The Three-Nine Line

by David Freed

  She smiled again, but the way she averted her eyes told me she suspected otherwise.

  She wanted to know where I grew up. Her face brightened when I told her Colorado. She’d twice been skiing there, she said, Aspen and Vail. She seemed eager to tell me all about her own upbringing in Singapore, the eldest child of an international real estate investor from Seoul and his Chinese wife. Her parents had insisted she take fencing lessons; she’d become so good at the sport that she made her country’s Olympic team as an alternate, but never competed in the games. She’d gone to law school in London and been married briefly to an investment banker, but the union didn’t hold. I mostly listened and tried not to stare at her lips while she spoke, or think about what she looked like without her clothes on.

  Our food arrived. Mai’s tacos looked more like one large tostada garnished with what appeared to be rice noodles. My burrito resembled a cross between a Philly cheese steak and some sea creature washed ashore. It tasted that way, too.

  “Not the tastiest burrito food I’ve ever had.”

  “No?”

  “Definitely no. How’re your tacos?”

  “They’re . . . different,” she said, halfheartedly picking at her plate.

  “Well, that’s one way to put it.” Now it was my turn to smile. When I glanced up from my plate, she was looking at me straight on, her eyes unwavering.

  “I’d like you to make love to me,” she said.

  V

  A vanilla-scented candle flickered on the nightstand. Her balcony door was open. Curtains swayed on the breeze. I awoke to the patter of rain outside. Mai was curled in my arms, our legs entwined.

  “The woman in your life,” she said, her eyes dark and warm, her voice barely above a whisper, “how did you lose her?”

  “She died.”

  “And you blame yourself.”

  I didn’t respond. Mai seemed to know. “You were having a bad dream,” she said.

  “Was I?”

  “It’s okay. You’re here.” She kissed my chest.

  My dreams that night weren’t of Savannah. They were of a sortie I’d flown during Desert Storm, back when I was still with the air force, before I’d been assigned to Alpha. Forward combat air controllers had spotted a platoon of Iraqi T-55s, maneuvering in broad daylight along the Euphrates River, just north of the Kuwaiti border. I rolled in and destroyed three of the tanks on my first run. The three-man crew of the fourth tank got wise to what was happening and started to bail out as I rolled in on my second pass, but not fast enough. The armor-piercing incendiary rounds of my Warthog’s seven-barrel, 30-millimeter Gatling gun found them and literally chewed them to pieces in a savage maelstrom of sand and blood and body parts. I was low enough that I could see legs and arms arching through the sky like so many lawn darts. It didn’t bother me then, all the carnage I’d wrought, and it really didn’t bother me afterward. But somehow that night, for whatever reason, the images took on a kind of Technicolor, phantasmagorical surrealism, like a Peter Max painting that startled me awake, my heart thumping in my throat.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nodded.

  Tenderly, she pressed her lips to mine. I could feel the kiss all the way down my spine.

  I asked her if she knew what time it was.

  “A little after three in the morning. Why? Do you have to go?”

  “Not really.” Savannah was on my mind, but not in a haunting way. That was a first. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d conjured memories of her and not been consumed by a crushing sense of loss.

  A wise man once said that the living are obliged by the dead to go on living. It’s why the people bring over casseroles following funeral services. To eat is to go on living. In that moment, in bed with a woman whom I barely knew, in a city I knew not at all, it occurred to me that to live is not merely the process of taking nourishment and drawing one breath to the next. It’s about constantly reminding yourself that you’re still alive, still capable of feeling something beyond the pain and loss that invariably befalls the average existence. I owed Mai, I realized, a debt of gratitude more than she would ever know.

  She caressed my chest with a gossamer touch, her breath on my neck. We made love languidly, unhurried, her eyes locked on mine. I felt more alive than I had in a long time, and afterward slept as deeply as I could remember. For a few hours, anyway.

  V

  Mai was up before the dawn. She said she had meetings all day. We made arrangements to reconvene that night for dinner. I threw on my pants and shirt, then she walked me to her door, naked.

