Floating City (11 page)

Sensing Nicholas, she turned her head, thrusting the ka-bar into his hand.

‘‘Quick!” She was breathless with fear. “Cut it out!”

“What?”

“I stumbled over this unexploded artillery shell. It’s filled with white phosphorus, what the Americans called Willy Peter. I’ve gotten it on me. If you don’t cut it out, it’ll eat right through my leg!”

He had heard the horror stories about phosphorous burns, air itself causing an incendiary explosion, and he knew she was right.

“Put your arms around my neck and hold on!”

He placed the edge of the blade obliquely against her burning skin, bore down hard on the hilt. Bay gasped, and tears rolled freely down her cheeks. She grabbed him, held on tight.

An eerie keening burst through her clenched teeth.

He sliced into her, using deft, efficient strokes to scoop out the phosphorus and the burning flesh. Bay’s eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed against him. All in all, he thought that was the best thing for her now. He used the blade tip to flick the gobbet of blackened flesh into the pyre of the leaking Willy Peter. The heat was almost unbearable.

He wished they were back by the Dien Bien Phu kitchen so he could cauterize the wound. Using strips of his shirt, he fashioned a tourniquet, then wrapped the raw wound as best he could.

Where had she been headed? Without Bay to help him he was lost within this labyrinth of the dead. He could sit here with her and wait for the soldiers to find them and execute them, or he could retrace the path they had taken from the moment they had entered the tunnels from beneath the river.

It took him almost two hours to make it back to the point where the skeleton of the Alsatian lay just in front of the shining booby-trap wire. For most of that time he had carried Bay across his shoulder, aware that she was going into shock even before her flesh became chill and her muscles contracted spasmodically. He wished he could do something immediate for her, but he was helping her the only way he could, by getting her out of there as quickly as possible.

Once, when they got near the area of the Dien Bien Phu kitchen, he had considered wrapping her in its warmth, but his
tanjian
eye, questing through the darkness, encountered the presence of more soldiers, so he carefully skirted the area, acutely aware of the need for both speed and caution.

He set her down near the Alsatian, as close to the wire as he dared. There was almost no color in her face, and she had not regained consciousness. Extending his psyche, he probed inside her. Her loss of blood had been considerable, the shock of the impromptu surgery was massive, and he knew that sepsis would set in unless the wound was thoroughly cleansed and she got significant doses of a powerful antibiotic within twenty-four hours. By concentration, he was able to reduce the level of pathogenic microorganisms reproducing at the wound site, but he could not heal her.

He turned toward the wire, went carefully over it. Then he reached back, lifted her up and across. He froze. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her elbow resting against the outcropped pin of the frag grenade buried in the wall. Very slowly, he moved her back away from him. Her elbow came off the pin.

Nothing happened.

Repositioning her, he lifted her across the wire and set her down beside him.

He lowered himself through the trapdoor, feeling the chill river water come up to the level of his waist. Then he maneuvered her through. In her state, he did not know how long she could survive underwater. He knew he had to be very fast; there was no margin for error. He hadn’t gotten this far just to drown her during the last stage of their escape.

In the water he ceded control to his
tanjian
eye, trusting it to guide him unerringly through the two trapdoors and out into the river itself. Bay was like a dead weight, dragging him down, entangling him in line and wire, fragments of rotten wood, and decades of silt raised up from the riverbed by the powerful kick of his legs.

But at last he could feel the strong pull of the current and knew he was in the open river. He got her head above water, striking out for the far riverbank. She was racked by a paroxysm of coughing as soon as he dragged her up the slope out of the water, and he was gratified to see no blood in what she spit up. Perhaps the cold had revived her. She began to moan as the pain cut through the temporary wall her endorphins had built. Opening his
tanjian
eye, Nicholas stimulated the area that produced these natural pain-suppressors.

“My God,” she whispered in a voice drugged by pain and shock, “what’s happened to me?”

“White phosphorus. I got it all out of you.”

She closed her eyes, turned her head away from him, her chest still heaving from her exertions.

