The Price of Blood

Trin exhaled and his eyes wandered out the window. “Pieces come back. Ever since Jimmy found me. It’s like a bad dream. Cyrus is here…”

Broker nodded. “In Hue, checked into the Century Riverside Hotel. The Imperial Suite.”

Trin sagged. “He has a big boat off the coast. I read it in the newspaper. It’s been on the state TV.”

“You’re getting warm.”

“Jimmy,” said Trin. He bit his lip.

“Too bad Jimmy can’t make it to the reunion,” said Broker.

Trin stared at his hands. “The last time we were together we almost got killed. When Jimmy called he told me Ray did get killed. I saw that helicopter fly off with a heavy load in its sling. There are…crazy rumors.”

“Not rumors,” said Broker.

Trin looked up and perspiration beaded on his forehead. He spoke very slowly as his eyes scoured Broker’s face. “A convict in an American prison sends an intermediary to find me six years ago. He sets me up running a convalescent home for disabled Front veterans. He specifies exactly where he wants the home built on a deserted strip of coast in Quang Tri Province. He has me buy a boat. A fairly large boat. Because I am helping disabled Liberation Front fighters I am allowed to do all these things. To spend money. Otherwise, because I fought for the South, I can be a hotel clerk, a waiter, or a cyclo-boy. Or, because I went through the camps, there’s a program for former southern officers. I can immigrate to America if I have a sponsor.

“And then, when Jimmy is ready to come himself, he develops a fatal disease.” Trin’s eyes were getting hotter. “And a secret policeman comes in his place with the daughter of a dead friend. Is the girl supposed to make it all palatable?”

They stared across the table.

Trin took another drag on his cigarette and his wooden eyes kindled. “Once you asked me why my men burned slips of paper before going into battle. I never answered you.” He paused and picked up a sheet off the hotel notepad on the table and took a pen from his pocket. He slapped the pen down on the sheet. “They were writing prayers. Write a prayer for me that tells me why you’re here.”

Broker squinted, saw that he was serious. “Okay,” he said. He picked up the pen and printed: We know where Ray is buried under ten tons of gold. Cyrus doesn’t.

Trin sat transfixed, driven into the carpet. Then he inhaled sharply and muttered, “Choi Oui.” He exhaled, grabbed the pen from Broker and wrote furiously on the note: Rumors. He looked up; his eyes lost all caution. Broker took the pen back and wrote: Fact.

Trin laughed nervously. He picked up the lighter and ignited the note. A tongue of flame and smoke curled from his fingers. Delicately he carried the burning slip to the window, opened the latch, and tossed it out. He pointed to the smoke detector on the ceiling. Then he sat back down and said slowly, “Buddhists write prayers to their ancestors and then burn them because the dead can only read smoke. Like incense.” His voice trembled but his eyes were an inferno. “No bullshit?” he gasped.

“No bullshit. That famous night? Cyrus used us as a decoy and had Ray murdered to steal that gold from the bank of Hue. Jimmy helped do it, except Jimmy changed the plan. He ditched the gold on the coast. Everybody, including Cyrus, thought it went down at sea. Now Cyrus thinks the gold is in the ocean near a wrecked helicopter. But it isn’t. It’s buried. On the beach.” Broker grinned.

Trin groped, dizzy. He blurted, “And you plan to do what?”

“Couple of things. How good’s that boat you got?”

“Oh God.” Trin explored his burning face with his fingers as though he was establishing his own reality. He swallowed. “It’s a fishing boat, forty feet long, inboard engine. But it’s not covered. Actually, it’s falling apart. They wouldn’t let me get a real oceangoing boat. A lot of people have left…” He shook his head. “I don’t know anything about boats. We never use it.”

“But it would handle a couple tons, say. We could remove some of the stuff before-”

“Before what!” Trin sat bolt upright. He scanned the walls. “What?” he repeated.

“Before I lure Cyrus in and arrest the sonofabitch when he digs it up!”

“Here?” Trin whispered. His eyes swelled.

“Nina wants to work through the American Mission. I’d prefer to coordinate with the police in Hue. You can help me line up the local cops and-”

“No. Don’t go to the police…no.” Trin’s palm squashed lumps of sweat on his forehead. “Excuse me.” He got up, moved in jerky steps to the bar set up over the pint-sized icebox, and picked up a tiny airplane bottle of Scotch. He broke the foil seal, opened it, and drank it. He coughed, came back, and resumed his seat. He glanced at the wall, toward Nina’s room, and said emphatically, “It would be a real mistake to contact the MIA office.”

“Exactly. Convince her.” Broker yanked his head toward the wall.

“The MIA office is closely monitored.” Trin shook his head. “Something like this…Everybody will,” he grinned tightly, “get out of control.”

“Can we do it?” asked Broker.

Trin swallowed and got the words out with difficulty. “Look at me, Phil. I’m not who I was.”

“None of us are,” said Broker.

Trin whispered, “Do you have a map?”

Broker knew he had him. He tapped the security belt under his waistband.

“My God. Jimmy…” Trin slowly shook his head. “He called me last week and said you had a present for me. I thought he meant a bonus.”

“Well?” said Broker, opening his hands.

“He said something else. We were all going to play a joke on Cyrus.”

“Uh-huh.” Broker reached for the phone and dialed Nina’s room. “I told him,” he said into the receiver. “You better get over here.”

55

Nina waved her hands, crossed the room, and opened the window. “It’s smoky in here,” she said. She had showered and wore the cheap plastic shower shoes the hotel provided. Her hair was still damp and stains of moisture glued her T-shirt to her collarbones.

“He told you,” she said to Trin.

Trin nodded as he crossed the room to the bar area and returned with all the pony ounces of hotel booze. He sat down and lined them up. Six of them. Hands shaking, he opened two of them, held one in each hand and dribbled them into a water glass.

“You’re, ah, mixing Scotch and gin,” said Nina, her voice and her eyebrows arched.

“Phil says you have opposite theories about how to proceed,” said Trin stiffly. He raised his glass and drained it.

“I thought it might be a good idea to feel out the MIA people at the start.”

“Why?” asked Trin. Methodically he began opening two more of the small bottles.

“Maybe I’m lonely for American faces,” said Nina, very concerned.

“You don’t trust me,” said Trin, smiling wryly as he took a strong pull on the glass.

“You always drink this much, Trin?”

“Yes,” said Trin emphatically. “But usually much worse stuff.”

Broker sat on the bed massaging his forehead in both hands.

“Just what we need, a lush.” Nina rolled her eyes.

“A woman of Hue,” Trin said dryly.

“Pardon me,” said Nina.

Trin did not smile. “You have the bearing of a woman of Hue.” He finished his drink and began opening two more bottles. “My wife was from Hue. Aloof, smooth as silk. Like the Perfume River, not too deep, not too shallow.” He smiled coldly. “A man could drown.”

“Wonderful. Folk sayings,” said Nina impatiently.

Trin grinned. “Here’s another. What did the first water buffalo say to the second water buffalo?”