Conspiracy (13 page)

“Vietnam?”

“Did Forester know anyone there?”

“No.”

“Did he ever go there?”

“Not that I know,” Amanda told them. “Did one of his investigations involve a Vietnamese national?”

“Not as far as anyone knows,” said Lia.

“He did ask you if you spoke French,” said Jackson.

Frey had already asked Amanda about the instant messages; now she realized why.

“I speak some. He never told me about a case,” repeated Amanda. “Maybe it did have something to do with one, but he never explained. If he was thinking about it, he changed his mind.”

“Really?” asked Jackson, his tone disbelieving.

Amanda shook her head. “He didn't discuss his cases. Not Jerry.”

They were silent for a few moments. Amanda's breath wheezed against her teeth and lips.

“He didn't use his work computer to send the e-mails we've been looking at,” said Lia. “Would you happen to know—would he have used yours?”

“Mine?”

“A personal one?”

“I don't have a home computer,” said Amanda. “I haven't had one for a year.”

“What do you use for browsing the Web?”

“I don't. I—sometimes I use the computer at work. To shop. But I don't need one. Just the work one. And the Service has that.”

They were silent again. Amanda felt guilty that she had never gotten the old computer fixed or replaced. Maybe if she had . . .

Ridiculous. But she couldn't get rid of the thought. If one thing had been different somewhere, her lover might still be alive.

“You said that he didn't discuss specific cases with you,” said Jackson. “And not this case.”

Amanda nodded.

“But I would imagine you'd know how he usually went about working on cases?”

“What do you mean?”

“He used stenographic notebooks,” said Lia. “We only found one in this case, and that had been back in his office, not with him when he died. Would that be unusual?”

Amanda thought of the notebooks he used, brown steno pads, which he often folded over so he could carry them in his back pocket.

Had she seen one that evening in the room?

No. He often kept them in the car—he had a habit of tucking them away as soon as he got in.

Where?

In the back, under the seat.

Maybe they'd already found the notebooks and were trying to trick her somehow. Did they know about Jerry's
other
habits, his paranoia about being locked out of anywhere? Did they know about the extra key he kept under the bumper—a key she still had?

Or the room key?

Was this a trick?

It would be a classic investigative maneuver: curry sympathy, extract as much information “softly” as they could, then begin pressing her.

Did they think she killed him?

God, they must. It was all a setup.

“He did take notes in a steno pad,” Amanda said calmly. “Do you think—you're asking me this because he didn't kill himself?”

“Do
you
think he killed himself?” asked Jackson.

“No.” Amanda knew she shouldn't say anything—she should be quiet, silent—but the words blurted from her mouth. “I can't believe he'd do it. His boys, especially the older one. This will destroy them.”

“He is taking it hard,” said Lia.

So they'd been there. It was a trap.

“Is there anyone you know of who would want to kill him?” asked Jackson.

Amanda turned toward him. Jackson might be old, but he was the vicious one, the classic wolf in lamb's clothing.

Amanda shook her head. “Have you looked into his cases?”

“The Service hasn't found any that stood out,” said Lia. “They're still reviewing them, but they seem to have no real leads.”

“Maybe you have a different opinion,” said Jackson.

“No.” Amanda rose. “I'm sorry, I'm supposed to be at work. I really have to leave. I have to go.”

The two NSA officers exchanged a glance, then rose.

“Here's a number you can reach us at,” said Jackson, producing a card.

“Do you have a card, too?” Amanda asked Lia.

“I don't. You could just call that number and ask for me. Lia.”

“Just Lia?”

“They'll know who you're looking for.”

 

“
SHE SEEMED EXTREMELY
uneasy,” said Jackson when they reached the car.

“Her boyfriend just died,” said Lia.

“When I was in the State Department,” said Jackson, “some supervisors would put pressure on employees who were having affairs. Does that still go on?”

Lia felt her face flush. “No.”

She could never imagine Charlie killing himself—but if he died, and the circumstances were arranged so that it appeared as if it were a suicide, how would she feel? How would she act? Would people think that their affair—not exactly a secret—had somehow caused his death?

Especially if it was a suicide. Everyone would be thinking that Amanda Rauci somehow drove Forester to kill himself. First the wife, then the girlfriend; it was all too much for him.

“I guess she's just upset,” said Jackson. “It is painful to lose a lover.”

 

AMANDA LEFT THE
building a few minutes after the NSA people. She thought that they might be watching her, and so she acted as nonchalant as she could, backing slowly from her space and heading on the highway exactly as if she were going to headquarters.

Were they following her? Amanda took an exit to get some gas, watching carefully. She'd been trained to spot surveillance teams and didn't see any of the usual giveaways, but the one thing that experience had impressed on her was that you could never be sure enough that you weren't being followed. She decided against running an aggressive driving pattern to flush out anyone following her; doing that would tip them off to the fact that she knew she was being followed.

Her best course was to act naturally—go into the office, sit through whatever crap she was supposed to sit through, then leave. She'd pretend to do some shopping, slip away then.

But what if she was arrested when she went to the office?

Arrested? For what?

Murder?

No way. No.

What if someone had seen her at the hotel? What if she'd left some print or DNA somewhere? Even a tear might give her away.

The NSA wouldn't be involved then. It would be FBI agents.

Maybe they'd simply lied. A weird lie to throw her off.

She'd already spoken to the FBI agents, dumb jerks who weren't anywhere near as thorough as the NSA people. Or maybe that was the game plan—she'd never be on her guard with the NSA people, right? Because they were spies, interested in foreign intrigue, not simple murder.

What the hell had Jerry been working on?

