Rogue Angel - Restless Soul Part 23

"Apparently not." He let out a long sigh. "I suppose 'all of this' started shortly after the Vietnam War. A police action, they called it. I'm sure the war was long over before you were born."

Annja listened, concentrating to stay on her feet and refusing to give in to the pain and blood loss.

"I survived the war, and I didn't go home. The gold was too tempting, you see. And I found things in Vietnam to my liking."

He explained that he'd been a soldier with a rifle company that had come across a stash of relics on a tour during 1966. A collection of golden Buddhas had been hidden by monks who feared that Americans would overrun their temple and take the holy objects. He took what he could carry with him and deserted, finding a few other soldiers who'd also fled their units, living from village to village and learning the language and customs.

"It was a small operation at first. We'd carry a few bits of holy treasure into China and make a tidy profit, reinvest it. Eventually, we set up a corporation of sorts in Saigon. We spread enough money around to get some police to look the other way, appeared to support the communist government, stuck to the shadows. Never sent too much across the border at any one time."

He shook his head sadly, the gesture making his mist-like hair appear to float around his face. "Times have changed. The government is cracking down on smuggling. It seems some people want to keep the relics here. But we never sent too much at any one time, tried not to be noticed."

Annja remembered the article about the men arrested in China transporting Vietnamese artifacts.

"It looked like a significant haul stashed in the mountains," she said. "I'd say that was 'too much.' And I I noticed." noticed."

He gave another shrug. "Things have been complicated recently. More Western influence, more people concerned about the national relics and history, more guards watching the borders. If they only knew how much is gone, scattered across the globe. Most of it's gone when you think about it-beyond the considerable inventory in that warehouse and the pittance in a few...antiques stores."

Annja shuddered at the loss of history.

"Yes, Lanh and I saw to it that there's really not all that much left. Pity, I suppose. But it couldn't be helped-it was the best way to earn a fortune that I could think of."

One of the men she'd knocked out groaned and tried to rise, but he fell flat again and stopped moving.

"How did you get involved with him? Lanh Vuong?"

He smiled fondly, the first trace of emotion he'd shown. "During the war, actually. That was the first time I met him. We ran afoul of a d.i.n.k base he was in charge of, and he had the audacity to capture us. I expected to spend the rest of the war in some slimy slope-head prison. But I made friends with some of them. I'd learned enough of the language at that point to get by. I bargained my freedom with Lanh for the location of a temple stash. He always did like gold."

Annja felt the bile rise in her stomach. This man was making her physically sick recounting what he'd done.

"The short version is that Lanh released me and two of my friends. There were four others, but he wanted some souls to take back with him. As we were running away, his camp was taken by American Marines-we managed to avoid the Marines, not wanting to end up in some U.S. prison for desertion. Neither did we want to end up dead. There were a lot of bullets flying that day. I learned later that Lanh had been grabbed by the Marines and tossed into a cell in the south. Many, many years, he was stuck there. Later our paths crossed again."

Annja felt dizzy, from lack of sleep, loss of blood and from listening to the sordid doings of a former U.S. soldier. The Sandman had successfully turned her stomach.

"It was an accident, really, our meeting again. Lanh had found my smuggling network, and he had far more contacts than I did. He was running a few operations of his own from behind bars. When he finally got back up north, we combined our resources. Became friends, I suppose, or as close to friends as our kind can be."

She hissed and stepped close, dismissing the sword as she brought her right hand up and grabbed his throat, feeling a few gold chains hanging there and dangling down beneath his shirt. There was another chain, with a familiar feel to it, and this she yanked free.

"And you come clean to me," she said, feeling his dog tags in her fingers. "Why? Why spill your guts about this?"

He looked surprised. "Why? Because you asked. Because you've won this war." He swallowed hard and she eased up and gave him a little breathing room. "And because I'll be joining Lanh soon. Something's rotten inside."

She remembered those exact words from one of his answering-machine messages to Lanh.

"Something horribly rotten. Cancer of the pancreas, the doctor told me. He gives me a month at the most. Hurts like h.e.l.l. War is old men dying in the fullness of their promise while there is still madness in this world. War is h.e.l.l."

"Which is where you'll end up," Annja said. She swung him around and pushed him toward the back of the shop. He was easy to push, frail and weak, and his hands were twisted from arthritis. "Go in." She intended to make sure he spent whatever days he had left rotting in a cell somewhere.

Annja flipped on the lights, wanting to better see the inside.

"Records?" she asked.

He gave a clipped laugh. "Never bothered with them. Lanh, neither. Not records on our...real dealings, anyway."

