Chuck Logan - The Price of Blood

“More likely he’ll wind up in a Vietnamese prison.”

“I think she has her heart set on Leavenworth Penitentiary. Or a firing squad.”

“That makes it harder. She’s very demanding.” Trin nodded profoundly and his dark eyes were merry with alcohol and mystery. “I like the way this woman thinks. She must be saved.”

Back on the street the motorscooters darted, edgy in the fierce afternoon heat. Broker looked longingly at a husky, sober traffic cop, neatly turned out in his crisp uniform and whistle. He turned to Trin.

“Why don’t we go to your place, I’d like to see it.”

Trin shook his head and stared straight ahead. “It’s nothing, not worth your time.”

Broker leaned back, uneasy. Translation: There was no apartment in Hue.

They cruised the back streets and found the address on My Thong Street. It was perfect. Like Lola’s hair. And her offer of help.

The villa was screened by a six-foot hedge that continued out on either side of the driveway. Peeking up the drive they could see the blue van parked in the yard. The lot next to the villa was under construction and there was room for a vehicle to slip in and hide between the walls of the new building and the hedge.

“A government-run tourist villa,” said Trin. “Probably one housekeeper on duty. I doubt there are any other guests. Cyrus has probably taken all four rooms.”

“If there’s a guard, and he’s armed, we have a problem.”

Trin protested. “A gunshot in Hue? There would suddenly be so many police…No, I think if there’s a guard he’s a sacrificial offering. Expendable.”

Trin seemed to know a whole lot all of a sudden. Since his chat with Lola. Broker ran the possibilities. Trin and Lola against the world. Trin, Lola, and Cyrus against him. “What if it’s Bevode Fret?”

“That man has no finesse. Cyrus wants to bring off something smooth. That man would ruin everything.”

They drove the streets to eat up time. They paused at the ViaCom Bank and inspected the cement apron in the back where the pallet of gold had sat from March 19, when the Communists took the city, until Jimmy Tuna and Ray Pryce choppered in on April 30, 1975.

The former MACV compound, where Trin had been held prisoner, was two blocks away. Painted smartly in government brown it was now a military hotel. Back on Le Loi, they stopped so Broker could confirm the location of the new La Cafard. Now La Cafard floated, two brightly lit donuts connected by planks and gangways. Sampans docked next to it.

They returned to the guest house and walked out on the broad veranda that overlooked the Perfume River. Trin swung his beer and pointed below them. “This used to be corps headquarters. That’s the tennis court where General Troung used to play with Westmoreland.”

Broker was now seriously worried about Trin’s alcohol intake as well as his reliability. His face had reddened to a permanent pepper flush a few shades hotter than the huge Communist flag that tossed in the breeze across the river. The flag kept time to a disco on Le Loi Street that blared “Hotel California” in the foundry heat. Trin grinned and toasted him with his beer can.

What if Trin was dying to stir his crank in a pile of round-eyed bacon grease? Or maybe he wanted to get all the concerned Americans in one place and then let the militia shoot them all on the beach. It was possible that he really wanted to open a liquor store in California…

Broker’s head hurt. “It’s a trap,” he repeated.

“For sure. That’s given. They know we’re at the same game,” Trin said jovially. “We’re in Vietnam, where traps were invented.” He waved the beer can dramatically. “The question is what kind of a trap and is it better than our trap.”

“They could jump us when we go for Nina-”

“That would still leave the messy business of getting us to talk. We might stand up under torture,” Trin said in a detached voice. “Or die under it. That’s not a lock. Cyrus used to like things sewn up. No. Lola is the key. If she helps us get Nina out and wants to come with us …We could show her the gold in gratitude. Then use her to signal them in. If she wants to go with us, then we’ll know!” Trin jabbed his index finger oratorically in the air. “Better for us. It saves us the trouble of having to reestablish contact after we get Nina.”

“I forgot what a devious guy you are,” said Broker.

Trin collapsed back on a lawn chair and took a long swig of beer. “You have no idea,” he sighed.

“Cool it on the booze.”

“It’s just beer. I know what I’m doing.”

“Yeah, but I’m not sure I know what you’re doing.”

“Trin’s laugh was intricate with fascination. “Imagine that we’re all jumping off a balcony over a swimming pool. We all have ropes around our necks. All the ropes are different lengths. Some of us will splash harmlessly into the water. Some of us will hang. We won’t know until we take the dive.” Trin smiled and drained his beer.

Broker wished he had Ed Ryan, J.T. Merryweather, and an ATF entry team.

But he didn’t.

He had Trin.

Across the street, “Hotel California” started to play again.

They went into the room and Trin called the desk and requested a six o’clock wake-up call. They were asleep the minute their heads hit the pillows.

At six the telephone woke them. Broker, cinder-eyed, stumbled to the bathroom and climbed in the tub and sprayed away grime with tepid water from the hand-held shower. He rubbed his chin whiskers. No shaving kit. He put on the T-shirt Lola had given him at the citadel. It was the only article of clean clothing in sight. He was glad for his short hair, which he combed with his fingers.

At six-thirty they split up. Trin took the van to scout the villa again during Broker’s meeting with LaPorte. He’d pick Broker up in front of the restaurant at eight sharp. Then they’d hit the villa.

Broker joined the strollers on Le Loi. A cyclo driver rose lizard-like from his cab and approached. “Buddha cigarette?” he offered in a casual voice.

“Didi mau-fuck off,” said Broker. Apparently smoking grass had survived the revolution. The disco across the street was still playing the same damn song. Maybe it was the new Communist anthem. He hailed a cyclo. The driver nodded when he said La Cafard and they set off.

Hue was still a city of bicycles and some of the old Le Loi ambience lingered; except, now, the clouds of female students on their bikes were dingy from exhaust from all the motorbikes. Now the bursts of flowering frangipani, flamboyants, and the tall old tamarinds squeezed between the new billboards. The same bleached Colonial buildings lined the avenue like the mustard and ivory bones of France and somewhere in the city, according to Trin, the last Vietnamese mandarin sat in the dark behind shuttered windows and chain-smoked and guarded his dusty Imperial mementos.

The cyclo driver’s sturdy legs propelled Broker beneath gaudy neon tiaras strung from light poles. Across the river, the ramparts of the flag tower were decked in more lights that were layered like a wedding cake. The lights popped like flash cubes for the eyes and blunted the dragon teeth in the sunset forming over the Annamite Mountains.

Rock and roll pumped from the cafes and a group of teenage girls strutted to the beat in designer jeans. Some of them wore red pins with little yellow stars.

The rosy early evening air was sticky as cotton candy and Hue swung its ass in American denim and sweated to American music and Broker, way past irony, stared straight ahead as he trundled down the midway of Coney Island Communism.

Cyrus Laporte waited on the gangplank to LA Cafard dressed in a beige desert shirt, khakis, and Teva sandals over cotton socks. He smelled of talc and shaving lotion and he had the red bandanna tied around his tanned throat. He was smiling. Lola was not with him.