The Price of Blood Part 41

Nina said, "I'll just check them out. I'll be vague."

"No, no, not yet," protested Trin. "You'll be on a police list in five minutes." They resumed their argument. Broker continued to study traffic.

He was beginning to sense an underlying pattern to the rolling mayhem. Just had to knock his American road sense a little c.o.c.keyed, recalibrate his vision a few degrees...

An American would create instant carnage on the street. An American would want to know the rules so he could then measure himself against them, either obey or break them. At least test them. These people moved instinctively like water, all part of the same stream. Connected.

Nina said, "How do I know you and Broker won't dig it up and load it on the fishing boat and leave me stranded?"

Trin protested, "It's not much of a boat. The fact is, it's a lousy boat. We'd have to hire a bigger seaworthy boat and men to crew it; my people couldn't do it. The minute we let anyone else in on the secret, that's when our throats get cut. The same problem that Cyrus has." Exasperated, Trin waved his hands. "Where would we take it? I'm no sailor."

Broker glanced at his watch. "Ten minutes," he said. "Probably two thousand people on a thousand a.s.sorted means of transport went through this intersection-no light, no signs, in constant motion and not one pile-up. Now I know why we lost the war."

"Bulls.h.i.t," said Trin dryly, "accidents are common."

Broker turned back to them. "So what'd you two decide?"

"He has a kind of plan. We go to the beach and see if the stuff's there, then we go to the MIA folks, if Cyrus takes the bait," said Nina. She smiled tightly. "I presume you guys will leave some of it as bait."

Trin and Broker exchanged fast glances. "If there's a lot, we'll just set some...aside," speculated Broker.

"We could do that, figure out how to move it later," Trin said quickly.

"Okay. What about some guys with guns and handcuffs? Some cops?" asked Broker.

Trin nodded. "Nina was right last night. We need some a.s.sault rifles on the scene, not a bunch of disabled Viet Cong."

Nina inclined her head, accepting Trin's sop.

He went on. "But not cops. There's a militia post five kilometers from the vet's home. A platoon of local farm boys. They guard a lighthouse. I'm on good terms with them."

"How good?" asked Nina.

Trin shrugged. "I pay them regularly to look after the home. And, anyway, they respect the old fighters, my guys. They have enough firepower to deal with a band of thieves. Unless Cyrus has an army."

Broker clicked his teeth. "I doubt he has a dozen people all told. That's my job. I'll find out."

Trin smiled cautiously. "So we find it. Phil continues on to Hue. He contacts Cyrus. The timing will be tricky. If Cyrus goes for it we can't tip off the militia too soon. The whole Communist bureaucracy is just a radio call away. Once they hear buried gold...phew!" He tossed his hands in the air. "Many four-wheel-drive vehicles with capital A on the license plates."

Broker nodded in agreement. "a.s.s deep in office guys..."

Trin nodded. "Trying simultaneously to steal it themselves and take credit for catching the American pirates."

"What do you think?" Broker asked Nina.

She leaned forward and said, "Pardon me," as she carefully removed Trin's sungla.s.ses and peered into his eyes. "Black holes for pupils. At night he drinks, during the day he takes speed, bet you anything. We're taking our lives in our hands, Broker."

"Nina, will you let us do this d.a.m.n thing?" growled Broker.

Trin smiled tightly and replaced his gla.s.ses. "She should meet my ex-wife. They'd get along."

"Are we agreed?" asked Broker.

"I don't like being isolated with a bunch of militia troops, but you're right. If we telegraph, we'll have a carnival," said Nina. "It could work. Cyrus is loading the goods, the militia hits them...calls in the officials." She squinted at Broker. "It's your neck. You'll be alone in Hue City with LaPorte. And you'll be on that beach with him. Could be hairy if they resist-"

"True," said Trin, smiling broadly. "The militia are good kids, but not real great shots. Hopefully, they'll loan some weapons to my men at the home. They'll be a steady influence."