She pointed to the skull bowl she'd left on the desk and fought a crashing wave of dizziness. "What do you know about that?"

"Oh, the skulls? Only that Lanh liked them. Said he put souvenirs from the war in them. Said he picked them up in the States before the war. Must have had a dozen of them. Talked to them like they were childhood imaginary friends. Rubbed them like a magic genie's lamp and called them Papa Ghede."

Annja nudged him up one aisle and down the next. She found eight more skull bowls among the treasures on the shelves, all filled with dried blood and dog tags. She forced him to carry some of them to the back room.

Free, she thought when she broke all of the seals.

There were eight bowls, plus the one on the desk made nine. And the one from the mountain made ten. Two were unaccounted for, if indeed he'd had a dozen. All of them were filled with dog tags.

She looked at the Sandman's dog tag. Sanduski, Merle M., Catholic.

"Pretty demon, what did you do with that sword you were waving around?"

Annja shoved him into a chair.

"That sword looked old. I could probably find a buyer who'd give you a sweet dollar for it, pretty demon. Set it up for you if you let me walk out the door. I've only got a few weeks, anyway. I'll be dead before any trial. No need to put me through that, huh?" He rubbed at a spot on his pant leg. "So, about that sword..."

She clocked him on the side of the head to knock him out and reached for the phone, calling the Chiang Mai consulate again because in her fuzziness it was the only number she could remember.

ANNJA WOKE UP TWO DAYS later in a hospital bed in the heart of Hue, Pete from the consulate at her side and three Americans in suits with him. "From the Ho Chi Minh consulate," he explained, gesturing to them. "Some of the fellows I'd asked you to call." later in a hospital bed in the heart of Hue, Pete from the consulate at her side and three Americans in suits with him. "From the Ho Chi Minh consulate," he explained, gesturing to them. "Some of the fellows I'd asked you to call."

The room was simple, but at least it was private. The bed was small, and there was no television, radio or phone. Annja scowled at the IV drip in her bandaged arm.

"You lost a lot of blood," Pete said. "And picked up a nasty infection. The nurse said you were covered with mud and blood when they brought you in."

Annja would find out later just who brought her in and who called the authorities-probably Pete for the latter. "There were some unusual bowls in the antiques store. Made of skulls and-" Annja started to say.

"I don't know anything about the antiques store, other than that you were found in it...along with a collection of U.S. servicemen's dog tags that were turned over to the Ho Chi Minh consulate. Found more dog tags in a carry bag in a Jeep."

"There was a man with me, in the antiques store."

"Ah, that would be Mr. Merle Sanduski. I do know about him." Pete rocked back on his heels. "He's on the floor below you."

"He's a-"

"Crook. And a deserter from the military from a long time back."

"A smuggler," she said.

"I gathered that. There's a guard outside his door, and they say he's going to prison, probably for the rest of his life."

For however many weeks he has left, Annja thought. "How about me? Am I going-"

"To prison?" Pete laughed. "I've no doubt that you should...for something. Quite a few bodies you leave in your wake. Are you sure you're only an archaeologist? But they're calling you a hero, stopping the biggest relic ring in all of Vietnam. Apparently, they've been after Sanduski for years. He was a slippery fellow. So, no, you're not going to jail."

Pete reached into a big briefcase he'd sat on the floor and pulled out a laptop and a cell phone and put them on her bedside table.

"Thank you," she said.

"There are some news reporters downstairs, and a couple of TV crews. The doctors are keeping them at bay, but they'll eventually get up here. Reporters always do."

Annja frowned. "There are some people I want to talk to, but I'd rather avoid the news."

Pete laughed louder. "That isn't going to happen."

She ran her fingers over the laptop. "Will this-"

"They have Wi-Fi here. Yeah, it'll work." He pointed to the phone. "That is prepaid, so take care with your calls, because when that one is empty, you're on your own."

Annja smiled. She was always on her own.

She had to admit that she felt much better than she had in days. A glance under the covers revealed that her leg had been rebandaged, and her left arm was in a loose sling. She felt a little pulling from the st.i.tches where the bullets had been.

"We'll leave you be for a while," Pete said. "But we'll be back after dinner. Some reports to fill out, plenty of questions to ask, that sort of thing." He tipped his head and spun around in military fashion, walking out of the room with the other men nodding politely to her and following.

Annja punched in the number for the lodge and asked the man at the front desk if he would please find Luartaro.

"He checked out, Miss Creed. Early yesterday. He and his film crew packed up and took the bus to the city and the airport. But he left a note for you."

