by Don McQuinn
Duc had died in an apartment with a separate bedroom. It was strange a bar girl could afford that luxury. It had never occurred to him before and he blinked the thought away now.
He pushed the door open far enough to slide through and closed it behind him. The apartment felt even darker than the alley and he strained to pierce the darkness without raising from his deep crouch. He concentrated on his breathing, consciously regulating it to steadiness. The sounds from the left continued uninterrupted and he crept in that direction, sweeping the air and floor in front of him with his left hand while he drew the automatic and held it against his chest with his right. A shoulder brushed something and he froze. Gingerly, he tested the object with the sweep hand. It was an easy chair. The seat cushion lifted off easily.
The breathing was closer now, coming through a doorway that formed a break in the paleness of the facing wall. He covered the last feet to it in quick strides.
A figure lay on the bed, feet pointed vertically and one out-thrust arm above the sheet, fingers curled inward as though holding something. The click of the hammer thumbed back failed to disturb the sleeper.
One pace at a time, setting each foot solidly, Taylor moved to a position directly opposite Trung’s head. In repose, his mouth slack and features loose, he seemed to have shed any distinguishing characteristics. He was a man, nothing more or less. In assertion of that fact, he turned his head and exhaled heavily.
Taylor raised the cushion until it was centered in front of the gun muzzle. An uninvited recollection played with the madness at the core of his mind, reminding him of a man who’d been careless with a similar cushion and shot off two of his own fingers. He coordinated the cushion and the pistol intently.
The shots came very close together, two thunderous heartbeats. The second one caught the head bouncing from the impact of the first, driving it back into the pillow. Concussion boomed in Taylor’s gut, kneading it into a quivering knot, the way parade bass drums electrify children.
The face on the bed was marred by a black dot just above the line of the eyebrows. A dark trail ran from the right eye to the sheet and formed an irregular blotch.
Taylor hurried out, dropping the cushion and trying to make the gun arm swing naturally. He eased the door open and stepped out into a blessed silence, walking toward the end of the alley, urging his body to move properly.
A voice behind him shouted, “What was that noise?” and another said, “I do not know! Was it a gun? Maybe the soldier knows. Soldier!”
Taylor told himself he must not run.
“Soldier! Did you hear the noise? Who are you?”
A child wailed indignation. Taylor thought he heard a door open somewhere behind him.
It was only a few feet to the sidewalk.
A determined male voice cried, “Wait! You! Come back!”
Taylor was at the corner, turning it, then sprinting for the waiting motorcycle.
Minh roared off as soon as he felt Taylor’s body hit his own. The engine drowned any continuing outcry from behind.
They maneuvered through the streets at undistinguished speed, always headed in the general direction of the villa. Finally, Taylor said, “Go up the back alley behind BOQ Two. I’ll drop off there and walk it. No one will notice me and you will return through the gate alone.”
Minh nodded silently and continued to move on side streets and alleys until they reached their goal. By then there were a few pedestrians and vehicles moving. Taylor slipped off the machine and Minh continued on. A few blocks away he could turn and approach the villa from a different route entirely. No one would connect his arrival with anything of importance.
Taylor wandered into the parking lot, where he clumsily attached the gold leaves to his collar, then lit a cigarette and walked briskly toward the villa.
The gate guards acknowledged him with half-hearted salutes. He kept walking, noticing the time as he climbed the stairs. It was 0432. An eternity gone, another taking its place. The new eternity was thirty-two minutes old, give or take a few minutes. His feet scuffed on the steps, worn-out sounds in the tense dawn. A tick on a clock, a fossil in stone, a mask on a pillowcase—techniques for measuring time.
He counted the steps to the second floor. Duc used to insist it was the first floor.
Winter hurried from behind his desk. “Minh says you were seen but there was no trouble.” He steered Taylor to the sofa. “You’ll want a drink.”
“No, not right now. How about some coffee, please?”
There was a sharp noise that made him jump and he looked, muscles tugging at each other, to see Loc had clapped his hands. Minh leaped into the room.
