Conspiracy (37 page)

“She is an enemy of the people.”

“She's a translator. She has nothing to do with me.”

“You are a spy.”

“I came to your country to solve a murder. You helped me.”

“I helped you?”

“You did,” said Dean. “And I'm grateful.”

Cam Tre Luc asked the American what he wanted.

Instead of answering, Dean told him that he wanted a guarantee that Qui Lai Chu would not be harmed. Cam Tre Luc made a face.

“Do you have a fax machine?” Dean asked.

“Fax?”

“A facsimile. It makes an image on paper and transmits over a telephone line.”

“I know what a fax is,” said Cam Tre Luc.

“Do you have one?”

“In my office downstairs.”

“Let's go.”

DEAN WAITED AS
the machine beeped and began to whir. The machine was at least twenty years old and used thermal imaging paper instead of inkjets or a laser. But the image that came through was clear and legible. Dean took the first sheet as the cutter slid across and deposited it on the tray.

“This is a CIA pay list, from 1966,” said Dean. “If you read English as well as you speak it, you can figure out the rest.”

Cam Tre Luc's face turned pale as he looked at the paper.

“If I find out that Qui Lai Chu is hurt, the entire file will be sent to Hanoi,” said Dean. “I don't think that will do much for your career.”

Dean nodded to Karr, who let Cam Tre Luc go.

“Maybe you ought to call off the dogs at the airport,” Dean added, grabbing the other two pages as they came through the fax machine. “I'd hate to think how they might interpret these pages if I have to hand them over at the airport.”

 

“
I DON'T CARE
who you are,” said the librarian. “I'm not going to allow you to take the hard drive.”

“What's your fax number?” Lia said.

“Our fax?”

“I'll have a subpoena faxed right to you.”

The librarian frowned, then took another tack.

“If I let you have the hard drive, which I'm not saying I'm going to do, that means my patrons are out a computer,” she told Lia. “What am I going to tell them?”

“What if I got you a new hard drive?” said Lia.

“And you set it up? The network administrator spent two whole days getting one of our machines to work the last time we had a crash.”

“I guarantee we can do it faster,” said Lia.

The nearby fax machine rang and then began to print. The librarian went over to the machine.

“How did you do that?” asked the librarian. “I thought you didn't know our number.”

Lia shrugged. “I have friends in high places.”

“Let me call the town attorney and make sure this is legal.”

“Please do,” said Lia.

 

TWO HOURS LATER
, Lia cradled her sat phone to her ear, pretending to use it as Robert Gallo talked her through the installation process. Gallo had already made a copy of the working data on the original drive; once Lia was ready, he downloaded a compressed version to the drive. As she was
waiting for the files to reconstitute themselves, Lia handed off the original drive to a state trooper who had promised to take it to the airport, where a courier would pick it up and fly it to Crypto City.

“Done,” Lia told the Art Room as the library's card catalog appeared on the screen. She hung up the phone and got up from the computer.

“You better go tell Chief Ball that you took the drive,” suggested Telach. “He's bound to find out.”

“Should I ask him why Amanda ran the credit check?”

“Hold that back. Maybe there's something on the drive that will make it obvious.”

“Gotcha.”

“Are you talking to me?” asked the librarian, who had come over without Lia noticing her.

“Just to myself,” said Lia.

“Sounded like some conversation.”

“You should hear when I disagree.”

 

“
HE DIDN'T SAY
when he would be back. Gone a few days. That was the message he left.”

“And he didn't say where he was going?”

“Uh-uh.”

Lia stared at the Pine Plains police dispatcher, trying to figure out if the blank look on her face was real or phony. It was hard to tell.

The phone rang before Lia decided. The Pine Plains police dispatcher pulled her thick-framed eyeglasses up off the bridge of her nose, then turned and answered the phone, preening her frosted curls as she picked up the receiver. Lia felt as if she'd been dropped into the middle of a
Mayberry RFD
rerun on Nick at Nite.

“Pine Plains PD. Dispatch speaking. . . . No, I'm afraid he's not. . . . Yes, Marge, I recognized your voice. I'm sure we could get one of the part-timers over to direct traffic when you have your bake sale. When is it?”

“Lia, can you talk?” asked Telach.

“Excuse me a second,” Lia said to the dispatcher. She
took out her sat phone and walked out into the hallway. “Marie?”

“The state police found Amanda Rauci's car at the Rhinecliff train station, about a half hour from where you are,” said Telach. “They just called the Secret Service, and the liaison passed the information over to us. What's up with Ball?”

“Doesn't seem to be in.”

The dispatcher was just hanging up when Lia returned. “This is a number where the chief can reach me,” said Lia, writing it on a pad. Anyone calling the number would be forwarded to her sat phone. “Can you give me directions to the train station?”

“Which one?”

“How many are there?”

“Well, if you're going to New York, there's Millerton and Poughkeepsie.”

“Actually, I want the Rhinecliff station,” said Lia. “Where do those trains go?”

“Oh, that's an Amtrak station. That goes north. You can go south to New York from there, too, I guess, but it's more expensive, and not as close as Millerton.”

 

THE RHINECLIFF TRAIN
station was a small, quaint little stop within a stone's throw of the Hudson River. It had a tiny parking lot at the side, tucked around a curve in the road. Amanda Rauci's car was parked in a spot close to the walk that led to the station entrance.

A tow truck was hooking up the car's bumper when Lia arrived. A small knot of troopers stood near the entrance, talking baseball. Trent Madden, the Secret Service agent who was following up on the Forester case, was with them.

“What's the story?” Lia asked.

