Peter glared at her. “You’re all very efficient, aren’t you?” he snapped. “Just like my grandfather. Very efficient at using people.”
“Come, Peter. We must leave.”
“What about her?”
“They’ll think the VC did this. In some ways they did. Years ago.”
Peter turned and looked down at Lin’s lifeless body. The white blouse was saturated with her blood now, and it gathered in a widening pool beneath her. All color was gone from her face, the soft, sallow skin becoming gray, the lips drawn tight, against slack jaws. He looked away, closing his eyes, then turned and walked toward the garden door.
“What shall I tell Buonaparte?” Molly called after him.
“Tell him I’m tired of Corsican games,” he said. “He hasn’t trusted my abilities from the beginning. Now he’ll have to. I’m through playing the pawn in his personal end game.” He could feel the anger building in his gut. “Tell him I’m well trained and I’ll do what has to be done. My own way.”
The bedroom was dimly lit, the only light coming from outside, inching through the not fully drawn drapes on the window. Molly sat in a green velour chair in one corner, her feet beneath her, hands held in her lap, clenched but still shaking. She was wearing a light full-length robe, and her hair was wet. She had showered as soon as she had returned, wanting to wash away all that she had witnessed; all that she had done.
Lin. Cao. She had observed her activities from a distance for several years, and had long before become an admirer of the woman’s strength, her ability. She had no admiration for her philosophy, her tactics, but the woman herself, that was something different. She closed her eyes. It had been so easy. So necessary and so easy. A vision of Lin’s body rushed into her mind, then was replaced by the pain and hatred on Peter’s face. Yes, he would hate her now, and perhaps he should. Almost from the beginning she had wanted to reach out to him. There had been an attraction, more emotional than physical, although the physical had been there as well. But she had known from the start he was Buonaparte’s grandson, and there had been work to do, the need to protect him. No, not protect. To watch over him while he made his own way through the covert labyrinth that surrounded every step he took, and still did.
Perhaps if you had allowed feelings to be known, reached out even slightly, allowed him to reach for you. Perhaps then the involvement with Lin could have been avoided. A slight sense of envy gripped her, and she dismissed it, sensing the unworthiness of it. No, there had been no time for emotions, for personal desire or need. Throughout her life there had never been enough time for those luxuries. There had been time only for struggle. She thought of Peter again, his face, the pain, the hatred. Then earlier, the small knowing smile, the sense of gentleness hidden beneath the strength. Tears came to her eyes, and she brushed them away with one hand. Molly Bloom does not cry, she told herself. Again the tears returned.
Chapter 37
Morris had noticed the change in Peter. He did not know Peter well, hardly at all really, but the flip confidence and the quiet, amused intelligence had dulled, hardened into something else. Morris had seen it before. Young reporters out to save the world, young people who had had their tails kicked severely for the first time, jaded now, realizing nothing would be saved by them or anyone else, could not be, and, perhaps even worse, was not worth saving even if it could be.
Still, he was pleased with the new devotion to the cause, the trail of heroin inside the paper war his country was inexplicably fighting. And Peter’s new intensity heightened his own. They just might find out, he told himself, wanting to believe it, needing to, just to make the day-to-day madness tolerable. But still he wondered about the man, the change in the man.
Nine miles west of Vientiane, Buonaparte Sartene wondered as well. The anger his grandson felt preyed on his mind. But he did nothing, knew from experience there was nothing he could do. Pierre had to learn by himself, come to his own understanding of the life that surrounded him. He hoped it would happen. His people would keep watch over Pierre while he waited, and he knew the major danger to his grandson would come now from Pierre himself. That, he knew, was something he could not control.
