“I used to think it was Lucia who wore the pants in that family. Now I’m starting to wonder. The dumber Burke plays, the smarter he seems.” Bennett leveled a calm, hateful gaze at Frye. “He’ll never buy into the Paradiso with refugee money, Chuck. I promise you that.”
The telephone buzzed. Bennett raised his hand for silence, breathed deeply, then picked up the receiver.
“Frye.”
A long pause. Bennett looked at him.
“Use Tran Khe, he’s a better driver, and he knows the house, I want word immediately after the pickup. Immediately.”
Frye checked his watch. Bennett wrote something on a notepad that was open on his lap. A minute went by, then two. Bennett sat still, just his chest moving slowly, the telephone held to his ear.
A moment later he hung up. “Thach just left his apartment. In twenty minutes, we’ll have him.”
“Is it Kim you were talking to?”
“Kim is in a safe house outside Saigon, getting it from the field by radio. She codes it out to resistance radio in Trang Bang, then they leapfrog it from village to village, all the way to Cambodia. The Khmer relay to Phnom Penh, where they’ve got telephone to Hong Kong, Our people in Hong Kong have access to secure British lines, and our man in London is good,” Bennett smiled. “He works in a travel agency. The rest is easy—London to New York to San Francisco to here. Pay phones. If the radios are all working right and the operators are good, it takes seven minutes to get word from Kim to me. If one thing goes wrong, it can take hours.”
“Does the CIA listen in?”
“Sure they do. Up until three months ago, we used some of their people for relay. NSA has us wrapped, but it takes time when you use different pay phones at this end. They’ve got us, it just takes a while to find us. They’re an hour behind, at least.”
Nguyen came into the trailer. “On schedule?”
“He’s on schedule, Hy.”
“Any chance I’ll get to make the announcement tonight?”
A sly grin passed over Bennett’s face, but he forced it away. “One step at a time.”
Nguyen nodded, then headed back out for the stage. Frye watched him through the window, shaking hands with Pat Arbuckle, who looked on with an air of bemused superiority. Crawley grasped a huge speaker cabinet to his chest and walked it closer to the stage front. A CBS news crew had cornered Minh, freezing him in bright light. A sound man held a boom over his head while the reporter pressed a microphone to his face. The chairs were already filled, and people without seats were pressing toward the stage for a good view. Willie and Dun entered, surrounded by bodyguards. Albert Wiggins loitered near a noodle stand.
“ Amazing, isn’t it, Chuck, how much they love her—the old and young, the good, the bad, and everyone in between? They need her almost as much as I do. It’s important to me that these people don’t buckle under. When they show up here tonight, it’s like telling Hanoi that freedom won’t die. It’s a hard thing for them to do, because they’re scared. Kidnapping. Murder. Fear. The cops and FBI in front of them, Hanoi behind them. A little island of people locked inside the strongest country on earth. They’ve got balls.”
Then Nguyen Hy took the stage to a rousing hand of applause. He welcomed everyone, first in Vietnamese, then English. He said that freedom would never perish, and neither would America or Vietnam. “We have come here to pledge our support to those great countries, and for the Voice of Freedom—Li Frye!”
The crowd cheered; the applause rose. The band struck up a number, which he recognized as one of Li’s—”Freedom’s Bones.” It was an instrumental version, her voice replaced by an electric guitar. Frye could see her face on the banners, lilting in the breeze.
He listened to Nguyen’s fevered voice again. Hy said that the kidnapping was executed by Communist agents of Hanoi, enemies of freedom, Moscow-fed animals out to destroy the Vietnamese people. The crowd listened quietly, then stirred. The band started up again, another Li Frye song. Nguyen exhorted the people to support the cause of freedom. His arms were raised heavenward, his hands open as if to draw blessing directly out of the sky.
Frye saw Albert Wiggins standing near the CBS news van, scanning the plaza balconies with binoculars. The reporter was talking with one of the CFV girls. Bennett wiped the sweat from his forehead, then stood clumsily on his crutches. “I’m on for about two minutes.” he said. “If the phone rings, come get me. Don’t answer it. Don’t touch it.”