  “Thank you,” she said in that British-Asian accent of hers.

  She stood on her toes and we kissed, long and deeply. The taste of her lingered on my tongue. I held her close, struggling to find the right words, something that would express my gratitude for the comfort she’d provided me, the temporary respite from my demons and my past, but all I could think to offer in response was a mindless, “No, thank you.” That didn’t seem nearly adequate, but it was the best I could do.

  When I returned to my room, I fully expected to find at least one eavesdropping device planted while I was away, but an electronic sweep found none. I showered, changed into a clean dress shirt and Dockers befitting my image as a pseudo PhD, and went to check upstairs on Cohen and Stoneburner. Neither man said they had any memory of Billy Hallady’s alleged claim in the Riverside newspaper that the three of them had sworn revenge against Mr. Wonderful. Virgil Stoneburner was particularly adamant in denying the assertion.

  “Blood oath? That’s complete bullshit. Billy must be getting Alzheimer’s,” Stoneburner said, scarfing down a room service breakfast of scrambled eggs and hash browns in his underwear. “Hell, we didn’t have a drop of blood to spare. I was down to 120 pounds back then, teeth falling out. My body was one big open sore. We were doing everything we could to conserve energy, not waste it. All of us. Billy Hallady included.”

  When I was allowed into Cohen’s room, the tight set of his jaw told me that something had changed since I’d seen him last. Gone was his placid demeanor, replaced by a notable air of anxiety. He ushered me out onto his balcony where we couldn’t be overheard.

  “I’m afraid I was less than honest with you last time we spoke,” he said in a tone that was at once guarded and guilt-ridden. “You asked me if I’d cooperated with the Vietnamese about what I knew about what had happened to that guard. I said I hadn’t. In fact, I did, and I feel awful about that.”

  He said he’d been eating alone in the hotel dining room the morning after the big ceremonial dinner, waiting for Stoneburner to join him for breakfast, when three Vietnamese men approached. One of them was clearly in charge of the other two. The description Cohen gave me matched Colonel Tan Sang.

  “He wanted to know when I’d last seen Billy and his grandson. I thought something bad might’ve happened to them on the way to the airport, and that they might have been in danger. I was concerned. I told them about seeing them in the bar that night, and about how they were scheduled to catch an early flight back to the states.”

  “Did he tell you that the guard had been murdered?

  Cohen shook his head. “All he told me was to go back to my room immediately, that I’d be safe there—from what, he didn’t say. I asked about Virgil, was he okay? He said he’d already talked to him, and that he was back in his room upstairs. One of the men walked me back to my own room. I could see the pistol under his shirt. I thought for a minute they were going to kill me, that the whole thing was a setup.”

  “What made you think that?”

  “The war. Hard feelings on their part—you know, ‘the imperialist pilots who bombed us,’ that sort of thing. I wasn’t exactly sure. I just had this very strong sense that the best thing to do was to do what they said. It wasn’t until I got back to my room and they locked me in that I realized I’d screwed up, said things I shouldn’t have. Not that they coul
dn’t have figured those things out themselves, talking to the hotel staff.” He leaned his elbows on the railing, staring at his folded hands, guilt-ridden. “They took away my phone and cut off the room phone. That’s when they told me we were all being accused of murder, and that we would be executed. They wouldn’t tell me who was murdered, though. It was straight out of Kafka.”

  The early morning air was damp and clean and I filled my lungs with it. The streets below were wet from the rain that had fallen overnight. Three boys on their way to grammar school in matching white shirts and red neckerchiefs stomped each other wet in the puddles, laughing.

  “I’m ashamed,” Cohen said, watching them. “I should’ve kept my mouth shut and never said anything.”

  “You did nothing wrong, Colonel.”

  His eyes glistening. “Have you ever had a man die in your arms, Mr. Logan? Someone you loved?”

  “I’ve lost friends,” I said, “more than I care to remember, but never in my arms, no.”

