"Yes. Although you were told that the dead suspects had not been identified, in fact they have been-four of them, anyway.
One was too badly disfigured in the explosion. You see, my task force has been constructing files on every Chinese employee who works for the organization. Agents have secretly taken pictures, collected basic background information, and surreptitiously collected fingerprints. We found out early it was not as large an undertaking as we thought the number of family members here in the States is only between fifty and fifty-five people. Most of the people who work for the organization are Caucasian. Think of their business as Honda or Toyota here in the States. You don't see Japanese selling their cars, do you? The organization works the same way. The family stays in the corporate offices and makes all the major decisions. We did find, however, that the family brings in many workers from Hong Kong to be staff assistants, secretaries, maids, cooks, gardeners, etcetera. We expanded our files to include these people. INS helps us in this regard by reporting all Chinese who come into the States on work permits. Before they will accept and grant an application, the INS requires that each applicant have a sponsor company. It has actually been very simple. We have a list of Triad's companies, and cross-reference them with those people granted work visas. Once the workers arrive, we take their pictures and add them to our book. This morning the pictures paid off. We now know for sure that four of the five men in the morgue came here to work for the organization."
Ramona grinned and patted the steering wheel. "Hey, is Charlie something or what?'
Eli nodded as he turned farther in his seat and looked at Ashley. "This explains why the killer was able to move so fast and knew so much about the team members. Their organization provided the killer with people who watched the victims.
My guess is the killer would fly in, be met by a surveillance team member who brought him up to speed then drove him to where he would find the victim. The team would play lookout.
When the killer was finished, they'd take him back to the airport. The killer could have used as few as two teams, who leapfrogged each other in advance of him from one city or town to the next. It would reduce the number who knew what he was doing."
Ramona bobbed her head as she watched the road. "Bingo!
Eli, I think you're right. It all fits into place now. We now know how the killer accomplished his murders, and all we have to figure out is who and why. Maybe the colonel can help us.
Charlie, can you show the colonel the pictures of the Chinese family and workers? Maybe he can ID one of them."
Charlie tapped his computer case. "Sure, I can let the colonel scroll through them on my laptop."
"We need to talk to the colonel about other possible targets first," Eli said. "Last night he wasn't all that coherent. He barely stayed conscious long enough to give directions to the house."
Ashley lifted her briefcase and took out a stack of papers.
"I brought these along with me. Maybe they'll help him remember who else was involved with Camp 147. They're color copies of the pictures the two victims from Columbus took while in Vietnam. I also have a blow-up copy of the team photograph. . . . I thought he'd probably like to have it."
Eli leaned back in his seat and shook his head. "I don't want to see it again. It's sickening that they're all dead. Maybe it's not such a good idea to give him the picture, at least not until we're done with the interview. Seeing their faces is bound to upset him."
Charlie leaned over to look at the team picture. "Who are the people kneeling in front of the team?"
"Cambodian Special Forces," Ashley said. "Eli believes Anderson's team trained them."
"Cambodian? I thought Anderson and his team were in Vietnam?' Charlie said, his face flushing.
Ramona glanced in the rearview mirror. "Charlie, didn't you read the background folder?'
Lee shook his head as he hurriedly reached for his computer.
"No, I just assumed the team was in Vietnam. Damnit, I should have read the damn thing. We might have your killer right there on that photograph."
Eli spun around in his seat "What are you talking about?
What in the hell are you doing?'
Charlie had already pulled his laptop from its case and set it on his knees. "Cambodians! Damnit! Cambodians are working for the organization. I think I have a breakdown on my hard drive . . . yes, here we go. Number of Cambodians working for the organization is five. At least that's all we're aware of."
Ramona pulled the car to the side of the road and turned in her seat. "Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. I thought you said the organization brought over Chinese workers from Hong Kong? What's this about Cambodians?"
Charlie motioned to his small screen. "I was talking in general terms. One hundred and forty-three work permits have been granted to Chinese workers associated with the organization, and there have also been four Thais, six Filipinos, one Indonesian, and five Cambodians."
Ramona threw up her hands. "Great, Charlie, next time, read the damn background material and don't talk in generalities.
How many Cambodians are in that picture?'
"Twelve," Ashley said.
Ramona turned back around, dropped the gearshift into drive and stomped on the accelerator. "And the only person who knows those people is Colonel Anderson. Okay, let's stay calm and figure out the best way to approach this. Charlie, do you have pictures of the five Cambodians?'
"Yes. As soon as we arrive at the hospital I'll go straight to their administrative office and use their fax. I'll have the pictures in less than five minutes."
Ramona looked at Eli with a smile. "I smell a break here."
.
Mount Vernon, Virginia.
Sixty-three-year-old, retired, Lieutenant General Douglas Gradd took a screwdriver out of his toolbox and leaned over to unscrew the air filter on his John Deere riding mower.
His wife stepped out the back door. "There you are. I was looking for you. You have a visitor, hon."
Gradd had placed the tip of the screwdriver on the head of the screw. He glanced up at his wife. "Who is it?"
