Charles Mccarry - The Tears Of Autumn

“No,” Kim replied, “I’ve decided to live oy my wits for a while. I keep busy selling interviews with Madame Nhu. You’re still not interested?”

“Not really, Kim. I know what she’s going to say-and it’s not publishable.”

“You want to do a story about the Ngo family without talking to her? No way you could do it-you’re too white, with all that blond hair and your big feet in wing tips. They wouldn’t say a word to you.”

Christopher shrugged. “I thought you might help out.”

“I don’t work there anymore.”

“But you work, Kim. I’m not thinking of your doing anything for free.”

Kim put down his wineglass and drew a short finger delicately around its rim. Christopher was.reminded of the bald banker in Geneva, counting money. “Well,” Kim said, “anything for the homeland. What seems reasonable to you?”

“A fair exchange. You give me ten good names-the Truong toe and whoever else you think might talk to me. I’d go to two hundred a name.”

Kim shook his head. “You’d have to use my name to get in the door,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to do that.”

“Then give me some other name-there must be someone I can pretend to know. By the time they check, I’ll be out of the country.”

“Give me a piece of paper,” Kim said. He pushed his plate aside and wrote rapidly with Christopher’s pen, holding it between his second and third fingers. “I’ve given you addresses, too-the one with the asterisk is the Truong toe.”

Christopher glanced at the list. “Who are the others?”

“Men to be careful of, Paul. I mean it. I think I know what you’re after.”

Kim laughed suddenly, staring into Christopher’s eyes. “Oh, this ought to be funny, Paul. You want a name to use as a reference, eh?” He leaned forward and beckoned Christopher closer. “Tell them you know Lê Thu,” he said.

“Lê Thu? That’s a girl’s name, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes, sometimes,” Kim said. “Not always, though. Lê Thu-can you remember that? Believe me, that name will open doors in Vietnam.”

Christopher paid the bill. Outside, the café awnings were whipped by a hard winter rain. Kim fastened the button at the neck of his camel’s-hair overcoat. “Jesus,” he said, “I don’t wonder white people are all screwed up, coming from a climate like this.”

They walked together to the taxi rank at the corner of the boulevard Raspail. A tart standing against the wall of a building with her umbrella held over her head gave Christopher a miserable smile and cried, “Au secours!”

Kim stopped to inspect the girl. “How much?” he asked her in French.

“Un napoleon,” she replied, “service non compris.”

Kim turned away with a look of contempt. “A hundred francs-for that?”

The girl called after him, “Seventy-five, it’s raining.”

“C’est dégoûtant,” Kim said.

Christopher stepped under the awning of a darkened shop. He handed Kim an envelope.

“Two thousand francs,” he said. “You’re doing better than the poule, and you don’t have to stand out in the weather.”

Kim weighed the envelope in his hand, then stuffed it into the pocket of his coat. His hair had been parted by the rain and his small round face was wet.

“I’m selling a bigger thrill,” Kim said. “Remember the name-Lê Thu.”

Christopher let Kim walk alone to the taxi. When the cab was out of sight, he went into the Dome and ordered a hot rum. The zinc bar was gone, and the harp-backed straw chairs, but the manners of the customers had not changed. A boy in a ragged sweater stared contemptuously at Christopher’s suit and tie; the boy held his girl’s hand and pressed down hard with his thumbnail on each of her knuckles in turn, watching with a small smile as pain crossed her face.

Christopher watched the street. When he saw Tom and Sybille Webster get into a taxi, he paid his bill and walked around the corner to the Metro.

Webster opened the door before Christopher rang the bell. “How’s Kim, the P.R. genius?” he asked.

“About the same,” Christopher said. “Are we going to talk here, or do you want to go someplace else?”

“Wherever we go on a night like this, we’ll be surrounded by four walls. Sybille wants to say good-night to you-or goodbye, or whatever.”

Sybille had taken off her stockings when she came in from the rain, and she stood in front of the fireplace with her skirt lifted high on her freckled legs.

“Hello, cookie,” she said. “Why are you in this terrible town when you could be in the sun?”

Christopher kissed her. “To see you for the last time-we can’t go on meeting this way, Sybille.”

“That’s what David Patchen told me the other night. Oh, I realized I hated him when he sat right there with his eyes propped open like a bad statue’s and said, ‘By the way, Christopher’s resigned,’” Sybille said. “As a conversationalist he’s a blowgun -Paul, I know he’s your best friend, but every time he comes here he has some bit of news, tipped with curare, that he fires into my poor flesh. Why does he come? Why doesn’t he stay in Washington and stroke his computers?”

Webster handed his wife a glass of brandy. “We’ll still see Paul,” he said. “Blame him-he’s the one who resigned, after all.”

“I’d rather blame David Patchen,” Sybille said. “Besides, it will never be the same. We can’t assume Paul knows the same secrets as we do anymore. I’ve seen people go outside-they have the same faces as before, but they change. Little by little, what made them nice leaks out of them.”

Sybille drank her cognac. “Oh, well,” she said. “I’m going to bed like a good professional wife, so you two can have your last exchange of dark confidences. Are you sleeping here tonight. Paul?”

“I might, if that’s all right.”

“You know where-I’ll put some towels out for you. We’ll meet again in the morning.” Sybille put a hand to his cheek and kissed his lips. “It’s raining all over the world,” she said.

Webster filled their glasses again. They stood together by the fire, smiling at Sybille’s noises in the back of the apartment. Finally her bedroom door closed and Webster brought a sealed envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Christopher. There was no salutation on the note and no signature:

You wanted something on Oswald’s movements before Dallas.

He was in New Orleans from 24 April to 25 September, working at insignificant jobs. He passed out leaflets for something called the “Fair Play for Cuba Committee.”

On 25 September, for no apparent reason, he went to Mexico City by bus, arriving there on the morning of 27 September. He stayed at the Hotel Commercio ($1.28 a day).

On the twenty-seventh, he went twice to the Cuban embassy and once to the Soviet embassy to apply for visas; said he wanted to return to Russia, transiting through Havana. He was turned down at both places, and had a loud argument with the Cuban consul. At the Soviet embassy he spoke with Yatskov and Kostikov, both KGB types under consular cover.

Between 27 September and 1 October, he remained in Mexico City, but there is no information about his movements on those three days. He returned to Dallas, arriving 3 October, and went to work at the Texas Book Depository on 16 October.

He’d had the rifle for some time-bought it under a false name, “A. Hidell,” on 13 March, by mail order.

On 1 November, he rented P.O. Box 6225, Terminal Annex, Dallas.

After our little dance on the sidewalk, I began to think about what you’d said. Maybe we’re the ones with illusions, but it doesn’t matter. See what you can do; if you succeed, I’d like to hear about it. But that’s up to you.