Saigon

by Nick Carter

  His eyebrows shot up again. It was not the first time his body had been so blatantly sought, but it had usually been for some reason in addition to his masculine charms. "What, without even being introduced?" he said.

  She reached out a slender hand and clasped his wrist. "Michele is the name. Mickee, some people call me. And sometimes, the Americans, they call me Mike. You call me what you please. But do come closer."

  He studied her and saw her pelvis moving ever so slightly. Damn! but she was a piece, all right. Could anything so easy be safe to play around with?

  He sat down on the edge of the bed. Michele made a move with her inviting mouth. "Coward," she murmured. "Closer."

  The least he could do was find out if she was really dangerous.

  Nick inclined toward her. "You asked for it," he said, as seductively as he knew how. At least she was a contact with the Duprés, and that in itself was interesting. Not to mention her other qualities… She closed her eyes and tilted her mouth. Nick laughed in his chest and kissed her lightly on the lips. He might as well have grounded electricity.

  She galvanized fiercely, forcing a hammerlock on his neck and urging his face down to her bosom. For a brief second he misinterpreted the movement and his hands reached for her throat. But then her warm lips were biting into his naked deltoid, smothering him with hot kisses. Aah! If little Mike was any sample, he must go to Toni's party…

  He held her off, his hands pinioning her wrists. "Do you know what you're getting into, Michele?"

  Her low laugh told him that she knew. "Lock the door and come back to me," she murmured. "Let me take these clothes off and I will show you what a woman can do for you. You wonder about me? I am Saigon. My father was Chinese, my mother a nun who never took her final vows. They knew how to live. And so do I. For the moment, and everything it has to offer."

  "Aren't you afraid of me?"

  "Why should I be?"

  "For all you know, I could be wife-beater, killer, rapist, pervert, homicidal maniac…"

  She shook her head. "What would I care? Do you not realize that I enjoy each new experience? Ah, you are shocked." He wasn't, but he tried to look it. "But you are not any of those things. Not with that face. Those are gentle eyes. I know. I have seen many of the other kind. I would like to know yours better."

  Whatever her true purpose, it was decidedly worth looking into.

  He padded across the room to lock the door and check the windows carefully. No lurking assassins there, to catch him when his guard was down, nor any chance of anyone climbing up the blank-faced wall.

  She was waiting for him on the bed, busy with the bolero and the Paris-styled pantaloons. "Do you really round up talent for Toni's parties?" he asked. "Or are you perhaps a stranded showgirl looking for a passing sailor?"

  "Stranded showgirl? I do not understand. Toni is real enough, you know that. So am I. We, Monsieur Carter — Nickie — are the orphans of the international set. We throw our parties and have our fun while our famous fathers keep busy with local politics. They are bores and they have no time for us. It is a situation which Zest Magazine should do a series on some time. We are underprivileged."

  "My heart bleeds for you," he said, watching her roll her silken underwear down her sleek body. "But don't you think there's anything you can do to help the other underprivileged? There seem to be a good many of them out here."

  "Ah, I see. Doctor Carter. I had forgotten." She peeled off a filmy little thing with two full cups. "You mean roll bandages, take care of homeless children, hold off the march of Communism, all that. Some other time, Nickie. Not now. Ah! Forget all that, cheri. Make love to me!"

  "Just like that? We meet, we go to bed?"

  "Just like that." She laughed throatily, her eyes on him. "Why not? You are quite interested right now, c'est vrai?"

  Who wouldn't be? He was only human. He reached for her and found a softness that turned hard beneath his caressing hand. She gave a sigh of pleasure and shifted her delicately soft curves to meet his muscle-hard body. Her pink tongue flicked suddenly between the perfect teeth.

  "You will see." She murmured the promise. "I can do more for you than any woman you have known. Touch me. Hold me. Do you know what it is like to be completely wanton? Wild, free, like a creature of the fields…?"

  "Show me," he commanded.

  And she did.

  Saito, Where Are You?

  Raoul Dupré selected another panatela from the silver box and rolled it between his aristocratic fingers.