“Yanks beat Boston, nineteen to three,” said one of the troopers.

“Real funny.”

“Rauci must've taken the train this morning,” said Madden. “Engine's cold. Train goes north to Albany and Canada,
or west through Buffalo, and south to New York City. We're checking all the stations.”

“She got a really good spot,” said Lia, looking at the rest of the lot. There were places for only twenty cars in the gravel lot; the overflow filled the nearby street and a church parking lot across the way. “Must've been here before everyone else.”

 

TRUE TO HER
word, Qui had remained at the small club where Dean had left her. She sat alone at a table toward the back, smoking a cigarette. The dim light softened the effects of age on her face; she looked twenty years younger. If rock and roll rather than Asian pop were blaring in the background, Dean might even have been convinced it was 1972 again.

“You're back,” said Qui as he sat down.

“The business is all taken care of.”

A waitress came over. Qui pointed at her empty glass. “For my friend, a Scotch,” she added in Vietnamese.

“I don't want a drink,” said Dean.

Qui patted his hand, and he acquiesced, though whether out of politeness or some sense that she needed to share something with him, he couldn't say.

“What did you do?” she asked in English when the server had gone.

“I threatened to reveal that Cam Tre Luc was on the CIA payroll during the war.”

“Was he?”

“He was.”

“I guess it's not surprising,” she said. “People pretend to be pure, but they're not.”

“You know Cam Tre Luc?”

“No. But his kind is very familiar. The leaders of the country. They claim purity.” She smiled wistfully. “But so do we all, don't we?”

The waitress came with their drinks. Qui took a sip of hers; Dean did not.

“We cannot go against our nature,” said Qui. “You couldn't. I should have realized when he told me that you called that you would come to rescue me.”

“You're not implying that I'm pure, are you?” asked Dean.

“Not pure, Mr. Dean. Just that it is in your nature to try to fix things. You think it is a good trait, but it can cause much harm as well. Good and evil, at the same time. Thank you for trying to fix things with Cam Tre Luc.”

Dean took the faxed pages from his pocket and slid them across the table to her. “If he bothers you, show him a copy of this.”

Qui left the papers untouched on the table. Neither she nor Dean said anything for a full minute. Finally Dean rose to go.

“Thank you, Charlie Dean. I see what my future might have been. Now, I no longer have to mourn for it.”

 

“
WHAT THE
HELL
is going on, Billy?” demanded President Marcke as Rubens entered the Oval Office. “Why are the details of a top-secret mission being broadcast on national television?”

Bing was sitting next to the President. Her gaze was directed at the floor.

“I'm not sure, Mr. President,” said Rubens. He braced himself. The entire trip down—he'd decided he better use the helicopter—he'd gone over different scenarios, different plans for what to say and do depending on what the President and, more important, Bing said. But they fled in the face of Marcke's anger.

Marcke's desk was littered with twisted paper clips—not a good sign.

“Are the Vietnamese involved in this, or what?” demanded the President.

“No, sir,” answered Rubens. “There's no evidence of it at all.”

“Who is?”

“I'm not sure. To this point, the investigation—”

Rubens stopped speaking as Marcke dropped the paper clip he'd been twisting in his fingers and rose. Rubens had often watched the President pace in his office before, but never like this. He nearly speed walked from side to side.

“McSweeney called me, you know,” he told Rubens. “We were senators together. I always thought the man was a jerk,
though we did manage to work together when necessary. We actually got a few good bills passed into law. But regardless.”

The President stopped his pacing and glanced over at Bing. “You can go, Donna.”

The President's glare made it clear there was no point in protesting.

“Yes, Mr. President,” she said, her voice barely a whisper as she made her escape.

Marcke waited for Bing to leave.

“Who shot at McSweeney?”

“I only know for certain that the Vietnamese government was not involved,” said Rubens.

“I want this figured out,” said Marcke, cutting him off. “Do you understand?”

“The Secret Service and FBI—”

“Aren't getting squat done. That was a U.S. senator who was shot at, Bill. A presidential candidate,” said Marcke.

“I'm working on it, Mr. President.”

“Good. You can go.”

“There's one thing that you should be aware of,” said Rubens, deciding he'd better tell Marcke everything he knew about the situation. “We're still working on this, but there's a possibility that the attempt was connected with the theft of money in Vietnam during the war there. Senator McSweeney was an officer there at the time.”

Rubens explained what they had found, carefully noting that there was no proof that McSweeney had taken the money, or that any American had.

“When did you find this out?” asked the President.

“Within the last twenty-four hours.”

“Why haven't you been briefing me on this yourself, Bill?” Rather than angry, the President seemed almost hurt—or, more accurately, disappointed.

“You told me to report to you through Ms. Bing.”

Marcke furled his arms in front of his chest. “Get to the bottom of this. I don't want any elected officials assassinated—even if they're running against me. Especially then.”

“Yes, sir.” Rubens waited a half second, then turned to leave.

“And Billy—you talk to me directly from now on when the matter concerns Deep Black. Everything else can go through channels, up the ladder with Admiral Brown when he gets back, Ms. Bing, and so on. But not Desk Three. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said Rubens.

 

EVEN THOUGH CAM
Tre Luc had reversed the order directing that Dean be apprehended, the Art Room arranged another pickup for them. A speedboat picked them up at the harbor just before dawn; a half hour later they were climbing into the belly of a helicopter whose owner made good money transporting roustabouts to the oil derricks off the South Vietnamese shore. The chopper took them to an airstrip, where they'd caught a plane to Thailand and then boarded a commercial airliner for home.