attractive.
“This is Mr. Kurokawa,” said Dean, introducing his drinking partner. “He’s with Kaito. My very successful competitor.” The Japanese salesman bowed.
“There’s someone I would like you to meet, Mr. Dean,” said Tang. “He can be very useful to your company as you do business in Vietnam.”
They left Kurokawa and went across the room to a short, narrow-faced Vietnamese bureaucrat.
Thao Duong, the first of Dean’s three contacts.
“Mr. Duong, I would like you to meet my friend Charles Dean,” said Tang, allowing a hint of formality into her voice.
“His company makes a very good rice cultivator, which could help you increase your yields.”
“This would be very good,” said Duong. He had a plate of appetizers in his hand; it was heaped high with food.
Tang drifted away. Dean, struggling with small talk, told Duong his company was very interested in doing business.
The Vietnamese official merely nodded and continued to stuff his face. He was very thin, and Dean wondered if he didn’t get a chance to eat regularly.
“I haven’t been in Vietnam since the war,” said Dean. “A great deal has changed.”
“Yes,” agreed Duong.
“I spent a lot of time in Quang Nam Province,” said Dean. “Has it been built up a great deal now?” Duong shook his head. “Not much. The industry is concentrated here. Factories.”
Duong looked around the hall. He seemed ner vous, as if he thought someone was watching him.
A good sign or a bad sign? Tang hadn’t been told exactly what they were up to, so there was no way that Duong knew, either — unless, of course, he was the man Forester had contacted. In that case, Duong would probably think it was more than a coincidence that he had been invited here and that he was now being approached.
“I think we might have a mutual acquaintance,” said Dean, deciding there was no reason to beat around the bush.
“Jerry Forester.”
Duong shook his head immediately.
“I thought you might have spoken with him recently by e-mail.”
Duong said nothing.
“I thought maybe you had something you’d like to say to him.”
“Excuse me,” said Duong, and without saying anything else, he turned and walked toward the door, not even stopping to put his half-empty plate down.
35
Living and working in a communist country under a dicta-torship had certain severe disadvantages for citizens, but it did make some things easier for spies. Case in point: official-looking documents were rarely questioned, as long as they had official-looking signatures.
The papers Tommy Karr had directing him to appear in the office of the deputy chief of trade on the third floor of the interior ministry were signed and stamped in three places.
The guard at the front door squinted at each stamp, then opened the door and waved Karr inside.
The man at the desk proved suspicious. Noting that it was after hours, he decided to call the deputy chief’s office.
His vigilance earned him a severe tongue-lashing from the deputy chief’s “assistant”—aka Thu De Nghiem, who answered the phone after the call was routed to him by the Art Room’s hackers. Red-faced, the security officer personally escorted Karr to the elevator, even leaning inside and pushing the button for the third floor.
“What’d you say to him?” Karr asked the Art Room as the elevator started upward.
“He asked why the deputy chief was working late,” Rockman told him. “Thu told him to save his questions for his performance review.”
“That’ll fix him.”
“Once you’re out of the elevator, the stairs should be the second door on the right.”
“Feel blind without video surveillance cameras, huh?” said Karr.
“They would help.”
“Makes it easier for me,” said Karr, who didn’t have to worry about the guard following him upstairs through the monitors. He did, of course, have to make sure he got off on the right floor, which was why he headed for the stairs as soon as he got there. Thao Duong’s office was on the fifth floor.
“Just plant plenty of video bugs as you go, OK?”
“Sure will. How’s the one downstairs?”
“Guard’s still there.”
“Fire code violation,” said Karr when he found the door locked. He bent down to examine the lock. “Wafer tumbler lock,” he announced. He reached into his lock pick kit for a diamond pick.
“Tommy, we have a shadow from one of those offices down the hall on the right,” said Rockman. “Someone’s coming.” Karr had already heard the footsteps and straightened.
“Who are you?” asked the man in Vietnamese.
The Art Room translator gave Karr the Vietnamese words to reply, but the op had already decided on a better strategy.
“ ’Scuse me,” he said. “I wonder if you could direct me to Mr. Hoa’s office? I seem to have gotten lost. I’m supposed to be there like five minutes ago.”
“Who are you?” repeated the man, again in Vietnamese.
“See, I have this paper.”
Karr took out the paper he had used to get into the building.
The man was unimpressed. “Mr. Hoa has gone home,” he told Karr. “Leave.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand Vietnamese,” said Karr, though what the man was saying would have been clear even without Thu De Nghiem explaining it in his ear.
“Tommy, get out of there,” said Telach.
“Go!” said the man, using English this time. “Go!”
“I don’t want to get in trouble,” said Karr.
“You come back tomorrow,” said the Vietnamese man, switching back to his native tongue. “Go.”
“You gotta give me back my paper.”
Karr reached for it. The man shook his head.
“Just go, Tommy,” said Telach.
Karr placed his hand on the Vietnamese official’s shoulder. He was a good foot taller than the man, and probably weighed twice as much.
“I get my paper back now,” Karr said. “Or I throw you out the window at the end of the hall over there.”
“You need that translated, Tommy?” asked the Art Room translator.
“He understood perfectly,” said Karr under his breath, walking back to the elevator with the paper in his hand.
36
While the deep Black operatives were conducting what might be called a point attack on the Vietnamese, Robert Gallo was in charge of a broader effort, one that took place over several battlefields, all of them electronic.
