John Sandford - Heat Lightning

The people who would die were all known killers and rapists. The people who would die on the West Coast-and there would be many more of them, if al-Qaeda had its way-were innocents.

A deal was cut-and a deniable contact was needed between Washington and Hanoi.

“You,” Virgil said. They were on Cretin Avenue, headed north toward the golf course, just a few blocks away now.

“Me. I speak Vietnamese, have contacts in both places-though the Viets were a trifled surprised about the CIA,” Sinclair said with a grin. “I talked to an old friend over there who thought it was hilarious-turns out he was a member of their intelligence service, and he’d been playing me. One thing about the Vietnamese-they got a pretty goddamn good sense of humor.”

What wasn’t so funny, he said, was what happened when he tried to turn them down. The people from Homeland Security pressed on him the urgency of the case, and said something to the effect that the Vietnamese had already researched him… and knew where his daughter was.

“It was a threat,” Sinclair said. “I didn’t really believe they’d do anything to her-family is pretty important in Vietnam. But I wasn’t sure. So here I am.”

“You set me up to see Tai and Phem,” Virgil said.

“Of course; and they were seriously pissed. I’ll tell you what-the real Tai and Phem would be astonished to hear about it. They’re in town all the time, you know. Don’t stay at the Hilton. But if you’d called somebody at Larson to check their bona fides, they would have told you that Tai and Phem were outstanding citizens and enthusiastic followers of the capitalist road.”

JENKINS TURNED the corner on Marshall, headed down the hill toward the clubhouse at the Town and Country Club. The place was lit like a Christmas tree, people all over the entry and parking lot.

“Do you have any idea of exactly what Hoa’s doing?” Virgil asked.

“No. But I believe it’s a gun, I believe it’s Warren. All I get is what seeps through from phone calls that Hoa makes. I’ve also got the feeling that they may have a line on the last man. One thing I didn’t tell you-they’ve got a direct connect, I think, with somebody in Washington. I don’t know where. Homeland Security, probably. They have access to every record you can think of. I got Hoa’s laptop password, not without a lot of trouble, I can tell you, and signed on when she was gone with you. If you get your hands on it, you’ll find documents that you won’t believe. The U.S. government vectored them right in on Utecht and Sanderson.”

“So why tell me now?”

“Because we’re at the end of this,” Sinclair said. “My daughter will be okay-the Viets will have what they want, so they’ll be done with us. I just might be able to fuck with the people who did this to me, the guys over here. Depending on what you want to do.”

A guy in a black tuxedo, accessorized with a Beretta 93R with the twenty-round mag, was flagging them down and Jenkins slowed and held up his ID. Davenport called, “That guy’s okay,” and they went through. Sinclair said, “I wonder if that’s his dress gun?”

DAVENPORT MET Virgil in the street: “We’ve got people coming in on the corners: they’ll do it all at once, when they isolate the streets.” He looked at Sinclair, still cuffed in the backseat, then asked Virgil, “What’s the deal?”

“I’m not exactly clear on that,” Virgil said. “But Professor Sinclair has been talking up a storm. Things have gotten a little out of my pay grade.”

“So maybe I should hear his story,” Davenport said.

“Little out of your pay grade, too. And Rose Marie’s,” Virgil said.

“So whose pay grade are we talking about?” Davenport asked.

“Dunno-maybe the president.”

Rose Marie Roux was walking toward them in a political orange dress the size of an army tent.

“Got to be quite a story,” Davenport said to Sinclair.

“Oh, it is,” he said. He nodded across the room at a cluster of men in front of a fireplace. “Is that the governor? I’m sure he’d be fascinated.”

THEY TOOK Sinclair into the women’s locker room. Davenport spoke quietly with Rose Marie, who got another glass of something and tagged along.

“First piece of business,” she said to Sinclair. “We’re not talking about a machine gun or a rocket or a bomb?”

Sinclair shook his head. “They’re operating under pretty strict guidelines: nobody dies except the people involved in the original rape and murder. There were actually five killed back then: the woman, her two young children, three and two years of age, the woman’s grandfather, and a housekeeper. These people, Hoa and her team, messed up when they killed Wigge’s bodyguard. That wasn’t supposed to happen. That was a lapse. The cop up in Red Lake was an even bigger lapse, but I think by that time they didn’t care so much. They were making the final run.”

“My God,” Rose Marie said. She looked at Virgil. “You knew this?”

“Not the details-the outline,” Virgil said. “I was getting pieces.”

Rose Marie said to Jenkins, “Go get Warren.”

When Jenkins had gone, Davenport asked Sinclair, “How many more people are on their list?”

“Warren and one more. Six altogether, or seven, if you count Chester Utecht. The last guy-I don’t know the name-lives on a lake somewhere. They were having a hard time tracking him down, exactly, but I think their… outside… contacts came through on that.”

“He means Homeland Security,” Virgil said to Davenport and Rose Marie. “The guy they were looking for is Carl Knox.”

WARREN WALKED IN a minute later, followed by Jenkins and a security man. Rose Marie said, “We’ve identified the people who are trying to kill you. Agent Flowers has information that they will attempt to shoot you, probably with a rifle. We’re putting officers around the golf course, where we think they are. If you wish, you could go out the back unseen.”

Warren bobbed his head. “I’ll do that. I’ll be at home. I’ve got some serious protection there. Call me when you get them.” He glanced at Virgil, his upper lip rippled, and he left, followed by his security man.

Sinclair said, “There goes the worst man in this whole episode, dressed in a tuxedo and patent-leather shoes, untouched by human hands.”

Davenport said to Sinclair, “All right-we’ve got ten minutes before we drop the net around the golf course. Tell the rest of us what happened.”

At that moment, the governor walked in, shadowed by Neil Mitford, his personal weasel. The governor smiled at everybody, said, “Ah, that fuckin’ Flowers. How are you, Virgil?” He shook Virgil’s hand. “Love the cowboy boots. I just bought a pair myself. What’s up with all you people? Are we going to be assassinated, or what?”

Rose Marie said, “Governor, I’m not sure you want to be here.”

“That’s what I said,” Mitford muttered.

“Better than making small talk with a guy who wants more ethanol subsidies.” He looked around. “I haven’t been in a women’s locker room since my junior year at Princeton.” He chuckled. “Anna Sweat, I swear to God she had… Never mind.” He peered at Sinclair. “So-let’s hear it.”

A WONDERFUL, soft summer night: when Mai returned to Vietnam, she would take with her, she thought, the memory of these nights. There was nothing quite like them in Hanoi, where the sea was always close and dominated the weather. Here, the nights could be both cool and soft, or warm and soft, with the air resting on your skin like a feather, scented with flowers, and without the overriding tang of salt and seaweed.

She and Phem lay on the edge of the lake, deep in the brush, dressed all in black except for the olive-drab head nets that Tai had found in a sporting goods store. They’d be heading north after they killed Warren, and Phem had sworn that he wouldn’t go back without what he called “country equipment.”