French Kiss, page 40
“So I want to know who you’re really working for. Because right now I’m working for the same people, and I like to know who my employers are.”
“Finding the Doorway to Night is your concern,” Mr. LoGrazie said brusquely. “Getting us the Forest of Swords is your concern. Firing up Operation White Tiger is your concern. Nothing else.”
“Perhaps I am not making myself clear, Mr. LoGrazie. I’m your expert on the Shan. I’m the only person on earth who can get you the Prey Dauw.” He waved the photos in the air. “So who have you brought in, and why?”
Mr. LoGrazie glared at him so hard that for a moment Milhaud was afraid that he had given too much away. Then, because he had nothing to lose, he said boldly, “I’m afraid I can no longer help you if you keep me in the dark. And, after all, I do have the Forest of Swords. That is what he really wants, isn’t it?”
Mr. LoGrazie was contemplating the pond from afar, and, when he spoke, his voice was as low as if it had come from that distance. “To tell you the truth, Milhaud, I don’t know what he wants. His name is Virgil. At least that was the code name the CIA gave him in Vietnam. Some wit gave him the nickname the Magician. It fit. I’m sure you know him by one name or another. He is someone I had heard of, long ago, a legendary figure who, because he had disappeared, I had assumed was dead.”
“The Magician?” Milhaud said, feigning astonishment. “Are you certain? I, too, had heard that he was dead.”
“Let me assure you that he is very much alive. At first I was elated that he had been brought in. I would, after all, be working with a legend. But that was before I spent time with him. Now, to be truthful, I’m beginning to think that he is a madman.”
Milhaud painted his most concerned look onto his face. “Why do you say that?” He was well aware of the difficult ground he was on. He must not, under any circumstances, give Mr. LoGrazie any hint that he had his residence under audio surveillance.
“Virgil—the Magician is obsessed with death. You raised good points in the matter of the Sink woman. I made the same arguments. He would not listen. He says he has the full backing of the director in any and all initiatives. The Magician wants Soutane Sink and Christopher Haye dead.”
Mist was swirling, as substantial as dust. It turned the park around them into a ghostly facade filled with sinister shapes. Mr. LoGrazie ran a hand through his damp hair. “Milhaud, your path must have crossed the Magician’s in Southeast Asia years ago. What is your assessment of him?”
“He was a man in love with risk taking,” Milhaud said truth-fully. He saw Mr. LoGrazie nod in assent. “Like you, I heard a great deal about him. Who knows how much of it was the truth? I had one direct dealing with him, so I know his face, which is more than you can say for most people who knew of his existence.”
“As you saw, you won’t recognize him now,” Mr. LoGrazie said. “His own family, if he had any, wouldn’t know him. He spent six months with a team of plastic surgeons. From what I gather, they broke his face apart, and put it back together in a whole new way.”
“That may be,” Milhaud said, “but they didn’t touch his brain. Inside that new face he’s the same person. And if that’s the case, you have real cause for concern.”
Mr. LoGrazie turned his back on the pond, which, at this distance, appeared as gray and opaque as the illusion of water on a model-railroad setup. “You are correct in another assessment. I am not Mafia. I am CIA. So is the Magician. He wants to leave the Company. He was coerced back into it by the director, and now it appears that he hates it. Who knows? Perhaps he always has. In any event he wants me to break with the CIA as well, to come along with him. I don’t know what to do. It is suicide to join him. But I am afraid that the Magician will kill me if I refuse.”
“What will you do?”
“I admit that I haven’t any idea. But I don’t have much time to make up my mind.” Mr. LoGrazie’s eyes were bleak.
“Report him.”
Mr. LoGrazie’s smile was a bit frightening in its lack of warmth. “You do not understand the high esteem in which the Company holds him. He would deny everything, and I would not be believed until it was far too late.”
“Do you know what he plans?”
“Not yet.” Mr. LoGrazie brushed drops of rain off his face. “He won’t tell me until I’ve agreed to join him.”
