The Tears of Autumn - Charles McCarry [46]
Wolkowicz put the pig on the floor and sat down heavily beside Christopher on the sofa. “You ever seen this done?” he asked. “It’s kind of interesting.”
The snake watched the pig fixedly. The drugged pig seemed surprised that it was unable to run; it gave a faint squeal and staggered toward the sofa. Wolkowicz gave it back to the python. With much slower movements than Christopher had expected, the snake attacked, wrapping itself around the pig’s small body. The pig struggled briefly, then subsided, uttering a series of thin squeals like a baby drifting to sleep. Its head thumped on the floor.
“Look at the snake’s eyes,” Wolkowicz said. “This is the only time they change expression—he gets dreamy while he’s squeezing.”
It took the python a long time to swallow the pig’s limp body. Toward the end, when only the pink rump still showed in the snake’s widened jaws, the python reached around with its tail and pushed the pig into its throat.
“He’ll sleep for days now,” Wolkowicz said. “I never knew they used their tails like that—it’s pretty interesting.”
“You enjoy having him around the house?”
“I make sure I know where he is before I go to sleep-snakes are good pets. They’ve got dry, very smooth skin, like the local girls,” Wolkowicz said, grinning. He grasped the snake’s tail and pulled it across the floor and into a closet.
When he came back he said, “I heard you took a little heat in Washington.”
“Oh, how did you hear that?”
“I got a personal letter from a guy. The way I read it, you’re not supposed to be operating out here anymore.”
“That’s why I wanted to see you, to tell you I’m not operating. All appearances to the contrary, I’m now just an honest reporter, trying to make a living.”
“That’s why you showed up at the Truong toe’s at five-thirty this morning, is it?”
“I’m doing a piece on the Ngos. I thought the Truong toe was a good person to talk to.”
“Yeah. Well, what do you want from me?”
“I hear Don Wolfe is out here.”
“That’s right. He reported in last week.”
“I’d like to talk to him.”
“Call him up, he’s around.”
Christopher smiled. “I just wanted to go through channels. He works for you. I thought you might like to be present.”
“I don’t have to be present. He works for me, as you mentioned.”
“Nevertheless,” Christopher said. “If he’s living next door, I’d be grateful if you’d call him over now. I don’t plan to hang around Saigon very long.”
Wolkowicz pursed his lips. “You’re out, aren’t you?” he said. “Patchen didn’t bother to inform anybody, but news travels.”
“I’m out, Barney.”
“So what’s in this for me?”
“If I run into anything, I’ll let you have it.”
“You’d better,” Wolkowicz said, “or you’ll never get into this country again. You believe that?”
“I believe it.”
“Okay,” Wolkowicz said. A short-range transceiver had been babbling on the coffee table while they spoke. Wolkowicz picked up the microphone and spoke into it.
“Why do you talk German on the radio?” Christopher asked.
Wolkowicz put his hand, covered with stiff black hair, over the microphone, as if it were a telephone receiver. “Wolfe can’t speak Cherokee,” he said.
Don Wolfe wore sagging Bermuda shorts, a T-shirt, and a buttoned seersucker jacket.
“You know the illustrious Christopher?” Wolkowicz said. “Tell him anything he wants to know.”
Wolkowicz picked up a heavy attaché case and his radio and went out of the room. Wolfe removed his jacket, revealing a revolver in a shoulder holster. “Station regulations, we never go out without a gat,” he said. “You don’t believe in firearms, do you?”
“I always thought somebody might take it away from me and shove it down my throat,” Christopher said.
“What can I do for you?”
“A lot, I hope. When did you leave Mexico City?”
“Let’s see, this is December 15.1 left on December 2—four days at headquarters to learn all about Vietnamese culture,