The Tears of Autumn - Charles McCarry [40]
“He didn’t mention that to me,” Christopher said.
“The French have got him bugged. We couldn’t get mikes in there because there’s always someone in the house, so we’re piggybacking the French wires.”
Christopher laughed. “I’ll bet the French are going to like that.”
“They won’t find out. We’re not going to find out a hell of a lot listening to tapes. We need someone next to Kim—like you. But you’re an outsider. I’m not telling you any more.”
“I can guess,” Christopher said. “You think they’re talking to Hanoi—put us back in, and we’ll let you in after we get rid of the Yankee devils.”
“Maybe. But it may just be business. Kim’s in touch with a heroin factory in Marseilles.”
“Why? They’ve got more opium in Vietnam than they know what to do with.”
“I don’t know—maybe he’s buying technology. If Kim can process it himself instead of shipping it raw, he’ll make fifty, a hundred times the profit.”
“Do you really think they’re serious about the heroin business?”
“Kim sure as hell is,” Webster said. “He puts in all his time on it, night and day. He wants to buy a factory. I’m certain of it.”
Christopher grinned. “Were you in touch with your wire man today?”
“Yeah, How’d you enjoy your beer at Fouquet’s?”
“Okay. You had nobody behind me after I left.”
“Didn’t I? I stuck a bleeper under the left rear fender of your fucking Peugeot, buddy.”
Webster was filled with sly pride. He showed Christopher a rigid middle finger and poured himself another cognac.
“That’ll teach me to believe in coincidence,” Christopher said.
“You just aren’t used to operating against a professional service,” Webster said. “You’re not going to explain a goddamn thing, are you?”
“Tom, there’s nothing to explain. If you think I’m not out, you’re wrong. I’m through. I don’t work for you people any longer.”
Webster took off his glasses. He was a young man, but there were heavy pouches beneath his eyes and broken veins under the skin of his face. “Okay, Paul,” he said, “I’ll say this—next to Sybille, you’re the most sensitive human being I know. You don’t think for a minute that I believe any of this. Patchen sat right here and told me to help you any way I could and to keep my mouth shut about it. That seemed a little unusual to me.”
“If I need any help, I’ll let you know,” Christopher said. “One thing—have you picked up anything on the audio you have on Kim about somebody called Lê Thu?”
Webster thought, and shook his head. “I don’t recall, but I’ve got some logs in my briefcase. Hold on.” He looked through a sheaf of typed sheets. “No, nothing in these, Who’s he supposed to be?”
“I think it’s a she—Lê is a female indicator in Vietnamese names, like Lé Xuan, for Mrs. Nhu. It was a name Kim mentioned, as if he were playing a practical joke on me. Maybe he is.”
“I can run it through for a name check, if you want.”
“No,” Christopher said. “Don’t do that. I’m not entitled to such services. You’ve got to start remembering I’m a private citizen.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Webster said. “Go to bed.”
5
Christopher rose while it was still dark. He left a note for Sybille on the kitchen table and went down the carpeted stairs. In the cobbled courtyard of the apartment building he encountered the Webster’s concierge. She was collecting the garbage, and she raised her wizened face, narrowing her eyes in the smoke of her morning cigarette. Her squint of suspicion changed to a smile.
“Husbands travel, don’t they?” she said.
Christopher rapped softly on the lid of one of the concierge’s garbage cans. “It’s the age of the airplane—everybody can afford to fly,” he said.
The old woman grinned. “But some have to take off early, eh?”
Christopher gave her a ten-franc note, and she trotted ahead of him through the rain to open the heavy door to the street.
He found a café filled with workmen and a few pallid whores; the girls sat at the tables by the window, talking about shops and movies with the kindness and generosity they have for one another. He was reminded of Webster; like him, the girls were aging too quickly,