"A Mr. Sary, he's a writer from Time-Life books. He says he wants to talk to you about an article he's writing about the Vietnam War."
"Shit," Gradd said, tossing down the screwdriver. "Bring him on out here, hon. We'll talk by the pool. Bring us out some cold drinks, will you, please?" Wiping his hands on the back of his work pants, he looked once more at the mower and kicked its rear tire. "Runs like a Deere, my ass. I'm tradin' you in on a Honda."
The back door opened again and Jean Paul Devoe stepped out wearing a Redskins baseball cap and aviator sunglasses.
He smiled and extended his hand as he approached. "I'm very glad you have agreed to see me, General."
As soon as Gradd took his hand, Jean Paul spoke in a soft voice as he pulled back his shirt, exposing the pistol in his belt.
"You will now walk in front of me to the side gate. If you yell or try to escape, I will shoot you dead and then I will also have to kill your wife. Move, General, I have a van waiting for us in the driveway."
Gradd looked at the pistol then raised his eyes to the younger man's face. "Is this a joke of some--"
"Follow my instructions. Now." Jean Paul pulled the pistol and leveled it at Gradd's wide midsection.
The general stepped back while lifting his hands and began to turn around, but suddenly spun, swinging his left arm toward Devoe's face.
Jean Paul stepped back to avoid the wild swing, lowered the barrel slightly and squeezed the trigger.
Wide-eyed, Gradd jerked back, grabbing his side, and fell to his knees groaning in agony.
The back door flew open two seconds later and his wife hurried out. "Douglas! My God, what hap--" From the corner of her eye she saw the sudden movement just before the pistol butt struck her temple. She fell to the brick patio floor in a heap.
Gradd screamed as Jean Paul walked toward him.
Fort Belvoir, Virginia Ramona Valez sat by Colonel A
nderson's bed looking into his blue eyes. "Can you think of anyone else who might have been involved with Camp 1477"
Anderson shook his head. "As I told you before, I've done nothing else but think about it since that damn voice told me they were close to me. The only possible people he could be talking about are Major General Stroud and Lieutenant General Gradd. Stroud was the operation commander and Gradd was the regional commander. I saw Stroud at the Pentagon several times before I retired. I made it my business to avoid the sonofabitch. I knew I'd get physically sick if I had to deal with him. Worse, I'd wring his goddamn neck . . . sorry.
Gradd was the vice chief of staff of the Army and retired two years before I did. I read in the Army Times that he retired in the area and was working as a consultant for one of the Beltway bandits. Stroud retired last year and did the same thing."
Ramona nodded. "Agent Sutton is checking on their whereabouts. I'm sorry we're asking you the same questions over and over again, but having a full understanding of what we are dealing with is very important. Now I want to show you a photograph. It was taken of you and your team, and there is also a team of Cambodians in the photograph.
Would you please identify as many of the Cambodians as you can."
Anderson took the photograph from her hands but looked at it only a moment before his eyes began to well up. He took several breaths and wiped the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand before setting the picture on his lap.
"I . . . I'm sorry, seeing my guys is . . . I remember only a few of the Cambodians' names . . . but you're wasting your time; the North Vietnamese overran the camp. I saw pictures a recon bird took two days after the attack. Bodies were strewn everywhere. They're all dead."
Ramona pressed. "Colonel, you don't know that for a fact, do you? I mean it is possible some of these men could have escaped, isn't it?"
Anderson looked up at the ceiling for a long moment before nodding. "It is possible, but very unlikely. . . . I understand, Doctor, that you're trying to find who murdered my men, and I want to help you, but concluding that it could have been the Cambodian team is too much. Have you looked into the families of my team . . . perhaps a son or brother of one of my men?"
"Sir, we have checked that angle and nothing panned out,"
Eli said, stepping closer to the bed. "Believe us when we tell you we think the murders are somehow linked to a Chinese organization known as Triad. Charlie has had the pictures of the five Cambodians who work for the organization faxed to us. Please take a look at these and tell us if you recognize any of them."
Eli handed Anderson the folder. The colonel opened it and looked at the first picture for a moment before setting it down.
He did the same to the second and third, but when he saw the fourth picture he closed his eyes and bent forward as if stabbed in the stomach. "It's Tram, Lieutenant Quan Tram, the team commander."
Ashley stepped into the room and walked quickly to Eli.
"We're too late. Stroud and Gradd are missing. Mrs. Gradd is being rushed to the hospital, but it looks like she's not going to make it."
Charlie stood at the door and spoke as he grabbed the knob.
"I'll get a picture and APB out on Quan Tram now. We'll get him."
Robert Anderson raised his head and looked into Eli's eyes.
"He's paying us back for what we did. . . . I'm next"
Eli held the colonel's gaze. "He'll be the one who's hunted now, sir. There's no way he can get to you."
Anderson shifted his eyes to the window and looked out with a distant stare. "He was my friend. I . . . I don't blame him. . . . We left him to die."
