The Tears of Autumn - Charles McCarry [60]
“What do you want?”
“The story,” Wolkowicz said. “What in hell was that all about? Your car blown up and five innocent bystanders killed, Luong dead in an alley, shots fired at you in the middle of a crowd. What do you think you’re doing, for Christ’s sake?”
Christopher looked around at the metal furniture, the chirping fluorescent lights, the air conditioner on the window-sill. “There seems to be a lot of American equipment in this room,” he said.
“We’re not going to talk here. I just want to know if you’re going to bullshit me again if I take you out of here.”
Christopher made a gesture. Wolkowicz pressed a button on the telephone. When the major returned, Wolkowicz walked with him back into the corridor. Christopher watched them through the half-open door, talking quietly and nodding.
The major came into the office. “There’s one more formality,” he said, gesturing for Christopher to follow him.
Christopher went with him down the hall and into another room. Honey, wearing her silk ao dai, sat on a scarred bench in the empty office. Her joints were locked in fright—fists clenched, neck rigid.
“Is this the American?” the major asked in Vietnamese. Honey nodded stiffly.
“Look at him,” the major said.
Honey turned her head, a quick movement like that of a child forced to look at a corpse, and nodded again.
In the corridor, the major tapped Christopher’s sleeve. “I believe you knew Vuong Van Luong,” he said. “I believe you know he’s dead.”
“Yes.”
“The girl saw you searching the body. You woke her when you came into the room—she believes you killed this Luong.”
“She’s not a very intelligent girl, major.”
“No. But she has the power of speech, Mr. Christopher. We have her statement, and we’ll keep her with us for the time being.”
“I understand,” Christopher said.
“I hope you do, Mr. Christopher. It can be very inconvenient for you if the police decide to take an interest in you. One violent death, and you can maintain that you’re a victim of circumstances. But there have been six in less than twenty-four hours. Even in Saigon, that’s too many.”
The major was carrying a dossier. He held it up so that Christopher could see his name written on its cover. “You’ve formed a great many friendships here,” he said. “Your passport will be returned to you at midnight today at the airport. You are already booked on the UTA flight to Paris. Don’t miss the plane, Mr. Christopher.”
The Continental Hotel was only a short distance from the police station in Tu Do Street. Wolkowicz sent his Marine driver to fetch Christopher’s suitcase from his room and pay the bill. They waited in the car, the windows rolled up, until the driver returned.
At Wolkowicz’s villa, Christopher threw away his bloodstained shirt and washed his face. The police doctor had painted the small cuts on his arms and chest and told him that his right eardrum had been ruptured by the explosion. He ripped the adhesive bandage from his cheek and looked at the cut on his face. His head ached. He took four of Wolkowicz’s aspirin.
The villa was icy; Wolkowicz kept the air conditioning turned up so that his snake would sleep. In the living room, Wolkowicz gave Christopher a glass of bourbon and motioned him into a chair.
“Okay,” he said. “It’s gut-spilling time.”
Christopher told him where he had been. He described the visit to Jean-Baptiste Ho’s church, and his meeting with the Truong toe. He did not tell Wolkowicz what had been said, except to describe the movement of opium into Ho’s church.
“Describe this guy who tried to shoot you,” Wolkowicz said.
“He’s been taught either by us or by someone who learned how to shoot a pistol from us,” Christopher said. “When I turned around, he was in a crouch, bringing the pistol up, wrist and elbow locked, both eyes open, not using the sights. He fired two shots at a time in the prescribed manner. He’s trained.”
“Not very well trained,” Wolkowicz said. “How many times did he miss you?”
“Four rounds