Conspiracy (22 page)

Within two or three minutes of sending the request via e-mail, he got a phone call from Segio Nakami, the number two on the Desk Three analytic team. Almost the exact opposite of Johnny Bib, Nakami was considered eccentric at the Agency because he wasn't eccentric.

“Robert, you're asking for profiles?” said Nakami.

“Yeah, I got this thing going for Rubens in Vietnam.”

“There are Americans on the list.”

“Yeah?”

“What are you looking for?”

Gallo explained what he was doing.

“Did you fill out the papers?” asked Nakami when he finished. By “papers,” Nakami meant legal requests; the forms were actually done electronically.

“I thought, like, I didn't have to because Rubens said go.”

“No, you have to fill them out.”

“Um, it's going to like take two hours.”

“Are you on real time?” asked Nakami.

He meant, was Gallo supporting a mission, where the information was needed right away or in “real time”? Except that Nakami didn't mean that all, because he knew very well that Gallo wasn't down in the Art Room.

“No,” said Gallo.

“I'm sure Mr. Rubens didn't want you to bypass procedure,” said Nakami. “Let me know if there's a problem.”

Stinking lawyers, thought Gallo, reaching to bring up the proper screen.

 

“
BOTTOM LINE, FORESTER
was a burnout. He was never going anywhere in the Service. His wife was giving him the boot. And he had this personality—he'd just basically given up on things. The only exception to that was his girlfriend, and frankly, that seems like it was pretty one-sided.” Special Agent John Mandarin leaned back on the park bench in front of the Danbury town hall, where Lia had arranged to meet him. “That's why he killed himself.”

“So you think I'm wasting my time checking into Forester's death,” said Lia, recapping in a sentence what Mandarin had taken five minutes to explain.

“Look, it's not my time, so I can't tell you what to do,” said Mandarin. “But off the record, I think the director—”

Mandarin stopped mid-sentence. Lia followed his glance toward two young women walking across the street.

“They're underage,” snapped Lia.

“Just looking,” said Mandarin lamely. “The thing is, it was pretty obviously a suicide. Staging that—it's real easy in the movies, OK? But in real life, those things happen a certain way. When I was a policeman for a while I saw two of them. Which is a lot. And I'm not the only one who thinks that. The FBI came over as soon as the state police figured out the guy was a federal agent. There was no jurisdictional backbiting here, no finger-pointing. We were called and we came. Believe me, if there had been any sign of anything other than suicide, somebody would have seen it.”

“So if it's all so obvious, why isn't the case officially closed?”

“You mean why is the director still asking questions?” Mandarin smiled. “I think the director was kind of shook by it. Frey was Forester's first boss, showing him the ropes. Or supposed to. I think he felt guilty about it.”

Mandarin shook his head. He had a slightly older woman in his sights now, good-looking, with tight, expensive jeans. Lia resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs.

“Frey had a reputation as a real hard-ass,” said the Secret Service agent finally. “That's how he got to where he is now. He came down hard on people. Too hard, probably. He stuck a couple of things in Forester's file early on. Little things, but, you know, anyone looking at them sees whose initials are at the top there, and they're going to figure that this guy is not on the chosen list, if you know what I mean.”

“Frey held him back?”

“No. Not on purpose. He probably thought he was doing him a favor.” Mandarin laughed. “I worked with Frey when he was one of us. Yeah, I'm that old.” He laughed again, even harder. “Very, very, very competent guy. The guy you want watching your back, believe me. The President can trust him. But tough on the help. Kicked me in the butt more than once.”

“The state police report noted the chain wasn't locked on the door.”

“Ehhh. Not a biggie.”

“There were no prints on the doorknob, which seems strange,” Lia pointed out. “Not even Forester's.”

Mandarin held his hand out in front of him. “Door was a handle type. I go to open it, I push down, odds are I don't leave a print. Spring brings it back behind me. Everybody obsessed with forensics, but a lot of times in the real world things don't follow a script.”

