by Nick Carter
"No," he said, swallowing another mouthful of cold coffee. "I refer to that yellow length of skin and bone you so aptly and charmingly call Won Ton. Won Ton, yes! Wanton I am sure he is. Just how wanton I dread to think."
He was surprised to see his daughter flush scarlet and interpreted her reaction as anger. He tried to make amends by softening his rebuke.
"Toni, there are so many better men. Why must you associate with this Chinese? Yes, yes, I admit he seems most charming. But he is Chinese, and there are social considerations. And these are dangerous times. One does not know exactly who or what your friend Lin Tong may be."
He could see her stiffen. He knew her words would hold no reassurance for him. "Papa, I will not discuss him with you. He has a fine mind, and for that I admire him."
"Of course he has; I know he has. But he is a Communist, is he not? Can you believe that he is only what he claims to be — a young man learning agriculture and business administration? I should like to know why he must come here to Saigon, in these troubled times, to study? Do you know why?"
He knew that his breath was coming too quickly, but he could not control it.
"I like him," Antoinette said stiffly. "I may even love him before much longer. And what can you do about that?"
His heart thudded painfully, and he hated the shuttered smile that lit her face. "Toni! I absolutely forbid that! You cannot think of such a thing!"
She threw back her head and laughed like a happy child, all stiffness suddenly gone. She was like that, Toni; cold and unapproachable one moment, warm and lighthearted the next. It was most dangerous.
"Really, Papa? Have you found a way to forbid love?"
He blustered, and that was not Raoul Dupré at his best. She had him, and he knew it. "I could make it difficult. I could cut your allowance, and then that Chinese gigolo…"
"Has money of his own, and for my part I can live on love."
"If he will have you then. And I could beat you — I would, Toni, I would, I shall…"
"I would never forgive you for that. If you love me as my father should, why should you beat me for wanting to be loved?"
"Toni, Toni!" He was defeated again. "What can I say to you that will make you understand?"
She came around the table and encircled his head with her soft arms. "I do understand you," she said softly. "But you must do the same for me. I love you, Papa. Isn't that enough?"
"No, my dear," he said, loving the feel of her hands. "You must respect me, too. I am your father. Your life is my life."
"It is not," she said. Her tone was cold again. She took her arms away, turned and clacked out to the patio on her wooden sandals. The sound mocked him and her derriere seemed to vibrate insolently.
Something died quietly, for the thousandth time, within his breast. He cursed softly and returned to his newspaper.
He read it carefully, word for word, to shut her from his mind.
And, miraculously, forgot her when he saw the Personal in the column on page 13.
I must see you immediately. La Petite Fleur.
A ghost from the glorious past had risen from the grave to summon him. With a summons that he must obey.
La Dolce Vita Vietnames
For once he could hardly wait for Toni to go out. It was difficult for him to think about anything but her when she was around, much less do anything he did not want her to know about. But after she had sunned herself on the patio for an hour she came in, changed, and went out without a word to him. He did not even wonder where she might be going.
"Disrobe, my flower. I want you."
"Yes, Lin Tong… my delicious Won Ton."
"Spare the puns, my sweet. You do not flatter me. I may be edible, but I am made of something firmer than soup."
"As I can see." Antoinette Dupré laughed and began to slip out of her clinging pongee shift. She never wore anything under it. Lin Tong had watched her for the last five minutes, letting the want grow in him until it had to be satisfied. For the third time that day. Lin Tong enjoyed his agile appetite; it was no sooner sated than it came back again to make his nerve ends tingle and his muscles pleasantly tense.
His quiet little apartment just off Saigon's main thoroughfare was tastefully expensive and disarmingly cozy; a discreet and proper place, ideal for the seduction of Dupré's sensation-craving daughter. That had been the assignment, of course, the plan of action devised by Brother Arnold (decoded name Choong Quong Soong), but it had turned into sheer amusement. In a way it was a pity that he had to use the narcotics to ensure her interest in his manly body, but the assignment was too important to chance losing her and she did have a reputation for getting easily bored and finding other beds. This way, he knew she would keep coming back to him. And also, he felt a curious sense of excitement when he saw her stimulated by the drug. It was almost as if he had taken it himself, or as if her unnatural ecstasy touched something sensual in him that could not be touched by flesh. It was a job, but…
But she was beautiful for an impure Occidental, damn her. Limber, lovely, pulsating with desire. He rather liked her personally, which was too bad, in a way.
She was hooked properly. In more ways than one.
She stood on the thick rug, her dress lying at her feet. "How about a trip first?" she breathed, a little hoarsely.
He was tempted briefly. But it was too soon; he would have to make her wait a little longer. "No. You don't need it to enjoy me, do you?"
"No," she admitted, coming to him in the half-light of the richly curtained room. He pulled her down on the bed next to him, reveling as always in the strangely thrilling combination of her childlike loveliness and astonishingly full body. Her nakedness could take his breath away.
He tingled as the softness of her thigh touched the hardness of his. She kissed him with a little licking motion, and he smiled up at her. She placed a warm hand across the flat muscled plains of his stomach and rubbed slowly downward in a circular movement that made him think of other things than Brother Arnold's plans.
