Palace Council (31 page)

I can't stop them,
Junie had written.
You'll have to do it.

Nothing more.

Was the note recent? Did this mean Mellor knew where she was? Might he, at this very moment, be spilling her location to his captors? He folded the photograph and slipped it into his jacket. He took a last look around, then stepped into the hall, and hurried down the stairs.

In the lobby, he was stopped by two Vietnamese men in Western-style business suits. There were a lot of flashing lights outside. The men flashed their credentials.

Vietnamese National Police.

“Do you live in this building, sir?”

“No.”

“May I ask why you are out after curfew?”

Eddie realized that Teri had driven off with the pass. He improvised fast, but not cleverly. “Visiting a sick friend.”

“Does he live in this building?”

“Yes.”

“And what is his name?”

Stuck. He had no idea what name Mellor was living under. As it happened, the plainclothesmen did not seem to care if he had any idea or not, because by this time they had the cuffs on, and were marching him toward a squad car that had materialized, spinning lights playing across the lobby. When Eddie got outside, he saw that there were actually three or four vehicles, the white-gloved officers armed to the teeth, as if expecting resistance. There might have been an American standing with them. He could not get a good look before they ducked him into the back of the car and sped off.

At the barracks, they turned him over to the jailers, who slapped him around a bit because that was the form, stole what cash he had on him but left the crinkled photo, then tossed him into a filthy holding cell to sit on the floor alongside assorted pickpockets, rapists, drunks, and druggies, until a nearsighted, frightened child from the Embassy, responding to Eddie's call, showed up to vouch for his bona fides. By that time, hours had passed. Nobody apologized. The guards returned his seized property, other than the money, but when Eddie took a
cyclo
back to the Duc, he found his notebooks missing. He telephoned the Embassy and asked for the man who had bailed him out, but the Embassy duty officer might never have heard of the Vietnamese police.

“I would like to have my property returned,” Eddie said, holding one ice pack on his split lip and another on his battered fingers.

“What property would that be, Mr. Wesley?”

“Somebody will know.”

The duty officer hung up. When Eddie turned around, the young Embassy staffer who had bailed him out was sitting quietly in the rickety chair beside the open window, playing with a cigarette lighter.

“I know all about you, Mr. Wesley,” the man said. The comically thick glasses were gone, and he no longer looked frightened. “I knew about you before you arrived.”

Eddie Wesley was oratorical master of most situations, but no words came. He stood very still, more frightened than at any time in his life since the night he was dragged off to meet Scarlett: worse, for example, than the night he was shot on the Hill of Angels. His tongue seemed to swell. The intruder waited patiently. Outside, a tropical rain exploded into life, not a slowly increasing patter but an unannounced drenching that drowned even the noise of the geckos, and most of the traffic.

“The name is Collier. George Collier.” But already Eddie had recognized him, and cursed himself for not piercing the disguise when they met two hours ago. Collier did not extend a hand, and his steady blue eyes dared Eddie to try. The lighter flicked on. Eddie's eyes followed the flame. The lighter flicked off again. Collier smiled. “I think it's time we had a little talk.”

CHAPTER
44

Plea Bargain

(I)

E
DDIE DID NOT WASTE TIME WONDERING
how Collier had gotten into his room. He had chosen the hotel, after all, because it was practically owned by the Central Intelligence Agency. “Yes,” was, at first, all he could manage. His voice was screechy. He tried again. “You look a little young for your reputation.”

“Do I? Oh.” Collier had long thin legs and arms, a short torso, and the shining yellow teeth of a career smoker. “I'm thirty-five, let's say. Yes. Thirty-five.” Nodding thoughtfully, as if he had a lot of ages to choose from, which perhaps he did, for in the gaudy neon glow from the street he looked ten years older, but in a duller light could probably look ten years younger. “And you're—what? Forty?”

Eddie was certain that George Collier knew precisely how old he was. “What happened to Benjamin Mellor?”

“What does it look like happened to him?” A grin appeared suddenly, like a conjurer's trick. “Did he leave you any souvenirs, Mr. Wesley? The police didn't find anything on you. Maybe they didn't look hard enough.”

“Are you saying—”

“Too bad about his girlfriend, though. That Teri.” He shrugged. “Well, people should read the consular warnings. There are just some neighborhoods Americans should stay out of, especially in the middle of the night.”

Eddie sat down hard. He tried again to get his own voice moving through its normal cadences, but without immediate result.

“What did you do to her?” he whispered. “She didn't know anything.”

