Charles Mccarry - The Tears Of Autumn

The Citroen was parked in the shadows in the next block. Christopher headed for it, pushing the chattering Chinese roughly out of his way. There was no sign of the two gunmen. He was fifty yards from the car when two of the Chinese, young men with angry faces, realized that it belonged to Christopher. They broke out of the crowd and ran ahead. One of them opened a knife and knelt to slash the tires. The other darted around the Citroen, still screaming in a hoarse voice. He snatched at the door handle, and as the door began to swing open, Christopher remembered that he had locked it.

He fell to the ground with his arms around the two people closest to him. Afterward, he thought that he remembered the flash of the explosion lighting the flat face of the Chinese boy and the blast lifting the boy’s thick black hair so that it stood on end. The noise was a long time coming. Before he heard the explosion, like the slap of a heavy howitzer, he saw the whole body of the car swell like a balloon full of water. The glass blew out and one door cut through the crowd like a great black knife.

Concussion sent blood gushing out of his nose. He could hear nothing except a high ringing in his ears. All around him, mouths opened in noiseless screams of terror. He lay where he was with his eyes open.

In a few moments a policeman wearing a lacquered American helmet liner leaned over him and spoke. Christopher pointed to his ears and said, “I’m deaf.” He heard nothing of his own voice but felt its movement over his tongue. The policeman pulled him to his feet and led him toward the end of the street. He would have been killed by the fire truck that roared up behind them if the policeman had not pulled him out of the way.

“All I have to do is say the word and they’ll slap a murder charge on you,” Wolkowicz said. “Ten witnesses saw you break that Chinese kid’s neck.”

The Vietnamese police major had withdrawn when Wolkowicz arrived. Christopher’s passport and a sheaf of Polaroid photographs of the bombed Citroen were spread over the top of the policeman’s gray metal desk. Wolkowicz’s face was bleached by the strong fluorescent light in the ceiling, his beard blacker than usual against his pallor. Christopher’s hearing was returning, but his ears still rang, and Wolkowicz’s voice sounded thin.

Wolkowicz tapped on the desk with the edge of Christopher’s passport. “You’d better hear me,” he said. “These guys can take two or three years just deciding if there’s a case against you. You’ll be eating rice and spoiled fish three times a day, and having a little chat with the juge d’instruction whenever he bothers to remember you’re in jail. Believe me, it can go on for a long time.”

“What do you want?”

“The story,” Wolkowicz said. “What in hell was that all about? Your car blown up and five innocent bystanders killed, Luong dead in an alley, shots fired at you in the middle of a crowd. What do you think you’re doing, for Christ’s sake?”

Christopher looked around at the metal furniture, the chirping fluorescent lights, the air conditioner on the window-sill. “There seems to be a lot of American equipment in this room,” he said.

“We’re not going to talk here. I just want to know if you’re going to bullshit me again if I take you out of here.”

Christopher made a gesture. Wolkowicz pressed a button on the telephone. When the major returned, Wolkowicz walked with him back into the corridor. Christopher watched them through the half-open door, talking quietly and nodding.

The major came into the office. “There’s one more formality,” he said, gesturing for Christopher to follow him.

Christopher went with him down the hall and into another room. Honey, wearing her silk ao dai, sat on a scarred bench in the empty office. Her joints were locked in fright-fists clenched, neck rigid.

“Is this the American?” the major asked in Vietnamese. Honey nodded stiffly.

“Look at him,” the major said.

Honey turned her head, a quick movement like that of a child forced to look at a corpse, and nodded again.

In the corridor, the major tapped Christopher’s sleeve. “I believe you knew Vuong Van Luong,” he said. “I believe you know he’s dead.”

“Yes.”

“The girl saw you searching the body. You woke her when you came into the room-she believes you killed this Luong.”

“She’s not a very intelligent girl, major.”

“No. But she has the power of speech, Mr. Christopher. We have her statement, and we’ll keep her with us for the time being.”

“I understand,” Christopher said.

“I hope you do, Mr. Christopher. It can be very inconvenient for you if the police decide to take an interest in you. One violent death, and you can maintain that you’re a victim of circumstances. But there have been six in less than twenty-four hours. Even in Saigon, that’s too many.”

The major was carrying a dossier. He held it up so that Christopher could see his name written on its cover. “You’ve formed a great many friendships here,” he said. “Your passport will be returned to you at midnight today at the airport. You are already booked on the UTA flight to Paris. Don’t miss the plane, Mr. Christopher.”

The Continental Hotel was only a short distance from the police station in Tu Do Street. Wolkowicz sent his Marine driver to fetch Christopher’s suitcase from his room and pay the bill. They waited in the car, the windows rolled up, until the driver returned.

At Wolkowicz’s villa, Christopher threw away his bloodstained shirt and washed his face. The police doctor had painted the small cuts on his arms and chest and told him that his right eardrum had been ruptured by the explosion. He ripped the adhesive bandage from his cheek and looked at the cut on his face. His head ached. He took four of Wolkowicz’s aspirin.

The villa was icy; Wolkowicz kept the air conditioning turned up so that his snake would sleep. In the living room, Wolkowicz gave Christopher a glass of bourbon and motioned him into a chair.

“Okay,” he said. “It’s gut-spilling time.”

Christopher told him where he had been. He described the visit to Jean-Baptiste Ho’s church, and his meeting with the Truong toe. He did not tell Wolkowicz what had been said, except to describe the movement of opium into Ho’s church.

“Describe this guy who tried to shoot you,” Wolkowicz said.

“He’s been taught either by us or by someone who learned how to shoot a pistol from us,” Christopher said. “When I turned around, he was in a crouch, bringing the pistol up, wrist and elbow locked, both eyes open, not using the sights. He fired two shots at a time in the prescribed manner. He’s trained.”

“Not very well trained,” Wolkowicz said. “How many times did he miss you?”

“Four rounds that I know of, but I jumped off to the side. He didn’t expect that. He didn’t shift his feet, just swung his arm, so he lost his stance. And then, I was in a crowd and it was dark.”

Christopher described his flight through the apothecary shop. “The kid in the street must have thought I was a burglar when I came out of that crack in the wall” he said. “I hit him to make him let go of my arm.”

“I know these things mean something to you,” Wolkowicz said. “I was bullshitting you about your killing him-all he’s got is some busted teeth and maybe a slipped disc or two in his neck.”

“I know. I saw him get up.”

“And then the car blew up while you were still half a block away from it,” Wolkowicz said. “I don’t understand that.”

“They wired the door on the driver’s side. A Chinese kid ran ahead and yanked it open-he wanted to do me some damage. The priest saw me check under the hood when I was out there last night. You have to open the door to open the hood.”