So was there another notebook? If so, maybe something in there would tell her what had happened.

Only if someone else had killed him.

They thought that was possible, though. Otherwise they wouldn't have come to see her.

Assuming they were telling the truth.

Amanda was so consumed in her thoughts that she missed the exit for her office. As she passed she instinctively slapped on the brake, then pulled onto the shoulder. She slapped the wheel angrily.

She was acting like an inept jerk. Paranoid and distraught.

She should be able to keep her head clear. She was a federal agent, trained to stay calm in an emergency. What if she'd been on an assignment? What if she'd been guarding someone?

But that was exactly the point. In that case, she'd have a script to follow. In that case, she'd be removed from the situation, distant. It would be easy. She wouldn't know anything, or anyone, but her job.

Amanda took a pair of very long breaths. She got back into traffic, and headed toward the next exit.

I'll dump the car at a Metro stop, she decided. I'll find that notebook. Because if they do think it's murder, then sooner or later they're going to accuse me.

It's what I would do if I were following the script.

 

WHEN DEAN ARRIVED
in Vietnam the first time, he hadn't been prepared for the heat. It hit him with his first step off the plane. He was soaked in sweat by the time he stepped onto the tarmac. He felt as if he'd stepped into the mouth of a whale.

He wasn't quite prepared for it now, either.

The 757 had parked a good distance from the terminal, leaving the passengers to walk down a set of portable steps to a nearby bus. It had just rained, and there were large, shallow puddles on the cement apron. Dean glanced to his right and caught sight of a row of old hangar buildings, brown half-pipes made of corrugated metal. Thirty-some years before, the buildings had housed U.S. Air Force fighter-bombers; now they looked like overgrown gardening sheds.

“I thought this was the dry season,” said Tommy, picking up the pace toward the squat, open-mouthed bus nearby. The door was where the hood would be on a truck.

“Dry means less than a monsoon,” said Dean. The air steamed with the recent rain, though by Vietnamese standards the seventy-seven-degree temperature was mild.

“Bring back memories?” asked Karr, sliding into a seat.

“Not really.”

“That's good. Warn me if you feel a flashback coming on.”

Dean had actually been to the Saigon airport only once, to pick up someone. It had been nighttime and from Dean's perspective the airport consisted only of security checkpoints and a big, poorly illuminated building. So rather than
seeming familiar or even nostalgic, the airport to him now seemed blandly generic, as if it could be anywhere in Asia. The large hall where the passport control was located reminded him of the airport in Istanbul, Turkey, where he had been a few months before: somewhat modern, somewhat utilitarian, a place where a crowd could be counted on not to loiter.

The customs line was only a dozen people long. A Vietnamese woman in front of Dean slipped a twenty-dollar bill into her passport. The clerk took it without comment, studied her documents, then waved her through.

There was no reaction from the clerk when Dean presented his American passport; he flipped through it quickly, then handed it back.

“Have a good day,” said the man, reaching for Karr's documents behind Dean.

“Hello, Charlie. How does it feel to be back in Vietnam?” asked Jeff Rockman, the runner back in the Art Room. He was speaking to Dean through the Deep Black communications system, partly embedded in Dean's skull.

“Fine,” said Dean, turning around to wait for Karr.

“We're in their video security system,” said Rockman. “Smile—you're looking right at the camera.”

Dean scowled instead. The Art Room regularly “invaded” computer-controlled video security systems to keep tabs on operatives during a mission. Ironically, the more sophisticated the system, the easier it was for the Desk Three hackers to penetrate. This system, which transmitted its images not only to the local security office but also to an interior ministry monitor in Ho Chi Minh City, was about as secure as a child's piggy bank.

Karr joined him and they walked down the steps to the baggage claim area.

“A woman bribed the passport guy with twenty bucks,” said Dean, talking to the Art Room though he pretended to be speaking to Karr. “What was that about?”

“Commonly done,” answered Thu De Nghiem, the Art Room's Vietnamese interpreter and an expert on the local
culture. “It's a holdover from the past. A lot of returning Vietnamese will include ‘tips' in their passports, though it brings them nothing. You will find a lot of petty corruption in the country. It's pathetic really. A tip worth a few cents at most can get you very far.”

“I'll remember that.”

Karr led the way to the luggage carousels, where their suitcases had yet to appear. As they joined the small knot of people milling around the conveyor belts, Dean spotted two men in suits watching tourists from the far end of the hall. A maintenance worker mopped up the spotless floor just to their right.

“Your bags are being searched in the room behind the belt,” said Rockman. “Shouldn't be long.”

“I hope they don't steal my razor,” said Karr. “I really need a shave.”

A half hour later, reunited with their luggage, Dean and Karr passed through the customs area without being stopped for an official inspection. Just past the door, a row of people crowded against a waist-high temporary metal fence, searching for the faces of relatives. The line extended out toward the main hall of the reception area, overflowing outside.

“I'm guessing that's our driver,” said Karr, pointing at a silver-haired man near the door. He held a cardboard sign with the words “Car/Bean” on it.

“Kin chow,” said Karr, sticking out his hand.

“Xin chào,”
said Dean, correcting his pronunciation. The words for “hello” sounded like “seen chaw” to an American. The rhythm and tone—a flat, slightly drawn-out singsong—were as important as the sound of the consonants.
“Tôi tên là Charlie.”

“And I'm Tommy,” said Karr, shaking the driver's hand.

“Very nice to meet you,” said the driver. “I am Lu. You speak Vietnamese?”

“I know a few phrases,” said Dean.
“R
t vui
uoc g
p anh.
I am very pleased to be able to meet you.”