Saigon Page 15

  He blacked out completely.

  When he came to he heard voices all around him. He opened his eyes wearily and looked up. Xuan and Saito were standing at the head of the ramp, having some sort of animated discussion that Nick could not comprehend. Xuan was gesturing with the machine gun. Saito seemed to be trying to restrain him. There was an ugly, bloody streak across one side of his head and his face was a halfmask of blood. If someone else had come in to join the party, there wasn't any sign of him. Nick lifted up his sagging head with hands that were reluctant to move, and remembered vaguely that someone had come in through the front door and there had been some shooting.

  God, yes! Memory came flooding back and dragged him to his feet. There was still that other moaning voice to reckon with — the one that floated up to him from the cellar. The woman's voice.

  He clutched the wall and stumbled down the ramp. Lin Tong lay still, but his muscular chest rose and fell with a healthy regularity that Nick could envy even while he felt relief. There was going to be something left of this swine to take back to Raoul Dupré.

  For a French wine cellar, it wasn't much to look at. The only thing that made it worth a visit was the woman tied to a heavy, upended table, wearing a torn dress and a string belt. He stared at her, swaying on his feet, and wondered why she was looking at him with such horror in her lovely eyes. Surely she must realize that he had come to help…? Ah! His face!

  His bruised and bleeding fingers went up to his face and plucked clumsily at the outside corners of his eyes.

  "Madame La Farge," Nick started formally, "my name is Nicholas Carter." The tiny patches pulled away. "In connection with your advertisement in The Vietnam Times…" He stopped abruptly, hearing his own words. Good grief! He must be delirious, to talk to her this way. "Saito brought me here. I'm working with French Intelligence." Madame's lovely, swollen lips parted slightly and a little sound came out. Nick moved unsteadily toward her, hearing the soft footsteps padding down the ramp behind him. He knew the footsteps; so did she. Her eyes suddenly became gleaming pools of tears. "Raoul Dupré… sends his — his very best regards."

  Hugo slipped out from his sheath as Madame's eyes turned away from him.

  "Saito!" she cried, and started sobbing like a child who had been left alone for a long and terrifying time.

  The severed cords sprang from her arms and fell to the floor.

  Saito bounded to her side. "My lady! Oh, my lady!" She reached for him weakly, the tears streaming down her cheeks. "You are hurt," she whispered, and gently touched his face.

  The cords around her feet dropped free. Saito caught her as she began to fall.

  * * *

  Lin Tong plus one General plus two aides plus one Master Sergeant plus one Corporal plus seven men had added up to thirteen. Thirteen minus Lin Tong, two men on patrol, two in the house, one General, and one hothead who had come rushing in after hearing shots, brought Nick's immediate problems down to six. Lin Tong was very much alive but most securely tied, in such a way that he would strangle himself if he so much as moved. The cellar door was bolted. Donh Cam, whose sick wife lay upstairs, guarded it with Lin Tong's pistol.

  Madame La Farge lay in her huge warm bathtub, soaking up the soothing heat and thinking of the two torn and bloodied men who had found her in the wine cellar. She caught herself wondering what the man Carter looked like when he was unstained, unbloodied, and — well, dressed in something other than those torn guerrilla rags.

  Lua fussed over her, refusing stubbornly to rest her own abused body until Madame was safely tucked in bed. Madame looked at Lua's tired face and mangled dress. She sighed. "Towel, please, Lua," she said. "And then if you don't go and look after yourself at once, I'll put you in my own bathtub — myself."

  "Ah, but Madame…!"

  "Lua!"

