Operation Norfolk (6 page)

The first man nodded to the second, and the second agent pulled down a large wall chart showing the multitude of islands around the Solomons. The first agent said, “I didn't say that we had no intelligence on the island. I said we've been unable to get an insider to cooperate with us and feed us data. We have, of course, all the sophisticated machinery of intelligence gathering at our disposal. Through those means, we've compiled a fair amount of information on Cwong. We'll tell you what we know, what might be helpful, but, of course, we can't let you write any of it down. It's all highly sensitive material. It is, in fact, completely illegal for us to be involved with an operation like this at all. That's why we can offer you only limited assistance.”

“I understand,” said Hawker.

The second agent stepped forward, tapped the chart, and said, “Con Ye Cwong bought this island”—he touched a small, fluke-shaped island northwest of Guadalcanal—“ten years ago, not long after the fall of Saigon. Apparently others in the North Vietnamese army felt Cwong had grown too powerful. There was even a plot to have him assassinated. But they offered Cwong the option of leaving, and he jumped at the chance. Ended up in the South Pacific with about four hundred thousand in gold and U.S. currency and a handful of men. He began looking around for some remote estate to buy, and then he got wind of Kira-Kira, an island of about five thousand acres. Used to be an Australian settlement there, grew sheep, coconuts, pineapples, stuff like that. Hell of a thick jungle in the middle of the island. About fifteen years ago a couple of Japanese soldiers were discovered there, leftovers from World War II. Got blown off their ships and still weren't sure the war was really over. They were half crazy, of course, but it gives you some idea of what the interior of the island is like. Those men lived there unseen for thirty years, unnoticed, so far off the unbeaten path they had no inkling the war was over.”

The vigilante was getting interested in the island, interested in Cwong as a person for the first time. He listened carefully.

The second agent said, “As you know, Cwong really has two main business operations going at the same time. One of those businesses is drug trafficking. That's how he made his fortune. Now he continues the business not just for profit, but out of genuine hatred for the American military. Truth is, we think he'd give the drugs away for free because he knows it's one of the surest methods of subversion available. A high percentage of military intelligence leaks have been traced directly or indirectly to drug dependence, and Cwong's organization is almost always at the root of it. But he's willing to trade drugs for something other than military secrets. He often trades for weaponry. American weaponry stolen by military personnel so they can keep their habits supplied, or so they can profit by selling the drugs to service people who are addicts. It's not just nickel-and-dime stuff, either. Five months ago ten gross of M-16s turned up missing from a military base on Guam. Not long after that an experimental Chrysler-made ATC full-track amphibian disappeared from the base at Honolulu—”

“They stole a
tank?”
Hawker asked incredulously.

“It's more than just a tank,” the first agent cut in. “When we said experimental, we meant just that. This vehicle was capable of crossing five miles of heavy sea, driving up a rocky beach, ramming its way through thick jungle, and then attacking with either conventional ordnance or new laser weaponry. How in the hell they got it out, no one knows to this day. But a sting operation turned up an in-house drug ring that almost undoubtedly dealt with General Cwong. Cwong's become one of the world's leading armament and munitions dealers to outlaw groups around the world. He supplies any terrorist organization, so long as it has the money and so long as it's fighting the Western world. He's kind of like those stolen car dealers back in New York or L.A. A buyer tells Cwong what's needed, and Cwong's organization goes to work trying to steal it. He's got one hell of a big arsenal on that little island of his. And he blew a channel through the coral reef that surrounds the place so deep draft vessels can get in and out. But that channel is the only way to get in, so he has his own little fortress, like a separate country, really.”

Hawker nodded. “What I don't understand,” he said, “is why the United States just doesn't go in there under the guise of making some arrests, then use it as an excuse to blow the place apart. I mean, it sounds like you have enough proof.”

The first agent said, “We'd like to. No, we'd
love
to. General Cwong has been a thorn in our side for too long. And if Kira-Kira was a U.S. or British protectorate, we'd take every legal means available to us to put him out of business. But it isn't. It's part of a small archipelago controlled by the French”—the agent cleared his throat uncomfortably—“and, if you know anything about the political workings of the French, you can understand why our hands are tied.”

