John felt like he’d been beaten with a rubber hose, but he’d be damned if he’d let her know it. “Suck it up. You sound older than me.” He accelerated through the short terminal connector to immigration.
The Noi Bai international terminal was small for a capital city of six million and looked like an amalgam of airport architecture from the last forty years: tall, narrow arched skylights, steel surfaces painted in greens and blues, and polished concrete floors. To his surprise, the customs agents were efficient and friendly—more so than, say, at Kennedy. Their bags arrived quickly. Definitely better than Kennedy.
As they entered the terminal, Stony turned to John, speaking softly. “Marva said the ambassador was the only person who knows we’re here. But someone was obviously tipped about Quince, so our arrival may not be a surprise. This would be a good time to start detecting.”
A cadaverous, gray-haired Vietnamese man stood just inside the entrance, holding a sign for a Mr. Underhill. John smiled at the Lord of the Rings reference. He was fine with being Frodo Baggins. Marva had arranged for an embassy escort, since Stony’s fluency in Mandarin wouldn’t be much help in Vietnam.
He approached the sign-bearer and bowed slightly. “We’re the Underhill party.”
The old man smiled and returned the bow. “Not a total surprise,” he said in softly accented English. “You do stand out. I’m Nguyen Van Giap. My English friends call me Uncle Dragon. I would be honored if you would do the same.”
“We’re John and Stony, Uncle Dragon. Thank you for meeting us.”
“Of course. Welcome to the Socialist Republic of Vietnam. This way to the car.” They had to scurry to keep up as he led them from the terminal.
Bugs the size of small birds buzzed under the street lights. John was drenched in sweat before he’d taken a half-dozen steps.
They approached a black Ford Escape. “A black SUV?” Stony said. “Seriously? Jesus, someone watches too many movies.”
“The U.S. Embassy buys cars that no one in Viet Nam wants because they all waste fuel,” Uncle Dragon said.
They left the airport for the Trun Nam Hai hotel. Where Quince had been murdered.
They arranged to meet at 9:30 the following morning. John noticed three things as they crossed the lobby. It was as cold as a meat locke; the smell of flowers was a physical presence; and an anatomically correct brass monkey sat on the bell desk.
Guess it’s not too cold. The monkey still has its balls.
John flushed with chagrin, remembering what had happened to Quince.
Goddamn.
* * *
He and Stony met for breakfast at eight the next morning, both wearing a hot-weather uniform of light khaki pants and polo shirt. They sat in an isolated corner of the hotel cafe.
“Uncle Dragon will bring the case when he picks us up,” John said. The case would contain a Glock 23, holster, three 13-shot magazines, and ammo for Stony. Concealed carry was going to be nasty in the hot weather.
“Didn’t take me long to feel naked without a weapon,” Stony said.
Nine months earlier the DTS had begun arming its agents. Until then, they’d teamed with the FBI when the situation warranted. The training process was exhaustive, and more than half the DTS field agents still weren’t certified.
Like Quince Adams.
John and Stony had been among the first to qualify. John banged his cane on the marble floor. “I’m happy with my stick as long as you’re carrying. And I’m obliged to remind you that if you’re caught, the Vietnamese militia will toss your ass in jail and lose the key.”
“Gotta catch me first,” Stony said.
He switched subjects. “I still haven’t heard from Quince’s source.” He’d tried to make contact before they left D.C. He could get the embassy to try to track him down, but John wanted to avoid that to minimize the risk of leaks.
“So we stick to our plan and see what develops,” Stony said. “We’ll retrace Quince’s path as best we can. That’ll teach us a little about the streets, and maybe the asshole source will see us and get in touch.”
They finished breakfast and waited in front of the hotel. Uncle Dragon rolled up and parked. He hoisted an aluminum briefcase from the passenger seat and climbed from the SUV. Stony took the case and went back into the hotel while John explained their plan for the day.
Stony returned wearing a half-zipped lightweight nylon jacket over a Def Leppard T-shirt.