  "Yes, Madame. Your towel…"

  Outside, Saito's chosen group of men ringed the house. Only one or two had guns. All were armed with machetes, which they well knew how to use. If anything went wrong they would die fighting for Madame. And if all went according to plan, the worst that could happen was that they would be questioned, perhaps kicked and beaten, but not killed. At least, not too many of them. They would have their answers ready. "Shooting, sir? Yes, of course we heard it. We most naturally thought that there was an attack from across the border, so of course we locked ourselves in our houses and…"

  Some distance from the house, and in several directions, twelve silent men flitted across the fields and did their deadly work. Six Vietnamese soldiers on patrol died almost silently. The one or two who managed a choking sound before they died were wasting their last breath; the only men who could help them were more than two miles away, sleeping in their hillside camp.

  As Madame toweled herself dry and thought about the awful day and the secret she had not given away, the Royal Roadster and the squad car purred into fife in her front driveway. The sound was a message of success, at least in the first step of the final game. And yet she shuddered, thinking of those who had died and were still to die.

  Bed looked inviting. She pulled the soft gown around her and slid gratefully beneath the covers.

  The two vehicles pulled away.

  They went slowly at first, because it was necessary to let the running men keep pace with them, but after a while they speeded up.

  Saito went first in the Royal, because he knew the road. His cargo was one General, one Lieutenant, and one Sergeant, and all of them were dead. Nick followed in the squad car. His troop consisted of one Sergeant, one Corporal, seven men; and all of them were dead.

  The road to the camp led upward, leveled out for several hundred yards, and then inclined gently downward until it reached the camp. After that it climbed up again, and steeply; but what it did beyond the camp made no difference to the drivers.

  About seven minutes after leaving the La Farge plantation the vehicles slowed again.

  Nick took the remaining grenade from his belt in readiness for what was to come, and clipped Wilhelmina onto the wire stock. He knew that Saito, yards ahead of him, was making similar preparations. He also knew that three other grenades would be put to their best possible use, and that several newly acquired machine guns would be trained on appropriate targets.

  A shrill birdsong pierced the still night air. Nick put the vehicle in gear, pushing a lolling Corporal aside with his elbow, and followed Saito along the curving mountain road. He saw the Royal Roadster reach the end of the level strip of road, and took his cue. He accelerated. Opened the door. Took the pin out of the grenade. Left it on the seat. Grabbed Wilhelmina, rifle stock and all, and jumped. The vehicle gathered speed and plunged down the slope after the Royal.

  Nick raced across the narrow road and scrambled up the mountainside. He had reached the comparative safety of a tangled bush when the first explosion shattered the silence. The gigantic noise split into several parts and spilled its echoes down into the valley. Fragments of torn metal flew and bit into the sodden earth. The second blast was even louder than the first, and with its ear-splitting sound the squad car became a twisted mass of pulverized parts. From somewhere above him came the deadly clatter of machine guns. Seconds later it was drowned out by the echoing blast of two more explosions. Nick clawed his way through the thick bushes and saw the dim lights of the camp. Spumes of smoke swirled against the lights and small disheveled figures ran helter-skelter among the tents.

  Beneath him, above him, behind him, and in front of him, the deady sounds grew in volume. The third and last of the explosives slammed full into the camp, and he could see tents crumple and fall like houses made of cards. Running figures scuttled around like cockroaches in a grubby kitchen when a light is suddenly turned on. Return fire bit into the hillside, finding nothing. Machine guns chattered madly, screaming out their message of sudden death and penetrating hatred.

  Two shattered vehicles lay on the road leading into the bleeding, screaming camp. No one would ever know that their occupants had di
ed earlier that night and in another place. Men at war do not hold autopsies, especially when their encampment has been attacked by guerrillas from across the border between them and their enemies.

  The killing sounds stopped as suddenly as they had begun. That meant an end of their small supply of ammunition and the start of a retreat as swift and silent as their surprise approach. Nick dragged himself backward through the bushes and lowered himself down to the road, hoping that Saito's men had started withdrawing down the hillside according to plan. Aimless bursts and booms of fire were coming from the camp, going somewhere into the hills above in search of the hidden enemy. But the hidden enemy had already done its job.;There would be no reason for anyone to believe that General Minh and his unfortunate companions had not died in a guerrilla action that caught them just as they were entering their own camp.