Through the trailer window, Frye watched his brother labor up the back steps of the stage as Nguyen introduced him. A fresh peal of applause rose as Bennett stepped into the bright lights and, balancing with difficulty, raised his hands. Frye could hear Bennett’s voice, loud and clear over the microphone. He thanked them for being there. He told them that courage didn’t exist without fear. He told them that Li was here in spirit, and that her body and her laughter and her voice would be with them again soon. “You are full of power and grace,” he said. “Never give up.”
He stood there as the band played “Star Spangled Banner,” then turned from a surge of applause and headed toward the trailer. Frye helped him through the door and onto the small bed. Bennett’s face was dripping sweat, and his pupils were big. He loosened his necktie, brought the phone to his lap, and checked his watch. “Any minute, Chuck.”
Frye could hear Nguyen, his voice rising, the clapping and shouts, swells of approval. He could see an old man dragging an effigy of Vietnamese President Truong Ky up a center aisle toward the stage. It was dressed in black pajamas with red hammers and sickles all over them.
The crowd came to its feet as the old man moved toward the podium. Nguyen paused and watched.
The phone was buzzing. Bennett lifted two crossed fingers to Frye, held them in the air, then picked up the handset. Through the trailer window, Frye could see Nguyen now, standing on the stage as the old man shuffled the last twenty feet toward him. A dozen celebrants had stood to form a loose gauntlet as they passed by. They yelled and spit on the dummy, its stuffed head bobbing toward Hy, spittle wobbling through stage light toward the effigy. The old man covered himself from the barrage. The crowd was chanting, Thà Chết không làm nô lệ, thà chệt không làm nô lệ … When Frye turned back to Bennett, his brother’s crossed fingers were still in the air, but his face had gone pale. He stared straight at Frye. He was nodding.
Nguyen hoisted the dummy onto the stage, to a ferocious chorus of cheers. He held it by the neck, out at arm’s length, waving the face toward the seats.
“We will resist! We will unify Vietnam! We will struggle until freedom is ours!”
Bennett gently put down the phone. He looked at his brother with something that Frye had never seen before. It took him a moment to realize what it was. It was fear.
Frye could scarcely hear what Bennett said next. The crowd hit a frenzy as Nguyen prepared to decapitate the dummy with a plastic sword. Bennett spoke softly. “Thach knew about kilometer twenty-one. He was ready for us.”
Frye reached down to help Bennett off the bed. He glanced outside as Hy lifted the dummy for execution. Something went wrong with the stage lights. For a fractional second, Hy and the doll were so brightly lit, blanched in a flash of white so pure that Frye’s eyes burned.
Then they were blown apart by a concussive orange blast, emanating from the head of the effigy. The trailer rocked, and Frye slammed against the side. Nguyen’s outstretched arm, his shoulder, and his head disassembled in a bright shower that sprayed all directions at once. His knees straightened, his torso jerked back and collapsed. The plastic sword shot skyward. The dummy jumped into the air, as if yanked by invisible wires. The people in the first rows turned to run.
As the crowd’s cheers turned to wails, Frye struggled outside. Crawley had already dragged Hy off the stage and onto the ground. The cops were converging, side-arms drawn, ordering everyone down, but the people streamed around them toward Bolsa. Frye watched Bennett join the surging mass.
Half a
dozen bodies lay scattered by the first row of seats, some moving, some screaming, some inert. The network newsmen were still taping. Westminster police and FBI agents ran around, guns drawn, looking for someone to arrest, A hundred feet from the exit, a group of refugees had caught the old man. Frye watched him vanish in the dark mob, fists pounding away at the gray, sinking head.
He ripped off his coat and pressed it onto an old Vietnamese woman who was laying face up on the asphalt, her chest smoking. He looked for Bennett, but couldn’t find him. Someone beside him started moaning. He could see Crawley carrying a boy toward the stage, limp head and feet cascading over his arms. The CFV girl tried to tie a Vietnamese flag around a man’s bleeding thigh while a woman stood over him and wailed. An FBI man, pistol in one hand and a radio in the other, screamed at two others, who seemed lost for purpose. Then Frye spotted Bennett climbing into his van. Minh was on stage with Wiggins now, trying to sound assured as he spoke into the microphone, telling the people to proceed in an orderly exit toward the boulevard. Frye lifted his coat, took one look at the crater in the woman’s chest, and covered her face. A camera man steadied his lens at Frye and told him to pull the coat away. For a moment Frye just knelt there and watched Bennett’s van drive away, barging through the crowd to the avenue.