"That is not quite necessary at this point, my sweet slave. But since I find it most pleasurable, you may continue."
"Beast!" she hissed savagely, crushing her yielding body against his leanness and biting his ear. He cursed and pinched her right buttock. She squealed and released his earlobe from her teeth.
"Lin Tong, my wanton one," she pleaded. "If you want me, take me now."
"I do, I will," he murmured. "In only this do I obey you. Remember that. You are mine, my creature."
"Yes, yes!" she whispered urgently. "Do it now. Quickly, quickly, quickly…"
He turned and threw himself upon her.
She struggled fiercely, as if combating him, as if surrendering her body to him was the intent furthest from her mind. He liked her that way, fighting like an animal and inflicting tiny hurts all over his long body. He fought back, held down her threshing legs and thrust hard. She fell beneath him on the bed, the wall of her resistance crumbling and dissolving into a warm yielding that engulfed them both. The dim-lit room, the plans of governments engaged in undercover international affairs, the nagging fear of failure and disgrace, all were swept away in a tidal wave of sexual assault. Toni screamed once in the gloom, only to lapse into a series of halting moans and short obscenities about the wonderful things he was doing to her body.
Lin Tong did them all with great skill.
Her muffled groans became little cries of delicious pain.
For Lin Tong it was the most enjoyable assignment of his life.
"Mmmmmm," she moaned. Her body jerked galvanically and words of passion spat from her trembling mouth.
"Be quiet," he said gently, already gloriously spent. "You talk like a woman of the fields."
She went limp and sighed. For a moment she was silent, catching breath, and then she laughed. "I am of the earth. Can't you tell?"
"I can only tell that you are a daughter of Eve and you have an abundance of… of apples."
"Worth having?
" She was smiling, but already she was becoming restless.
"Infinitely worth having," he said dreamily.
"But now you will give me the needle, my Won Ton?"
He drew away from her and looked at her face. "Must you have it?"
"I must."
She watched him pad across the room to the tallboy where he kept his kit of syringe, gauze and narcotics. She felt tired and yet alive. Her body was bruised but not yet sated. There was a hunger in her for other pleasures, for magic carpet rides and dizzying flights above the stars, for skyrocketing explosions of wellbeing and then sweet oblivion. For a blessed nothingness, far from the dullness of the tea business, the unspeakable weather, a complaining Papa, and the whole dreary problem of who was Buddhist, Catholic, friend, foe, Communist or…
Lin Tong came back. The needle he held glinted briefly, caught by a beam of sunlight escaping through the lowered blinds.
"Please!" Her voice was a frenzied whimper.
He complied swiftly. Then he sat back and watched the needle take effect, feeling that strange excitement that was partly sensual and partly anticipation of what she might say. For the lovely lady sang like a bird when the subtle poison of the needle swept her senses away. And there was so much to learn about Raoul Dupré, whom he was so certain belonged to French Intelligence.
But he had to have the proof of it for his superiors.
And while Toni herself did not know for sure that her father was with French Intelligence, she had far more useful information to offer than she realized.
* * *
Raoul Dupré sat ensconced in his book-lined study, recalling the past and trying to decide on a present course of action. The atmosphere of the room helped him think. In contrast to the bamboo world of Vietnam, the study was a symphony of mahogany and teak furnishings, most of which Dupré had imported from Paris to keep his sense of nationality intact. It was too easy to lose one's identity in a land where the language, customs and the mores were only imitation Parisian. He needed something other than his occasional homesickness to remind himself that he was, and always would be, a loyal Frenchman.
The advertisement had disturbed as well as thrilled him. Paul La Farge was dead. But La Petite Fleur must surely still live on in Madame Paul La Farge. Claire La Farge. He had never met her, but Paul had often talked about her in the old days and Dupré had heard something of her since her husband's death. She had worn her widow's weeds with dignity and no fevered hands had torn her from her mourning. No doubt she was still true to the memory of Paul La Farge. But how — he began to wonder — had she managed to stay on in Communist North Vietnam for all these years? Why had they let her stay? What had she become? Or was she dead, and this some cunning trick? Dupré was thoroughly perturbed. The call to battle held an ominous note. Exactly what could this summons mean?
As far as he knew, Intelligence had left Madame alone, apparently neutral in this troubled land. But perhaps they were still using her. Or what else could the use of the famous code name on an ad in the newspaper mean? He must find out immediately. It could be risky, but it must be done. He could not contact Madame La Farge — even supposing he knew how — without first knowing her position with French Intelligence. Headquarters would be able to tell him. But there was one thing he could do before calling them on the direct, emergency line.
He picked up the receiver of his standard study phone and called The Times of Vietnam. If there was one thing he was sure of in his unsure life, it was that his telephone was not yet tapped.
He gave his name as Tran Xuan Cam and spoke in perfectly accented Vietnamese.
"I wish to enquire about an advertisement that appeared in this morning's Personal Column," he said easily. "The one signed La Petite Fleur. It is possible that it may be for me, but I cannot be sure until I know who placed it. Were any instructions left regarding answers?" He paused, trying to think up a rebuttal to a possible argument such as: "We are not authorized to give out such information."