  Flames from the two burning vehicles sent intricate patterns of light dancing across the mutilated road.

  Nick met Saito in the shadows and sent him on his way. He himself waited only long enough to hear Xuan's report of a complete withdrawal with two minor injuries, then he too made his weary way back to the plantation. A searchlight roved helplessly around the hillside. There was nothing left for it to find. The tiny war within the war was over.

  * * *

  Madame Claire La Farge awoke from a short, uneasy sleep. The distant sound of firing had stopped some time ago and the night, slowly sliding into dawn, was once again as quiet as thousands of other nights… except that there were soft male voices on the landing. Then she heard Saito's footsteps going downstairs and the other footsteps, the new ones, going into the room that she and Paul had designed for guests that had stopped coming here more than ten long years ago.

  She listened as the tall stranger moved quietly about the room; heard him leave it, cross the landing, and fill the bathtub in the guest bathroom that was all cream and pink and gold.

  Claire smiled to herself. If ever a man needed a bath, this one certainly did. But a cream and pink and gold setting was hardly what she would have chosen for him. Dazed as she had been when Carter and Saito had made their rapid plans, she still had noticed how the tall, bedraggled stranger had pulled together his flagging strength and taken quiet command He thought quickly, and he acted with decision. And when he saw her revive and take the cup of coffee from Lua's trembling fingers, he had turned on her a smile of such genuine warmth and pleasure that it had stayed with her long after he had gone. He had not even asked about Moreau's message, but had touched her hand and apologized for being so long in coming. She had told him, then, that the message was still safely with her. He had nodded as if he had known it would be, thanked her for her courage, and left with Saito. Now that he was back she felt a relief so intense that it surprised her.

  The splashing in the bathroom stopped. A few minutes later the water gurgled away and light footsteps padded back across the landing. Claire sat up in bed and reasoned with herself. It was too late to bother him. She was supposed to be asleep. He was a stranger to her. He needed rest. She could talk to him in the morning. But she had been alone for days and knew so little about what was really going on. She had a perfect right to know the outcome of the evening. Possibly she could help him by tending to his wounds. He could tell her how he had become involved in this. She could see what he really looked like…

  Ridiculous. Time enough for all that in the morning. Right now what they all needed more than anything was a good, long sleep.

  She made up her mind and got out of bed. Her body ached abominably and she knew that sleep was going to be impossible until she had eased her mind by talking to him. The soft robe slipped around her. Her slippers made no sound as she left her room and walked across the landing. The thin line of light beneath Carter's door convinced her that she was doing the right thing. He was awake and she was awake, and they had much to talk about.

  Claire tapped lightly on his door.

  "Saito?" he called out.

  "No, it's Claire La Farge. May I come in?"

  "Oh! One second, please."

  She heard a swift movement across the floor. The door opened. He stood there smiling down at her, a thick towel secured around his midriff.

  "Sorry I'm not dressed," he said. "I was just doing some exercises." And thinking about you, he might have added, but thought better of it. "Come on in." He held the door wide open and stepped back.

  Damn you, Claire, she told herself. Apologize and leave at once.

  But she was already in the room. And he at last was looking at her as she really was, the proud and beautiful woman he had come so far to meet.

  "Exercises?" she said faintly, gazing at the muscular bronze body and its latest collection of wounds. "After all the exercise you've had today?"

  "These are different," he said cheerfully. "Yoga breathing tricks to make me feel more human." He propelled her into a chair and sat down on the bed, carefully tucking the towel around him. "I did hope I'd see you," he went on, "but I was sure you'd be asleep. You should be. There's nothing wrong, is there?"