Annja asked him to read it.

Dear Annja:What a remarkable, memorable, h.e.l.l of a vacation this has been. I must get back, however-the next cla.s.s session is starting soon and I've got to prepare for it. We have to package and sell the film from the spirit caves. I have offers from a few networks already.I hope you don't mind, dear heart, but when you went off to Chiang Mai without me, I contacted a local film crew and had a go at the story myself. Some of the water receded and we got excellent shots of those bodies in the teak coffins. We made history.I'm sure if you and your crew ever show up you can concoct a monster for your program.I would like to see you again, sweet Annja, in your country or in mine. Please stay in touch.Love, Lu Annja hung up the phone and flopped her head back on the pillow. She couldn't blame him...not really. The previously undiscovered teak coffins with the human remains were the real treasure of the spirit caves. She'd wanted them for a Chasing History's Monsters Chasing History's Monsters special, but she was fine with Luartaro getting the credit. Annja had more than enough hours in the spotlight, and apparently would be getting more if the television crews downstairs had their way. special, but she was fine with Luartaro getting the credit. Annja had more than enough hours in the spotlight, and apparently would be getting more if the television crews downstairs had their way.

She still was bothered that Luartaro took the ancient jewelry from the cave...and she would stay in touch with him, if only to discuss that and come to some resolution.

And there was the matter of the skull bowl in a museum in Florida. She'd travel there to make sure it didn't have a seal and dog tags.

A knock on the door interrupted her musings.

A nurse opened it a crack. "I speak English," she announced.

"Yes?"

"You have a visitor, Miss Creed."

Annja groaned. She didn't want to deal with the media yet. She shook her head. "No. I need my rest."

"I understand." She started to back out. "He is a Frenchman. Said he came a long way. But he can wait. I will tell him to come back-"

"Wait." Annja sat up a little straighter. "You can send Roux in." She had a lot to tell him.

Epilogue.

Vietnam, July 1966.

Lightning flashed and the ground rocked again and again. Above the patter of the driving rain, the whisper-hiss of machine-gun fire reached inside the old stone building.

Sanduski risked a glance outside to see mud spitting up around the feet of his sergeant.

Gary Thomsen screamed when the bullets chewed into his legs, and he fell face forward.

"Wallem!" he managed before he hit the mud. "Company. Moore, get out here. We've got..."

Wallem and Moore were the first soldiers out the door, raising their rifles and firing as they went. Sanduski hung back. He'd gotten a look at the Vietnamese force out there.

At least two dozen...and that was his guess without counting or getting a real good look. And that meant there were more. There were always ones that you couldn't see. This was his second tour, and he intended to get out of it alive.

As the rest of the men raced out, all of them firing and hollering, some of them screaming as bullets slammed into them, Sanduski edged deeper into the building. There was a large Buddha at the back, decorated in gold and silver and just big enough to squat behind. He hid just as the firing stopped.

He held his breath when he heard footsteps. They were faint against the sound of the rain. Men talked, in a language Sanduski didn't understand. Slope heads. And that meant Thomsen, Moore, Wallem and all of the others were dead.

The Vietcong talked among themselves, pacing and moving things around, and finally leaving.

Sanduski let out a breath carefully. His legs cramped from the position, but he didn't dare move. He didn't move for what he guessed was a few hours.

When it had gotten so dark that he couldn't see anything, he stood, rubbing at his numb legs to get the feeling back and stumbling forward and into one statue after another. He could hardly walk; his legs weren't cooperating.

At last he found the opening and cautiously looked out. It had stopped raining, and there were just enough stars overhead so that he could see the bodies of his fellows. Not a single VC corpse-they'd either taken their fallen or Thomsen and the others hadn't scored a single hit.

Sanduski went from one body to the next, discovering that the VC had taken the treasure; however, they missed a diamond ring that Thomsen had taken. The gem was the size of a big sunflower seed. Sanduski plucked it loose and then went to collect the dog tags.

But there weren't any.

"d.a.m.n slope heads took 'em," he said to no one.

He hadn't seen Lanh Vuong carefully pluck each tag loose and put a bullet in the head of each soldier...just to be sure they were dead.

He hadn't seen the colonel collect blood from each man and say a twisted prayer to Papa Ghede.

Sanduski returned to the building, where he hid until dawn. Then he picked up enough small pieces of treasure to fill his pockets and pack and headed down the trail to the east.

"'War is always the same,'" he said. "'It is young men dying in the fullness of their promise.' I promise it won't get me."