To his surprise the reply came readily and without argument.
"Yes, sir. We are instructed to say that answers must be addressed to one Saito in care of the Long Hue Hostel." The voice sounded as if it disliked mentioning the name of so lowly a place. Then it brightened, its owner being struck by a cheering thought. "But you are too late, sir. The advertisement has already been answered. At least an hour ago."
Raoul's heart dropped to his feet. Saito! The message was from Claire La Farge, and someone had picked it up before him. In his alarm he let his anger rise.
"My good fellow, I am not enquiring after a position that has been filled. It is clear now that the message was for me. May I ask who else was asking for it?"
"That information, sir, I am not empowered to give," the voice said huffily. "And I have no way of telling for whom the message was intended."
Raoul belatedly controlled his anger. "I can assure you that it was indeed for me, and it is of the utmost importance that I know who else…"
"All enquiries are confidential, sir. I have told you all that our policy permits." The voice was smug.
"But…"
"No!" said the voice triumphantly. The sound of a slammed receiver crashed against Dupré's ear. He hung up slowly and tried to think it through.
As far as he knew he was the only man in Saigon who should have been interested in the name La Petite Fleur. All of Paul La Farge's other wartime contacts had dispersed, one way or the other; some dead, some home in France, some in other countries, only one or two at Headquarters. And Headquarters would not have seen the ten-thirty edition of The Vietnam Times. Someone else had intercepted a message that must have been meant for him.
Saito, he remembered, had been Paul's devoted slave. Obviously the Madame could not come to Saigon herself to seek for help, not with her Communist landlords controlling things. But how completely did they control Madame? Saito's very presence could be a baited trap.
Dupré walked slowly over to his solid mahogany desk and opened the center drawer with the small golden key he carried on his watchfob. It was time, if not past time, to set the machinery in motion.
He produced a small telephone set from the drawer and plugged it into the wall. Quickly he dialed the number he wanted. Quickly it answered.
"Pardon," he began, "I have a question regarding the northern fields. Do you have a La Farge listed on your rolls as a prospective purchaser in the lands we discussed last month?"
"No," the reply came. "I would not say so."
"Or perhaps a La Fleur? It is possible I have not read the name correctly."
The voice was faintly puzzled but emphatic. "No La Fleur."
"Ah. Then I am mistaken. But is all well with the lands? The rain has not damaged the crop beyond repair?"
The answering voice was definitely puzzled. "Not to our knowledge, certainly. But I shall enquire at once."
"Please. It is most important that you confirm as quickly as possible."
"Five minutes."
"Good. I'll await your call."
Raoul Dupré hung up and lit a panatela from the silver box on his desk. The phone rang as he inhaled deeply for the third time.
"Monsieur?" the voice said.
"I'm listening."
"No. Absolutely no. Positively. We certify a No on all three counts. In fact, in regard to your last question, the lands are presumed to be quite safe from a business point of view."
"Thank you."
Raoul Dupré studied the phone for a full minute before disconnecting it and replacing it in his desk drawer. It gave him no further answers. He locked the drawer and returned the key, on its fob, to his vest pocket.
The information received from his liaison agent with French Intelligence had not told him how to treat the urgent summons in the Personal ad signed by one of France's immortal secret agents, La Petite Fleur. But it did tell him that Madame La Farge was not working with French Intelligence. Neither was she known to have defected. Rather, her plantation was still consider
ed «safe» for French agents to use in time of trouble. It seemed that no one but Madame La Farge could be behind the printed plea for help.
Dupré pressed a buzzer signaling fat Maru, who had served with him in one capacity or another for nearly twenty years, and gave him crisp instructions.
Later he would have to make another very special call to an even more secret number.
* * *
Toni was in ecstasy. Lin Tong's room had become a paradise of fluffy clouds and azure skies through which she floated, bodiless, unimpeded by restraints of any sort. There was no Papa, no frowning Society, no moral level to maintain. It was as if the vast universe were below her, small and infinitesimal, not worth the worry of an airborne being.
"Do you love me now, my love?" Lin Tong's voice caressed her naked body.
"Oh, yes, I love you — how I love you."
There was a pause in this timeless world of velvety softness, where all was unbearably pleasurable and maddeningly sweet.
"More than other men? More than your father?"
A little twinge of something like pain shuddered through her. "Papa! Oh, God, yes. He is my prison, my jailer. You, you I love. Not he."
"Why is he so harsh with you, my gentle Toni? Why does he just sit there like an ogre in that study of his? Does he not talk to you, my sweet?"
"Talk to me! Ah, yes, to scold. But I can tell you what he does there in that study…" Antoinette Dupré was more than willing to talk about her august parent to the man she thought she loved.
Lin Tong, affectionately called Won Ton by his talkative Toni, leaned forward and listened. In exchange for her confidences he had no intention of telling her that he was called the Executioner by his colleagues in the terrible organization known as Bitter Almonds, the killing arm of the Red Chinese Intelligence Service in Vietnam.
* * *
Dr. Nicholas Carter of the World Health Organization was having a considerably less successful day. Or rather, Nick Carter of AXE had drawn a blank.