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“He’ll have flares,” I said. “With any luck at all, somebody saw him go down. They’ll send a helicopter for him, and we can hitch a ride on it.”
“He may not be happy to see us.”
“He’ll be happy when he finds out we’re us. Right now he’s getting ready to surrender to a North Vietnamese tank.”
Except he wasn’t. We had a good look at him as we drew closer. He was a very young Negro airman with a very valiant look on his face, and he had one hand on his hip while he used the other to point a pistol at our tank.
“I think he wants us to surrender,” I said. “It’s going to surprise the hell out of him when we do.”
We drew closer. I flipped open the hatch, and he sent a bullet whistling over the top of it.
“Cool it, soul brother,” Tuppence called out. “The natives are friendly.”
Chapter 16
In Saigon an Army doctor spent two hours checking me over. “I think you’re all right,” he said finally. He sounded vaguely disappointed. “I can’t find anything wrong with you. If I were you, I’d spend the next few weeks eating like a horse and sleeping like a bear. There’s no trace of disease in your system. These tropical fevers are fu
“I never would have thought of that.”
“Eh?”
“Nothing,” I said. “What about my skin? I’m not usually this color.”
“A few days on a balanced diet should straighten you out.”
“And my hair?”
“You weren’t bald before?”
“No.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, I suppose it will grow back in. Or possibly the loss will be permanent, it’s hard to say. If it grows in, you have nothing to worry about. If, on the other hand, the hair loss does turn out to be permanent in nature, you have the choice of remaining bald or obtaining a hairpiece. Whichever you choose.”
“Thanks very much,” I said.
I got away from him and spent the next couple of hours with representatives of Army Intelligence and the CIA. They asked me a thousand questions ten times each. After it got boring, I said something about how hungry I was, and they sent someone out for sandwiches. It worked so well that I repeated this procedure every half hour or so, and every half hour they sent the kid ru
It was Call-Me-Barclay in the flesh, and the flesh was as pink as ever. “Ta
“You look Caucasian,” I said. He blinked at me. It was true – after all that time in the jungle, after the constant company of Tuppence and Dhang and the occasional company of an infinity of Thais and Laos and Vietnamese, I felt that I had never in my life seen anything quite so Caucasian as Barclay Houghton Hewlitt.
I didn’t explain it to him. I didn’t even try.
He asked the same thousand questions that everyone else had asked, and I gave him the same answers. He was full of enthusiasm. He was full of plans. He was full of-
“This is more perfect than you can possibly realize,” he intoned. “You and the girl will return the jewels personally to His Majesty, of course. We’ll arrange full press coverage. She’s a colored gal, eh? That’s a good angle, gives us a pitch that ought to appeal to the liberal press. Black and white together working to foil a Chi-com plot. I think it would be good to draw the Chinese into it, ha ha. Black and white together. Won’t hurt a bit, will it? Spike the rumors you hear about the Agency being prejudiced against the coons. You’d be amazed the rumors you hear, Ta
“Ha ha.”
“Eh?”
“Ha ha, I said. The girl and I won’t return the jewels personally to His Majesty.”
“But-”
“Say you recovered them yourself,” I suggested. “Say it was an Agency operation all the way. If you want to juice it up, say that the Kendall Bayard Quartet was abducted because they attempted to prevent the robbery. You can play around with that if you want to, but the girl and I stay out of it. You blow my cover, and I’ll blow your head off, ha ha.”
“Well, if that’s the way you want it, Ta
“That’s exactly the way I want it.” I wasn’t sure who outranked whom in this situation, but I felt that the best way to acquire power was to act as if one already had it. “Here are the jewels,” I said. “Two sacks of them. You give them to the king and give him my love. Tell him Tuppence says he plays a very down clarinet, and Tuppence would know.”
He took the jewels, then hesitated. “What about the gook you had with you? The Siamese kid? Want me to haul him back to Bangkok and give him the hero treatment?”
I had almost forgotten Dhang. “No,” I said. “Leave him out of it, too. His role is classified.” I thought for a moment. “If you want a hero, I’ve got the man for you. An American airman named Marcus Garvey Cook.”
“What did he do?”
“At great personal risk he destroyed a pursuing North Vietnamese tank in the Demilitarized Zone. Then, disregarding his own safety, he crash-landed his plane in order to come to our rescue.” That was the story Airman Cook and I had dreamed up while waiting for a helicopter to find us. He hadn’t wanted it known that he was capable of making that many runs at a tank without hitting it, and I wasn’t thrilled at the idea of official records crediting me with the destruction of an American jet. So we knocked out the tank with a grenade in the gas tank and worked up a story for the folks at home. “If you want a hero,” I said, “he’s your man.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“What you can do in the meantime,” I said, “is lend me a hundred dollars U.S. ”
“I’m a little short-”
“Whatever you can spare, then.”
He gave me seventy dollars in crisp tens. “And the Siamese kid?”
“I’ll take care of him. I’m going to keep a promise.”
“Eh?”
“I’m giving him the hero treatment,” I said, “right here in Saigon.”
The madam was a fat little Vietnamese with gold teeth and a permanent smile. Several soldiers had assured me her house was far and away the best in Saigon. The rooms were nicely appointed, the girls were clean and lovely, and the price was only ten dollars. She bowed us into the parlor and rang a little bell, and seven pretty things in slit skirts and high heels came tripping into the room and bowed before us.
Dhang was drooling, and his eyes were so bugged out that he looked like a frog. Maybe if one of them let him sleep on her pillow, he would turn into a prince.
He said, “For me?”
“You’re supposed to pick the one you want.”
“I want them all.”
“Well, pick the one you like best.”
“I like them all best. Purick in cunat…”
I counted the girls and recounted the money. Seven girls at ten dollars a girl was seventy dollars, which, providentially enough, was the sum Barclay Houghton Hewlitt had given me. That seemed too clear a sign from the gods to be ignored. But was it possible that little Dhang could possess seven women one after the other?
Anything was possible, I decided. Anything at all. With what Dhang had been through, it was conceivable that he had built up a stock of frustration that all the whores in Saigon couldn’t cure. Anyway, he wanted all seven of them, and he deserved a shot at whatever he wanted. The son of a gun had paid his dues.
“He wants all seven of them,” I told the madam carefully. “They are to go to him one at a time.” I gave her the money. “Tell them to go in whatever order they wish. He loves them all.”