Milhaud’s heartbeat picked up. Perhaps this was just the opening he had been praying for. A chance to squirm out of the vise the Magician had created for him, and to pay him back for the torment he was putting Milhaud through. “You know, he could be planning to kill you whether you join him or not.” His mind was racing eight and nine moves ahead. He had to find out what the Magician was up to, and he thought that now he had found the way. “With that in mind, there is a third course you might consider,” he said.
Mr. LoGrazie’s head swung around. “What is it?” He spoke so quickly that Milhaud actually felt sorry for him. He was clearly a drowning man.
“Pretend to go along with him. It would give you some breathing room and allow you time to prepare a report to your people that would surely condemn Virgil by his own actions rather than by your words, which might, as you say, be suspect.”
Mr. LoGrazie nodded. “That could work. But I don’t think I’d be able to do this alone. I’d need help.”
“But, of course,” Milhaud said, feeling the chains that had bound him in servitude ready to fall away. “You have me.”
Mr. LoGrazie stuck out his hand. “If you’re serious—“
“I am.” Milhaud shook it.
“In that case you must take care of the Sirik woman and Christopher Haye immediately,” Mr. LoGrazie said somewhat breathlessly. “We must satisfy him in this, as well as with the Prey Dauw.”
“Leave it to me,” Milhaud assured him.
“Yes?” He could see that it was sweat, not rain beading Mr. LoGrazie’s face. “I have no wish to die.”
“Al DeCordia,” Soutane said over coffee and cake, “came over here recently, a month or so ago. He spent some time with Terry on business.”
“Do you know what kind of business?” Seve asked. He was in heaven; he had never tasted such good coffee.
“No.” Soutane stirred another spoon of sugar into her cup. They were sitting in the dining room. Bright sun streamed in. The windows were open to the street and, occasionally, the throaty brrrt! of the motorbikes passing below punctuated their conversation. “For better or worse, I never got involved in Terry’s business. I think, now, that was a mistake.”
Seve, seeing Chris’s hand cover hers, said, “Go on, Soutane.” It had not taken them long to get onto a first-name basis.
“Al was only supposed to be over here a week, but he stayed three. He liked it here—and we…” She broke off, staring down into her coffee.
Seve said nothing, giving her time to deal with an obviously highly emotional subject. But the silence went on so long that he decided to give her a nudge. He took a slip of paper out of his pocket, slid it across the table.
“Look at this,” he said. “It’s got your name and address. It’s how I found you.”
“How did you get it?” Soutane asked. She was staring at the word: Saved?
“Just before he was murdered, Al DeCordia came to see my brother. Dominic was the priest in DeCordia’s parish in New Canaan, Connecticut. Apparently he was more concerned with your welfare than his own.” Soutane was staring at him. “It’s obvious from this that DeCordia wanted you saved. The question is, from what?”
Soutane cupped the paper in her hands as if it were a cherished photo. In a moment her fingers enclosed it entirely. She took a deep breath. “When Al arrived here,” she said, “it was clear he was hurting. Perhaps I reminded him of his daughter, I don’t know. She had just died in a car accident. That was horrible enough, but the autopsy said she had been mainlining heroin. She had hit up with some bad stuff.”
She ran her hands through her hair. “Now I blame myself. I knew Al wanted out of his business, though I never suspected that his business could be drug running.
“I told Terry, and he got very excited. He and Al went off for an entire afternoon. I have no idea where. But after that Terry was different. Happier, as if he’d suddenly had a weight lifted from his back.”
Soutane sighed. “If I’d been smart enough, I would have realized that the reason Al was so broken up was because that was the business he and Terry were in.”
“Jesus, you’re being too hard on yourself,” Chris said. “How could you have guessed?”
“Wait a second,” Seve interrupted. “Are you telling me that Terry Haye was mixed up in drug running?”
Soutane nodded.
“I don’t believe it,” Seve said. “I served with Terry in ‘Nam. I knew him. It’s impossible that he—“
“That’s just what I told her,” Chris said. “But there is mounting evidence that he and Soutane’s cousin Mun—“
“Your cousin’s name is Mun?” Seve said.
“Yes,” Soutane said.