Mandarin leaned back on the bench, stretching.

“I'm only holding the case open because not all the reports have come back yet. I'm not pushing for them to come
back,” he added, giving her a sideways glance. “Because I have better things to do, if you get my drift.”

“I don't.”

“I'm in a no-win position. The big boss wants me to find that it wasn't suicide. Everybody else in the world tells me it was.” Mandarin shook his head. “I'm sorry. He killed himself. I don't like to think of it myself, but that's the bottom line.”

“Even if it was a suicide,” said Lia, “he's our only connection to Vietnam.”

“I guess. I don't buy the whole overseas-conspiracy thing.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, the shooter missed. A government goes to the kind of lengths you're talking about here, they're going to pick someone who doesn't miss.”

“Everybody misses once in a while.”

“Maybe.”

“What do you think happened?”

“Really pissed-off constituent decides to do the senator in. Hired a crazy to help. Or maybe he's a crazy himself.”

“So why can't you find him?”

“It's not as easy as you think.” Mandarin got up. “Listen, I gotta get going. I have to find something for my son's birthday. Then I have to get up to Albany because McSweeney's due there. You're welcome to join us if you want, OK? Or if you want more help here, let us know. But I think you're spinning your wheels here.”

“How old is he?”

“Who, my kid? Thirteen. Good kid, but a tough age.”

“Forester had a son around that old,” said Lia.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Would you commit suicide knowing how it would affect your son?”

“I'm not Forester.”

 

MADONNA WAS A
blonde—not natural of course, though all her parts matched. She was older than the girls who had been downstairs. She wore a tight-fitted vinyl bodice and leather boots over fishnet stockings, apparently imitating one of the singer's many incarnations, though the resemblance was distant at best. Karr couldn't tell if the subdued belligerence she met him with was part of her act.

“Who are you?” she said, almost angrily.

“Just a guy.”

“Just a guy.” She picked up a cigarette pack from the nightstand next to the bed and knocked one out. “What do you want?”

“The obvious,” said Karr.

She smirked. Karr scooped the lighter from the table and lit it, holding the flame for her. Madonna hesitated, then leaned in. She took a long drag and blew the smoke in his face.

“You like that, huh, Joe?” she said.

“Name's not Joe. And no, not really.”

“Strip.”

“You first.”

Madonna took a long puff from her cigarette. “All right,” she said.

Karr sat down on the bed, watching as the hooker unbuttoned her top. Her breasts sprang free with the last button, round oranges each topped by a pert red cherry. She raised her boot and put it on Karr's leg.

“Lick it,” she said.

“I don't think so.”

Miss Madonna pretended to pout. Karr took hold of the boot and helped her pull her foot free. He did the same with the second, then got up and brought the shoes to the side of the room. As he straightened them, he positioned a video fly on the wall just under the window.

The prostitute threw one of her stockings at him as he turned back around. He caught it, and waited for the second. But instead of tossing it, Miss Madonna dropped it on the floor. She rose, then tugged at the zipper of the vinyl girdle she was wearing. The garment fell away, revealing a white lace thong.

“Tommy, Cam Tre Luc is in the building,” said Rockman in Karr's ear.

“And we were just getting to the good part.”

Miss Madonna gave him a quizzical stare. “Well, don't stop,” Karr told her.

She pushed her arms back and let her vest slide off her shoulders. Then she paused, taking another drag from her cigarette.

“The madam's on her way up in a frenzy,” warned Rockman.

“Mmmmmm,” said Karr, as Miss Madonna hooked her thumbs into the panty's thin strings.

Before she could get any further, the madam's strident voice was heard in the hallway.

“Mister, mister, big mistake. You go quick. Right now, quick.”

“His bodyguards are right behind him, Tommy,” said Rockman. “Get out of there.”

“Charlie, I'll talk to him,” said Karr.

“No, I'm on my way over,” said Dean. “Hang out there and back me up.”

The madam burst into the room. “You go,” she told Karr.

“Right now?”