While they had been buried alive in the tunnels of Cu Chi, dawn had come. The sky was pink and pale green. Birds called and an entire new set of insects droned and chittered in the underbrush. On the morning breeze came the strong scent of eucalyptus from the groves planted after the American defoliation of the area during the war.

He touched her on the shoulder. “I know you’re exhausted, but there’s no time to rest. I’ve got to get you to a doctor.”

“No need to bother yourself,” a deep voice said from above them on the riverbank. “I’m in charge of you both now.”

Nicholas looked up to see the figure standing over him, a pistol in his right hand. At the moment it was pointed at the ground beside him. Though there were perhaps a dozen soldiers around him, this man was dressed in the uniform of the Saigon police. He was a slender Vietnamese, not very imposing if one was in the habit of judging people by their size. But he had a wily face and yellow eyes and teeth. Shindo had summed him up quite correctly: a back-alley predator.

Chief Inspector Hang Van Kiet.

“Stand up, both of you!” Van Kiet commanded.

“I’m a citizen of—”

“I said stand up!” The pistol was now leveled at him.

Nicholas rose, dragging Bay with him. She moaned, shivering, and he said, “For God’s sake, she’s badly hurt. I had to cut burning phosphorus out of her leg. If you don’t get her to a hospital soon, she’ll die.”

“Is that so?” Van Kiet took a step down the bank, stared into Bay’s white, pinched face. He touched the muzzle of the pistol to the bloody bandage wrapped around her wound, and she cried out, nearly fainting. Then a curious smile wreathed his mouth, and his eyes snapped to Nicholas. “Whether you live or die will depend on me now, is that clear?”

Nicholas said nothing, but then he didn’t think Van Kiet had wanted an answer.

“You and this woman have been found in a proscribed area. What were you doing in the tunnels?”

“Sight-seeing.”

Nicholas’s
tanjian
eye felt the pistol coming up an instant before it did, but there was nothing at all in Van Kiet’s mind as he squeezed the trigger.

The explosion rang out, echoing across the riverbank as Bay was blown out of Nicholas’s arms, blood spurting from her chest.

My God, he’s actually shot her!

Nicholas scrambled after her, knelt beside her where she lay, half in the water. As he turned her gently over, he heard Van Kiet’s steely voice.

“D’you think this is a joke, man? You’re guilty of espionage against the sovereign Republic of Vietnam and I know it.”

She was still breathing, but blood was bubbling everywhere. Van Kiet hadn’t shot randomly; he’d meant to kill her.

“Chu
Goto—”

It was a whisper, barely louder than the wind among the reeds of the river.

“I must—”

He bent over, putting his ear close to her lips. He could feel the struggle going on inside her: her heart laboring, her lungs filling up with fluid. He had brought her to this end, and he was horrified.

“―tell you—”

“Get him away from her!” Van Kiet ordered from behind Nicholas.

“Must know—”

The soldiers were coming, advancing down the muddy bank.

“—know about the Floating City—”

Gun muzzles at his back.

“Get up, man!” Van Kiet shouted.

“Yes, tunnels are... halfway point between Saigon and the Floating City.”

Van Kiet pulled him roughly away from the dying Bay. His ferret’s face was dark with blood and rage. “Fucker, murder and espionage are capital offenses. You’re dead meat!”

“Uncle Lew!”

The tall, lithe teenager flung herself into his arms.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Francine said, squeezing him as tightly as she could.

“I promised I’d come back, didn’t I?”

Francie nodded, putting her head against his chest.

Lew Croaker’s current assignment was so painful that he preferred not to think about it. Consequently, it was all he thought about. He was not by nature a perverse person, but everything had changed for him when he had met and fallen in love with Margarite Goldoni DeCamillo. Croaker had been investigating the murder of Margarite’s brother, Dominic Goldoni, the most powerful and influential Mafia don in the eastern half of the United States, when, much to his surprise and consternation, he had fallen in love with Margarite. Francine was her daughter.

Francine drew him into the country-style living room. She was staying with a friend of Margarite’s for a while. Francie had been bulimic, ill with the realization that her parents despised one another, that her father, Tony DeCamillo, had systematically abused her mother. Last year, Croaker had helped Francie face her bulimia and, so, had forged a close bond with her. Another reason for Tony D. to hate him.