He helped Donnell get Hy to a paramedic van, but there wasn’t enough of Nguyen left to have any hope for. He ran for the Cyclone. It took him five minutes to force his way across the lot and onto the street. He sped down Bolsa toward Bennett’s house, lights and sirens flashing past.
The door was standing open and the lights were on, but the van was gone. Frye parked in the driveway and went in. The house was quiet. His ears rang and he was breathing hard. The television emitted a pale, hissing static. “Benny?” He checked the kitchen, then Donnell’s cottage. Where would you go, what’s more important than a dying friend? Why did you cut and run, Benny? As he stood in the back yard, Frye began to understand. It could only be one thing. The kidnap of Thach didn’t just backfire; it backfired exactly the way somebody had planned it. They had not only told Bennett that his operation had collapsed, but told him something about Li.
In the bedroom, he stooped down and looked under the bed for the suitcases of money. They were gone. Lying on the floor were Bennett’s crutches and suit.
How do you know where to go, Benny? I was in the trailer while they talked to you, and there wasn’t enough time to set up the details of a trade. You didn’t write anything down. You had no instructions. But you came here, took the money, left the television and lights on, the door open, and you ran. You didn’t know where you’d be going when you got here, but when you left, you did. The instructions were here. They left instructions here, while you were at the rally.
He walked into the living room. The static snow of the TV hissed quietly. The red PLAY letters indicated the VCR was on. Frye hit rewind and listened to the tape whine. When it stopped, he hit play. Li appeared on the screen. She looked exhausted, with dark pouches under her eyes, her face pale, her hair filthy. “Benny, I am all right. I love you so. They will release me to you if you bring the two million dollars they asked for and follow their instructions. If not, they kill me tonight.”
Someone offscreen pushed the barrel of a shotgun into her mouth. She sat there, staring out at Frye with her lips around the steel, tears running down her cheeks as a man’s voice gave instructions.
“Bennett, you must put the money in two suitcases and put them in your van. You must drive to the phone booth at U.S. Gas, at Division Street and Palmdale Avenue in Palmdale. Answer the phone at exactly ten forty-five P.M. You must not contact the police or FBI, or allow them to follow you in any way. We will watch you carefully. You must bring only the money. You must be alone. Do not be a fool and bring weapons.”
Frye felt his heart sink, then come back racing. He checked his watch. It was just after nine.
The Westminster Police lines were jammed. The FBI offices in Santa Ana were closed. A Los Angeles agent named Burns took the phone booth location, the plate numbers and description of the van and driver, the address and phone from which Frye was calling, then ordered him to stay exactly where he was.
Frye stayed exactly where he was for almost two seconds, then gave up. He found a .45 in Bennett’s drawer, shoved it into his pants, and headed back to the Cyclone.
CHAPTER 28
HE REMEMBERED THE WAY TO PALMDALE from his journey with Kim to the Lower Mojave Airstrip. She had taken him the long way, so he took the 605 to the Interstate, then bore north, through Los Angeles, holding his speed to seventy. Once past the city he flogged it to eighty plus, letting the old V-8 eat the highway, watching his rearview, feeling the air go dry and hot as he entered the high desert. Palmdale Boulevard crossed Division Street just a few blocks from the freeway. He spotted the Lucky Star Chinese Restaurant and U.S. Gas on the corner. It was ten thirty-nine. Bennett’s van was parked in front of the phone booth. His brother paced outside it. Two Vietnamese men stood and watched.
Frye parked a block short, cut the engine and waited. No sign that Burns’s agents were here. Just the watchers, hands in their coat pockets, still as statues. A thermometer readout from a savings and loan across the street said eighty-six degrees. Hot breeze blew in his car window. The Cyclone’s engine popped and hissed. Frye checked the clip in the .45. Seven shots, and he knew Bennett never kept one in the chamber. He held the thing in his hand, then slid it under the seat. At 10:45, a withered old man shuffled toward the phone booth. The two guards shooed him away. The man turned, shaking his head, and trudged into the darkness. Frye saw Bennett push into the booth, reach up, and take the receiver. He nodded twice, slammed the phone back in place and shoved his way out. His escorts were already in their white pickup truck.
