Conspiracy (33 page)

 

ABOUT HALFWAY BACK
to Saigon, Qui turned to Dean and asked again if he had been in the Marines.

“Yes, I was.”

She asked which unit. He hesitated a moment, wondering if somehow she knew of the ambush against Phuc Dinh. But she had a different motive.

“I met a young man, a Marine, from First Division,” she began. “It must have been 1966. This was before I married, very much before. I was such a younger woman.”

Dean glanced at the side of her face. The memory or the telling of it seemed to make her very old, drawing deep lines at the corners of her eyes and furrows above her brow.

“He was a good young man. We met in Saigon while he was on leave or furlough; I forget the word. He spoke French—he'd studied it in school, and was not very good.”

Qui smiled at Dean.

“He tried very hard. It was charming. And he was handsome. Like you were, I'd imagine.” Qui turned back to look at the road. “When he died, they didn't allow me to go to the funeral. One of his friends came to our house and told me. He died while on patrol. Three other men were wounded taking back his body.”

Not knowing what to say, Dean said nothing.

“It seems odd that they would bury a Marine here,” said Qui. “Even in haste. If they knew where the body was.”

“I agree.”

“You aren't with the Monetary Fund,” said Qui.

“No,” said Dean. He imagined Rockman wincing back at the Art Room.

Qui reached over and tapped his hand. “Good luck.”

Dean caught her fingers, and held them for a moment. “Thank you,” he said. “Good luck to you.”

They drove the next hour in silence.

 

DEAN NOTICED THE
car following them when they stopped for gas about ten miles outside Saigon. A white Toyota pickup pulled past as the attendant filled up the truck and two jerry cans Qui kept in the trunk; Dean noticed the truck again as soon as they were back on the road.

He reached to the back of his belt to make sure his com system was on, then pointed out the truck to Qui.

“Are you sure he's following us?” she asked.

“Pretty sure,” Dean said. “White Toyota pickup, two middle-aged guys in it,” he added, describing the truck for the Art Room, though of course Qui thought he was talking to her.

“Maybe someone became interested in you in Quang Nam,” said Qui. “Or maybe it's a coincidence.”

“I don't believe in coincidences.”

The Art Room asked Dean if he could get the license plate numbers of the truck, but the sun was starting to fade and the vehicle wasn't quite close enough for him to do that while they were driving.

“Charlie, Tommy Karr is about ten minutes away,” said Rockman a short while later. “He'll get a look at who's following you and we can decide what to do then.”

“Stay on the highway,” Dean told Qui. “I want to figure out what's going on here.”

“We're almost in the city. If it's the security forces, they'll follow us everywhere.”

“Let's just keep going for now.”

Dean slid lower in his seat, trying to see the driver and passenger of the other car in the side mirror. The passenger seemed to be frowning. Dean leaned over, trying to get a better view into the cab of the truck.

Qui suddenly veered sharply to the left. Before Dean knew what was happening, she had crossed over the center meridian and was heading in the other direction. She veered far to the right and got off the exit, pulling another sharp turn at the end of the ramp and sliding onto a road going under the highway.

“What are you doing?” Dean said.

“I don't care to be followed.”

“That's just going to tip them off that we made them,” said Dean.

“So?”

“If there's a whole team, the other cars will move in. We won't shake them.”

Qui took a quick succession of turns and ended up on another highway.

“We're not being followed now,” she told him as she accelerated. “If we were being followed earlier.”

“We were,” said Dean.

“I'll take your word for it.”

 

TOMMY KARR HAD
just started looking for the white pickup truck when Rockman told him to stand by.

“Kinda hard to stand by when you're driving a motorcycle,” said Karr.

“Dean's off the road. I don't know what's going on.”

“Which way?”

“North of you. A mile.”

Karr leaned down close to his handlebars, urging the bike to go a little faster. He tucked past a pair of tractor-trailers and neatly bisected a pair of sedans.

