South China Sea

counter and said something to the woman serving the customer, her hands full of cherries she was dumping on the scales. She said something quickly to the boy, and he made his way back to Baker.

“You go now,” the boy said. “Ask her for chanh—lemon, you understand. She will tell you she has none but to come back tomorrow. She will have some. Other dollar.”

“What? Oh yeah. Here.” He gave the boy the dollar. “Am I to come see her tomorrow?” Baker asked.

The boy shrugged with an insolence that had broken out once he’d secured the second dollar, his shrug saying, How the hell do I know? “You go see her,” he said, spat once more— perilously close to Baker’s shoe — and melted into the crowd.

Baker asked the old woman for a lemon.

She promptly gave him one and held out her hand for payment. It had happened so fast, so unexpectedly, that he barely had time to think, but he immediately looked about for the boy. The woman repeated the price impatiently. The boy was gone.

“Damn!” Baker said, counting out the money and giving it to the woman. “Damn, I’ve been had.”

“Eh?”

“What?” He turned on the old woman, realized he was childishly taking it out on her. “Cam on”—Thanking you — he said, and walked back to his hotel, every youth he saw raising his ire. “Chia khoa phong!” he all but shouted at the desk clerk, who, despite the American’s bad temper, took his time getting the room key and sliding it across to Baker.

The room was a shambles, every drawer of the small chest pulled out, what few clothes he had strewn about the room, white streaks of boric acid all over the floor, the mattress upended and slashed open, its stuffing oozing out. Also strewn about the floor was the distinctively sweet smell, not at all stale, of an American cigarette, in itself signifying that whoever had hired the kid must not have been long gone. Had he or they left satisfied? Did they suspect him of having information on POWs or MIAs, or whatever it was that they could sell for a high price to more parents of an MIA, or were they looking for something else, or was all this mayhem among the dead roaches and boric acid simply for effect, a warning to quit his trip to the hamlets of Lat village below Lang Bian Mountain? As he looked out the window that framed the warm gold of morning light, Baker felt clammy and cold.

* * *

LaSalle, none the worse from the champagne he’d consumed, wanted to make love again. Marte Price didn’t. Once a night, she figured, was quite sufficient for any nice girl. Besides, no matter what all the sex manuals said, the second time more often than not proved to be a huffing, puffing affair— more a measure of fitness than passion — and plain wore you out, but not in that wonderful, satisfying, spent way. Besides, she was still languorous, in a warm, safe cave mood, and wanted it to last, and she told Pierre to leave her alone, she wanted to sleep. The Frenchman was happy to oblige, and rolling away from her, surveyed the tent with a more discerning eye, namely to see where she might hide her most prized photos.

Almost asleep himself, LaSalle had to concentrate hard to stay awake, his eyes searching the small tent, looking for something that would withstand the rigors of war. His gaze settled on a gray metal box about a foot square and a foot high. He’d seen that kind of box before. Usually they were asbestos-lined-and waterproof. Problem was, there was no key in the lock. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that the photos he wanted to see were in the gray box. Or did she play the fox and keep the photos in some very ordinary place — her Army-issue passport side pouch that he could see hanging from a suction hook on the tent’s center pole? Easing himself off the bed, looking back to make sure she was still asleep, he took down the pouch and quietly unzipped the rear passport section. Apart from the passport, Army press pass, and a sheaf of two thousand dollars’ worth of American Express traveler’s checks in hundreds and fifties, there was nothing.

The second, smaller section of the pouch contained Chap Stick, lipstick, a two-pack container of tampons, a card of Midol capsules, Band-Aids, and assorted hairpins. The front section, which LaSalle left till last, it being no larger than a change purse, contained a hodgepodge of American quarters and tight bundles of red ten-thousand- dong bills, each bearing a flattering portrait of Ho Chi Minh, the man, LaSalle was reminded by the picture, who had started life as a waiter in Paris and ended up as the president of the republic. Then LaSalle saw a small safety- deposit-type key taped to the inside of the change pouch. In his eagerness to undo the tape, several quarters dropped out, clanging against the tent pole.

“Merde!” he hissed as he heard her moan and roll over toward him. He replaced the pouch.

“Pierre?” she called.

He was pulling on his pants. “Oui?”

Her eyes looked over at him dreamily. “I—” She yawned and stretched. “I thought you’d gone.”

“No, cherie. I fell asleep.”

“Hmm,” she murmured, happy that it had been good for both of them. “What time is it?” She yawned again.

“Eight o’clock, or twenty hundred hours if you’re military.”

“Christ!” she said, flinging the sheet off.

“What in—” LaSalle began.

“Freeman’s giving a press conference in half an hour.”

“I know — so?”

“So, mon cher, it takes us gals a little longer to get ready, especially after being violated.”

“Violated?”

“Just a joke, honey. I have to be ready for hookup in fifteen minutes. I’m doing a spot for CNN.”

“What’s wrong with their reporter?”

“Down with the runs. Too much tit.”

“What?”

She was dashing into the shower stall. “I wish you’d stop saying ‘What?’ every time I say something. Too much tit.”

He still didn’t get it, or at least if he did, he wasn’t saying anything.

“Banh bao,” she called out. “Pastry stuffed with veggies and meat. Looks like a boob — nipple and all. You must have had it.”

“Yes…” There was a pause as if he was thinking about it. “Probably.”

He was trying the key in the gray box. Bien! It fit, and he dropped it in his pocket.

“Probably what?” she called out above the noise of the gravity rinse that came in a torrent over her body.

“Probably I have eaten it, yes.”

She was out of the shower, and her nakedness aroused him again.

“Oh no, you don’t!” she said, throwing his shirt at him. His Gallic shrug told her there would be another time. “Probably.” She shrugged playfully in return. “Maybe.” He forced a smile.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Nuoc — water—was the first word some of the more than a hundred Caucasian POWs learned. The water was tepid and tasted metallic, but at least it was liquid, and the POWs, on what they were by now grimly calling “Upshut’s Island,” drank it gratefully yet resentfully, realizing as they did so that their dependence on him meant that Upshut’s power over them had been tightened another notch. Even Murphy, the outspoken and garrulous Australian, was wary of the PLA guards’ displeasure, though they were now a good fifty yards away, and was wondering how he and his fellow prisoners could survive on the meager rations being handed out. Despite the ample supply of fish that was the result of the explosions in the coral reef, the Chinese were giving the prisoners only enough to sustain them, and not bothering to cook the fish, which they simply tossed among the POWs as if amid a pack of dogs.

“Bastards,” Murphy said, but quietly enough that the guards couldn’t hear him. “Hope none of these are