“Did he serve with Terry in the war?”
“Yes.”
“Dear God.” Seve ran his hand through his hair. “Everyone I
ever knew in the SLAM unit has come back to haunt me.” Briefly, he told them of the formation of the SLAM unit by Terry and Virgil, what they had been involved in.
When he mentioned Trangh’s name, both Chris and Soutane jumped as if he had hit a live nerve. Chris told Seve of his encounters with the Vietnamese, including the background on the Prey Dauw.
“The attack in your New York apartment I already knew about,” Seve said. “But this other information makes it clear that he thought you had the Porte a la Nuit or knew where Terry had hidden it.”
“Can you backtrack a minute?” Chris said. “What were you doing in Angkor during the war?”
“We rendezvoused with a Frenchman,” Seve said. “He commanded a unit of the Khmer Rouge. Very scary guys. Terry and Virgil spoke with him. We never knew what the deal involved.”
“Now we know it was drugs,” Soutane said. The misery was visible in her face.
“Maybe,” Chris said. “But if so, why? Terry never coveted money. Our family had more than he could ever spend.”
Seve was considering all this. “If he did become involved,” he said, “it must have been for a damn good reason.”
“Like what?” Chris asked. “What could be so important that he’d sell his soul for it?”
Seve stared out the window. “I don’t know,” he said. He was thinking of General Kiu, and a line from Sun Tzu’s The Art of War: Nothing is constant. None of the five elements is always the strongest; at times, the nights are long, at others, the days. The seasons change. To the diligent comes victory. “But I think our only course now is to find out. What do you say?”
Chris nodded. “I’m for it.”
Seve deliberately did not look at Soutane. He was not as sure about her as he was about Chris. Chris had surprised him. He was not at all like any of the criminal lawyers Seve had met. Interestingly, aspects of his personality reminded Seve of Terry’s wild, almost primitive determination. He had the energy and spirit of the adventurer. Nobody could be more relentless than Terry Haye when he had set his mind to it.
Seve pushed his cup away and rubbed his head. The pain was worse than ever. “Well, at least now we know why DeCordia was iced. His daughter’s OD death did it for him. He wanted out.
Someone found out, and set Trangh on him. He knew it, too. That’s why he went to Dom. To confess, and to try to save Soutane. At least in that he was successful.”
“But you said that this Vietnamese, Trangh, killed your brother,” Chris said. “And he tried to kill you. You and I are linked together, Seve. Is it just through Terry, I wonder?”
“It’s La Porte à la Nuit,” Soutane said. “That’s all Trangh ever wanted from you, Chris. Seve’s right. Trangh was sure Terry had given it to you.”
But Chris was already shaking his head. “Not true. He came after us to get the dagger, yes. But he wanted you as well.”
“Me?” Soutane was stunned.
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know,” Chris said. “But it was the reason I gave him the dagger. It was the only way I could think of to save you.”
“You’re Mun’s cousin,” Seve said to her. “And Mun’s involved in this snakepit up to his eyeballs. Ten to one Trangh’s masters would like a word with you.”
“But I don’t know anything.”
“They don’t know that.”
“Who do you think Trangh’s masters are?” Soutane asked.
Seve shrugged. “My first choice would be the communists. But I wonder if the Magician is still alive—that’s what Terry used to call Virgil.”
“I thought Virgil and my brother were partners.”
“They were—for a while,” Seve said. “But something happened to bust them up. I never did find out what. By that time I didn’t care. I was on my way home.”
“Trangh is not working for Virgil,” Chris said, “and he’s not working for the communists. At least not anymore.” They were both looking at him. “He told me who his master is. A man named Milhaud.”
“Now where have I heard that name before?” Seve’s face furrowed in concentration. Something had clicked in his mind, a sliver of information gleaned in his DEA InterNat-Link course. Wasn’t Milhaud a senior member of Le Giron? “Either of you ever heard of the Society to Return to the Fold?”
“The SRGE,” Soutane said. “Sure. It’s some kind of small political organization with headquarters in Paris, isn’t it?”