“True. She really didn't.” Collier continued to play with the lighter. “I'm sorry you wound up in jail. It seems that the police misunderstood the situation. They were supposed to take you into custody but not lock you up. They had been told to deliver you to the American MPs, who had orders to see you safely on board the plane leaving for Hawaii at 2300. It seems you missed it.” Flick went the lighter: On. Off. Eddie wondered how it would feel to be burned with it, and whether he would soon find out. He put the ice pack on the chipped desk, because clutching it felt like a sign of weakness. He would live with the pain. George Collier's flat hunter's eyes followed his every move.

“I was being expelled? Can you do that?”

“Vietnam's a sovereign country, Mr. Wesley. They can do what they want.” On. Off. On. Off. “My understanding, however, is that the order was for your own protection. You obviously have somebody back home who thinks you're in trouble here and wants to get you out of it. Are you, Mr. Wesley? In trouble?”

Eddie seated himself carefully on the bedspread. He was sweating. The air conditioner was loudly unreliable. The deluging rain had yet to undo the day's long heat. Or maybe the sweat had another source. Collier seemed perfectly cool.

“I wasn't until tonight, when you had me beaten up by the police.”

“You were at the scene of the crime, Mr. Wesley.”

“That explains the arrest. Not the beating.”

“I had nothing to do with that. Don't you read the official handouts, Mr. Wesley? The Republic of Vietnam happens to be a sovereign country. We're the guests. Certainly we cooperate with their armed forces, but we have zero involvement in domestic affairs. We don't control their police forces. I have no idea what laws you might have broken. I have no idea what you've bought, or smoked, or stolen. The police seem to think they do. Yes, they let you out, but only as a courtesy. General Loan—have you met him? No? Air Force officer, runs the National Police. Very smart. Very honest. Can't bribe him. You'll recognize him if he comes for you. Only one leg. And a very angry man, Mr. Wesley. I'll arrange an introduction if you like. General Loan owes me a favor or two. So he turned you loose. But you have to realize, Mr. Wesley”—the blue eyes were really too casual—“that General Loan can throw you back inside any time he wants.”

“Then why am I out? Why are you here?” Eddie found that he had balled his fists. This afternoon, he had sat in the swankiest club in Saigon chatting with a dead man, and now he was sitting in his hotel room chatting with a murderer.

“You're a writer, Mr. Wesley. You're a writer, and I'm a source. I'm going to give you a big story, and then you're going to go home and be famous.”

(II)

E
DDIE WAS A MOMENT ADJUSTING
to the new dynamic of the conversation. “Why would you do that?”

The lighter flicked on again. “We share a common objective, Mr. Wesley. I believe that we can help each other.”

“I doubt that very much, Mr. Collier. And if this is some convoluted effort by Perry Mount to buy me off, you can tell him—”

“I am not employed by Perry Mount.” The killer's voice for the first time lost its playfulness. This time it was steel, tempered with a hint of—what? Disdain? Fury? Frustration? Then the magical smile was back. He pointed to the desk. “Get your notebook out.”

“Somebody stole my notebook.”

“Third drawer from the top, behind the extra toilet paper.”

Refusing to show any surprise, Eddie flipped through the pages. He found them undisturbed.

“Ready?” asked Collier.

“I suppose.” But he could not still the trembling in his fingers.

The eyes glittered. “I know what you're thinking, Mr. Wesley, and, if I were you, I would be thinking the same thing. But orders are orders, and I have been ordered to leave you, let us say, unmolested.”

“But not Benjamin Mellor.”

Again Collier pointed to the notebook. “Write this down: America has never lost a war, but we're going to lose this one.”

“We are?”

He nodded. “North is stronger than we thought, Mr. Wesley. NLF won't quit. Big debate just now: can they attack Saigon or not? Most of our people say they can't. Some of us think they can. If they do, we'll drive them out, but I think they'll be here no later than January or February of next year, and after that, even if we win the battle, we won't look so invincible.” Flick. Flick. “Americans like to look invincible. A battle in the streets of Saigon would be bad news, even if we win. And some of the things we're doing to try to win—well, we won't win the hearts and minds of the people that way.” Flick. Flick. “I believe in this war, Mr. Wesley. Communism has to be stopped. Lose one domino, the rest fall. All right, you don't agree. So go home and vote. Maybe your side wins the next election. Meanwhile, there's still a war on, and I don't have the discretion to stop it, even if I wanted to. People are dying out there in a cause I believe is right. But I don't think we can win. I would love to be proved wrong, but I think I'm right.” Was that a smirk? “I bet you hope I'm right, don't you?” Collier said. “You'd love to see us lose.”

