Toby said, “you could try telling her the truth. That you’re not after her. You’re after the three million bounty.”
“Two million.”
“Two million, three million, what’s the difference? It’s a lot of dough.”
“And I could use a lot of help,” Guy said with quiet significance.
Toby sighed. “Okay,” he said, at last wheeling around to look at him. “You want a name, I’ll give you one. May or may not help you. Try Alain Gerard, a Frenchman, living these days in Saigon. He used to have close ties with the Company, knew all the crap going on in Vientiane.”
“Ex-Company and living in Saigon? Why haven’t the Vietnamese kicked him out?”
“He’s useful to them. During the war he made his money exporting, shall we say, raw pharmaceuticals. Now he’s turned humanitarian in his old age. U.S. trade embargoes cut the Viets off from Western markets. Gerard brings in medical supplies from France, antibiotics, X-ray film. In return, they let him stay in the country.”
“Can I trust him?”
“He’s ex-Company.”
“Then I can’t trust him.”
Toby grunted. “You seem to trust me.”
“You’re different.”
“That’s only because I owe you, Barnard. Though I often think you should’ve left me to burn in that plane.” Toby kneaded his senseless thighs. “No one has much use for half a man.”
“Doesn’t take legs to make a man, Toby.”
“Ha. Tell that to Uncle Sam.” Using his powerful arms, Toby shifted his weight in the chair. “When’re you leaving for Saigon?”
“Tomorrow morning. I moved my flight up a few days.” Guy’s palms were already sweating at the thought of boarding that Air France plane. He tossed back a mind-numbing gulp of Scotch. “Wish I could take a boat instead.”
Toby laughed. “You’d be the first boat person going back to Vietnam. Still scared to fly, huh?”
“White knuckles and all.” He set his glass down and headed for the door. “Thanks for the drink. And the tip.”
“I’ll see what else I can do for you,” Toby called after him. “I still might have a few contacts in-country. Maybe I can get ’em to watch over you. And the woman. By the way, is anyone keeping an eye on her tonight?”
“Some buddies of Puapong’s. They won’t let anyone near her. She should get to the airport in one piece.”
“And what happens then?”
Guy paused in the doorway. “We’ll be in Saigon. Things’ll be safer there.”
“In Saigon?” Toby shook his head. “Don’t count on it.”
THE CROWD AT THE Bong Bong Club had turned wild, the men drunkenly shouting and groping at the stage as the girls, dead-eyed, danced on. No one took notice of the two men huddled at a dark corner table.
“I am disappointed, Mr. Siang. You’re a professional, or so I thought. I fully expected you to deliver. Yet the woman is still alive.”
Stung by the insult, Siang felt his face tighten. He was not accustomed to failure—or to criticism. He was glad the darkness hid his burning cheeks as he set his glass of vodka down on the table. “I tell you, this could not be predicted. There was interference—a man—”
“Yes, an American, so I’ve been told. A Mr. Barnard.”
Siang was startled. “You’ve learned his name?”
“I make it a point to know everything.”
Siang touched his bruised face and winced. This Mr. Barnard certainly had a savage punch. If they ever crossed paths again, Siang would make him pay for this humiliation.
“The woman leaves for Saigon tomorrow,” said the man.
“Tomorrow?” Siang shook his head. “That does not leave me enough time.”
“You have tonight.”
“Tonight? Impossible.” Siang had, in fact, already spent the past four hours trying to get near the woman. But the desk clerk at the Oriental had stood watch like a guard dog over the passkeys, the hotel security officer refused to leave his post near the elevators, and a bellboy kept strolling up and down the hall. The woman had been untouchable. Siang had briefly considered climbing up the balcony, but his approach was hampered by two vagrants camped on the riverbank beneath her window. Though hostile-looking, the tramps had posed no real threat to a man like Siang, but he hadn’t wanted to risk a foolish, potentially messy scene.
And now his professional reputation was at stake.
“The matter grows more urgent,” said the man. “This must be done soon.”
“But she leaves Bangkok tomorrow. I can make no guarantees.”
“Then do it in Saigon. Whether you finish it here or there, it has to be done.”
Siang was stunned. “Saigon? I cannot return—”
“We’ll send you under Thai diplomatic cover. A cultural attaché, perhaps. I’ll decide and arrange the entry papers accordingly.”
“Vietnamese security is tight. I will not be able to bring in any—”
“The diplomatic pouch goes out twice a week. Next drop is in three days. I’ll see what weapons I can slip through. Until then, you’ll have to improvise.”
Siang fell silent, wondering how it would feel to once again walk the streets of Saigon. And he wondered about Chantal. How many years had it been since he’d seen her? Did she still hate him for leaving her behind? Of course, she would; she never forgot a grudge. Somehow, he’d have to work his way back into her affections. He didn’t think that would be too difficult. Life in the new Vietnam must be hard these days, especially for a woman. Chantal liked her comforts; for a few precious luxuries, she might do anything. Even sell her soul.
She was a woman he could understand.
He looked across the table. “There will be expenses.”
The man nodded. “I can be generous. As you well know.”
Already Siang was making a mental list of what he’d need. Old clothes—frayed shirts and faded trousers—so he wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. Cigarettes, soap and razor blades for bartering favors on the streets. And then he’d need a few special gifts for Chantal.…
He nodded. The bargain was struck.
“One more thing,” said the man as he rose to leave.