Seve nodded. “It’s small, all right, but it’s very powerful. It’s ultra-radical, ultra-reactionary. And, so some believe, much of its money comes from the international drug trade.
“This man Milhaud is a prominent member of Le Giron. If Trangh works for him, then the odds are we’ll find them in Paris. At least Paris is where we have to start.”
“Even saying you’re right about this,” Chris said, “what do you propose we do when we find them?”
Seve got up from the table, looked out the window at the boulevard. “I’d like to talk to Mun but, as you know, Soutane’s tried calling the villa several times, and he’s not back yet from Asia. There’s no sense waiting for him.” He was thinking again of Sun Tzu, who wrote that in taking the offensive one should, if possible, defeat the enemy by destroying his strategy. It was clear that Trangh was the chief instrument of the enemy’s strategy.
Seve turned to them, “We’ve got to use the weapons available to us.”
“Is that a joke?” Chris said. “We have no weapons.”
“But we do,” Seve said. “We have Soutane, and we have you.”
They both stared at him as if he had sprouted gills, and he laughed. He sat down at the table. “Look, we know that Trangh came for Soutane. Milhaud wants her. We also know that for some reason he has acted both rationally and honorably with you.”
“What are you suggesting?” Chris asked, although he thought he already knew.
“Our only real lead is Trangh.”
“No,” Chris said immediately. “Absolutely not. I won’t permit you to use her.”
“Stop it!” Soutane cried. “I’m sick of the two of you holding a conversation about me as if I were not here!”
“Soutane, he wants to use you as bait.”
She turned to Seve. “Is this true?”
“Only long enough for Chris and me to get close to him,” Seve pointed out.
“If it’s all the same to you,” Chris said, “I’d rather not get within a hundred yards of Trangh again.”
“Yeah?” Seve looked at him. “That’s funny. I would have thought you’d want another chance at your brother’s murderer.”
“What?”
“Look, Terry devised this idea of decapitating all the SLAM unit’s victims. Trangh took Dom’s head off; you can be sure it was he who did the same to Terry. He’s killing the remaining members of the unit using the method the SLAM unit employed. Sounds to me like some kind of screwed-up idea of revenge.”
“But you killed North Vietnamese and Viet Cong in ‘Nam,” Chris said. Something about Seve’s explanation just didn’t add up. “If you guys were using him, Trangh is South Vietnamese. He hated the North Vietnamese more than the Americans.”
“Well, he would,” Seve said, “if he was South Vietnamese. I mean, he claimed to be from the South, and I guess his credentials checked out because he was one of Virgil’s men. But, off and on, the unit encountered mysterious difficulties.” He told them about the ambush inside the Cambodian border. “Virgil asked me, and I fingered one of our Khmer Serei soldiers. Because of some convenient circumstantial evidence, he seemed the logical choice at the time. Now it occurs to me that maybe it was too logical, too convenient. I think Trangh set him up. After Virgil executed the Khmer Serei, we never worried about a traitor again.”
“Didn’t this Khmer Serei offer some defense?” Chris asked.
“Nobody gave him the chance,” Seve said. “It was war. We were in enemy territory, under enormous pressure. There was no time for the niceties of due process.”
“This is monstrous,” Soutane said.
“I agree,” Seve said. “This bastard Trangh used an innocent Khmer as his scapegoat.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Soutane said. “I’m talking about what’s happening here. Look at the two of you, plotting murder, revenge. You’re going down the same path that destroyed Terry.”
“I want to get at the truth,” Seve said. “That’s my job. Chris’s, too, when it comes to it.”
“Are you deliberately missing the point?” Soutane’s eyes flashed. “Are you willing to sell your soul, like Terry did, to get at the truth?”
“Don’t you get it?” Seve said. “This guy has got to be stopped. He’s a madman. He’s already killed my brother, and yours, Chris. He’s killed Al DeCordia. Aren’t those reasons enough?”
“No!” Soutane was shouting now. “Those lives are already lost, but they don’t have to be meaningless deaths. Learn from them, for God’s sake! These people are still fighting the war. It doesn’t mean you have to. Save yourselves!”