Broker was not sure whether to be encouraged or to make his will. He saw spooky old bones from the past get up and walk around in Trin's smile. But it was so crazy it just might work. "So that's it," said Broker. "My end's getting Cyrus to go for it."

"One more thing," said Trin. He reached in his attache case and produced a sheet of paper with a list in crisp, printed English. "CNN, Reuters, the Australian News Service. This afternoon, before we catch the train, you and Nina must visit these offices and get business cards from the reporters." Trin grinned broadly. "Lay groundwork. Hint that something is going to happen. Then, when Cyrus comes ash.o.r.e, we get to the nearest telephone and call them in. CNN can afford a helicopter. Maybe they can film it live." Trin jammed his finger dramatically into the air. "A scoop. Video uplink! That way Cyrus LaPorte will get his face on television in America." He turned to Nina. "You like it?"

"Aw, G.o.d," groaned Broker.

"You just might have something there," said Nina, narrowing her eyes. "Put it in plain view."

"Put you in plain view," muttered Broker. Nina wrinkled her nose.

"So," said Trin, replacing his sheet of paper in his case and zipping it shut. "We have a plan. We catch the train at seven tonight; I've already called. A car is arranged for us at Quang Tri City, noon tomorrow. Tomorrow night we check the site."

"You've had a busy morning," said Nina.

"I could be the best tour guide in Vietnam if the government would let me open my own business," lamented Trin. "But I served the South. I can only moonlight. I can arrange cars and drivers and hotels. I can't handle visas or tickets in and out of the country. Maybe after we do this-"

"So what do we do until the train leaves?" asked Broker.

"Play tourist, stay surrounded by people," said Trin. "When our driver gets here we'll visit the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum, then maybe the Dien Bien Phu Military Museum. This afternoon we visit the press."

Broker tried to sound upbeat about the thin plan. "If we pull this off, the government might buy us lunch for returning the gold."

"You mean on top of what you're planning to steal yourself?" Nina's voice was laced with sarcasm.

"First let's find out if there is gold," said Trin.

"Just a thought," said Broker.

Trin exploded with laughter. "I think a government official would give you a mathematics lesson. He would point out that you dropped more bombs on Indochina than on the armies of Germany and j.a.pan. That we took a million dead. That we have three hundred thousand of our own missing. And then he would look you straight in the eye and say, 'f.u.c.k you, Yankee, we won.'"

"I said it was just a thought," said Broker.

Trin lit a cigarette and stared dubiously at the smoke. "One thing bothers me," he said.

"Only one?" quipped Broker.

"Seriously," said Trin. "If ten tons of government gold would have been laying around the northern provinces in nineteen seventy-five I would have known about it. And Cyrus LaPorte is taking a h.e.l.l of a risk for a hundred million dollars..."

Hundred million. How many zeros and commas was that? Broker sat stunned.

Trin continued. "That's the world to you or me but he's a multimillionaire. He doesn't need it that much."

"He's hooked on the action. His ancestor was a famous pirate," said Broker. But he rubbed his chin. Shrewd point. He remembered Jimmy's sinister comment: It's not just gold...He and Nina exchanged fast glances. They had said nothing about Jimmy's story, the disguised pallet sitting outside the bank for a month.

Trin tapped his cigarette nervously in the ashtray and said, "Something is missing."

58.

THE HOTEL FACED A TRAFFIC CIRCLE AT THE EDGE of the Old City. The van arrived and, as they snailed through the cramped, smoky medieval alleys, Broker began to see evidence of the strip-malling of Hanoi. Gaudy mini-hotels and satellite dishes sprouted like brick and plaster burdock among the ramshackle twelfth-century architecture. Hanoi's callused palm had been crossed with silver and hope rode a shiny new motor scooter.

All the bicycles in the world jostled the van with anthill North Vietnamese energy and aggravated Broker's jet lag. His eyes ached. He wanted to get out of the city. Into the countryside and fresh air. Get the thing moving.