“Yes, Dai Ta?” He forced his eyes to stay away from Taylor.
“Coffee for Dai Ta Winter and Thieu Ta Taylor,” Loc said. “I will have tea. Bring cups for Trung Ta Tho, Dai Uy Harker, and yourself.”
“Me?”
“Only if you choose. You will be here while we review what has happened. Quickly.”
Minh practically staggered from the room. Taylor started to light a cigarette, realized he’d just thrown one away outside the room, then lit another one anyhow. They could hear Minh rattling cups and finally padding back down the hall. At Loc’s gesture he served Taylor before placing the tray on Winter’s desk.
Taylor gulped at his. It burned and it was bitter enough to set his teeth on edge. He decided it might be the best he’d ever tasted and gave his report.
“I don’t think I was seen going in. He was asleep and never woke. I fired twice, through a cushion to muffle the noise. The first round hit him between the eyes, the second went into the right eye. I’m sure he’s dead.” He swallowed another mouthful of coffee and took a huge drag on the cigarette. “The people who noticed the noise called out behind me. I don’t see how they could identify me, even distinguish that I’m American. They hollered ‘Soldier!’ at me in Vietnamese. No one spoke any English. We weren’t followed. Minh dropped me off over behind BOQ Two. We came here separately. No one saw enough to make any trouble. Minh did everything exactly as he should have. It’s all over.”
Loc stood up. “We thank you, Major Taylor. I think even Binh would thank you.”
“No thanks involved, Colonel. It needed to be done.”
“It did,” Loc agreed. “It was you who took the risk. If you had been caught—”
Taylor drained his cup. “Don’t remind me. Some day I’ll write a book. ‘Medals and Courts-Martial I Never Got, And Why I Should or Shouldn’t Have.’ ”
“You’ll get a medal for this one,” Winter said.
“Hey.” Taylor grimaced and replaced his cup on the tray.
“I mean it,” Winter insisted. “I’m going to think up something. I know you don’t give a shit, but it’ll mean something to somebody else one day. And you deserve it.”
“Sure. Make it a Legion of Merit. It’s pretty and it’s got a sort of Buddhist sound to it.” He stretched. “I’m washed out, Colonel. I’d like to get me that drink now and fall in the bag.”
Winter reached into his desk and drew out a bottle. “I’ll buy.” He gestured at Corporal Minh and Taylor stopped him.
“I don’t need a glass. I don’t want to know how much I get.” He took the bottle, managing three gurgling slugs before he felt the fiery mass try to bounce. He recapped the bottle and put it back on the desk with a thump.
“Thank you, sir.”
They watched him go.
“I think he will sleep,” Loc said.
“God, I hope so.” Winter poured whiskey in his coffee and sipped at the mixture. “He probably will. If he ever breaks, Loc, he’ll fly apart like a grenade.”
“I agree. Do you anticipate that?”
“No-o.” Winter’s hand explored the stubble on his chin as the word extended. “I think he’ll hold together long enough. You called him a hunter once. I think there’s more to it, as if he thinks he’s sifting through a sewer, not even sure there’s anything there to find.”
“You are disturbed. You become, what is your word? Morbid.”
Winter smiled grimly. “That happened ten years ago, my friend. Right now I’m morbid and sleepy. I’ll be back in a few hours. See you then.”
“I’ll leave with you. My car is outside.”
They moved down the hall in step. Corporal Minh watched them leave and dragged himself in to police up the cups and tray.
Taylor heard them leave. His blood absorbed warmth from the whiskey pooled in his stomach, distributing it along nerve paths. Muscles relaxed, joints eased. The only thing immune was his brain.
He looked out the window to see the morning was going to be overcast. Rounded clouds in ponderous mass drifted like clusters of grapes, hugely magnified so the eye could discern each subtle variation, each minute individualizing characteristic. The rising sun enameled the undersides with copper and brass.
One more daybreak.
He slept.
