Amanda skipped through ten or eleven blank pages, then found another.
Reginald Gordon
Athens, GA
There was a phone number and an address. At the side of the page were tick marks — Amanda knew that was Forester’s way of counting how many times he’d tried calling a phone number without connecting.
There were dates and times on the next page — this must be from the conversation with Gordon, Amanda thought.
Nvr called.
No.
No threat.
Called in Jan for help only — one Marine to another. News story was bull. Blowing off steam.
Senator staff said couldn’t help. Never talked to him. Rfused.
Not fair, no.
— seems still mad.
A different pen:
No records USMC.
ID body???
Resurfaced. Quiet.
The next page was headed by a carefully penciled notation: “FROM MEMORY”:
Check records strategic hamlets Da Nang 1971–72
Three people would have known
Best source — Vietnamese Phuc Dinn (sp??) — tried to have assassinated. Knw he’s still alive because spke to him. Will he tell??
Then, on the last page of the notebook with any writing, the contact information for the police chief of Pine Plains.
49
The truth was, Dean didn’t much feel like play-acting at the convention. But that was his job, and so after he finished breakfast he went down to the lobby and took a taxi to Saigon’s new convention center about ten minutes away. The restlessness that had kept him awake half the night had settled into a background buzz; he told himself that he had a job to do, and that if he concentrated on that, everything else would fall into place.
Dean made sure the government officials who were working near the front of the hall saw him, and even took a few business cards from some of the display booths. By 9:45
he’d walked around the convention hall twice. He headed toward one of the business centers, figuring he would find an inconspicuous place where he could check in with Karr and the Art Room, when he was intercepted by Kelly Tang, the CIA officer helping on the case.
“Mr. Dean, how are sales going?” said Tang, a cheerful den mother checking on one of her charges.
“Not bad.”
“Why don’t you have a cup of coffee with me? Come on.
Vietnamese coffee is very good, if you know where to go.” Dean followed her outside of the meeting hall proper to a large area of tables and chairs. While she went for the coffee, he took out some brochures and papers from his briefcase, as if he were checking to make sure he had enough material for a sales call. He wanted anyone who noticed him to think he was what he claimed to be, a salesman.
“Think you’ll sell me a rice harvester?” she asked, returning with two cups.
“I can get you a special deal,” he said, pushing the papers back into his briefcase.
“You want to talk to Cam Tre Luc?” she said casually, stirring sugar into her cup.
“Yes.”
“A man will meet you at the Plum American Restaurant near the IDC Office Tower at noon. He uses the name Lo.”
“How will I know him?”
“He’ll find you. He’ll have a card just like this,” she said, producing a business card.
Dean nodded.
“He’s going to want money,” added the CIA agent. “A thousand, just for setting up the contact.”
“A thousand U.S.?”
She shrugged apologetically. “A couple of other people turned me down.”
“Problem?”
“Not really. Cam Tre Luc is a tough and important person in a ministry that few Vietnamese want to anger.”
“Why do you think I’m going to make him mad?” Tang smiled and changed the subject. “Did you and Thao Duong get along?”
“We’re working on our relationship.”
“Very good. Have you sold anything at the convention?”
“Not yet. This is really just a scouting mission,” he said loudly. “We plan to make a push next year. But if anyone does want to buy, then of course I’m prepared. The Japa nese are difficult competitors, but we’ll hang in there.”
“Please let me know if I can help your company in any way,” said Tang, rising and sticking out her hand.
“I will.”
“Best of luck with the sales.”
50
The window at the agricultural ministry that Karr had broken the night before had already been patched by a piece of cardboard. If there had been an inquiry, neither Desk Three’s phone taps nor the bugs in Thao Duong’s office had picked it up.
What ever had disturbed Thao Duong the night before was not bothering him now, at least not outwardly; the Art Room translator told Karr that the Vietnamese bureaucrat was going through papers studiously, at times muttering the equiva-lent of “OK” or “Yes” to himself but saying nothing else.
The scan of his computer hadn’t revealed anything more interesting than an unexpected increase in the rice harvest.
The experts had decided that the key Karr had photographed definitely fit into a lockbox of some sort, but they had no clue about where that box might be.
Growing bored, Karr walked to his motorbike, parked in a cluster in front of a cafe a block away.
“Sandy, I think I’m going to shoot over to Thao Duong’s apartment and have another look around,” Karr told his runner.
“I’d like to see if he hid the strongbox somewhere nearby.”
“We didn’t see it on the video bugs you guys planted last night.”