Hawker knew about the French. The French were, and had always been, the crybabies of the Western world. Politically they were forever getting themselves into trouble, and then they sat cowering in the corner while braver allies bailed them out—only to bite the hands of those same allies the moment the trouble was past. Personally the French people Hawker had known had been aloof, self-important snobs who seemed to go to great lengths not to bathe. On both levels, the French were first in only two areas: the first to cry for help and the first to refuse to help. He was not surprised the French had offered asylum to General Cwong. Fat bribes could smooth out nearly any wrong—including a hundred years of stormy French and Vietnamese history.

“So free-lancing is your only choice,” Hawker said.

“Right,” said the first agent. “And if you're linked to us in any way … well, let's just say it will be very unpleasant for all concerned.”

Hawker almost said,
Which is why you'd prefer it if I didn't make it out alive
, but didn't. Instead he nodded to the charts and said, “Then let's get to work. I want every scrap of information you have.
Everything
. Everything from Cwong's muster power to his personal habits.”

The second agent unrolled another bundle of charts while the third one lifted a large dossier file onto the table. The first agent said, “I think maybe we'd better send for some coffee, Mr. Hawker. We're going to be here for quite a spell.”

eight

The three agents cut him loose around 10
P.M.
They gave him a big brown envelope, which he opened after the government car deposited him on one of the back streets of Port Moresby, down by the wharfs. In it he found five thousand dollars in cash—twenties, fifties, and hundreds—all used bills. He folded the bills in four thick stacks, stuck one in each pocket of his khaki sea-worsted slacks, and buttoned the pockets shut.

Port Moresby was like every other tropical seaport town he'd been in. The buildings were dull, wind-blasted by the open ocean. The place smelled of diesel fuel and creosote and rust. The creaking cargo ships threw huge silhouettes against the South Pacific sky, and men walked in clusters through the narrow streets. Passing, Hawker caught snatches of strange languages: Arabic, Spanish, Japanese. One of those world crossroads, dingy and gaudy and filled with smells.

Hawker found the hotel the agents had recommended, the New Ireland, a tall old building with red carpet and a clunking elevator on pullies. Like a kid, the first thing he did when he entered his room was go into the bathroom, flush the toilet, and watch the water spin clockwise. Sure enough, he was on the underside of the globe, the place where everything works backward.

He thought about room service for dinner, then decided to go out. He showered, changed into a fresh Egyptian cotton shirt with epaulets, pulled on his felt planter's hat, put a hundred dollars in his pocket and a thousand in fifties and hundreds in his money belt, then put the rest, plus three thousand in cash of his own money, in an envelope and left it in the hotel safe.

He walked the streets for a while, almost stopping once at a Chinese restaurant and another time at a place that promised real Australian food—whatever that was—before spying a neon sign that read
THE SAIGON: VIETNAMESE CUISINE
.

Now,
that
might be interesting, thought Hawker.

The vigilante pulled open the door and saw a dimly lit room hazy with smoke. Pushing aside the beads, he stepped inside to the weird, discordant twangs and bongs of Asian music.

As his eyes adjusted, he saw a row of men hunched over their drinks at the bar, saw two sloe-eyed Asian women in tight silk skirts standing at the end of the bar, saw that half the tables were filled, with not a single Caucasian face in the place. He also noticed that the low buzz of conversation had halted as soon as he walked in, all eyes on the big dark-haired American with broad shoulders and Humphrey Bogart hat. That is, if they knew who Bogart was. He waited, wondering if one of the Asian women was a hostess. When neither of them made a move to show him to a table, he walked to the back of the room and sat down at one away from the wall, one where he'd have plenty of legroom. Still, neither of the women made a move toward him. He had the unmistakable impression that he wasn't exactly wanted at The Saigon and probably wouldn't get waited on—a fact that didn't bother him at all. As the Mormons said in those commercials, he'd turn the moment around.

