cultural exchange programs. Only one thing was needed — a conventional Soviet submarine with its nuclear missiles intact.
The problem now, with the old Soviet Union in disarray, wasn’t the price. There were a half-dozen admirals one could do business with. No, the problem for Pyongyang was simply one of procurement, and enough terrorism in capitalist countries like Japan to play havoc with transport systems, such as the bullet trains, that kept supplying the USVUN convoys that sailed from Japan to be used against Beijing’s soldiers. Whatever North Korea’s agents could do to impede the convoys would be gratefully, if not publicly, acknowledged by Beijing by according Pyongyang increased access to its nuclear secrets.
As Jae Chong contemplated his end, he included in his calculations the chance of pulling off one more coup — something maybe not as spectacular as the bullet train. To go out into the field with this in mind was foolish, of course. Transport police, especially, would be on the lookout for him. No, he decided he would do something less risky but equally devastating. He ordered more scotch and another packet of Lucky Strikes. Even the old tightwads who ran the Japan circuit in Pyongyang wouldn’t begrudge him having a bit of a party, in exchange for what he was going to do for good relations between Pyongyang and Beijing. Jae lit up another cigarette before one of the prowling bar girls giggled and pointed out that he already had one going. He lifted his glass to her and laughed. No, no, he didn’t want any company just now. He was so pissed, he said, he probably couldn’t get it up, but maybe she should come to see him in the morning.
“The morning?” She looked surprised. “That’s a bit odd, lover.”
Yes, he agreed, it was — about as odd as a Japanese twerp singing “Ghost Riders in the Sky,” and now the silly bastard was going to punish everyone with an encore, “The Streets of Laredo.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
“No,” the lethargic hotel clerk told Baker, he hadn’t seen anyone hanging around the hotel. And no betel- chewing youth either. Baker pulled out two dollars to help his memory. It didn’t, and the clerk didn’t seem as upset over a burglarized room as perhaps he should have been, but then maybe the new Republic of Vietnam, like everywhere else, was experiencing more crime than usual.
“You’d better call the police,” Baker said.
At this suggestion the clerk seemed to suddenly come to life, his alarm evident. The police would not be good for business. Besides, was Bac Baker sure he wanted to get involved with the police who, as Bac Baker must know, were often — he paused and looked about—”very difficult to deal with if you are a foreigner — and especially if you are American”?
“My understanding,” Baker said, “is that Hanoi has issued directives to this specific problem — that foreigners — potential investors, customers, especially Americans — who are here helping them fight the Chinese aggression are to be accorded all respect. Is this not so?”
The clerk spread his hands in the universal plea for understanding. “Yes, yes, of course,” he answered. Everyone knew about the official directives, but the police were sticky beaks, shoving their noses into all kinds of things that didn’t concern them.
“I don’t care if you call them or not,” Baker said. “Nothing of mine is missing, as far as I can tell.” The clerk seemed relieved. “How long,” Baker asked, “would it take me to get to Lang Bian and the nine hamlets that make up Lat village?”
“Ah!” The clerk was smiling, showing a row of dark brown stained teeth. “I can be of assistance. You cannot walk — is too far. You must take bus. Round-trip, you understand?”
“Never mind the bus. I’ll get a taxi.”
The clerk was shaking his head, eyes half closed. Baker sighed wearily. Couldn’t anything in this country be done simply, without either a bureaucratic hassle and/or money under the table?
“How much?”
“You will need a permit. This is fifteen dollars.”
Baker said nothing, waiting.
“Ah, yes. Twenty-five dollars for rental car. Bus take too long.”
“Who do I rent the car from?”
“Government office,” the clerk said, smiling. “Or you can ride bicycle.”
“Yeah, right,” Baker said. “Where do I get the permit?”
“Ah, Bac Baker. Here I can be of assistance.”
“I’ll bet.”
“No, no, no betting allowed. Strictly forbidden in—”
“How much?” Baker cut in.
“Forty dollars,” the clerk said, now the epitome of helpfulness, hastily adding, “Lat village very beautiful.”
“Where can I get the permit?”
“At police station. But you no worry. I can fix.”
Baker shook his head resignedly and paid half the total of forty dollars.
“You wait here, Bac Baker. I will arrange for car to come here.”
“The permit?”
“Permit also.”
“All right. But hurry it up.” The clerk was already on the phone. “Can I stay overnight in Lat?” Baker called out.
The clerk made a face. “Difficult, I think.”
“How much?”
“Twenty dollar. Maybe no stay is possible.”
“Then how come you know it’s twenty dollars?”
“Ha ha.”
“Ha ha,” Baker imitated. “You wouldn’t have a connection with a hotel in Lat, would you?”
“Ha ha.”
“Look,” Baker demanded, “stop screwing me around. Fix the police permit, fix the goddamn rental, and fix me up overnight.”
“Yes, yes, of course, but why overnight?”
“Well, you tell me. Lat village”—he pronounced it correctly now as “Lak,” as a way of showing “Ha Ha” that he was more familiar with Vietnamese practices than Ha Ha had given him credit for—”is very beautiful, you told me. Maybe I want to take the walk up K’Lang in the moonlight.” K’Lang was the eastern peak of Lang Bian Mountain’s five peaks.
“Yes, yes,” Ha Ha agreed readily. “Beautiful in the moonshine.”
“Right. Now I want all this fixed up—” He glanced at his watch. “—by eleven this morning or I’m out of here. Understand? I’d just as rather be back in Saigon.” Baker still refused to call it Ho Chi Minh City — a little private rebellion.
“Okay-you pay ten dollar more. Overnight stay.”
“No I don’t. I don’t pay squat till I see a vehicle, a permit, and anything else I need. Understand?”
“ ‘Squat’?”
Baker didn’t elaborate. After a few seconds Ha Ha had figured it out.
“I will fix,” he said, and went out.
“Good,” Baker said, but there was no enthusiasm in his voice. By now his obsession with trying to find just one MIA or POW from ‘Nam was waning, at least for this morning. It was unusually hot for Dalat, normally an ideal climate year-round, and the haggling one had to go through to get the simplest government approval seemed twice as oppressive in the heat. Officially, Hanoi had issued more of what amounted to “help American” directives, and while this was being practiced in the north with regard to the USVUN alliance, to the south there were still many old former North Vietnamese Army regulars and cadres who were either too corrupt or too resentful of their old enemies to be of much help. Right there and then Ray Baker vowed that if nothing turned up in Lat village or Lang
