Conspiracy

60

The roof door was bolted from the inside, and to open it Dean had to use a super-magnet tool that he carried in his vest. Unhooking the latch to get the rod to slide required a bit of body English, and Dean lost a good three or four minutes before he could get the rod far enough off the stop to allow the door to open.

He leaned in far enough to see that the coast was clear and there was enough light so that he wouldn’t need his glasses, then hunched back to get ready. He unzipped the small pouch at his belly and took out what looked like an oversized gardening glove. The glove was actually a hypo-dermic device, studded with needles that would feed a quick-acting synthetic opiate loaded into a bladder stored in the palm. While it was easier than using a regular doctor’s needle, the device required Dean to get extremely close to his victim. It was also highly preferable to inject the drug into the neck area and hold on for a good five seconds. All of which meant getting up close and personal with a very un-happy person.

Glove on his right hand, Dean tucked his pistol into his belt and slipped down the stairs. The guard stood just inside the open doorway; Dean could see his shadow as he tiptoed down.

The man who’d taught Dean how to use the “doping glove” was a former Special Forces soldier. He’d made it look easy, pulling his subject back with one arm held around the neck while clamping the open area near the throat with the glove. Dean, however, worried that in the frenzy he’d accidentally hit himself with one of the needles, and so he improvised: he stepped from the doorway, grabbed the bodyguard’s ponytail, and yanked him sideways. As he did, he jabbed his gloved hand at the man. Dean missed the bodyguard’s throat, getting his face instead. He held on as the surprised Vietnamese man struggled and attempted to scream.

Dean took two hard punches to the chest before a third missed badly and told him that the drug had begun to do its job. He dragged his victim away from the door, making sure to leave him on his side so that if he vomited — unfortunately, a common side effect of the drug — he wouldn’t drown in his own puke.

“First door on your right,” said Rockman. “Go!” No shit, thought Dean. He could have done without the runner’s encouragement.

Dean pulled the pistol from his belt, took a breath, then walked quickly to the door of the room. He pushed through the beads and saw Cam Tre Luc lying on the bed, his face between the legs of a blond whore.

“Cam Tre Luc?” said Dean.

“Who the hell are you?”

“I’m sorry. I came for a friend — Gerald Forester. He’s hoping you have information for him.”

“You have no business here,” Cam Tre Luc told the man, staring into his eyes. “Out.”

They stared at each other for several long seconds.

“Charlie, Madonna has a pistol behind her back,” warned Rockman.

Dean ignored the girl. Though obviously angry, Cam Tre Luc looked pathetic, naked from the waist down; his legs were spindly and his butt creased with sagging fat.

“Forester needs your help,” Dean told him. He reached into his pocket for a card. “Call this number.” He dropped the card on the bed. “I didn’t want to approach you at your house or office. No one else knows. Don’t, lady,” Dean added, pointing his pistol at the prostitute as she slipped out of bed.

“I know you have a gun. I’m not here to hurt anybody.”

Cam Tre Luc continued to glare at him.

There was a shout in the hall.

“The phone number,” said Dean, pointing at the card.

“We can make it worth your while.”

Miss Madonna started to scream.

“Time to go, Charlie,” said Rockman.

“I’m on my way,” said Dean, backing out of the room.

Cam Tre Luc felt himself tremble with rage and embarrassment and — worst of all — impotence. Who did this American think he was?

Cam Tre Luc had no idea who this Forester was, nor would he have helped a Westerner under any circumstances.

But in this case — in this case he would have revenge for his humiliation.

“Give me that gun,” he told Miss Madonna. “Then get my pants.”

Dean had reached the stairs by the time Rockman warned him that Cam Tre Luc’s guard was coming down the hallway. With his first step downward, Dean lost his footing. He shoved his hand in the direction of the railing and grabbed it for a moment, temporarily steadying himself. But the railing then gave way and Dean shot forward, pirouetting down six or seven steps to the landing on the second floor.

It sounded as if everyone in the whore house was shouting. Rockman and the interpreter in the Art Room were both talking at once. A gunshot cracked in the far distance. Wood splintered near Dean’s head. Someone was shooting at him, the bullets flying just a few feet away. For some reason, the sound was different than bullets usually sounded, more brit-tle, less real.

Dean started to crawl around the landing to the next run of steps. Suddenly the stairway exploded with a loud crash. A brutal flash of light blinded him. Dean began to choke. Then he felt himself fall or fly — he couldn’t tell the difference.

A voice came out of the swirl below him.

“Hang on, partner,” said Tommy Karr, who’d hoisted Dean to his shoulder. “One more flight to go.” as karr reached the alley behind Saigon Rouge he dropped the second small tear gas grenade he had in his hand, then turned toward the motorbikes they’d stashed earlier.

“Let me down,” growled Dean from Karr’s shoulder.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” answered Karr, but he didn’t let go of Dean until they reached the bikes. There were shouts now all along the block, and Karr could hear the sounds of engines starting and people running. No one was in the alley, however; confusion was still on their side.

Dean stood woozily, putting his hand against the wall for balance.

“Get on my bike. Come on,” Karr told him, tilting it to the side.

“I’ll take my own.”

“Suit yourself,” said Karr, kick-starting his to life.

Dean got on the other bike woozily.

“You OK, Charlie?”

“Yeah.” His bike purred to life.

Someone appeared in the alley behind them, yelling at them to halt.

“I’m going to throw a flash-bang,” said Karr, grabbing at his belt. “Go. I’ll meet you back at the hotel.” As Dean thundered off, the person who’d yelled at them — one of Cam Tre Luc’s bodyguards — began shooting.

A bullet bounced off the wall opposite Karr, spraying pieces of clay from the brick. Karr tossed the flash-bang grenade over his shoulder and then hit the gas, hunkering down as the grenade exploded behind him.

The grenade was enough of a diversion to keep the bodyguard from following, but either one of his bullets or the shrapnel from them punctured Karr’s rear tire. He didn’t notice until he hit the main street and tried to turn; by then the air had run out completely and the rubber shell was so mangled that it whipped off with a screech a cat might make if its skin was pulled from its body. Karr felt the bike shifting abruptly to its side. He tried to let it fall beneath him, hoping to walk away from the wipeout just as he would have done as a teenager on his uncle’s farm a few years before. But Karr’s foot caught on the frame of the bike; knocked off balance, he spun around and landed on his back in the middle of the street.

Karr jumped to his feet just in time to narrowly miss being run over by a bus. He tried chasing it down to hop on the back, but it was moving too fast and there were no good handholds besides.

“Hey, Charlie,” he said, continuing down the block. “I need a lift.”

“He’s circling back for you,” said Rockman. “Run to the north.”

“Which way is north?” said Karr.

“Take the next left. Bodyguards have gone back to the building,” added Rockman. “Cam Tre Luc is really angry.”

“Guess he’s not the guy we’re looking for, huh?”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Mr. Karr,” said Rubens from the Art Room. “Let’s give it some time and see what develops. For now, please get as far away from the area as possible.”

“Good idea, boss,” said Karr, hearing Dean’s bike approaching in the distance.