Satori

124

THE MEN SAT in Antonucci’s office.

Mancini, Antonucci, Guarini, Ribieri, Sarti, Luciani – the whole leadership of L’Union Corse sat around the table and listened to what Captain Signavi’s guest, the amerloque who called himself “Mr. Gold,” had to say.

“The so-called Michel Guibert,” Diamond said, “is an asset of an American anti-narcotic unit sent to infiltrate the Indochina- Marseille-New York heroin connection.”

The men were silent for a minute.

Finally, Mancini said, “This is what comes of doing business with outsiders.”

“He seemed like a respectful young man,” Antonucci responded. He took a cigar from its humidor and carefully lit it, not showing his fury at having been deceived by the young Guibert.

“It’s the times,” Guarini offered consolingly.

“There’s more,” Diamond said. “His handler is an American working in Saigon under USIS cover.”

“Haverford,” Mancini said. “I knew it.”

More silence ensued, more sipping of espresso, more slow, deliberate smoking. Then Mancini said, “The Haverford thing has to look like something else. A robbery… use some of the local boys.”

“What about Guibert?” Antonucci asked.

Signavi interjected, “He’s something different. He can handle himself.”

The men took this in.

Antonucci said, “I’ll give it to the Cobra.”

125

A DOUR, OVERWEIGHT FRENCHMAN was waiting for Nicholai in the lobby of the Continental. He slowly unfolded himself from his chair and approached Nicholai as he waited for the clerk to retrieve his room key.

“Monsieur Guibert?”

“Yes?”

The man’s suit hung off him like laundry. Dark circles under his eyes gave an impression of even greater colonial lassitude.

“Patrice Raynal,” he said. “SDECE. I would like a word.”

“The bar?” Nicholai suggested.

“Perhaps your room?” Raynal suggested. “For your privacy?”

They repaired to Nicholai’s room, where Raynal refused the offered drink, lowered himself into a chair, and got right down to business. “I don’t like you, Guibert.”

“Ah,” Nicholai responded. “Most people wait a day or two until they decide to dislike me.”

“They have not had the advantages,” Raynal said, “of receiving hostile wires from Moscow and Beijing demanding your immediate arrest and extradition, nor equally strident inquiries from Norodom Palace inquiring about the identity of a Frenchman who insulted the emperor and made improper advances toward his escort. Nor have they received the reports that you sold a cargo of extremely lethal and probably stolen weapons to the Binh Xuyen and that you took an extremely ill-advised airplane ride to Cap St.-Jacques.”

“The Binh Xuyen are your allies,” Nicholai said pleasantly.

Raynal’s voice was tired. “You see, publicly they’re not. The French government does not consort with pirates and dope smugglers. And just this morning, Guibert, before I even had a chance to spike my coffee with a fortifying jolt of cognac, I received word that a certain, admittedly minor Soviet functionary, formerly of the Beijing delegation, was dead in a Cholon flophouse, an apparent suicide but, jaded cynic that I am, I can’t help but wonder if your presence in the same city is merely coincidental. You do seem to have a habit of being in the vicinity of dead Russians.”

Leotov dead? Nicholai wondered, keeping any sign of it off his face. An overdose or the Russians, or the Chinese? “I suppose I have that in common with any number of, say, Germans.”

“Witty,” Raynal said. “I dislike you more every minute.”

“So are you arresting me?” Nicholai asked, tired of the jousting. Obviously, extradition to either of the Communist capitals would be the end of the game.

“No,” Raynal said. “We don’t take our orders from Moscow or Beijing. Not even from Washington, yet. But your business in Saigon is concluded. You managed to make a nice little lagniappe at the casino last night. Leave, Guibert, as soon as possible.”

“Bay Vien told me the same thing.”

“He was correct,” Raynal said. “I really don’t care what happens to you, I just don’t want it happening in my little garden. Not to put too fine a point on it, get out. Va t’en.”

He pushed himself up from the chair, looking even more wrinkled than he did when he arrived.

“One more thing?” he said as he walked to the door. “Leave His Excellency’s woman alone.”

Nicholai stepped over to the note that was set on his table. If Raynal had noticed it, he hadn’t let on.

He opened the envelope.

Cine Catinat? A deux heures?

Unsigned, but in her hand.

He looked at his watch.

He had just enough time to make his rendezvous at Sarreau’s and then go meet Solange.

126

NICHOLAI WALKED up to the counter at Sarreau’s and asked for two packets of enterovioform.

“You are sick to your stomach?” the clerk asked.

“Otherwise I would not have asked.”

He paid for the pills and then went back onto Rue Catinat and walked down toward the Neptuna Swimming Pool.

The Vietnamese who had followed him from the hotel was still on his tail.

Whoever he works for – the Viet Minh or the French – should be informed of his ineptitude, Nicholai thought. Unless the point is to be discovered, in which case he should be promoted.

Nicholai strolled to the pool.

It was a blistering hot day and the pool was crowded. Children splashed and annoyed the serious swimmers attempting to do disciplined laps in the marked lanes. Nicholai lingered under a plane tree at the edge of the little park, lit a cigarette, and watched.

His tail made a show of “disappearing” into the crowd.

So many games, Nicholai thought, to market the instruments of death.

He waited for fifteen minutes, grew bored and irritated, and decided that enough was enough. As he was walking away from the Neptuna, a Vietnamese fell in at his side. The man was especially short, and clad in khaki shirt, shorts, and rubber sandals.

“You brought the police,” the man said.

“They brought themselves,” Nicholai answered.

“I could lose him easily,” the man scoffed. “But you…”

“I apologize for my stature.”

“Buy cigarettes.”