After they exchanged some calmer details of the investigation, Rubens hung up and walked to the center of his office. His back was knotted in a dozen places, and he could feel a headache coming on. His yoga teacher had suggested a routine to loosen his spine and help him relax.
Obviously, the leak had come from Bing, thought Rubens as he slipped off his shoes. Bing was the only person who had anything to gain from it. She’d do it cleverly, of course — an aide would have lunch with a reporter, drop a strategic comment, and that would be that. Plausible denial intact.
Rubens was just beginning a tiger pose when his phone rang. He got up slowly, and saw that it was Bing.
“Senator McSweeney was just asked at a press conference about the possibility that the Vietnamese government wants to kill him,” she told Rubens when he picked up.
“Yes, I saw a tape of the press conference,” said Rubens.
“I have been wondering who alerted the media.”
“Was it you?”
Rubens’ back muscles immediately spasmed.
“I can’t even see the logic of asking me that question,” said Rubens, his tone nearly as stiff as his back. “Unless you’re trying to turn suspicion away from yourself.” Bing was silent.
“Is there anything else?” said Rubens finally.
“I’m still waiting for the Vietnam report.”
“There is nothing to report. As I told you the other day, there is no connection between the assassination attempt and the Vietnam government.”
“That’s all you have?” Bing asked.
“Nothing more.”
She hung up. Less than thirty seconds later, Rubens got a call from the White House.
“The President wants to see you,” said Ted Cohen, the chief of staff. “And he wants to see you
“Yes,” said Rubens. “I suspected he might.”
108
The news of the attack on the station where he had ordered the woman held reassured Cam Tre Luc in an odd way. It confirmed that the man who had surprised him in the bor-dello was an American spy. This restored some of Cam Tre Luc’s dignity; it would have been unbearable if the man had been simply a businessman or private citizen, as the official entry records and his sources at the hotel suggested.
Not that he was going to let Mr. Dean get away with it.
On the contrary.
Cam Tre Luc spent several hours checking personally with the officials who oversaw the immigration checks at all of the country’s airports, not just Saigon. He called the chief of the local police and gave him a full description of the man, adding that his apprehension would be rewarded in meaningful ways. Finally, exhausted, Cam Tre Luc went to bed.
His eyes began to close even before his head slipped back on the pillow.
Cam Tre Luc realized that he was becoming an old man.
This was a good thing in Vietnam; people respected a man with silver hair, appreciating his wisdom and making allowances for his failings. How much better would that aura seem, he mused, when he apprehended an American spy ring?
Very possibly he could move up to a national position. He saw himself in Hanoi — then his vision dimmed completely as he fell asleep.
The next thing Cam Tre Luc knew, a hand was pressed over his mouth and he was being hauled upright in the bed.
Light shined in his eyes.
Charles Dean stood before him. Cam Tre Luc tried to yell for his bodyguards, but the hand clamped over his mouth would emit no noise.
“Your bodyguards are tied up,” said Dean. He repeated what he had said in roughly accented Vietnamese. “I want to talk to you.”
Cam Tre Luc shook his head.
“All you have to do is listen,” said Dean. He pointed at whoever was holding Cam Tre Luc, and the hand slipped from his mouth.
Cam Tre Luc yelled for his men.
“They’re not going to come,” Dean said in English. “I told you. They’re tied up.”
“I understand your English better than your Vietnamese,” Cam Tre Luc told Dean as he started to repeat himself in Vietnamese. “Your accent is horrible.”
“Why did you arrest Qui Lai Chu?” asked Dean.
“She is an enemy of the people.”
“She’s a translator. She has nothing to do with me.”
“You are a spy.”
“I came to your country to solve a murder. You helped me.”
“I helped you?”
“You did,” said Dean. “And I’m grateful.” Cam Tre Luc asked the American what he wanted.
Instead of answering, Dean told him that he wanted a guarantee that Qui Lai Chu would not be harmed. Cam Tre Luc made a face.
“Do you have a fax machine?” Dean asked.
“Fax?”
“A facsimile. It makes an image on paper and transmits over a telephone line.”
“I know what a fax is,” said Cam Tre Luc.
“Do you have one?”
“In my office downstairs.”
“Let’s go.”
Dean waited as the machine beeped and began to whir. The machine was at least twenty years old and used thermal imaging paper instead of inkjets or a laser. But the image that came through was clear and legible. Dean took the first sheet as the cutter slid across and deposited it on the tray.
“This is a CIA pay list, from 1966,” said Dean. “If you read English as well as you speak it, you can figure out the rest.” Cam Tre Luc’s face turned pale as he looked at the paper.
“If I find out that Qui Lai Chu is hurt, the entire file will be sent to Hanoi,” said Dean. “I don’t think that will do much for your career.”
Dean nodded to Karr, who let Cam Tre Luc go.
“Maybe you ought to call off the dogs at the airport,” Dean added, grabbing the other two pages as they came through the fax machine. “I’d hate to think how they might interpret these pages if I have to hand them over at the airport.”
109
“i don’t care who you are,” said the librarian. “I’m not going to allow you to take the hard drive.”
“What’s your fax number?” Lia said.
“Our fax?”
“I’ll have a subpoena faxed right to you.” The librarian frowned, then took another tack.