Uncle Dragon frowned. “I can guess what was in the case.” Before Stony could protest, he put up his hands and stopped her, “I know—none of my business. Just keep the none-of-my-business well hidden.”
* * *
Uncle Dragon seized the opportunity to dunk them in Hanoi’s history. Just when they thought they were about to drown, he’d give them a rest before immersing them again.
They retraced Quince’s path, stopping in stores that might sell pictures like the one in Adams’ room. Hanoi’s streets were jammed with small, one-product mom and pops. It seemed you could get anything you wanted—rocking chairs, sinks, dried snake. But not, apparently, pictures of a red bird.
Late in the morning Stony announced, “We have company. A heavy-set guy—maybe Vietnamese—in a Hawaiian shirt has been following us for the last half hour. He sticks out more than we do.”
“Huh. He’s not worried about being spotted,” John said. “Keep an eye on him.” Their uninvited guest became a constant presence, hanging back a couple hundred feet.
They bought lunch from a street vendor, taking their Chau Tom—charcoal-grilled crab paste over sugar cane, wrapped in rice paper—to a nearby bench. Steamy, sticky, unmanageable, and delicious. Mr. Hawaiian disappeared while they were eating, but reappeared when they resumed Uncle Dragon’s forced march.
The old man’s energy and enthusiasm seemed to grow as the day wore on. It was nearly five when they trudged into another shop with small framed pictures hanging in the window. Dozens of images of disparate sizes smothered the walls, all monotone drawings.
“After this,” John muttered, “we find a restaurant that serves iced drinks and hot food.”
Stony sighed. “Thank God.”
An elderly Asian woman, dressed in a maroon ao dai, shuffled through a curtain of opalescent beads that separated a back room from the small storefront. John could see past the beads to a bowl and chopsticks sitting on a low shelf. The store smelled like dust, peppers, and hot oil.
Uncle Dragon bowed and offered the traditional Vietnamese hello. “Chao Chi.”
The woman smiled, bowed, and said, “Nín hǎo,” then, “Chao Chi,” and finished with “English, a little.”
Stony’s interest sharpened. “Nín hǎo is a Mandarin greeting.” She greeted the woman and continued in Mandarin. The old lady’s face lit up and the two chatted for a few moments.
“She’d prefer to practice her English,” Stony said, “even though it’s difficult for her.”
Stony turned back to the woman and showed her a picture of Quince. “Grandmother, we have a friend who bought a picture of a bird when he was in Hanoi. We’re trying to find where he bought it.” This was followed by a short give and take in Mandarin.
The old lady frowned. “No American buy here. You wait.”
She turned, shuffled into the back room, and returned with a stack of heavy papers. They were the same red abstract that was in Quince’s room. “Sell many.”
More Mandarin. Stony said, “She wanted to know the English name for the bird. I told her we call it a crane.”
“Crane most favored bird in China,” the shopkeeper said. “Give long live.” More Mandarin, with a sprinkle of English. “Symbol for long life,” she corrected.
John asked, “You’re certain you didn’t sell this to an American? Maybe a month ago?”
The wizened shopkeeper squinted at John, then addressed Stony.
Stony grinned and translated. “She says she’s old, not stupid. She hasn’t sold the print to an American.”
&nbs
p; John bought one of the crane pictures and they returned to the street.
“That was no help,” Stony said.
“No, but at least we know the bird is an important Chinese symbol.”
Uncle Dragon led them to a restaurant owned by his brother, where they settled into a small outside cafe. John gulped a sweet-sour-salty-lemony Chanh muối and groaned with pleasure as the cold drink slid down his throat. He checked the street and confirmed that their minder was still present. The big guy had popped out of an alley between two buildings a couple hundred feet away and stood with his back to the alley. John used his phone camera to snap his picture. Didn’t seem to bother him, but he didn’t wave either.
John looked at Stony. “I want to know what Mr. Hawaiian knows. You up for some more exercise?”
“To nail this guy? You bet your ass.”