“They went off that exit that's coming up on your left,” said Rockman. “His driver is trying to shake them. Find a place to turn around.”

No place better than right in front of him, thought Karr. He hit his brakes and skidded across the narrow meridian strip, power-gliding in the new direction. The bike wasn't that familiar and his timing was off; he nearly went under the wheels of a large bus. But Karr managed to flick away at the
last moment, squeezing between the bus and a van. He missed the exit but got off on the shoulder just beyond it, bumping down the rocky slope to the pavement.

“So I'm looking for a Toyota pickup?” he asked, following Rockman's directions to the highway Dean and Qui had just gotten onto.

“White Toyota. That's right.”

“Don't see it.”

“They must have lost him.”

“Too bad,” said Karr.

 

DEAN TOLD QUI
to drop him off at the riverfront. He didn't want her going anywhere near the hotel—whoever was following them might be waiting for him there. As Qui wended her way around toward the water, she told him that they were being followed again.

“Big guy on a motorcycle,” she said. “He has a helmet with a dark visor.”

“Yeah, I know him,” said Dean. “He's on my side.”

Qui glanced at Dean but said nothing.

“You can pull in over there,” he told her.

“What is your real name?” Qui asked when she stopped the car.

“Charlie Dean.”

“Well, good luck, Mr. Dean.”

Dean grabbed his bag and began walking, looking for a place where he could plant a video bug to make sure he wasn't being followed. Karr, meanwhile, had taken a turn behind him and was circling around, also checking for surveillance.

It took them nearly twenty minutes to make sure no one had followed. Karr drove up to Dean as he stood watching some small boats unload.

“Man, I'm starving,” said Karr. “Let's go get some noodles.”

“Our hotel's probably being watched,” Dean told Karr and the Art Room. “We can't go back there.”

“Agreed,” said Telach. The Art Room theorized that the security people had been sent by Cam Tre Luc, who had made inquiries about Dean following their “meeting” at
Saigon Rouge. “He may just want to keep an eye on you, but there's no sense finding out.”

“You want us to get new digs, or are we bugging out?” said Karr.

“Probably leaving, but that's Mr. Rubens' call. Lay low for a few hours. Avoid the police.”

“Let's go get some food,” suggested Dean, worried about Qui though he wasn't sure exactly what to do.

“Now there you go,” said Karr. “For once, you've got your priorities straight.”

 

AS HE WALKED
up the path to the tidy brick Georgian, Rubens nodded at the plainclothes guard. Dressed in a black suit despite the prospects of a blisteringly hot day, the man was the only visible component of an elaborate security team and system covering the upscale suburban Maryland home. Without him, the house would have appeared completely unremarkable, little different from the cardiac specialist's home next door or the upper-level manager's across the street.

That was the idea, though as Rubens rang the bell to Admiral Devlon Brown's house, the thought occurred to him that it was perhaps slightly galling that the man responsible for the NSA should live in a house that symbolized only a moderate amount of achievement. Architecture reflected a man's worth, at least in Rubens' opinion, and while one might choose to be subtle, even subtlety showed.

Admiral Brown apparently did not share that opinion. He was waiting for Rubens inside the family room off the kitchen, sitting on a couch with his legs propped up on a nearby ottoman. He wore a blanket and his face was as white as the night Rubens had seen him in the hospital after the heart attack. But his voice was stronger.

“William, thanks for coming by. I hate doing business by telephone. I've come to hate it more and more,” said Brown, motioning him to sit. “Breakfast?”

“I had a bagel earlier.”

“Not with butter, I hope.”

“As a matter of fact, no.” Rubens chose a chair that had been borrowed from the dining room, pulling it close to the admiral's legs.

“I've been listening to my doctor's scoldings so much I'm becoming a scold myself,” admitted the admiral. “Coffee?”

“I'm trying to cut back.”

“Too bad. I'm not allowed any myself,” said Brown. “I have to live vicariously, smelling the aroma.”