  There was a pause, as if he had to will himself to go on. “I’d been in solitary confinement at the Hilton for the better part of a year,” he said, his gaze far away, “when they threw this young kid in with me. Both arms broken, bruises everywhere. The goons had worked him over, busted him up like nobody’s business. He was bleeding internally. There really wasn’t much I could do for him.”

  “I can’t imagine how hard that must’ve been,” I said.

  “He told me he had a son. He was so proud of that boy. Told me all about him. Made me promise that if I ever got out, I’d find his family and tell the boy that his father honored his oath and died a patriot. I promised him I’d look after his son. He only lasted a couple nights before he passed.” Tears streaked Cohen’s face. “I really can’t talk about this. You should go now,” he said, “before I embarrass myself further.”

  “I’m so sorry, Colonel.”

  “We can chat later if you’d like. I’m apparently not going anywhere anytime soon.”

  He engineered a smile. I marveled at his courage.

  I’d been in my room a few minutes when the phone vibrated in my pocket. The voice on the other end was male, high-pitched and agitated. He identified himself as Carl Underwood Jr., a diplomatic officer assigned to the US Embassy in Hanoi. He said he needed to see me urgently. Actually, what he said was, “It’s a matter of national security.”

  TWELVE

  We made arrangements to meet west of downtown in Lenin Park on Dien Bien Phu Street, across from the Vietnam Military History Museum. The ride by taxi would’ve cost me about four dollars, but that was before I noticed another cab following us. I waved a ten-dollar bill under my driver’s nose, pointed up at the rearview mirror, and made clear that the cash was his as long as he lost the tail. He grinned like it was easy money. A few quick turns down side streets and the taxi behind us disappeared.

  Occupying a bench in the shadow of Lenin’s statue, his arms slung across the back, trying to strike a casual pose, Carl Underwood Jr. was easy to spot. Other than me, he was the only non-Asian in the park. He was also the only man in sight wearing a coat and tie, albeit disheveled. Even at a distance, I could see his left knee bouncing with anxiety.

  “The poppies bloom in spring.”

  Underwood, who’d been looking intently the other way, glanced up at me, startled, shielding his brown, hound-dog eyes from the sun. He was tall and lanky, all knees and elbows.

  “Excuse me?”

  I sat down beside him on the bench. “You’re supposed to respond, ‘And the leaves fall in autumn,’ or something to that effect. It’s one of those cornball movie lines spies exchange to establish their bona fides when they meet in public parks. They also signal each other by stuffing umbrellas in trash cans and leaving potted plants on their patios, but it looks to me like we’re both fresh out of plants and umbrellas.”

  “You must be Dr. Barker.”

  What remained of his receding, sandy-colored hair was sweaty and finger-combed across his sunburned scalp like guitar strings. He had big ears and frowned a lot, leaving the impression, perhaps intentionally, that confusion was his default state.

  “Got any ID on you, Carl?”

  He looked left, then right, to make sure nobody was watching, while digging a battered State Department identification card out of his wallet, which he held out for my close inspection. The card identified him as a “senior international trade specialist.” It and his over-the-top awkward countenance left little doubt in my mind that he was likely working under diplomatic cover for the CIA.

  “Your turn,” Underwood said. “I need to see some identification, too.”

  “You were the one who called me, remember? You know who I am.”

  “Actually, I have no idea who you are. I have no idea who you work for. You weren’t vetted through proper channels, but you do have some kind of juice behind you. I do know that.”

  I gave him one of my Dr. Barker business cards. It was a pretty spiffy card, I have to say, embossed in three colors, very professional-looking. For once, Buzz and Uncle Sugar had splurged. Underwood studied it

  “So, what is it I can do for you, Carl?”

  “You can back off, that’s what you can do. Look, we’re doing everything we can here to resolve this crisis as quickly and quietly as we can before it blows up on CNN. There are literally hundreds of people at State in Washington and here on the embassy staff working this problem. The last thing we need is some loose cannon from some secret operation, the name of which nobody will even tell us, to come parachuting in here and muddy up the water.”