  "You realize," he said carefully, "that I am the only man in this city who should have been able to answer that advertisement?"

  Saito bowed. "Madame did not know who would be left here to answer. I do not know who the other man might be. But it seems that there is danger here."

  Dupré nodded. "The message, the information, whatever the thing was, must stay with Madame until it can safely be restored to the proper hands. It will take time to plan. The Communists would sacrifice a regiment to find out what happened to Moreau."

  Saito nodded. "That means I must go back to Madame at once. I promise with my blood that I will guard her with my life."

  The Frenchman looked uncomfortable. His cigar remained unlit.

  "I am sorry, Saito. She has joined the good fight once again. So have you. And because you have, you must understand that you will have to remain here while plans are made. You will not be able to go back to Madame until someone can go with you. That will take a little time."

  It took more than a little time for Raoul Dupré to convince Saito that he must stay until an expedition could be arranged with the tall Japanese as guide. It would not do for him to explain that he could not handle this situation by himself, and that Saito must stay here until La Petite Fleur's old comrade had received instructions from above.

  When Saito had gone off with Maru to the servants' quarters, his face a study in rebellion, Dupré finally lit the panatela. When it was drawing smoothly he unlocked the drawer that held his special telephone and called the very special number. French Intelligence had said something about an American organization, called AXE, that was interested in developments in Saigon. Very well, let AXE come in and cut through some of his problems right now.

  * * *

  Antoinette Dupré let herself into her father's house. She was thirsty. Maru did not answer the imperious ringing of the buzzer in her private living room. She cursed and made her way with leaden feet to the enormous kitchen. Maru was not in the service pantry where he was supposed to be. She was helping herself to a cool drink from the smaller of the two refrigerators when she heard the quick footsteps in the service passage.

  "Damn you, Maru!" she said furiously. "Why aren't you here when I call you?"

  She heard a slight gasp of surprise, and turned. Maru was not the only one who had halted in the passage outside the kitchen door. The other was a tall, immensely muscular man in farmer's dress.

  "I am sorry, Mademoiselle," said Maru. "I did not know that you had come home. Is there something…?"

  "There was," she snapped, disliking herself for her shortness but unable to change it. "But I've done it for myself. You are too late. Who is that man? What does he want?"

  "He is the new gardener, Mademoiselle Toni. Now excuse please." He bowed. "I am to show him to his quarters. I return immediately if you require me."

  "I told you I don't want you."

  Maru bobbed his head and continued on his way down the service passage. The tall man with him bowed gravely to Toni and followed Maru with silent, gliding steps.

  Toni slammed the refrigerator door. New gardener! Mon Dieu, what some people contented themselves with doing! That man was built like an Oriental Hercules — Her thoughts turned a sudden corner.

  Gardener? Coming through the house from her father's study? Strange. Raoul Dupré was not in the habit of interviewing lowly laborers in that secret room of his. Hmm.

  Michele stood at the threshold, fully dressed, a sloe-eyed happines
s suffusing her bewitching, pagan face. She glowed with satisfaction.

  "You promise you'll be there, Nickie?"

  "I'll be there. Wild dragons couldn't keep me from it. Say — what about Papa Dupré? I hear he's something of a heavy father. Is he going to be there too?"

  "Oh, Dupré!" She shrugged her lovely shoulders. "He'll be there for a while and then he'll disappear into his study. He hates these parties, but he doesn't interfere. It's a pity, in a way, that he doesn't keep a closer watch on Toni."

  "Why?" Nick stared at her. "I thought you were two of a kind. You don't mean you disapprove of her!"

  She laughed and tossed the dark pony tail back over her shoulder. "Hardly. I am many things, but not a hypocrite. No, you misunderstand. Once Toni sees you again, I am in trouble. She may have a boyfriend of the moment, but that means nothing. She is hot, that one. And you will be too much for her. She will take one look at the party, scream with pleasure, and add you to her collection."

  "Then I will not be collectible," Nick said gallantly.