Rubens had come to discuss several matters, the most important of which was the investigation into the Vietnamese assassination plot.

Or, more accurately, non-plot.

“Whether the CIA plot was a figment of an agent's imagination remains to be seen,” said Rubens, who suspected as much, “but in any event, neither the attack on Senator McSweeney nor Special Agent Forester's death is related to it. What they may be related to, however, is the theft of government money some forty years ago.”

Brown seemed to gain back some of his color as Rubens continued, briefly summarizing the story.

“Two suicides and an assassination attempt,” said Brown. “They would all seem related somehow. But why is it coming to a head now?”

“I simply don't know. I assume there is much more here than we have uncovered. The question is whether to turn this over to the FBI or to continue investigating it ourselves. The NSC finding is open-ended,” Rubens added. “It states that we should investigate the assassination attempt. But it was issued with the idea that a foreign government was behind the attempt. This would seem to be a domestic matter.”

“Have you discussed this with the President?”

Rubens had a long-standing personal relationship with President Marcke. Nonetheless, Rubens felt slighted at the question, for it suggested that he might subvert his boss. It was the sort of thing that Bing would accuse him of.

“I don't see a need to go directly to the President,” said Rubens. “I've briefed Ms. Bing, and as far as the missing money goes, there's no proof that it's a consideration here.
And in any event, I would come to you first before briefing the President,” said Rubens.

“I appreciate that.”

“I have another concern,” added Rubens. “The National Security Advisor is trying to build a case against relations with Vietnam. She wants our operations there to continue, even though I've told her there is no point.”

Brown put his fingers together in front of his chest, pushing them back and forth as if they were an old-fashioned bellows, generating air for a smith's forge.

“If Senator McSweeney stole the money, who would be trying to kill him? One of the Vietnamese who was supposed to get it?” Brown asked.

“Maybe someone who was double-crossed,” said Rubens. “Or perhaps the person who is trying to kill him is worried that the senator will expose him in some way.”

“Hmmm.”

“There is also the possibility that it has nothing to do with the theft of the money. Both the FBI and the Secret Service say the attempt fits the profile of a disgruntled or disturbed individual.”

“All assassins are disturbed, aren't they?” said Brown.

Unless they work for us, thought Rubens, though he didn't say it.

“Do you think McSweeney is a thief?” A sly smile broke across Brown's lips. “Any more than the average politician?”

“I'm afraid I don't know him well enough to judge,” said Rubens.

“The NSC finding did not say you should stop if Vietnam was not involved. Close down whatever part of the operation isn't helping you.”

“And Ms. Bing?”

“I'll deal with her when the time comes. A good wrassle will do me a world of good.”

Rubens nodded, then moved to the next item he'd come to discuss.

 

“
JIMMY FINGERS!
”

James “Jimmy Fingers” Fahey turned to his left and spotted Eric Blica coming down the steps of the exposition hall. Jimmy Fingers immediately veered away from the campaign people he'd been walking with.

“Eric, howareya?” he said, pumping Blica's hand.

“Your nickname's a liability in a place like this,” said Blica. “Looked to me like half a dozen people were ready to pull out handcuffs and arrest you.”

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?” said Jimmy Fingers. “What are you doing here?”

“It's a law enforcement conference. FBI needs to be represented, right?” Blica was a deputy director at the agency; he ranked third or fifth in the hierarchy, depending on the whim of the director.

“The FBI is involved in law enforcement?”

“Yuck, yuck. What's your boss up to?”

“Sitting on a panel and hoping to get an endorsement from the sheriffs' association, among others. I think there's still time to work in something about the Bureau into the speech,” added Jimmy Fingers. “How their budget ought to be cut.”

“Hey, come on. We're working for you.”

“You haven't found that shooter yet,” said Jimmy Fingers.

“We're working on it,” said Blica. “There's a theory that the Vietnamese are involved.”