  Over Underwood’s shoulder, toward the east end of the park, I observed a young woman in sunglasses and a floppy hat. She was down on one knee, pretending to take close-up photographs of the daisies and chrysanthemums. Only her camera lens was too long for close-up pictures. She was snapping pictures of us.

  I waved at her. She lowered her camera and immediately started walking out of the park.

  “Who’s that?” Underwood said, turning nervously to follow my sightline.

  “I thought you might know.”

  “I don’t know who she is.”

  Was he lying? It was hard to tell. I asked him where he was from.

  “Ohio. Dayton.”

  “Dayton, Ohio. Home of Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. I spent some time there myself, back in the day.”

  Underwood seemed to brighten. “I was born at Wright-Pat. My father was a pilot. Got the DFC.”

  “Nice. So, Carl, what was so life-and-death important you had to talk to me right away?”

  Again he glanced around to make sure no one else was within earshot, then leaned closer, his right hand on his right knee. “Okay, look,” he said. “First of all, I need to know who you’re working for, no bullshit.”

  “The White House.”

  Underwood’s mouth opened. “Seriously?”

  “Yes, Carl. Seriously.”

  He sat back, nodding to himself, as if it made sense. “The White House. Of course, they would’ve had to get directly involved in this. This is a big deal—or could be if we don’t contain the damage.” He produced a roll of Tums, peeled off two tablets and chewed them. “I’m assuming you’ve already been in touch with Colonel Cohen and Captain Stoneburner?”

  I nodded.

  “They’re being transferred to prison in three days,” Underwood said.

  “I’m aware of that. I’m also aware that once they’re transferred, the chances of getting them home anytime soon drop radically.”

  “Then what are you doing about it? Because if you are, in fact, working for the White House as you say you are, the administration must have some expectation that you bring something to the table the rest of us can’t.”

  He needn’t have reminded me of the magnitude of the task I’d taken on, nor of the fact that time was fleeting.

  “First off, I need to know what you know. Have you or any of your people identified any suspects?”

  “Lemme
put it this way,” Underwood said, “Mr. Wonderful was a sadist, okay? He was an opportunistic asshole from everything we’ve been able to learn about him. There’s no shortage of people in this city who would’ve wanted to kill him for any number of reasons. And that doesn’t even begin to include the possibility that maybe he was simply the victim of a random street crime, an attempted robbery. It happens here a lot, believe you me.”

  “I need specifics.”

  “What? You mean like the names of sources, that sort of thing?”

  “Yeah, Carl. That sort of thing.”

  He said he wasn’t at liberty to disclose specifics, but suggested I might want to start with Mr. Wonderful’s widow.

  “She paints a pretty bleak picture of the guy,” Underwood said. “To hear her tell it, he had plenty of enemies.”

  I didn’t tell him I’d already talked to Mrs. Wonderful. “That’s it?” I said. “That’s all you’ve got? The widow?”

  Underwood ran his hand across his face. “Look, don’t know who you are. And if I don’t know who you are, I can’t help you.”

  “Then why’d you call me? You said it was a matter of national security.”

  He cleared his throat and glanced around. “The Hanoi police have been asking questions about you—who are you, who you work for—that sort of thing. When they start asking questions, sometimes people have been known to disappear.”

  “I appreciate your concern.”

  “The least I can do for a fellow American.”

  “I need to know what they know, the police.”

  Underwood looked at me like I was kidding.

  “I need to see their investigative file on Mr. Wonderful, Carl. Think you can get me a copy?”

  “Sure, no problem. Gee, maybe while I’m at it I should ask to borrow Ho Chi Minh’s body so we can take him joyriding. Just ask them for their investigative file? Are you nuts?”

  “You must have contacts with the authorities, Carl. What’s the worst they can say, no?”

  “It doesn’t work that way around here,” Underwood said. “Trust me, they don’t just give you the file. They give you nothing. Vietnam is an authoritarian, communist state. There’s no such thing as governmental transparency here. You’re asking me to do the impossible.”