dinh ordered two bottles, along with a pot of tea.
“It was a long time ago,” he told Dean. “My memory may be faulty.”
The comment disoriented Dean. He was confused, and for a moment he thought Phuc Dinh was talking about his mission, though that was impossible.
“I had not thought of the money for many years, or think that it was relevant,” added Phuc Dinh. He stopped speaking as the waiter approached.
“What money?” asked Rockman in Dean’s head.
Dean ignored the runner, trying not to show anything to Phuc Dinh, playing out the original bluff as if Forester had told him everything. He was a sniper again, a scout moving silently through the jungle, distractions and emotion in check.
“The war was a long time ago,” prompted Dean as the waiter left. “There were other things to think of.”
“The money was lost,” said Phuc Dinh. “It never arrived at the hamlet.”
“The hamlet was Phu Loc Two, wasn’t it?” asked Dean. It was a guess, but a good one—that was the village where he had stalked Phuc Dinh.
“Yes. Ordinarily a courier would arrive on the tenth of the month. He would bury the money beneath a rock on a trail about three miles out of town.”
“The trail to Laos,” said Dean.
Phuc Dinh nodded. “And then one month, it did not arrive.”
“Which month?”
“September 1971.”
Dean sipped some of the tea. The restaurant was not air-conditioned, and the temperature must have been well into the eighties, but despite the heat, it felt refreshing.
“There were complaints and threats from some of the leaders in the area,” Phuc Dinh said. “A rebellion. I sent a message and requested that the liaison come and explain what had happened, but he would not come. I heard later that he was killed by a rocket attack.”
“What was his name?”
“Greenfield.” Phuc Dinh looked up at the wall behind Dean, as if reading the answer off it. “He called himself Green. But that wasn’t his first name.”
“Was he a soldier?”
“No. Soldiers—Marines—were used as the couriers. But Green was a civilian—CIA, I assume.”
“Was his name Greenfeld?” asked Dean.
“Maybe.”
“Jack Greenfeld was a CIA officer who worked in this area. He ran a number of programs,” said Dean, who wanted the Art Room to know the background. “He worked in that area. Then he was killed by a rocket attack. He was replaced by a man named Rogers.”
“You’re familiar with the area?” said Phuc Dinh.
“Just some of the history.”
“Maybe it is the same person. Green. I don’t know what the arrangements were on the American side,” said Phuc Dinh. “Only that payments were distributed to different elders.”
“We’re researching this, Charlie,” said Rockman. “Keep him talking. What does this have to do with Forester?”
Dean had already guessed the answer to Rockman’s question.
“What happened after the money stopped?” Dean asked Phuc Dinh.
Instead of answering, the Vietnamese official looked back at Dean. Their eyes met and held each other for a moment.
“Did you serve during the war, Mr. Dean?” Phuc Dinh asked.
“I did.”
“Then you understand.” Phuc Dinh refilled his teacup. “One had always to cut his own path.”
“So when the money stopped, you began working with the VC?”
“One works with whomever one can.”
Dean suspected that Phuc Dinh had been working with the Vietcong long before the payments stopped; double-dealing was common. But it could have been that he changed sides then. By now it was irrelevant anyway.
“Did you know a man named McSweeney?” Dean asked. “He would have been a captain. He was with the strategic hamlet program.”
Phuc Dinh stared at the wall once more. “The name is not familiar,” he said finally.
“Did you have any contact with the strategic hamlet pr
ogram? Before the payments stopped?”
“The couriers were Marines. Maybe they were that program?”
“Did any Marines live with you in your village?”
“You say you are familiar with the history of the area. Would Marines have lasted long in that village?”
Phuc Dinh gave him the names of the provincial leaders who benefited from the payoffs. The list was long, though the sums Phuc Dinh mentioned were relatively small—for the most part, a few hundred went to each. Still, that would have represented considerable money in Vietnam.
It probably bought a lot of AK-47s and rockets, Dean thought bitterly.
Obviously, someone decided that the money the village leaders were getting would be more useful in his pocket. Was it the Vietcong, the South Vietnamese, or someone else?
Forester must have thought it was connected to McSweeney somehow.
Maybe he suspected McSweeney.
Or maybe McSweeney knew who did it, and was in danger because of that. Maybe the fact that he was targeted had nothing to do with his running for President.
“That’s all I know,” said Phuc Dinh.
“Do you have the e-mail Forester sent you?” Dean asked.
He shook his head.
“How did he find you?”
“I am not sure. I am not a famous man.” He broke into a grin for the first time since they’d met. “Maybe he met someone with a long memory. He claimed to have found my name in a government directory.”
“Is that possible?”
“Yes. I have contact with foreign banks. I have visited Beijing—I am in the directories. But how he knew to look, that I do not know. He asked if I knew anything about missing money. He named the date the payment should have arrived. That was all. I will not come to your country,” Phuc Dinh added. “I cannot help you more than this.”
Dean took a sip of tea, savoring the liquid in his mouth as if it were expensive Scotch.
“What did you do during the war, Mr. Dean?” asked Phuc Dinh.
“I was a Marine,” Dean said. “I served in this province.”
“It was not a good place to be a soldier.”
“I’d imagine it was much more difficult to be a civilian.”
“Impossible, I would say.”
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