“There’s an exit at the end of the hallway where the bathrooms are. Saw it when I went to take a leak. The door opens onto a street that runs the length of the block. Go inside as if you have all the time in the world, then run like hell and circle around behind this guy. I’ll give you a five-minute head start, then I’ll walk toward our Hawaiian-shirted friend. He’ll probably jump back into the alley he came out of. You come in from the back, me the front. We’ll trap him in the middle.”
“Good times.” Stony smiled, rose, and strolled into the restaurant.
Five minutes later, John said, “I’ll be right back, Uncle Dragon.” The old man smiled and raised his cup of tea to his lips, like every American did crazy things before a meal.
John left the restaurant and strode toward their shadow, tapping the ground with his cane as his long legs swallowed the distance between them. The guy remained motionless for a few seconds, then turned and sprinted past the alley and away from John, who jogged after him.
A few seconds later, Stony emerged from the alley, scanned the street, and sped after their quarry, Glock at her side.
The man was as fast as he was big. He raced to the middle of the next block and dodged into a narrow passage between multi-story junk shops. Stony reached the opening a minute later and disappeared into it. When John arrived, he found her standing in thigh-high piles of trash that covered the ground. Alone.
She turned to him, and rasped, “Nothing.” Three closed doors faced the narrow shaft between decaying buildings. She seized another breath. “He could’ve jumped through any of the doors, or gone out the other end by the time I got here.”
“Well, shit.”
* * *
They returned to the restaurant and learned that Uncle Dragon-approved restaurants were to be respected. John’s rice with roasted duck was spiced perfectly and painfully hot. Their tagalong had apparently decided to leave them alone for the evening. The sun had slipped behind the trees and was painting the side of the hotel with gold when Uncle Dragon dropped them off.
The desk manager called to John as soon as they entered the lobby. “Dr. Benoit! A courier left something for you about an hour ago.”
John diverted to the desk and accepted a sealed manila envelope. “Thank you.” He walked over to Stony, tore it open, and removed a single sheet of paper. “Turtle Lake Shrine—7 p.m. Come alone.” was printed at the top of the page.
“From the guy who’s been following us? He’s our source?” Stony asked.
“Maybe. Doesn’t matter, I have to go.”
“We have to go,” Stony said. “We’ll be lucky to get there by seven. It’s not an accident that we don’t have time to plan or arrange for any backup. No way you’re going alone.”
John nodded agreement. Ten minutes later they were in a cab on their way to the shrine, which they’d toured earlier in the day. It sat on a small rocky island at one edge of Hoan Kiem Lake, connected by an arched pedestrian bridge.
Stony yelled to be heard over the traffic noise assaulting them through the cab’s open windows. “Not many choices on how we do this. The bridge is the only way on or off the island, and there aren’t any places to hide around the shrine itself. That’s the only thing that makes me think this isn’t a trap—no easy way out and no good place to hide.”
John said, “Jesus, you were paying attention on our tour. Amazing.”
His partner nodded absently. “I’ll cross the bridge first, make contact, and assess the risk. I’ll wave you across if everything’s clear.”
“And if it’s not clear?”
“Then I’m going to run like hell and suggest you do the same. Regardless, if I’m not back in five minutes, head for the embassy.”
“Okay,” John said. “But no heroics. The paperwork to ship your body back to D.C. would be a pain in the ass.”
The cab dropped them a half block from the narrow wooden bridge five minutes before the deadline. They sat on a bench facing the shrine across fifty feet of rank water. A footpath dotted with open air restaurants circled the lake. Residual twilight and street lamps cast enough light to see the island. Colors were bleeding to gray.
“I think I see a big guy in a patterned shirt. I can’t be sure,” Stony said. “I don’t see anything else that sets off alarms, but I doubt I would from here. We might as well do this.”
At seven ten they rose and approached the bridge. “See you shortly,” Stony said. She pulled the Glock, held it inside her jacket, strolled across the arched span and faded into the evening gloom.
John cast a quick look around and saw no one was approaching the bridge. The evening breeze carried soft conversations and laughter from the restaurants.
He glared at his watch as if time were the enemy. Four minutes. The island yielded nothing. Five. No sounds, no movement. Six.