Another man also worried about control. Hidden away in Cholon, Francesco Canterina mulled over his repeated failures, tried to rationalize them, knowing in his own mind that he was still fighting the protection of the man he had hidden from for fourteen years. The fool Duc had failed him. Even Cao, whom he had used even though it jeopardized his own safety, had failed. Only Buonaparte could be behind it, controlling it all. He knew it, felt it. It left only one alternative, one he had hoped he would not have to use. But now it was a question of his own survival. He would use this man Morris to lead Pierre to the heroin supply route, and to the men who would then have to destroy him. It might also destroy everything he had, everything he had worked to achieve for himself. It would, unless he was clever, more clever than he had been so far. But he had no choice. Eventually Pierre would find him and try to kill him. Only a fool would not strike first. And he was not a fool.
Morris was hung over and irritable. Eight o’clock in the morning was not his time of day, not anywhere near it. As he stood in the Tan Son Nhut terminal the fact was made clearer every moment. The crush of bodies, moving in and out. Fresh, young, expectant faces of new troops arriving. The anxious anticipation of those about to leave. The uncaring faces of the Vietnamese, themselves tolerating the crush they had no hope to control, merely living with it, just as they had lived with the French and all the others who had come before, and would probably come after.
Morris mopped his forehead. Eight o’clock, and already the heat made you sweat. He smiled to himself, thinking that the better part of a bottle of Jack Daniel’s the night before might have something to do with it as well. He wondered if he would ever stop pouring booze down his throat that way. He doubted it. At least he didn’t drink in the morning, not yet anyway.
He stretched his body, craning his neck to see over the mass of humanity moving through the terminal. It made his head hurt, so he resigned himself to wait patiently. He had met the Frenchman three days ago, a casual conversation in the Caravelle Bar. Somehow they had begun talking about heroin, about the drugs the kids fighting the war were pumping into their bodies. He wasn’t sure how the conversation had begun, but he was not surprised that it had. It was part of the war to him, perhaps the worst part, and if it continued the way it was going—children fighting a war no one was trying to win—even those who went home would not survive it. So he talked about it to anyone who would listen.
The Frenchman had said he could help him, show him something that would open the door for him. He had laughed at the time, but the Frenchman had insisted. He had been in Southeast Asia for more than a dozen years, he had explained. He knew things, he had said, things a reporter interested in heroin would like to know. They agreed on a price of two hundred dollars, U.S., if the information was worthwhile. Cash on delivery. He reached in his pocket and fingered the money, hoping he would spend it, not believing he would. He had gone this route too many times before. He looked at his watch. His newfound friend and benefactor, Edouard, was ten minutes late.
“You look worried, my friend. Impatient and worried.”
Morris looked to the sound of the voice. The man he knew as Edouard grinned at him, the cigarette dangling from his mouth twitching with the curve of his lips.
“I was beginning to think you were going to stiff me, Edouard,” Morris said.
Francesco Canterina laughed, enjoying the aptness of Morris’ choice of words. “Never, my friend. I’m going to show you something you’ve been wondering about for a long time.”
“Really?” Morris smirked. “And what would that be?”
Francesco took Morris’ arm and began walking him toward the stairs that led to the observation desk. “Oh, nothing very much on the surface. But if you have a friend who can investigate within the military compound here, I can show you where to look
to find how heroin leaves Saigon. Something those involved call the long silver train.”
When Peter reached the observation desk, Morris was pacing back and forth like a circus cat awaiting his daily ration of meat. He looked terrible, more rumpled than usual, Peter observed, and his attempt at shaving had been only partially successful. But you know the feeling, Peter told himself. Especially over the past weeks.
Seeing him now, Morris raced toward him with a degree of energy that forced Peter to smile. Morris grabbed his shoulders between his hands. “We got it,” he said. “By Jesus, I think we really have got it.”
Peter eased himself back. The smell of stale booze that poured off Morris was overwhelming.
“What have we got?” he asked. “All you said over the phone was that it was big and to get my ass down here. What’s so big?”
“I’m sorry about all the mystery, but I didn’t want to risk saying anything on the phone. If it’s right, and goddammit, all of it seems to fit like a glove, then we’ve got the bastards. We can follow the stuff right back to the people behind it.”