Ramona patted the colonel's arm. "Robert, your wife is in the next room waiting to see you. We're finished here for a while and will tell the doctor to let her in, if it's all right with you."
Anderson looked back at Eli, fixing him with a stare. "I don't blame him . . . I would have done the same thing."
Eli took the colonel's hand in his own. "Sir, he murdered your men and has killed three women and two agents. It's not about honor anymore; he's forgotten what the word means. If your wife or your daughter were in the way, to get to you he would kill them without a second thought. Lieutenant Tram is not the man you knew . . . he's become a beast of prey. The war has been over a long time for most people, sir, but you and I know it will never be for us-we left too many friends behind to forget. Remember them, sir, not the guilt There was nothing you could do. You tried . . . you tried, the way all of us veterans did. . . . We tried. Let it go, sir."
Tears trickled down the colonel's face as he lowered his head. "You'll find him, won't you?"
Eli squeezed Anderson's hand. "Yes, sir, we will."
Anderson nodded and wiped away his tears. "Let my wife in now, please."
.
George Washington Parkway, Washington, D. C.
Less than two hundred yards from the busy parkway, hidden by dense vegetation, Richard Stroud sat nude on the ground with his arms and legs around a tree. His wrists and ankles were bound and duct tape covered his mouth. Eight feet away Douglas Gradd sat tied to another tree. Sweat trickled from every pore of their bodies, and their eyes bulged as the man standing between spoke with a rasp. "I am Lieutenant Quan Tram, team leader of Team Seven, Cambodian Special Forces. My mission was to assist United States Fifth Special Forces, Team Thirty-six, in their assigned mission to arm, equip, and train the people of village Pham du Nhai, known to you both as Camp 147."
Tram's eyes teared as he stepped closer to Stroud, who tried to scream but could only make muffled, animal-like noises behind the tape.
"My men did their duty . . . and the people of Pham du Nhai did their duty . . . and they all died. You and this one behind you gave us the mission . . . but you forsook us all. Did you think I was dead? No; you didn't know who I was . . . you did not know any of us. We were just 'indigenous support,' and the people were what you called an indigenous population .. . indigenous, a word as cold as your hearts. We had names, we had families, we had hopes and dreams, and we had faith, faith in your country."
Holding two syringes, Jean Paul stepped up next to Tram.
He walked to General Gradd and jabbed one of the needles in the neck muscle above the clavicle. Gradd twisted and shook his head wildly side to side, all the while screaming in muffled squeals.
Turning, Jean Paul held the second syringe and walked toward Stroud, who began to jerk and twist, trying to break the plastic ties binding his wrists and ankles.
Tram pulled a silenced pistol from his belt and chambered a round. "The drugs we are giving you will deaden your bodies from the neck down. You will feel no pain."
Stroud thrashed, jerked, and threw his head back as the needle entered his neck muscle.
Bringing the pistol up, Tram aimed and squeezed the trigger. Gradd's right kneecap exploded, splattering the tree with blood and bone fragments.
The gray-haired general beat his head against the tree trunk as Tram spoke in a monotone. "Yes, I lied. Of course you can feel the pain, but it is very dull and distant. It is the way I felt when I learned Captain Anderson and his team were being ordered out of Camp 147."
Tram turned and pointed his pistol at Stroud's kneecap. "My pain increased when the enemy was spotted and I called Pleiku for help. But help did not come. You two saw to that."
Tram fired, the knee shattered. Stroud's neck elongated as he arched his back in agony.
"The pain you feel now is nothing compared to my pain when I-" Tram suddenly coughed, buckled at the waist, and coughed again, spitting up blood. He tried to straighten up but lurched forward again, heaving up more blood.
Jean Paul hurried to his side, but Tram shook his head and pushed him away. Shaking and too weak to stand, he sank to his knees and lifted his head, gasping for air. Thirty seconds passed before he finally took a normal breath. He raised his pistol again and fired. Gradd's elbow slammed against the tree, shattered at the joint. Gradd threw his head back but managed only a catlike
, high-pitched whine. Turning, Tram aimed and fired again. Stroud's upper arm blew inward, leaving blood and muscle tissue on the bark.
His hand shaking, Tram lowered the pistol and shook his head. "We broke their first attack but used all our claymore mines. . . . They attacked again after pounding us with their mortars. We held again but still they came. So many of them . . . Bunker Six went first, then Four . . . I knew then...
Bunker Two, then One. They were inside the wire using satchel charges. There was nothing we could do . . . nothing."
The old soldier broke his distant stare and motioned to the ground in front of him. "Look, the ants are already coming for you. Soon they will be feasting on your bodies. And like me in those last minutes, there is nothing you can do but wait and pray for a quick death." Tram shook his head slowly. "But it will not come . . . no, there is only more suffering. I left my bunker prepared to fight and die as a soldier. A soldier you were responsible for training . . . a soldier you promised you would support . . . But you did not come. You left me, my men, the people, to die." Trying to lift his pistol again, Tram began coughing and fell over to his hands and knees.
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