The Price of Blood Part 30

"I'm going to do it."

"You gonna have backup?"

"I'm working on it," said Broker.

41.

BROKER SAT AT THE TABLE IN HIS CABIN AND waited for Ed Ryan to call. He lit a cigarette and made a face. He'd lit the filter end. In a foul mood, he hurled the cigarette across the room.

"What is wrong with you?" said Nina, who sat opposite him counting money. She had withdrawn ten thousand dollars from her savings in Ann Arbor. Now she was dividing crisp hundred-dollar bills into two piles. Two rubbery white security belts curled at her elbow. Their flimsy elastic straps reminded Broker of female undergarments.

"Nothing," said Broker. He got up, manhandling his chair out of the way. The clatter echoed in the silence.

A lot was wrong. He was beginning to feel like a kid from a small town who'd gone off to see the world and had been turned around by some big leaguers.

Bevode's warning still echoed in his ears. They're still using you.

There was one person who definitely hadn't used him that night, unless he'd masterminded the gold robbery from his cell in a Communist jail.

Broker walked to the table and s.n.a.t.c.hed at the phone.

"I thought we were waiting for Ryan to call," said Nina.

"I'm calling Trin." Broker dug in his wallet for the card with the Vietnam number.

"Isn't that jumping the gun?" said Nina.

Broker took a deep breath to clear away twenty years of cobwebs and punched up an international patch and hit the number. Satellites played tag during an eerie silence. Then, after five rings, a sleepy Vietnamese voice answered.

"English?" asked Broker.

"Okay. Huong Giang Hotel on Le Loi Street."

"I'm trying to locate Nguyen Van Trin. I was given this number," said Broker.

"Sure, Trin," said the voice. "He work this desk sometime."

"I have to talk to him."

Pause. "It's four in the morning here."

Broker had totally overlooked the time zones. "It's urgent."

"I'll have to wake people up," said the clerk. He took Broker's phone number and asked what message he should give to Trin.

"Tell him I'm with Ray Pryce's daughter and I want my cigarette lighter back." Broker repeated the message slowly so the clerk could write it down. Broker hung up the phone.

"Feel better now?" said Nina with a lilt of sarcasm. She stuffed the thick wads of hundreds in the security belts.

Broker looked over his shoulder. He had recurring visions of Bevode Fret howling and bounding through the tamarack like a Sasquatch tarred and feathered in t.u.r.ds and clammy wads of toilet paper.

"Trin's a long shot," said Nina.

"We need someone we can trust over there. An expediter, to finesse the Vietnamese authorities."

"Finesse? You haven't seen this guy in twenty years."

Broker shook his head. "Trin used to be a real sharp individual."

"Used to be won't do it," said Nina in a slightly testy voice. "I'm starting to think we should keep it American right down the line."

"The new world order don't cut s.h.i.t in the Socialist Republic of Vietnam, G.o.ddammit. They belong to a small exclusive modern club, people who have won real wars. The Gulf doesn't count."

"There's the U.S. Liaison Office in Hanoi," she insisted.

"We were both in the army, remember. We both got the royal shaft." He glared across the table. "What did you talk about with your army buddies while I was in New Orleans?"

Nina recrossed her arms. "I was curious to see if anybody I knew was in or had been in Hanoi on the MIA mission."

"Well?"

She shook her head.

"Good," said Broker.

"Why good," she snapped.

"Because the minute we tell anybody else what we're doing the whole thing blows up in our faces. They don't call it 'gold rush' for nothing."

"I presume we're going to let someone in on it who has some authority, to-you know-arrest them," said Nina. Anger turned her freckles slightly purple.

"Look," fumed Broker. "What I do isn't a science. It's not enough to know the peasant wants to steal the goat. You have to catch him stealing the G.o.dd.a.m.n goat. We have to catch them digging it up and loading it. In the act."

"Right," she shot back. "If Tuna turns up. If the gold's where he says it is. If LaPorte goes for it after you robbed his house. If Trin's reliable. If we can get the Vietnamese to cooperate...if, if."

Broker ground his teeth and rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted. His whole body ached from the tussle with Bevode. They were both beat. Getting snarly.

Striving for control, he said, "I'm thinking, we get there and check out Trin. We locate the stuff. Then you approach the MIA mission. I tip LaPorte. The MIA people bring in the Vietnamese and hopefully they don't screw up dropping the net-"

"I don't like it," said Nina.

"What don't you like?"

"Relying so much on Trin."

"I know how to do this," he a.s.serted.

"I'm not so sure."

"Are you on the rag or something?"

"Hey. f.u.c.k you." She balled her fists.

Edgy, he shot back a flash of street. "You f.u.c.k me your heart'll give out."