  She looked into his face and caught the clear, steel-gray eyes gazing into hers. The strong face, no longer muddy-brown but tanned cleanly by a summer sun, was almost classic in its masculine beauty. The wide, firm mouth was gentle, and she already knew that it could smile in such a way as to make her feel… strangely weak. After all, she was a mature woman, not an inexperienced child. She saw the mouth quirk at the corners, and wondered what he could be thinking about a woman who stared at him that way.

  "You look… different," she said feebly, and saw the glint of laughter flash into his eyes. "No, nothing's wrong. I wanted to know what happened tonight. Did it — work out the way you'd planned?"

  The clear eyes became serious. Nick nodded. "Pretty much. No casualties on our side, quite a few on theirs. There'll no doubt be some squawks about the 'border episode, but it's most unlikely that you'll be affected. On the other hand, I think it's time you seriously considered leaving the plantation. This is a bad…"

  "I will not leave here," Claire said emphatically. "It's my home and nobody is going to drive me out. And what is more, I won't be sitting on the sidelines from now on. Somehow I'm going to find a way of fighting back."

  She was beautiful, Nick thought; bruises, cuts and all, she was strikingly handsome, unmistakably and elegantly French. The rich black hair was tumbled over her forehead, begging to be brushed back by a loving masculine hand, and the full lips drew his eyes like magnets. Firm, delectable breasts strained against the lacy gown she wore beneath her robe. Her subtly accented voice was low music; and her dark eyes were deep pools that he would have loved to swim in. This was a woman; the almost. legendary Claire La Farge was a real woman of style and grace and guts — and a figure that a goddess might have envied. Nick felt his heart beating with a more healthy vigor than it had achieved for hours and tried hard not to stare at her fabulous breasts.

  "I think you might have to find a safer base from which to do your fighting," he said soberly. "Raoul Dupré suggested that…"

  "Dupré!" she exclaimed. "Yes, yes, you are here because of him! But still I do not understand. Why you? Who exactly are you? Who was that man who looked Chinese? How did he know about the belt? He did, you know. I saw him look at it. And what about…?"

  "Hold it!" Nick interrupted, his face splitting into that grin she found so unaccountably captivating. "I'll tell you about it from the beginning, and that should answer everything. But I warn you, it's a long and complicated story and you must be very tired."

  "I want to hear it," she said simply. "I want to hear it all."

  He made sure the towel wasn't slipping, and he told her almost everything. When he came to the part about Toni on the beach he skipped a few unnecessary details and concentrated on Lin Tong's part in the ugly business. Claire's mobile face reflected her shock, her sympathy, her horror. When Nick was finished with his long recital they discussed Moreau, and what they would do about finding his body
a permanent and peaceful resting place. Then they talked about Saito's loyalty and courage, and low appreciative each of them was for what the others had done.

  There was a brief silence. They looked at each other. Claire blushed faintly. Nick felt his pulses quicken. Her breasts rose in a sigh.

  "I could talk all night," he said. "I gladly would, to you. But don't you think it's time you had some sleep?"

  "I suppose it is," she murmured. "But… unless you are asking me to go, please first tell me a Utile more about yourself."

  He told her, enormously glad that she wanted to stay. When he had given away all that AXE would allow, he asked her about her life on the plantation, and about the cool and brilliant daredevil known as La Petite Fleur.

  For the first time she managed to speak of Paul as if he were really dead, never to return, and as if he were a wonderful memory rather than the whole of life. At last she sighed and said: "I have not talked like this to anyone for years. Please forgive me for exhausting you. But it is so very good to have you here. I am most grateful. And now, I had really better go." But she didn't look at all as though she wanted to.

  "Perhaps you should," he said, and instantly regretted it. She rose.

  And gave a sudden groan as she clutched her side. "Oof! For a few moments I had forgotten," she said, half-smiling but obviously in pain. "I feel as though I have been in the middle of a football game — and I was the football."

  He reached over to help her up. She staggered into his arms, stammered something, and tried to draw herself away.

  "Let me help you," he said. "I'll carry you to your room." He scooped her up lightly and cradled her in his arms.