“The New World Hotel,” said Lu as they pulled up. “You enjoy it very much.”
Built in 1995, the New World was one of the city’s finer hotels. Located not far from the Tao Dan Culture Center and Lelai Park, it towered over the downtown area, pushing the lesser buildings in its shadow toward the murky Saigon River. Sleek marble panels lined the hotel’s glass-enclosed atrium, and the lobby looked as luxurious and modern as any Dean had seen.
Karr whistled as they took it all in.
“We better get some serious sales to justify this bill, huh, Charlie?”
Lu helped them with their bags, then gave them a card to call if they needed a driver again.
They checked out their rooms, which were next to each other on one of the executive floors. Karr examined the rooms for bugs while Dean planted some of their own, positioning dime-sized video cameras so the Art Room could see not only their rooms but also the hallway, elevator, and stairs. The bugs sent their signals to a booster unit the size of a paperback book, which he placed on the interior window ledge of his room. The small case looked like a battery waiting to be recharged.
Their rooms secure, Dean and Karr ambled out of the hotel and began what looked like a haphazard walking tour of the area. They spent a few minutes oohing and aahing, “doing the tourist thing,” as Karr put it — checking out the general area to make sure they were familiar with possible escape routes.
Then they became more serious. They rented motorbikes from four different shops, stashing them at different parking areas so they would have them if necessary. Dean rented a car as well, though in Saigon, cars tended to stand out and were not as useful as the more ubiquitous motorbikes.
Karr, meanwhile, made a visit to a small notions shop several blocks from the hotel, emerging with a pair of large suitcases. Inside the cases were weapons and other equipment pre-positioned in the country. The weapons included an assortment of pistols and a specially designed assault gun called the A2; its boxy magazine held ninety-nine caseless 4.92mm bullets, which could be fired in three-round bursts — or all at once, which would take a little more than ten seconds.
“See anything familiar yet, Charlie?” asked Karr, when they hooked up again. He had already stashed some of the gear in a locker at the bus station and now filled the trunk of the rental car with the rest.
“No.”
Dean glanced around. The Saigon streets were very different from what he remembered. Even allowing for the fact that he had only been here briefly, very long ago, the place bore almost no resemblance to anything he remembered.
He tried to scrub away the obvious anachronisms of his memory — the drab green military vehicles, the rock music that occasionally blared from the most unexpected places, strategically placed sandbags and gun emplacements. There were just too many things to add — tall skyscrapers, a multi-tude of motorbikes, billboards that, except for their Vietnamese characters, could have been sitting over an LA freeway.
“Feels like I’ve never been here before,” said Dean, though that wasn’t 100 percent true.
After spreading backup gear around the city, they found a spot to park the car where it wouldn’t be disturbed and went back to the hotel.
“You think you’ll be all right at the reception on your own?” Karr asked Dean as they got into the elevator.
“You think you’ll be all right breaking into the ministry on your own?”
“I’m not breaking in, Charlie. I’m visiting. After hours.” Karr smiled. “There’s a difference.”
34
A smiling woman in a long red dress approached Dean shortly after he entered the reception in the Ben Thanh Hall on the second floor of the hotel. She looked Asian but was taller and younger than most of the women Dean had seen in the hotel so far.
“You must be Mr. Dean,” said the woman. “Kelly Tang.
I’m with the U.S. Department of Commerce.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Just get in?” asked the covered CIA officer.
“This morning.”
Tang asked him about his flight, glancing to the right at two men who had come in just behind him. She cut him off as he answered, excusing herself and then going over to speak to them.
It was a pretty clever move, Dean thought, designed to show anyone watching that she wasn’t really interested in him.
Or maybe not. Maybe she really wasn’t interested. It was sometimes hard to read the CIA people they worked with.
Dean walked over to the bar and ordered a seltzer. A Japanese businessman standing nearby pretended to do a double take when the drink was delivered.
“No alcohol?” asked the man in English.
“I’m afraid it will make me fall asleep,” said Dean.
“You are the first American I have ever met who did not drink. What do you do?”
“I sell farm equipment for Barhm Manufacturing.”
“Barhm? In Minnesota?”
“Yes,” said Dean.
“You are my competitor,” said the man, who stepped backward slightly and then bowed, as if they were two sumo wrestlers facing off. “Toshio Kurokawa. I with Kaito.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Dean, lowering his head.
“You have a very good machine, RD-743.”
“The rice cultivator,” said Rockman from the Art Room.
“Kaito’s rival model is AG-7. They outsell you about twelve to one in the States.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” Dean told Kurokawa.
“Say something about his machine, Charlie,” prompted Rockman. “To show your bona fides.” That was the problem with the Art Room. They were world-class kibitzers, always trying to tell you what to do.
The last thing Dean wanted to do was talk shop. Rockman might have all the facts and figures at his fingertips, but there was no way to finesse the nuances. A really skilled bull artist might be able to get away with it, but Dean had never considered himself very good at lying. The best thing to do, he thought, was simply change the subject.
He turned and pointed vaguely across the room, singling out no one in par tic u lar. “Is that man from the agricultural ministry?”
Kurokawa squinted across the room. “Yes,” he said finally, but Dean got the impression that he was just being agreeable and didn’t want to admit he had no idea whom Dean meant.
“Have you been in Vietnam before?” Dean asked Kurokawa.
“Many times.”
“This is my first visit,” said Dean.
“An interesting place to do business.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Dean saw Tang approaching out of the corner of his eye.
He asked Kurokawa what part of the country he liked best.
The Japa nese businessman said diplomatically that all parts of the country were interesting.
A waiter with a tray of American-style appetizers appeared, relieving Dean of the onerous task of making meaningless conversation. Kurokawa took a small barbecue-flavored piece of chicken and a fried dumpling.
“Mr. Dean, I’m sorry to have left you. I hope you don’t think I was rude,” said Tang. She brushed a lock of her shoulder-length hair from her face as she spoke. Tang had a rounded face on a slim body, as if she were the product of a ge ne tic mismatch. But she smiled easily, and the vivacious energy that emanated from her made her