  Michele looked wistful. "You are kind, my Nickie. But could you say no to the Brigitte Bardot of Saigon?"

  He laughed and kissed her lightly. She clung to him for a moment and then turned suddenly, swept through the door, and slammed it shut.

  Nick dressed slowly. Chances were he wouldn't say no to the Brigitte Bardot of anywhere. Nevertheless he was less interested in either Antoinette, Michele or Brigitte, than he was in Papa Raoul Dupré.

  But as he straightened his tie and combed his unruly hair he couldn't get the unusual Michele out of his mind. The aroma of her lingered in the room… soft, subtle, aphrodisiacal.

  And he couldn't help thinking that her approach to strangers — especially an American agent called Killmaster by his enemies and friends — was just a little bit abrupt.

  * * *

  "You are a fool to call me from the house, Toni!" Lin Tong said furiously. "How do you know there is no one listening?"

  "Because I know where they all are," said Toni coldly. "Give me credit for some little sense, will you? Of course, if you are not interested in knowing about this man…"

  "Of course, of course! I just want you to be careful. For your sake, more than mine. Who is the fellow? Where does he come from?"

  "I don't know yet. Maru is very vague. When do I see you, Won Ton… lover?"

  "Remember the game we're playing, my flower? Bring me a little information, I give you a little — fun. And so far you have told me hardly anything."

  "But how can I…?"

  "Find out, Toni love. You'll find a way. I depend on you, my sweet. Just as you depend on me." His voice was very gentle. "If there is anything of interest, you can tell me at your party."

  "Only then?" She was dismayed.

  He laughed softly. "Only then. And I leave without you if you have nothing new to tell me. Goodnight, Antoinette."

  The telephone clicked in her ear. Damn him, damn him, damn him!

  But she had to be with him again, and soon. Somehow she would get him what he wanted.

  * * *

  Madame Claire La Farge lay sunbathing on the patio again. It was hotter than ever and the clouds looked as though they would burst before evening. She was wondering about Saito. Had he arrived safely in Saigon? Had he placed the message in the paper? Had anyone answered it? Who? If only she had known a more direct way of seeking help, or at least who was left in Saigon who could be of help. But all the men she'd ever met through Paul had been introduced to her as Jacques and Pierre and Raoul and Henri and Bernard, and she had not the faintest idea who they really were or where they were. All she could do was hope that someone — the right someone — would read the Personals and contact Saito.

  The waiting was hard, and getting harder as the hours dragged by. Saito should be on his way back by now.

  The Madame was impatient. But she had learned long ago to wait. Paul had taught her that, too. And since his death she had waited patiently for something, someone, to come along and fill the empty, lonely years. Nevertheless, it was hard to wait. Particularly since she felt uneasy without the comforting giant nearby to answer when she called.

  The trees bordering the patio seemed to sigh heavily as a sluggish breeze wafted over them. Madame La Farge sighed tiredly. Waiting to get back into the mainstream of life was the hardest kind of waiting. It was like counting the years and months and days before a prison sentence was to end.

  Where was Saito now? You never could tell how things would be in Saigon. The city was like a bubbling cauldron of riots, shootings, death, arrests and intrigue in these troubled days. Anything could happen to any man on any sort of errand.

  Not Saito. He would be back soon.

  A clock chimed somewhere inside the house. Another hour passed into nothingness.

  Perhaps he had never even reached Saigon.

  She stirred restlessly. Time was slipping away rapidly and nothing had yet changed. The nagging thought that something had happened to Saito grew slowly into conviction. It was deadly, lying here in the fading sun and estimating what his chances might have been as he traveled back and forth over the imperiled countryside. Not only deadly, but stupid. She got up abruptly and pulled on her blue silk robe. No, indeed; nothing had happened to Saito. Even if his journey should take longer than she had expected, there was no reason why she could not take care of herself. Both Paul and Saito, each in his own way, had taught her how to use the defense mechanisms of her willowy body. Also, she reminded herself furiously, she had a perfectly good mind of her own and no need whatsoever to lean on others.

