Conspiracy

65

Qui Lai Chu was not what Dean expected. For one thing, she was considerably older — his age, he guessed, though it showed mostly at the corners of her eyes. She was also taller than most Vietnamese. It turned out that she had a French mother — a fact Rockman supplied as Dean followed her to her car, a two-year-old immaculately white Hyundai parked in front of the hotel.

“Grandfather was in the French diplomatic corps.

Mother married a Vietnamese — well, that’s obvious from the name, huh?”

Dean grunted.

Qui took two quick steps and opened the rear door of the car.

It felt odd, having a woman open the door for him.

“I thought I’d sit in the front with you,” said Dean. “If that’s OK.”

“Your bag?”

“I’ll just keep it with me. It’s not a problem.” Among other things, Dean had his Colt in it, and preferred to keep it close.

Qui bent her head slightly, indicating that she understood, and went around to the other side of the car. She moved with a grace that seemed to take possession of the space around her.

“Where in Quang Nam are we going?” she asked when she got behind the wheel.

“The capital. Tam Ky.”

“One thousand American. You pay for gas and meals,” she said. “And lodging. We won’t be able to go and come back in the same day, unless you have very little business.”

“My business may take several days,” Dean told her.

She bent her head again. “Two hundred for each additional day.”

“Do you want to be paid in advance?” Dean asked.

“I trust you for when we get back, or I wouldn’t be here.

The weapon that you have in your bag — you won’t need it.”

“I hope not,” said Dean.

“Vietnam is safer than you think, Mr. Dean. I’m surprised that your superiors at the International Fund allow you to travel with a weapon.”

“I don’t tell them everything.”

Qui put her key in the ignition and started the car. She pulled out smoothly into the stream of motorbikes, blending with them as she wended toward the highway.

“Saigon is very different from when you were here during the war, is it not, Mr. Dean?” she asked.

“How do you know I was here during the war?”

“A guess. You look at the city in a certain way. I have seen this before.”

“I was here during the war,” said Dean. “In Saigon for a few days. Most of my time was in Quang Nam.”

“You were in the Army?”

“Marines.”

“Ahh,” said Qui, as if this explained everything.

“What did you do during the war?” Dean asked.

Qui’s lip curled with a smile, but it faded before she spoke. “The war lasted a long time, Mr. Dean.”

“You can call me Charlie.”

“It was a long war, Mr. Dean. It began before I was born.

I grew old well before it was over.” Qui didn’t elaborate. Dean turned his attention to the scenery. The factories, office buildings, and apartments gave way to stretches of green. Houses poked out from behind the foliage in the distance, as if they were playing a child’s game of hide-and-seek. The trucks that passed from the other direction were mostly Japa nese made, though here and there Dean was surprised by a Mack dump truck and a GMC Jimmy, among others. A half hour out of Saigon, Dean spotted an old American tank left from the war sitting off the road. Though surrounded by weeds, the tank appeared freshly painted, its olive green skin glistening in the sun.

Dean kept his cover story ready, expecting Qui to ask about it. His preparation wasn’t necessary, however; she seemed to have no interest in small talk, let alone quizzing him about his bona fides. He wondered why Tang told him he needed a new cover until they passed a large piece of bulldozed land off the highway in the Central Highlands, more than two hours after setting out. Qui muttered something loudly to herself as they passed, then realized Dean had heard her.

“They tear down everything,” she said. “Pourri,” she added, beginning a riff in very profane French about corrupt corporations and equally corrupt government officials raping the land. She spoke far too quickly for Dean’s very limited French, but the depth of her feeling was clear.

“Without the curses, she said, ‘Corporations and politicians suck,’ ” Rockman told him.

“I guess I didn’t catch too much of that,” Dean told her.

“But you’re angry about the bulldozers?” Qui smirked. “It’s a beautiful country.”

“It is.”

“You’re only just realizing that?”

Dean stared at her, noticing again the lines around the corners of her eyes. They looked softer now.

“I didn’t appreciate beauty the first time I was here,” he told her.

“Do you now?”

“As I got older, I started to see things differently.” There was a knot of traffic ahead. Without answering him, or even making a sign that she had heard, Qui turned her full attention to the car, maneuvering to pass.

Dean stared out the passenger-side window. A man plowed a field with an ox-drawn plow, struggling to overturn the earth. Smoke curled in the distance, a small brush fire set to remove debris.

The scene was both common and familiar. His brain plucked a similar one at random from its memory — an image from a he li cop ter, a flight out to Khe Sahn early in his tour here, when he was still being tested.

When he was still fresh meat.

“You’re here to assuage your guilt,” said Qui.

“How’s that?” Dean asked.

“You’re a do-gooder. Most do-gooders, if they’re not young, are making up for something. You’re making up for the war, aren’t you?”

“I don’t think so,” Dean answered without thinking. Belatedly, he realized he should have said she was right — it fit with his cover.

“It’s all right,” said Qui. She turned and smiled at him.

“I’m a bit of a do-gooder myself.”