“Get dressed quick,” the madam told Madonna, adding something in Vietnamese that prodded the whore into motion.

The madam grabbed Karr's arm.

“Come with me,” she told him, tugging him out the door
and then pushing him down the hallway toward the back stairs. One of her bodyguards trailed silently behind.

Cam Tre Luc, meanwhile, was diverted at the top of the opposite stairs by a girl from another room who sensed trouble. Though out of view, Karr could hear her attempt at seduction and Cam Tre Luc's protests.

“Where are we going?” Karr asked the madam as they reached the stairs.

“You done.”

“I didn't get my money's worth.”

“No charge. Full refund. Come back tomorrow.”

“How about a substitute?” he asked as she pushed him into the stairway. “Someone who doesn't smoke.”

 

DEAN CIRCLED AROUND
the back of the building and came out in the alley directly across from Saigon Rouge. Cam Tre Luc had left a single bodyguard in his SUV; according to the Art Room, one of his men was in the “reception” area and another had gone up to the third floor, waiting discreetly by the stairs while his boss conducted his business.

The original game plan called for Dean to go down the block to a four-story building next to the Saigon Rouge. He'd climb the fire escape, get on the roof, jump down to Saigon Rouge, and then go down the stairs. The guard there would be disposed of with a shot of fast-acting anesthesia; Dean would then have a clear path to the room. While Karr was supposed to be back in the other building watching him, Dean decided there was no reason it wouldn't work with him inside the whorehouse.

“Tommy's in a room on the second floor,” said Rockman as Dean pulled down the fire escape and began climbing up the side of the building. “He convinced the madam he'd take someone else.”

“What's Cam Tre Luc doing?”

“What do you think?”

 

CAM TRE LUC
was not a fool. He knew that someone had been with his whore before he arrived, and he did not like it. Even
though he had come earlier than normal, he expected that the girl would be ready and available—and alone. He paid considerable money for her attention and he was, after all, an important member of the government.

But achieving his position had required considerable discipline. Cam Tre Luc realized that things had to be dealt with at the proper time, and in the proper order; placing emotions above rational thought doomed one to failure. His first priority was to be pleasured; he would deal with Miss Pu, the proprietor of Saigon Rouge, when that was accomplished.

Cam Tre Luc had first visited prostitutes during the American War, when he was still a young man. He was in fact married at the time, but his wife was a world away across the border in North Vietnam. While seeing prostitutes was frowned on by his superiors, Cam Tre Luc had had no difficulty justifying it to them—when living among the corrupt, one must wear their clothes.

Justifying it to himself would have been more difficult, so he did not bother doing so.

Things were now considerably different. His superiors, much higher now in government, would certainly not be as understanding—but there was no need for them to be, as he had more than enough information on any of them to do significant harm should they use this against him. As for his wife, she was here in Ho Chi Minh City. But their years of separation had conditioned her to accept completely their separate lives. If she knew that he visited prostitutes—he suspected she might—she did not say.

Miss Madonna slipped her hands around his chest from behind and began unbuttoning his shirt. He began to breathe more quickly—which was unusual. Generally the stroke of her fingers relaxed him.

Perhaps he was becoming too old for this.

 

THE ROOF DOOR
was bolted from the inside, and to open it Dean had to use a super-magnet tool that he carried in his vest. Unhooking the latch to get the rod to slide required a bit of body English, and Dean lost a good three or four minutes before he could get the rod far enough off the stop to allow the door to open.

He leaned in far enough to see that the coast was clear and there was enough light so that he wouldn't need his glasses, then hunched back to get ready. He unzipped the small pouch at his belly and took out what looked like an oversized gardening glove. The glove was actually a hypodermic device, studded with needles that would feed a quickacting synthetic opiate loaded into a bladder stored in the palm. While it was easier than using a regular doctor's needle, the device required Dean to get extremely close to his victim. It was also highly preferable to inject the drug into the neck area and hold on for a good five seconds. All of which meant getting up close and personal with a very unhappy person.