Mr. Hai, the driver, turned with a st.u.r.dy grin. "Roger, wilco, wait one," he said.

Just trying to be friendly.

Broker winced as a woman on a bike sc.r.a.ped the side of the van. He saw his first cop: gray shirt, Kermit green trousers with a red stripe. "The cops don't carry guns," he said.

"There are lots of guns, never very far away. Just criticize the government. You'll see," said Trin.

Nina sat quietly, meditating on the street scene. She toyed with one of the silver earrings, turned and smiled. "You know. If the people doing it are crazy enough, it just might work," she said.

They came out of the dense side streets and onto a broad French boulevard on which thousands of people waited patiently in line. Trin pointed at the top of a gray stone pyre that poked through the trees. They parked and waited while Trin ran into an office. He returned with tickets and slipped a guard a U.S. dollar. The guard escorted them to the head of the line. American tourists were allowed to take cuts. Broker averted his eyes from the squints of dour peasant veterans, their shirts clanking with medals, who stood patiently in the sun.

They joined a procession of elementary school kids who wore white shirts, blue trousers and skirts, and had red scarves tied around their necks. The kids walked in orderly ranks minded by their teachers.

"Pioneers," sniffed Trin. "Communist youth movement."

The shrine rose in blocky tiers of pharaonic Russian granite. Soldiers in red-trimmed rust-brown uniforms stood mannequin-stiff at attention. White gloves. Gleaming carbines. Huge urns of bonsai flanked the carpeted entrance. Trin smiled tightly. "I've never been in here."

"Me either," said Broker. The joke died on their faces under the quiet brown gaze of the Young Pioneers. Feeling like someone being initiated into a solemn pagan ritual, Broker walked up the steps, around a corner and shuffled down a ramp into the chilled, dimly lit inner sanctum. Nina squeezed his hand. "This is our first real date," she whispered reverently. Holding hands, they filed past the gla.s.s sarcophagus that held the frail, embalmed cadaver of the little man with the goatee who had stared down the Free World.

Back in the sunlight Trin fidgeted and lit a cigarette in an explosion of nerves. He muttered in Vietnamese. Broker put a hand to his shoulder. "You all right?"

Trin bared his teeth. "We said a lot of things. He said a single thing, 'Vietnam is one.'" Trin exhaled and recited under his breath. "The mountains can be flattened, the rivers can be drained, but one truth remains: Vietnam is one." Trin shook his head ruefully. "That guy was focused."

"I know somebody like that," said Broker playfully.

Nina punched him softly on the arm, then she raised her hand. "Listen," she said.

Broker c.o.c.ked his head and heard music in the trees. A PA speaker played Hanoi Muzac near the tomb. The procession of Young Pioneers marched away to a tw.a.n.ging rendition of "Oh Susannah."

Broker stared at Trin. Trin shrugged and shook his head. "On traditional instruments, too."

Nina laughed, really starting to enjoy herself. "I'm beginning to see how this place could screw up your mind."

Trin reverted to tour guide, leading them past an opulent French Colonial building to the contrasting austere wood house on stilts where Ho had lived, pointing out the pool where the carp would come when he clapped his hands.

"There's a debate in the party," said Trin on the way back to the van. "In his will President Ho specified that he wanted to be cremated and have his ashes scattered on three mountain tops. Maybe he will finally get his wish and be liberated from that Russian meat locker."

"Now what?" asked Nina.

"The military museum," said Trin, giving directions to Mr. Hai. The museum was a few minutes away, through the swarm of bicycles. Nina sat up abruptly and said, "h.e.l.lo! Is that what I think it is?"

"Absolutely," said Trin. "The last statue of Lenin in the world, I think." The statue dominated a square directly across from the museum.

"I should have brought a camera," said Nina. Trin immediately dug in his bag and produced an Instamatic.