Highway 14 was a ribbon of moonlight winding through the desert. The wind grew stronger, pressing against the Merc, stiffening the steering wheel in Frye’s hands. He stayed four cars behind the truck until there were no longer four cars to stay behind, then dropped back, killed his headlights, and followed. He prayed to his rearview for Burns and the cavalry, but saw nothing behind him except the night and slow truckers, and nothing ahead but a brother delivering a fortune to men who would take it and kill him.
Bennett stopped in Lancaster and waited outside a pay phone at a K-Mart. His escorts parked beside his van, but didn’t get out. Frye watched from the dark recesses of a parking lot across the intersection. At 11:02, Bennett answered the phone, took his instructions and climbed back into the van. Then back onto Highway 14 to Rosamond Boulevard; Frye knew for certain where Bennett was being led.
It was the same route now that Kim had shown him: five miles east down the boulevard, then north on the wide dirt road marked by the sign for the Sidewinder Mine. He dropped far back, let Bennett and the truck make the turn far ahead of him, then cruised past the turnoff—just another desert rat meandering home after a beer or two with the boys.
A half mile down, he turned around, pulled to the side of the road and waited. How long would it take Benny to go a mile north on the dirt road, pass through the gate, and travel the last five hundred yards west, across the arroyo to the airstrip? Five minutes? Less? He rolled down his window and listened. Except for the firm gusting of the wind, the night was silent. On the other side of the highway, the dry lake bed stretched flat and pale. No cars, no aircraft overhead. No FBI, he thought: We’re on our own.
At the rock pile he cut his lights and let the moon guide him down the wide dirt road. He drove past the gate, continued on another hundred yards, and parked. He put the .45 in his belt, left the hood up to indicate distress, then climbed the chain link fence, plopped down on the other side, and headed toward the airway on foot.
The rocks were treacherous, but the moonlight showed him the way. He climbed a gentle hill, crunched down the other side, then followed a long wash toward the terminal. The next rise was high and steep enough to hide behind. He lay on the warm sand and peered o
ver the crest to the airfield. It was just as before, flimsy and beaten and apparently deserted. But now a naked bulb burned at the entrance of the Quonset hangar, and Bennett’s van was parked beside two pickup trucks in front. The terminal was dark. Behind it, just to the side of the dark slouching tower, a helicopter waited. Looks like an old Bell—Frye thought—a company craft for lifting executives above the traffic. As he watched, the hangar door opened and a Vietnamese man stepped into the raw light of the bulb. He slid shut the door, adjusted the strap of his automatic rifle, then lit a cigarette.
The back of the hangar seemed his only option. He ducked back down the embankment and looped out. A sandy gully took him almost all the way around the compound, while the wind puffed, echoed in his ears, shot sand at his ankles. Above him the stars blinked clear and sharp. From behind an outcropping of sandstone, he looked at the back end of the hangar. A dull light emanated from where windows had once been. No guard. The corrugated sliding door had long since fallen from its track and now stood at a tilt, its runners jammed into a low bank of windblown desert sand. No way to approach under cover. He stood, took a deep breath, crept from the rocks, and loped down a long wash that left him crouched behind a yucca plant, fifty yards from the helicopter. Another measured run and he was kneeling beside the chopper cabin, his heart pounding hard, his skin dry and hot, his right hand wrapped around Bennett’s pistol.
The hangar was thirty yards away. He crawled across, beneath the sightline of the windows, and brought himself to rest against the old building. The wind eddied, throwing dust and sand at the metal. A branch scratched at the siding. He moved to a window and stood. In the dark foreground he could make out the shape of an old prop plane, then the outlines of crates and boxes. But past them was a cone of light cast from overhead, widening down from the high ceiling. Dust wavered in the beam, which rocked gently in a draft. The light spread to a circle on the floor and Bennett sat on a chair in the middle of it. A guard stood behind him with a machine gun, the two suitcases of money at his feet. Bennett said something in Vietnamese, and the guard snapped something back. As Frye looked at Bennett stranded in the light, alone in a chair in the middle of this great nowhere, he felt a rage course through him. I’m too far away, he thought. Too far to hear, too far to shoot, too far to do anything but watch. Do they really have Li here, or did they just drag Benny all this way to take his money and bury him in the desert? His heart was thumping so loud he wondered if the guard could hear it.
Little Saigon Page 33