  But she was worried about Saito for his own sake. And she missed Paul. She always missed Paul, but even more than usual at times like this. For all her courage and resourcefulness she was, first and last, a woman. Her loneliness made her feel incomplete.

  She walked into the coolness of the house and took a long, cold shower. Afterwards she dressed in a loose, cotton shift and poured herself a cooling drink. Lowering clouds threatened the patio, so she sat on the screened-in porch and watched the sky darken. Halfway through her drink she heard the sound of a distant motor approaching through the stillness.

  Saito coming back? Not he; not by car. The sound came closer. She recognized the motor of her own Royal Roadster.

  * * *

  General Ho Van Minh of the Fifth North Vietnamese Army, most of whose legions were encamped in the hills barely five miles south of the La Farge plantation and therefore uncomfortably close to the 17th Parallel, was in an angry mood. The General's tent, an enormous fly-topped canvas staked out over an area ten yards in circumference, had become a combined hospital and madhouse. Ding Wan Chau's wound was responsible for both.

  Chau, until three days ago, had been the General's brilliant and trusted aide-de-camp. Now he lay slowly dying on a pallet in the General's own tent. A sniper's bullet had slammed into the small of Chau's slim back. It paralyzed at once and soon began to fester. With every moment the young man — once so brave, so cool, so clever, and so handsome — was slipping deeper into ugly oblivion.

  The General was violently upset with this monstrous turn of events. It was bad enough that his latest force of guerrillas had penetrated to within almost twenty miles of Saigon only to be wiped out by their guerrillas. That was the nature of this war. It was worse that his own battalion had been driven back from the border to their hideout in the foothills without having gained an inch of soggy brown earth. But it was unthinkable disaster that some swine with a sniper's rifle had deprived him of the services of the one man he relied upon. Ding Wan Chau. Wonderfully intelligent. Enviably cunning. Endlessly inventive. Unfailingly reassuring. So much more clever than the General, and yet so loyal to him. So desperately needed by him.

  The General stalked about the tent like an enraged cockatoo. He was a short, neatly built man just beginning to get paunchy about the middle, enormously strong despite his apparent slightness, and notoriously quick-tempered. He had even been seen to stamp his
foot in anger. But no one dared laugh at so unmilitary a gesture. The General was also notoriously vengeful. And quite as ingenious as Ding Wan Chau when it came to devising interesting forms of punishment.

  Frightened subordinates and orderlies skipped out of Minn's path while his personal physician, Men Lo Sung (one of Red China's best), sought to create a medical miracle.

  It was useless. The beautiful young man had been as good as lost since the second the bullet had bit into his back. Ding Wan Chau, his spine shattered into painful fragments, was only minutes from death.

  General Minh cursed the guerrillas, the snipers, the weather, the war. What a war! If only a man could take a bold stand and rush that border in force; use the Chinese heavy equipment that was waiting for God knows what in those caves there in the hills; bomb, kill, burn, blast, and the devil with playing games with the Americans and all foreign interventionists — and may a thousand fiends tear out the guts of the creature who had shot young Chau!

  "Well?" he barked, rocking to a halt before the doctor. His hairless face was a mask of rage.

  "He dies, great one."

  "Then the devil take him and my love. He is no good to me dead. Bah!" He ground his heel into the dirt floor of the tent, scarcely aware of the word he had used out loud. "Whose infernal will was it that guided a killing bullet into his spine? Snipers! What more detestable employment is there for a soldier?"

  No one answered him. His listeners stared dumbly at the earth, closing off their ears and minds to Ding Wan Chau's death rattle.

  He stopped and gave the order as coldly as if his dead friend had been a mangy dog that had crawled into his tent to die. No need to show his emotions through his eyes. He walked with his head down. Get the body out of here, that was it!

  The body had gone and he was still staring blindly at the opening of the tent when an aide from the radio shack appeared and stood at attention. The General's mind clicked back to "On." He motioned and the man stepped forward, extending a square of message paper.