The Tears of Autumn - Charles McCarry [37]
“I’d like to write something about this.”
“Would you? You’d better do it on some other family. The Ngos are just a little anti-American right now.”
“It would be a good chance for them to make a point or two,” Christopher said. “I’ve got twenty million readers.”
“Your readers wouldn’t know a Truong toe from a third baseman, even after you told them. Paul, you’re shitting me. I think you’ve got something up your sleeve. You think about that while I get rid of some of this wine.”
Christopher watched Kim’s progress through the loud restaurant. Sybille Webster, sitting at a table against the wall, put a finger along her nose and winked at him. Tom Webster watched the Vietnamese go into the toilet, then walked over to Christopher’s table with his napkin clutched in his hand.
“Hi,” he said. “How’s every little thing?”
“Okay, Tom.”
“A college friend of yours passed through a couple of days ago. He left a message for you.”
“Did he, now? What was it?”
“It’s a bit complicated. Why don’t you come over for a drink when you ditch the little fellow?”
“All right. It may be late.”
Webster nodded and went back to his table. When Kim returned, he changed to red wine.
“Have you been to Beirut yet?” Christopher asked.
“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