Calmed by the appeal to his intellect, Eddie took the question seriously. “I think America could use a little humility.”

“So could anti-America.” He put the lighter back in his pocket. “Tell me, Mr. Wesley. Your search for Perry Mount. Is this related to your search for your sister?” He saw the writer's face. “Everybody knows what you're up to, Mr. Wesley. You don't know the first thing about searching on tiptoes.”

“I'm not prepared to talk about my sister,” said Eddie stiffly. “Not to you.”

“I don't blame you, Mr. Wesley. You're a loyal brother. Every girl should have a brother like you. As I am sure you understand, however, if I ever decide I want you to talk about your sister, you'll do exactly that.” Before Eddie could object, his visitor was on to the next subject. “Do you remember the last time we met? In Harlem? At Mr. Scarlett's place?”

“I remember he was getting ready to put a nail through my hand, and you were on the sidelines cheering him on.”

“I wasn't cheering him on, Mr. Wesley. I told him to stop.”

“Why?”

“Understand me, Mr. Wesley. I am not a free agent. I work for others. Now, were it up to me, with all the trouble you've been causing, you'd have taken a little drunken tumble one night into one of those gorges that make Ithaca so famous.”

“I don't drink,” said Eddie, suppressing the shudder.

“That night you would have reverted to old habits. Depression over writer's block. Probably the reason you asked your girlfriend to help you find that little stone cottage in the first place.” A helpless smile, an innocent bewildered by the ways of the world. “But it's not up to me. I follow orders. Orders are to let you run.”

“Run where?” A thought struck him. “You think—they think—whoever you're working for—you're expecting me to lead you to Junie. That's why you're letting me go.”

“I told you. I'm going to give you a very nice story. All about what's going on in Long An Province. The CIA is torturing people out there, Mr. Wesley. Killing them, too. You can write about how the big bad Agency is doing its usual nasty mischief. Most people will hate you, but your leftist friends will love you.”

“Why would you want to stop whatever's going on out there?”

“Because it hurts the war effort. Because we don't win the hearts and minds of the people by getting them to inform on each other and torturing them to death. Do you think you're the only one with a conscience, Mr. Wesley?” The killer seemed amused. “You and I both love our country. We just see our duties differently.”

Eddie shook his head. Knowing he was not going to die tonight emboldened him. “No. That's not it. You want me to run because you want me to lead you to Junie. And the Long An story—that's what Perry is doing over here, isn't it? The torturing, whatever else. Perry is a part of it. You want me to smoke him out for you. That's why you're giving me this story.” A chilling thought. “He's too good for you, isn't he? You can't find him. Perry Mount is part of the Council, like his father was, and you need to kill him and you can't track him down. Not in Asia. This is his turf. You want him sent back to yours. Is that it?”

Collier was on his feet. “There's a plane at 0730 to Hong Kong. You'll be on board, Mr. Wesley, whether you like it or not. The only question is whether you want to leave empty-handed.”

His manner was too lazily confident. Eddie had guessed wrong. He was not sure which part of his thesis was wrong but some part of it was. “Tell me about what's going on with you and Perry.”

Again Collier ignored the gibe. He flexed long fingers. “I know what you're thinking, Mr. Wesley. You could name me as your source. You could even try to accuse me of something worse.” The smile was back. “I wouldn't want you to go to that trouble. Those gorges are so deep. And the way Mrs. Garland drinks at night, when she's feeling morose—well, you see my point.” He stuck out a hand. “Do we have a deal?”

“I have a question first.”

The killer smiled indulgently. “Of course, Mr. Wesley.”

Eddie wanted to put no foot wrong. He saw the risk of speaking up. But Wesley Senior would never have let the matter pass, and, just now, neither could Wesley Junior. “What you did earlier tonight. To Mellor. To Teri. How can you work for people who would—”

“You have no idea what I may or may not have done earlier tonight,” Collier interrupted pleasantly, waggling a finger. “I would advise you not to speculate.”

“But
you
know,” said Eddie. “You know what kind of people you're working for. You don't have to speculate.”

Collier's eyes widened. His good humor faded, and, for a moment, Eddie glimpsed the beast beneath the bonhomie. The killer rose from the chair, and the room seemed very small indeed. Eddie looked around for a weapon.

But Collier only shrugged. “The job is what it is, Mr. Wesley. Some days are more complicated than others.” Again he extended his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

Eddie shook.