“Where’d you get this?” Peter asked.
“That’s the one thing I can’t tell you, buddy. It cost me two hundred bucks and the promise of confidentiality. I’m afraid that still means something in my business.”
Peter nodded. Francesco’s new game was beginning. He could feel it. Now there would be new surrogates. But this time Peter intended to use them as well. “At least tell me what you’ve got.”
“I’ll do better than that.” Morris grinned. “I’ll show you.”
He took Peter by the arm and led him toward the observation window. He scanned the tarmac for a moment, then jabbed a finger toward a hangar to his left. “I couldn’t figure out why my source dragged me out here so early. But he said they only moved what he wanted to show me in the morning, before the sun got too strong. Over there coming out of that hangar two hundred yards to our left.”
Peter stared at the hangar, watching a small tractor pull out onto the tarmac. Attached to the tractor were a series of flatbed baggage carts, each carrying four aluminum military coffins. Moving along the tarmac, the sun glinting off the aluminum, the tractor and baggage carts resembled a long silver train.
Peter turned back to Morris, his face slack. “In the coffins,” he said, his voice suddenly dry. Very Corsican, he thought.
“And if we follow it back to the source, we find out who,” Morris said. “My man claims there’s supposed to be another shipment of heroin due in a few days. You can watch them pull it off, witness it.”
Peter heard his words, the excitement in Morris’ voice, but it all came from a distance.
“Those are American dead,” he heard himself say. The sound of his own words snapped him back. He stared into Morris’ face, watching the excitement grow.
Morris’ eyes became cold. “Yeah. It hit me that same way too, at first. It means that it’s not just ARVN. It means that some of our people are involved. And they’d have to be pretty high up to pull it off. In small shipments, the heroin goes into the body cavity. In big ones, the coffins with the heroin are empty. That’s what my man claims. The only weight is the weight of the heroin and packing. That means that in big shipments, somebody’s making up bodies, making up dead who don’t exist and never did. Or some of our dead are being listed as missing in action so their bodies can be used under phony names. Whichever it is, it’s got to be somebody who can play with records and never be questioned. And that means brass. Big brass.” He waited, letting his information register. “Does it surprise you?” he asked.
Morris watched Peter’s eyes harden. God, this man could grow cold, he thought.
“Nothing surprises me anymore,” Peter said “Not a damned thing. This friend of yours, what nationality is he?”
Morris shrugged. “I guess I can tell you that. He’s French.”
Peter smiled. Almost French, he thought.
From the small coffee shop at the opposite side of the terminal, Francesco Canterina watched the two men descend the stairs from the observation platform. He smiled to himself. The wheels were turning. Only one more step was needed and then others would take over and do his work for him.
It was unfortunate, he mused. People would be frightened, just as they had been frightened when they had been forced to act against Constantini, and, for a time, that fear would affect business. It might even mean the loss of the shipment coming in, but that was doubtful. The price of doing business, he told himself.
But there would also be the pleasure of Pierre Sartene’s death, and the knowledge of the pain that would cause Buonaparte. And others would now do it for him. Buonaparte would suspect, but he would never have proof. There would be no way he could honorably force an end to the agreement with Hanoi.
He smiled again. Now he must just make sure that those at the top were exposed. Give young Pierre time to discover who they were. Then a quiet trip to his friends, a worried conversation about Captain Bently’s involvement with a certain newspaperman. They would have no choice at all.
He sipped his coffee, watching the two men. start across the terminal, heading for the street. His only regret would be that he had not killed the man himself, he thought. He smiled again. And that he had never fucked his mother.
Chapter 38
Michael Pope was short and slightly overweight. He had a round florid face, accented by bad teeth that he constantly displayed with a mildly silly grin, and the natural bonhomie of a midwestern upbringing which made all else about him tolerable. Peter liked him when they met, and immediately hoped he was not directly involved with the heroin shipments.