He was starting to think about the embassy when he spied movement on the other side of the bridge. Stony had rematerialized and was waving him across. They met at the top of the bridge’s arch.
“It’s our source, the Hawaiian-shirt guy who was tailing us. Calls himself Mr. Dihn. Has a bodyguard with him. He didn’t like that there are two of us and really didn’t like that I was carrying. It took a little time to explain that I’d shoot them before I give it up. No one else on the island.”
Her voice sounded calm, but John noticed that her body had pulled into itself, a coiled spring.
“Dihn’s a jittery mess. You’ll need to go slow with him, Dish. Have to anyway; his English is weak.”
They descended the arch to the island, where they were met by the muscle. Six-four, dressed in black, with a corded scar that zig-zagged from his hairline, down his cheek to his neck, and disappeared under his shirt.
The guy patted John and Stony down briefly, then nodded the two of them forward, remaining behind at the end of the bridge.
Mr. Dinh’s bulk blocked the base of the shrine, an illuminated granite spire that rose behind him. John guessed he was five-eight and weighed maybe 250 pounds. No body fat.
The stench from the lake was trumped by a fog of garlicky sweat leaking from Dinh. Garish rings glittered from the fingers of both hands.
Stony turned and faced away from John, guarding his back.
Dinh spat, tugged at his groin. “You the boss?”
“Yeah. I’m Dr. John Benoit. I report to the Director of the DTS.” He offered his hand. The thug glared and then crushed it with one sharp pump.
Dinh rolled his shoulders. He glanced left, right, and jerked his face back to John. “Chasing me stupid. Your man stupid and dead. You not careful, I get dead too.”
“You have anything useful to say or just bullshit?” John asked. He took a half step toward Dinh, who retreated to keep his distance, eyes widened. “Well? What’ve you got for me?” John felt Stony lean gently against him, a welcome reminder she was there if needed.
“Not bullshit,” Dinh said.
“Did you meet Agent Adams?”
“Never met, followed. Chinese knew he was here. Killed him.”
“How do you know it was the Chinese?” John asked.
Dinh laughed. “Everybody knows but Am
ericans.”
“Tell me what you know. If it’s valuable, I can pay.”
“Fuck money.” John jumped at Dinh’s growl. “I got plenty money.”
“Yeah,” John said. “From fencing stolen property and selling drugs. You sell kids too, Mr. Dinh?”
Even in the dim light, John could see Dinh’s face turn a deep red. The fat man spat on John’s shoes and said, “Fuck you. Fuck the Chinese. Chinese stealing kids. Not me. Want fucking Chinese gone. Fucking Viet People’s Army interested now. If they involved, they take a cut of my business. Fucking bad shit.”
“Tell me about the kidnapping.”
“Told you. Chinese steal kids. Not in China. In Vietnam. Bangkok. Who know where else? Chief who gets kids for Chinese in Zurich.”
“They were in Transition?” John asked him.
“No. Young ones. Six or seven.”
Dinh handed John a piece of paper.
“What’s this?”
“Zurich Chief name.”
CRACK! CRACK!
Dinh collapsed. Dark stains spattered the shrine, oozing into a mosaic of thin red snakes sliding toward the ground. John dropped to the ground beside Stony. Screams came from the shore on the other side of the bridge; tables and dinnerware clattering.
She snarled, “You hurt?”
“No,” John whispered.
“Get to the bridge, fast. Stay low. Move!”
They crawled on their bellies. The bodyguard lay across the entrance to the bridge, the side of his head gone.
“Stay on my right,” Stony said. They clambered over the body and ran across the bridge, bent at the waist, heads low.
Once on the other side, they veered away from the restaurants, toward the street that faced the lake. Police sirens grew louder, converging from all points.
Hanoi
The Socialist Republic of Vietnam
“Slow down,” John said. “We don’t want to stand out.”
Police cars wailed past the two agents as they walked from the shrine in silence.
The Scarlet Crane: Transition Magic Book One (The Transition Magic Series 1) Page 5