Hawker stood, turned to the alleged hostesses, and said in a pleasant voice, “Excuse me. I'd like to order dinner.” The two women looked at each other, then at the tiny, wiry bartender. The bartender nodded. The youngest woman slid a menu off the bar with long red fingernails and came haughtily to Hawker's table, hips wagging, long black silken hair draped over one shoulder, and eyes burning. She dropped the menu in front of him and turned to go. “Wait a minute,” Hawker said.

The woman stopped, looking over her shoulder at him.

“This thing is in Vietnamese. I don't read Vietnamese.”

This elicited a big sigh from the waitress. “You come Vietnamese restaurant. What you expect?”

Hawker smiled. “Some help, maybe.”

Another big sigh. “You eggspect me read whole thing? Read whole menu? Many things on menu. Maybe you better go some other place. You don't eggspect me read whole menu, do you?”

Hawker's smile broadened. “No. What I'd like you to do is choose something for me. You look like a woman who has good judgment when it comes to food. I'll put it in your hands. But first, a beer. Can you do that? A beer, then dinner.”

A third sigh, only this one wasn't so big. She seemed to be softening some. “We have many beers,” she said. “Many kinds. You want me tell you whole list? How I know what kind of beer okay?”

Hawker said, “Any kind of beer is okay. As long as it comes in a bottle and has bubbles, and as long as it isn't a beer called Pearl.”

“Pearl?”

“Just bring me a beer in a bottle, no glass, then dinner. Okay? Like I said, I trust your judgment.” Hawker was beaming at her, watching the haughtiness fade as she put a long fingernail to her lip, thinking. She said, “I give you nice traditional dinner. Okay? Nice dinner, plenty beer. That okay?”

“That's just fine,” Hawker said. “I appreciate it.” He watched the woman walk back to the bar, say something to the older woman, shrug at the bartender, say something else to the bartender, then put a tall liter bottle on a tray. She brought him the beer, hips wagging even more, small pointed breasts pressed flat by the tight dress. She set the beer on the table and watched Hawker look at the label he could not read. “You like?” she said. “Is okay?”

Hawker looked at the single big bubble that had formed at the neck of the bottle and at the label, which told him only that the beer had been bottled someplace in Cambodia. He looked at the waitress. “Good choice. It's one of my favorites.”

The woman seemed pleased. “So I bring you dinner now?”

“You bring me dinner now. Right.”

When she had gone, Hawker tasted the beer tentatively. Then again. It was excellent, one of the best beers he'd ever had. It reminded him of Hatuey, the Cuban beer the Baccardi family had bottled before Castro ran them out. He drank the beer, still aware that his every move was being watched, aware that the whole room was uncomfortable with him there but still not minding it at all, wanting to see how the men in the room reacted to him. He was sure that many of them were linked in some way to General Con Ye Cwong. Had to be, this close to Kira-Kira. In all the faraway places of the world, people of the same race stuck together.

Then the dinner came. It was not as good as the beer. Some kind of curry with meat and gravy over rice, plus side dishes of nearly raw vegetables, tomatoes and bean sprouts and something else Hawker couldn't identify. A lot of gray rice. He ate it all because he was hungry. He was surprised when the waitress, whose name was Sha Hainan, actually stopped to make conversation. She asked him where he was from, what he was doing in New Guinea. He told her he was an American investor interested in pineapple and coconut plantations. She accepted it without question. When he caught her glancing at his left hand, looking for a wedding ring, he knew that he had ceased to be just a big ugly American, had in fact become a monied person whom she was interested in. Hawker decided to try something, just to see how she reacted. “There's an island in this area I heard about,” he said. “A place called … Kira-Kira? Something like that. Heard there used to be a big plantation there. You know if it might be for sale?” He watched as her expression changed; he saw that guarded look.

“Kira-Kira? Yes, I know. No, no for sale. Sure of that.”

Hawker pressed on, aware that people nearby were listening more closely now. “They still grow pineapples there? I heard some Aussies used to have it, had a hell of a big grove there. It sounds like just the kind of place I'm looking for.”