Conspiracy

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 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.