Chapter 47
Steam tendrils squirmed on the undisturbed surface of Loc’s morning pho. He watched the intermingling columns, trying to follow one through its disappearances and re-emergences.
It was impossible. There was no logic to the movement and everything eventually mingled inextricably.
He wondered if a Buddhist monk in a corner of a temple might be watching the same phenomenon and telling himself that the behavior of the steam wraiths only illustrated the tenet that all things are born to die and be reborn in a different state. Was not man’s life a random wisp? Unconsciously, Loc frowned his denial. A man was more than a natural response to physical laws. On the other hand, was not the total man the result of forces that reacted on his body and mind and built a unique product of him, just as the heat, cold, and moisture created the steam from the broth? The frown darkened further, only to disappear as he determined that the key word was unique. The steam fragments were alike, atom to atom, but each man was completely different. So. The analogy was apt, but badly flawed. The monk would have to meditate better than that.
Tasting the soup, he drew back with a start, unready for the fact that it had gone cool.
His mental maundering had cost him the largest part of his breakfast. Irritably, he pushed the bowl aside, following that with a shove for the croissant plate and a more reluctant push of the coffee cup and saucer.
He snapped his fingers and his orderly retrieved the tray. Loc watched him carefully for any reaction to the untouched food and was delighted when the young man showed no sign whatsoever. Loc made a mental note to look into his background further. Perhaps he could be trained for other responsibilities.
With the orderly gone, Loc scrutinized his clothes, realizing it was mere habit, as he’d had no opportunity to spill anything. Still, like a bird preparing for flight, he preened and rearranged until he was satisfied before snapping his fingers again. The orderly reappeared with the tea caddy and at Loc’s nod, spoke over his shoulder. Tho entered and accepted the offer of tea before sitting on one of the chairs. He looked unsure of himself.
“Have you found Han?” Loc made the question unpleasantly blunt.
Tho blinked rapidly. “No, Dai Ta. My source at Special Branch says he was seen the day before yesterday in the vicinity of the Friendly Bar. The man who reported said he had only a glimpse of him. But it supports your thought that Trung might have been talking to him about Binh and his family.”
Loc pillared his arms on the desk, lowering his head until it rested on fingertips at his temples. He spoke almost to himself. “The more I think about it, the more I am convinced. I am equally convinced the woman Tuyet could tell us more. You will find out if she can.”
Tho’s agitation had him twisting his fingers in his lap. “What you suggest, Dai Ta—” He swallowed. “Dai Ta Winter—the other American, Barline—it is very complicated,” he finished miserably.
“I wonder.” Loc continued to muse. “Get me Dai Uy Harker.”
Tho seized the opportunity to escape the discussion and departed in such a hurry he was still carrying his glass of tea as he cleared the door. He was empty handed when he returned with Harker and Loc wondered idly when his glass would turn up again. He gestured for them to be seated and spoke to Harker.
“Captain, I must speak to you in confidence. Do I have your word that you will never repeat what I say?”
“Yes, sir. Certainly.”
Loc’s brow creased. “Think a moment. Captain. Do not be so agreeable. Be sure of yourself before you answer.”
Harker shrugged. “I’m sure of you, Colonel. I trust you.”
“That could be foolish.” Loc looked away from the suddenly wide eyes.
“I am Vietnamese. We—you and I—are united against the communists, but there are many things more important to me than American interests.”
“I understand that, but until I hear it from you, I won’t believe you’d do anything to damage us, so tell me what you want me to hear, sir.”
Loc bit back a sigh. He didn’t even have to look at the face of this one. The voice alone screamed sincerity.
Facing him again, Loc asked, “Do you think I respect Colonel Winter?”
“Yes, sir.” Harker’s sudden wariness showed the conversation had already taken an unpleasant course.
“Then I must tell you I think he is frightened.”
Harker froze, and Loc hurried on. “You saw how quickly and forcefully he acted when Trung became a threat?”
Harker nodded, careful now.
Loc said, “Have you ever seen him fail to act in such a way?”
The questions were becoming more to Harker’s taste. “Never,” he said.