“It’s way cool to see you!” Francie said, holding his hand. “And way cool you’re here today because—”

At that moment, the front door opened and Margarite walked in. She stopped in her tracks when she saw him. The surprise on her face was quickly supplanted by a look of intense joy, which was just as quickly stifled.

“Lew,” she said in her low, creamy voice. “What a surprise.”

That was an understatement worthy of note. The last time they had seen one another was just before New Year’s Day, at Narita airport in Tokyo. Croaker had been seeing her off as she flew back to the States.

I want you to know something,
she had said.
If I
never see you again, I’ll shrivel up and die.

But you’re going now,
he had replied, his heart breaking.
Back to Tony D.
He had seen tears standing in her amber eyes.
It would help if you gave me the procedure for contacting the Nishiki network.

That was Dom’s only legacy, the perpetuation of all his power. I won’t jeopardize it
—
even for you.

Now, standing in the doorway in jeans, cowboy boots, and a stylish leather jacket, she seemed far more beautiful than he remembered her. Her face, with its prominent nose, wide lips, and unusual amber eyes, filled him with the kind of joy so unexpected it was akin to pain.

“Mom. Hi.”

“Hi, sugar.” Margarite grinned at her daughter. “How you doing?”

“Super!” She clung to Croaker with a childlike joy.

Croaker stood with his hands on Francie’s shoulders, reluctant to let go of her. Why? Was she a shield for his intimate feelings or the connective tissue that bound him to Margarite?

Looking from one adult to the other, Francie said, “I’m gonna get some lunch. Anyone else get hungry, the kitchen’s that way.” She gestured to a hallway to the left before disappearing down it.

Margarite came into the living room, threw down her purse and car keys on one of the facing sofas.

“I didn’t know you were back from Japan. How long—”

“Couple of months.”

“I see.” Her head went down. “And in all this time not even a phone call.”

“Margarite—” He took a step toward her, then froze, the knowledge of what he was doing flooding through him. Since she had returned from Tokyo, he had had her under surveillance. Nicholas had given him the name of an operative whom the company used from time to time in New York to keep the corporate spies at bay. As soon as Croaker had returned to New York several weeks ago, he had taken up much of the surveillance himself. What he was looking for was anything out of the ordinary in Margarite’s routine. He knew she must make periodic contact with a member of the Nishiki network that Okami had set up to provide Dominic Goldoni with dirt on prominent Washington figures. And she would go about it via the same procedure her brother before her had used. The mechanisms had been in place for some time; they wouldn’t be changed now.

He loved her and he was spying on her while trying to keep out of Tony D.’s way. Again, he asked himself the basic question: How could he be in love with someone on the opposite side of the law? But then he supposed she must ask herself the same question.

“How is Tony D. treating you?”

“Oh, Lew, don’t let’s spoil this moment by talking about him.”

Instantly, he was on guard. “Is he hurting you?”

“No,” she said at once. “Thank God that’s over.” She attempted a smile. “I think he’s trying to turn over a new leaf. He wants Francie back home; he wants our marriage to be the way it once was.”

Croaker felt as if an iceberg were moving through him. “And you believe him?”

Now her smile was genuine, warm. “I haven’t believed anything he’s said for years.”

He took another step toward her, and it was as if he were magnetized to the polestar. One foot in front of the other and he just kept coming until he had wrapped her in his arms and his mouth came down over hers. Her lips opened and he heard her sigh, felt the tension melt out of her.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, “I thought...” She closed her eyes. “I don’t want to say what I thought.”

“I’ll never stop loving you.” His hand stroked her hair. “No matter what happens.”

She was weeping silently. “I never believed in hell, but that’s where I feel I am now. I know you want me to tell you about Nishiki, but it’s the one thing I can’t give you. Is there some way you’ll find to make me do it? I don’t know, but I feel sure you’ll try. I don’t want you as an adversary; it’s killing me. I feel as if I’m being torn in half.”