Chuck Logan - The Price of Blood

“Things changed,” said Trin with shrill gunshot abruptness. Then his demeanor softened. “Actually, Americans are new to them here in Hanoi. The only personal contact they had with you-besides the bombs-were the Senator John McCain’s falling by parachute into the local lakes, and Jane Fonda. Down south it will be different, where the Lieutenant Calleys left their mark.” He offered a cigarette and as Broker accepted it he saw that they had a ritual to perform. He drew the chain from around his neck and handed Trin the tiger tooth.

Trin cradled it in his hand. “Thank you. This has been in my family for over four hundred years.” Broker thought, but could not say: Well, it’s been laying in my underwear drawer for almost twenty …

Broker’s old Zippo appeared in Trin’s hand. Broker took the lighter, turned it to read the sentiment engraved on the side and winced.

Lt. Phil Broker. Quang Tri City. 1972 .

When I die reincarnate me as a 2,000-pound bomb .

“You were young,” said Trin. He looked out the window. “I had to bury that for fourteen years.” He smiled bitterly. “I dug it up in eighty-nine when the door opened to the West.”

Broker tapped the Zippo on the table. “How are you doing, Trin?”

Shadows gathered in the lumped scar tissue on Trin’s left cheekbone. “What did the girl mean-you have something to tell me? What am I mixed up in, Phil?” he asked softly.

The Zippo clicked nervously on the table. “You have a family? Kids?” asked Broker.

“My wife formalized our divorce in seventy-five, after Liberation. She stayed with the winning side. She has never let me forget I didn’t. My son and daughter grew up with her, here in Hanoi. Now they’re both in school, in France.” Trin narrowed his eyes. “No family. No kids. Would it make a difference?”

Broker clicked his teeth. “Sorry, but I have to ask…”

Trin smiled sadly. “You’re evaluating me, Phil.”

“Yeah, sorry,” sighed Broker.

“The student has become the teacher?”

“I said I was sorry.”

“What do you do for a living, Phil?”

“I’m a policeman.”

“Really? You hated the army. I’d have thought you were too independent to put up with…structure.”

“An undercover policeman.”

Trin took a long meditative drag on his cigarette. “I see. Are you here working on a case?”

“You could say that.”

Trin exhaled and his eyes wandered out the window. “Pieces come back. Ever since Jimmy found me. It’s like a bad dream. Cyrus is here…”

Broker nodded. “In Hue, checked into the Century Riverside Hotel. The Imperial Suite.”

Trin sagged. “He has a big boat off the coast. I read it in the newspaper. It’s been on the state TV.”

“You’re getting warm.”

“Jimmy,” said Trin. He bit his lip.

“Too bad Jimmy can’t make it to the reunion,” said Broker.

Trin stared at his hands. “The last time we were together we almost got killed. When Jimmy called he told me Ray did get killed. I saw that helicopter fly off with a heavy load in its sling. There are…crazy rumors.”

“Not rumors,” said Broker.

Trin looked up and perspiration beaded on his forehead. He spoke very slowly as his eyes scoured Broker’s face. “A convict in an American prison sends an intermediary to find me six years ago. He sets me up running a convalescent home for disabled Front veterans. He specifies exactly where he wants the home built on a deserted strip of coast in Quang Tri Province. He has me buy a boat. A fairly large boat. Because I am helping disabled Liberation Front fighters I am allowed to do all these things. To spend money. Otherwise, because I fought for the South, I can be a hotel clerk, a waiter, or a cyclo-boy. Or, because I went through the camps, there’s a program for former southern officers. I can immigrate to America if I have a sponsor.

“And then, when Jimmy is ready to come himself, he develops a fatal disease.” Trin’s eyes were getting hotter. “And a secret policeman comes in his place with the daughter of a dead friend. Is the girl supposed to make it all palatable?”

They stared across the table.

Trin took another drag on his cigarette and his wooden eyes kindled. “Once you asked me why my men burned slips of paper before going into battle. I never answered you.” He paused and picked up a sheet off the hotel notepad on the table and took a pen from his pocket. He slapped the pen down on the sheet. “They were writing prayers. Write a prayer for me that tells me why you’re here.”

Broker squinted, saw that he was serious. “Okay,” he said. He picked up the pen and printed: W e know where Ray is buried under ten tons of gold. Cyrus doesn’t .

Trin sat transfixed, driven into the carpet. Then he inhaled sharply and muttered, “Choi Oui.” He exhaled, grabbed the pen from Broker and wrote furiously on the note: Rumors . He looked up; his eyes lost all caution. Broker took the pen back and wrote: Fact .

Trin laughed nervously. He picked up the lighter and ignited the note. A tongue of flame and smoke curled from his fingers. Delicately he carried the burning slip to the window, opened the latch, and tossed it out. He pointed to the smoke detector on the ceiling. Then he sat back down and said slowly, “Buddhists write prayers to their ancestors and then burn them because the dead can only read smoke. Like incense.” His voice trembled but his eyes were an inferno. “No bullshit?” he gasped.

“No bullshit. That famous night? Cyrus used us as a decoy and had Ray murdered to steal that gold from the bank of Hue. Jimmy helped do it, except Jimmy changed the plan. He ditched the gold on the coast. Everybody, including Cyrus, thought it went down at sea. Now Cyrus thinks the gold is in the ocean near a wrecked helicopter. But it isn’t. It’s buried. On the beach.” Broker grinned.

Trin groped, dizzy. He blurted, “And you plan to do what ?”

“Couple of things. How good’s that boat you got?”

“Oh God.” Trin explored his burning face with his fingers as though he was establishing his own reality. He swallowed. “It’s a fishing boat, forty feet long, inboard engine. But it’s not covered. Actually, it’s falling apart. They wouldn’t let me get a real oceangoing boat. A lot of people have left…” He shook his head. “I don’t know anything about boats. We never use it.”

“But it would handle a couple tons, say. We could remove some of the stuff before-”

“Before what!” Trin sat bolt upright. He scanned the walls. “What?” he repeated.

“Before I lure Cyrus in and arrest the sonofabitch when he digs it up!”

“ Here ?” Trin whispered. His eyes swelled.

“Nina wants to work through the American Mission. I’d prefer to coordinate with the police in Hue. You can help me line up the local cops and-”

“No. Don’t go to the police…no.” Trin’s palm squashed lumps of sweat on his forehead. “Excuse me.” He got up, moved in jerky steps to the bar set up over the pint-sized icebox, and picked up a tiny airplane bottle of Scotch. He broke the foil seal, opened it, and drank it. He coughed, came back, and resumed his seat. He glanced at the wall, toward Nina’s room, and said emphatically, “It would be a real mistake to contact the MIA office.”

“Exactly. Convince her.” Broker yanked his head toward the wall.

“The MIA office is closely monitored.” Trin shook his head. “Something like this…Everybody will,” he grinned tightly, “get out of control.”

“Can we do it?” asked Broker.

Trin swallowed and got the words out with difficulty. “Look at me, Phil. I’m not who I was.”