Nina glowered and stamped from the room, slammed the screen door, and stalked off the porch. Outside, she paced back and forth, arms locked across her chest, trampling pine needles. Broker smoothed his fingers through his new short hair. The pressure was definitely starting to get to them.

Then the phone rang. Broker s.n.a.t.c.hed it up. A calm voice on the other side of the planet announced in impeccable English, "I need some flints for the Zippo. They're hard to get over here."

The screen door slammed and Nina stood at his side. "Ryan?"

Broker shook his head and turned to the receiver and wondered aloud, "Trin?"

"It's me."

"I'm coming over there," said Broker.

"I know."

"What do you mean, you know?"

"It's all arranged. Jimmy bought you and Nina Pryce a tour. I'm a tour guide. I have hotels reserved in Hanoi and Hue. We'll take the train from Hanoi. I just need a time and a flight number."

"Where's Jimmy, Trin?"

"Don't you know? He's in jail. In America." Trin's voice sounded confused. The long-distance connection had a delay and a background rush like the inside of an artificial lung. Hard to talk.

"I'll be in touch as soon as I have a flight," said Broker. There was an awkward silence. "Long time, Trin," he said.

"Yes," said Trin. "Long time."

He hung up the phone, crossed his arms heavily on the table and lowered his head. What did he expect. Trin had been an intelligence operative. He'd never discuss business on the phone.

He looked at Nina and said in an amazed voice, "He's expecting us."

"Oh boy," she breathed.

Now they paced. They re-aired all their speculations and anxieties. They finished a pot of coffee and made another one. They watched the sun sink lower in the sky. They stared at the phone.

Finally it rang. Broker picked it up and Ed Ryan said, "I don't know why I do this s.h.i.t for you."

42.

"ANN MARIE SPORTA ATTENDED THE UNIVERSITY of Wisconsin at Madison between 1988 and 1993," said Ryan. "Which is interesting, because her mother was collecting food stamps in Chicago and Ann Marie wasn't on a scholarship. We checked. Her grades weren't that good..."

And Broker thought: Jimmy Tuna, sponsor, champion of gimpy Viet Cong and underachieving college students.

Ryan paused for tantalizing seconds. "Her father, Anthony Sporta out of Skokie, was a guest of the government at Marion at the time, for transporting a stolen car across state lines." Ryan paused again. "So you probably want to know why your guy in Milan was his daughter's benefactor..."

"Ryan?"

"Aw. Take a guess."

Broker batted at the air, too tired for jokes. But he had pulled Ryan out of bed at four A.M.

"Give up?" taunted Ryan. "Okay. Tony Sporta's father married James Tarantuna's aunt. They're f.u.c.king cousins. And I just happen to know where Tony Sporta is because I thought you might ask."

"Ryan, I love you," shouted Broker. He flipped Nina a bandaged thumbs up.

With mock sobriety, Ryan stated, "We here at ATF have been through diversity, team, and sensitivity training. Doesn't mean you can get near my a.s.shole."

"Where?"

"You ever hear of Loki, Wisconsin?"

"Spell it."

"Lima Oscar kilo India. Sounds Indian..." Ryan speculated.

Ryan was Boston. Southie. Irish. Broker shook his head. Not Indian. Norski. In the stories Irene told him as a little boy, Loki ran with Thor and Odin. "Where is it?" he asked.

"Polk County. Near Amery. There's nothing there-literally-except a cheese factory. And a lot of cows standing around."

"s.h.i.t, that's right across the river from the Twin Cities. What's Sporta doing in Loki f.u.c.king Wisconsin?"

"Runs the cheese factory. According to the bureau, there's certain Italian gentlemen in Chicago who own the Red, White, and Green pizza franchise. It does a good cash business and that's always a great way to launder money. They make lotsa pizza. So they need cheese in bulk. So they bought this factory. I have no idea why they put Tony in there. By the way, you never told me what you're doing."

"Thanks, buddy." Broker slammed down the phone and jumped up from the chair. He pawed at the air. "Wisconsin road map!" Nina dashed out to look in the glove compartment of the Jeep. Broker rifled his kitchen drawers and shelves. Outside, Nina held her hands, palms up.

"Forget it, we'll grab one on the road," he yelled. They went sparky as frayed live wires. The cabin snapped with brown energy as they grabbed up their meager, unpacked travel bags. He had to call Larson and check on flights. The visas. Christ, their pa.s.sports were with the visa applications. Later.

They had money stuffed in the security belts. Credit cards for backup.

Weapons...

He pulled the Colt from his waistband, put it on the table. Went into the bedroom, glanced at the shotgun. Nah, too obvious. He picked up the Beretta, spare magazines for both handguns, and carried it all out. He stopped. Nina was hefting the heavy .45.