“But we have.” Loc again turned away. “The drug-dealing Major was allowed to run home without punishment. We all know the plan to destroy him is questionable. That is all understandable. Still—” He paused, then swung to fix Harker with eyes that stung like whips. “How many men has this Unit eliminated because we knew them to be enemies, Dai Uy?”
Before Harker could recover enough to answer, Loc drilled ahead. “Only one other man has ever escaped us when he had so much evidence condemning him.”
“One other?”
Loc continued as if unhearing. “I think my friend is already thinking of his new unit, one that will not have the problems we have had.”
Harker’s lips thinned and he shook his head. “If he didn’t move on someone, he had a reason.”
“I believe that.” Loc’s glance was odd, almost hurt. “I am not sure of the reason, however. I think how quickly he moved against Trung and how he failed to move against the others, and I confess I am troubled.”
“What others? You only named the Major.”
“Only one other,” Loc hastened. “And there was only coincidence in his case, so perhaps I am seeing things that are not really there.”
“I’m not following you at all, Colonel. Who didn’t we go after?”
“It makes no difference,” Loc said, then relented in the face of Harker’s confusion. “I have trusted you this far. I will say what is on my mind and hope you understand. It starts with Duong Han. I am certain he is the man who told Trung of the family of Nguyen Binh. I believe your source lied. I believe Trung and Han planned together to speak to Barline. If I am correct, there is greater danger than ever, now that Trung is dead. Han will be more afraid.”
“But why hasn’t Han already told Barline we have Binh’s family?”
Loc’s shoulders rose and fell in a minute shrug. “Perhaps he is one of the faction who wished to see Binh survive. Perhaps he is a relative. But, again, Han lives in the shadow of one we cannot touch, apparently.”
There was a pause before the last word, a vocal hitch that padded it with implication. Harker responded immediately.
“If Colonel Winter thought Barline was actually involved in helping the VC, really protecting them, or something—”
For a long moment Loc studied Harker as if seeing him on display. Then he dryly told of Barline’s trip to IV Corps and
the talk with the Colonel who kept Dao. When he was finished, Harker’s face was flaming.
“If the Colonel knows about that and hasn’t moved, then he has reasons,” Harker said, defiance replacing conviction in his words.
“That is what I fear most,” Loc replied. “I, too, know that my friend will not tolerate a VC. But Barline and the Major are Americans, Captain. And the implications of that fact frighten me.”
He stared at Harker again and for a few heartbeats the younger man matched his intensity, only to waver and break the contact to stare at the top of the desk.
Loc dropped his voice. “I tell you this fear so you may help me, Captain. It is only natural that my friend would hesitate to eliminate a countryman. Your civil war is long past and ours is of long standing. If I am right, I only wish to see him protected. I will not criticize and I will allow no one else to, either. But if I am wrong, I must know, in order that I do not misjudge him. It is possible he does not even understand himself that he has shown a—peculiar—hesitation to deal with these men.”
Harker visibly winced and as soon as Loc was quiet, rose swiftly. “You have my word, Dai Ta, nothing that was said will be repeated. I will help you any way I can.” His stiff formality could have been a rebuke.
Loc said, “I thank you. We are lucky you are with us.”
Mumbling through goodbyes, Harker left in a haze of conflicting emotions. By the time he reached his office, he knew what he would do. He dialed a number and rapped the desk with a white-knuckled fist while waiting for an answer.
“Hello,” he said. “Captain Chavez, please.” Then “Chavez? Harker. Not so good, buddy. I need help. Yeah, big trouble. I don’t want to talk about it on the phone. Did I see about what? Trung? Yeah, I know him—what about him? No kidding! Who did it? Nine millimeter? That’s bad guy ammo. His own buddies must have put it to him, finally. Well, we won’t miss the sonofabitch. Who? Earl’s blaming us? That sucker’s crazy, you know? Listen, screw Earl. I got other things to talk about. Can you meet me at the pool at noon? Hey, good. See you.”