Chuck Logan - The Price of Blood

Broker turned back to them. “So what’d you two decide?”

“He has a kind of plan. We go to the beach and see if the stuff’s there, then we go to the MIA folks, if Cyrus takes the bait,” said Nina. She smiled tightly. “I presume you guys will leave some of it as bait.”

Trin and Broker exchanged fast glances. “If there’s a lot, we’ll just set some…aside,” speculated Broker.

“We could do that, figure out how to move it later,” Trin said quickly.

“Okay. What about some guys with guns and handcuffs? Some cops?” asked Broker.

Trin nodded. “Nina was right last night. We need some assault rifles on the scene, not a bunch of disabled Viet Cong.”

Nina inclined her head, accepting Trin’s sop.

He went on. “But not cops. There’s a militia post five kilometers from the vet’s home. A platoon of local farm boys. They guard a lighthouse. I’m on good terms with them.”

“How good?” asked Nina.

Trin shrugged. “I pay them regularly to look after the home. And, anyway, they respect the old fighters, my guys. They have enough firepower to deal with a band of thieves. Unless Cyrus has an army.”

Broker clicked his teeth. “I doubt he has a dozen people all told. That’s my job. I’ll find out.”

Trin smiled cautiously. “So we find it. Phil continues on to Hue. He contacts Cyrus. The timing will be tricky. If Cyrus goes for it we can’t tip off the militia too soon. The whole Communist bureaucracy is just a radio call away. Once they hear buried gold…phew!” He tossed his hands in the air. “Many four-wheel-drive vehicles with capital A on the license plates.”

Broker nodded in agreement. “Ass deep in office guys…”

Trin nodded. “Trying simultaneously to steal it themselves and take credit for catching the American pirates.”

“What do you think?” Broker asked Nina.

She leaned forward and said, “Pardon me,” as she carefully removed Trin’s sunglasses and peered into his eyes. “Black holes for pupils. At night he drinks, during the day he takes speed, bet you anything. We’re taking our lives in our hands, Broker.”

“Nina, will you let us do this damn thing?” growled Broker.

Trin smiled tightly and replaced his glasses. “She should meet my ex-wife. They’d get along.”

“Are we agreed?” asked Broker.

“I don’t like being isolated with a bunch of militia troops, but you’re right. If we telegraph, we’ll have a carnival,” said Nina. “It could work. Cyrus is loading the goods, the militia hits them…calls in the officials.” She squinted at Broker. “It’s your neck. You’ll be alone in Hue City with LaPorte. And you’ll be on that beach with him. Could be hairy if they resist-”

“True,” said Trin, smiling broadly. “The militia are good kids, but not real great shots. Hopefully, they’ll loan some weapons to my men at the home. They’ll be a steady influence.”

Broker was not sure whether to be encouraged or to make his will. He saw spooky old bones from the past get up and walk around in Trin’s smile. But it was so crazy it just might work. “So that’s it,” said Broker. “My end’s getting Cyrus to go for it.”

“One more thing,” said Trin. He reached in his attache case and produced a sheet of paper with a list in crisp, printed English. “CNN, Reuters, the Australian News Service. This afternoon, before we catch the train, you and Nina must visit these offices and get business cards from the reporters.” Trin grinned broadly. “Lay groundwork. Hint that something is going to happen. Then, when Cyrus comes ashore, we get to the nearest telephone and call them in. CNN can afford a helicopter. Maybe they can film it live.” Trin jammed his finger dramatically into the air. “A scoop. Video uplink! That way Cyrus LaPorte will get his face on television in America.” He turned to Nina. “You like it?”

“Aw, God,” groaned Broker.

“You just might have something there,” said Nina, narrowing her eyes. “Put it in plain view.”

“Put you in plain view,” muttered Broker. Nina wrinkled her nose.

“So,” said Trin, replacing his sheet of paper in his case and zipping it shut. “We have a plan. We catch the train at seven tonight; I’ve already called. A car is arranged for us at Quang Tri City, noon tomorrow. Tomorrow night we check the site.”

“You’ve had a busy morning,” said Nina.

“I could be the best tour guide in Vietnam if the government would let me open my own business,” lamented Trin. “But I served the South. I can only moonlight. I can arrange cars and drivers and hotels. I can’t handle visas or tickets in and out of the country. Maybe after we do this-”

“So what do we do until the train leaves?” asked Broker.

“Play tourist, stay surrounded by people,” said Trin. “When our driver gets here we’ll visit the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum, then maybe the Dien Bien Phu Military Museum. This afternoon we visit the press.”

Broker tried to sound upbeat about the thin plan. “If we pull this off, the government might buy us lunch for returning the gold.”

“You mean on top of what you’re planning to steal yourself?” Nina’s voice was laced with sarcasm.

“First let’s find out if there is gold,” said Trin.

“Just a thought,” said Broker.

Trin exploded with laughter. “I think a government official would give you a mathematics lesson. He would point out that you dropped more bombs on Indochina than on the armies of Germany and Japan. That we took a million dead. That we have three hundred thousand of our own missing. And then he would look you straight in the eye and say, ‘Fuck you, Yankee, we won.’”

“I said it was just a thought,” said Broker.

Trin lit a cigarette and stared dubiously at the smoke. “One thing bothers me,” he said.

“Only one?” quipped Broker.

“Seriously,” said Trin. “If ten tons of government gold would have been laying around the northern provinces in nineteen seventy-five I would have known about it. And Cyrus LaPorte is taking a hell of a risk for a hundred million dollars…”

Hundred million . How many zeros and commas was that? Broker sat stunned.

Trin continued. “That’s the world to you or me but he’s a multimillionaire. He doesn’t need it that much.”

“He’s hooked on the action. His ancestor was a famous pirate,” said Broker. But he rubbed his chin. Shrewd point. He remembered Jimmy’s sinister comment: It’s not just gold …He and Nina exchanged fast glances. They had said nothing about Jimmy’s story, the disguised pallet sitting outside the bank for a month.

Trin tapped his cigarette nervously in the ashtray and said, “Something is missing.”

The hotel faced a traffic circle at the edge of the Old City. The van arrived and, as they snailed through the cramped, smoky medieval alleys, Broker began to see evidence of the strip-malling of Hanoi. Gaudy mini-hotels and satellite dishes sprouted like brick and plaster burdock among the ramshackle twelfth-century architecture. Hanoi’s callused palm had been crossed with silver and hope rode a shiny new motor scooter.

All the bicycles in the world jostled the van with anthill North Vietnamese energy and aggravated Broker’s jet lag. His eyes ached. He wanted to get out of the city. Into the countryside and fresh air. Get the thing moving.

Mr. Hai, the driver, turned with a sturdy grin. “Roger, wilco, wait one,” he said.

Just trying to be friendly.

Broker winced as a woman on a bike scraped the side of the van. He saw his first cop: gray shirt, Kermit green trousers with a red stripe. “The cops don’t carry guns,” he said.