"I want you two in front of the statue," said Nina. Trin had Mr. Hai pull over and explained the simple camera mechanism to Nina. They got out and a swirl of street kids surrounded them like blown gum wrappers. Selling postcards. Trin brushed off the kids and they walked up the shallow steps into the paved park toward the obstinate charcoal-gray statue. Paralyzed in larger-than-life bronze and contradictions, Lenin clasped his right lapel in one hand and knit his sooty devil's eyebrows.

Nina, camera in one hand, shooed a group of kids playing soccer out of her way. She directed Trin and Broker to stand back a few paces, took several snapshots, and then moved down the steps to get a wide-angle shot.

Broker put his arm around Trin's shoulder. It was very warm. A spoon band of cicadas clacked in gaps in the traffic. Foliage swooned in the breeze. A bright trickle of sweat ran from Trin's hairline down his temple and into his scars. Mr. Hai wove across the busy street toward the military museum ticket booth. A tall tourist meandered, adjusting his direction so as not to interfere with the picture-taking. Nina was bent forward, her purse dangling from her shoulder, camera extended, elbows out. A spear of sunlight pierced Broker's eyes from one of her earrings.

He blinked sweat.

They both sensed it ahead of conscious thought. Something in the languid summer tempo on the square showed its teeth. Trin and Broker dropped to a slight forward crouch. Broker's right hand flashed instinctively to the small of his back.

The anonymous black car angled from a cloud of bicycles and rolled over the curb. At the same moment the tall Caucasian in sungla.s.ses, floppy shorts, and a tourist cap accelerated from his amble across the square. The car and the trotting man converged on Nina. Not fast, but very smooth. Professional.

Broker and Trin were moving. Starting to shout.

Too late.

The rear door of the car swung open and the jogging man wrapped Nina in his arms and toppled with her into the open door. The car revved its engine, the window on the driver's side rolled down. Broker, running flat out, saw Virgil Fret, patches of his sweaty scalp showing through his stringy red hair, lean out from the driver's side. Grinning like a Bicycle deck joker, Virgil flipped Broker the bird. They could make out a struggle in the back seat through the windows. The door was not quite shut. An object flew out the door and flopped on the paving stones. Then Virgil popped the clutch and the car burned a squealing double track of rubber off the cobble ap.r.o.n.

Broker and Trin collided in a cloud of exhaust where the car had been a second before. Broker stooped and s.n.a.t.c.hed up the purse Nina had thrown from the car. Trin whipped off his sungla.s.ses and tried to catch the license plate as the car disappeared into a tornado of traffic.

"Did you get it?" yelled Trin.

"No," panted Broker. He opened the purse and saw that it contained the copy of the U.S. Code, her pa.s.sport and money. Then- "Wait." Broker's frown resembled Lenin's bronze wrinkles.

Across the street, down a block, he saw a lean raw-boned man wearing a safari shirt round the corner. Hatless, his head and shoulders bobbed, fearsome as a Roman eagle, above the crowd of Vietnamese pedestrians.

"Be cool," said Broker. "They're sending someone to deal. We don't want to draw any attention to ourselves." He pulled a wad of currency from his pocket and pa.s.sed fifty thousand dong notes out to the kids who had been playing soccer and who now stood wide-eyed in the vacuum of the kidnapping. The kids grabbed the bills; fifty thousand dong was the biggest denomination of Vietnamese currency, worth five bucks. They squealed and raced away.

The man paused and leaned on a wall in a patch of shade. When he saw the kids leave, he heaved his shoulders off the wall of the Dien Bien Phu Military Museum and casually raised a comb and thrust his hips in a posture that only American narcissism would strike. The long, oiled blond hair glittered in the sun.

Broker could hear Trin's tense breathing. He saw Hai coming across the street at an urgent trot.

"Send Mr. Hai back to the car," said Broker in a calm voice.

Trin barked in Vietnamese. Hai reluctantly stopped and walked back to the van, looking over his shoulder.

The American barged across the street, coming straight toward them. A bicycle skidded and overturned, brakes screeched.