Pope worked in Admissions and Dispositions, the refrigerated holding area where those killed in action were identified, autopsied if necessary, then packaged in aluminum coffins and carted off to Graves Registration for the one-way trip home. He referred to himself as the head of the KIA Travel Bureau with all the sad cynicism of one forced to deal closely with death at too early an age. He was eighteen.
They had met in a bar on Tu Do Street, an accidental encounter for Pope, but one that had been well planned. Peter was posing as a fellow enlisted man, and the friendship would give him an excuse to drop in and visit Pope at work. It was not a place people went to without reason, and now he needed to know the area well.
“It ain’t a bad place to work, once you get used to it,” Pope said, searching Peter’s eyes for discomfort. “You just gotta force yourself not to think about it.”
They were standing next to a row of stainless-steel carts, each holding a corpse wrapped in a canvas bag. Opposite the carts was a large walk-in refrigeration unit, similar to those found in butcher shops, only bigger and far more ominous. Pope had opened it earlier and an odor of decomposition had flooded the room. It was gone now, but Peter was sure he could still smell it, sure he would for several days.
Pope had apologized. “It’s the fuckin’ heat,” he explained. “They turn ripe so fast, and the smell don’t go away until they’re frozen stiff. And if we gotta thaw ’em out it can get pretty bad. But that only happens when the vulture’s gotta do an autopsy. And he’s pretty decent about it. He sends us outta here when he’s gonna do a bad one.”
“The vulture?” Peter said, trying to hide his excitement with laughter.
Pope hushed him, and gestured to an office at the far end of the holding area. “The colonel,” he explained. “The chief pathologist. He’s a bird colonel, a real gung-ho motherfucker. Even has green cloth eagles sewn on his medical gowns. We started calling them green vultures, then the name kinda got identified with him. A lotta people use it now, but he sure as hell don’t like it.”
Peter crinkled up his nose, playing his part. “Is that all he does, all that autopsy shit?”
“Nah. There ain’t too much of that,” Pope said. “The cause of death ain’t usually too hard to tell around here. When a guy’s got a hole in his chest the size of a fuckin’ baseball, there ain’t much question
how he bought the fuckin’ farm. Sometimes though, when the decomposition is bad, he’s gotta check ’em out. Mostly, though, he just marks the coffins ain’t supposed to be opened by the family or nobody else. They don’t want the folks back home seein’ some of the meat we ship outta here.”
“But you gotta look at it, man.” Peter feigned a shiver to emphasize his sympathy for the young man.
Pope flashed a grin, showing off his rotting front teeth. “Naw, not really. We keep ’em in the bags mostly. When he’s gonna open ’em up and do that ‘Do not open’ shit, he usually lets us split. Like I said he’s pretty decent about it.”
Yeah, pretty damned decent, Peter thought, seated back in his office. No witnesses when the coffins are filled and marked “Do not disturb.” A real sweetheart. Peter drummed his fingers on the desk, his mind filtering ideas. Pope had said they were told when they were about to get time off, when the colonel was going to do this little “Do not disturb” act. Always a day’s notice so they could plan to use the time off. It also made sure nobody would walk in accidentally or volunteer for extra duty to pick up points.
Peter had made arrangements for Pope to let him know the next time he got unexpected time off. Told him he knew some ladies who were available for some night work, as long as he gave them a day’s notice. He’d call, Peter knew. He was young and very horny.
Colonel Max Warren entered the cavernous Admissions and Dispositions section at 1900 hours, paced through the entire area, satisfying himself that no one had mistakenly come to work, then entered his small office. Out of habit, he slipped off his uniform and climbed into a pale-green medical gown. He was of average height and build, about fifty years of age, with a balding head that he vainly tried to conceal by combing long strands of hair up and over the top of his head. It made his baldness even more noticeable. His face was soft and fleshy, almost putty like, and taken together his features would be described as those of a person who would not be noticed in a crowd, no matter how small.
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