I realized that governments like the one in Hanoi would be reluctant to admit to having dissidents capable of resorting to violence and murder. It was sensitive to world opinion. One would expect it to exercise censorship on a disturbing event. I voiced an opinion: “They’ll never give up until they find the killer.”
“Which is precisely the cause for our concern,” Hawk said in a grave, low-toned voice. “Hold on a minute.”
I waited again. I heard at least two other voices speaking in the background. Their words were unintelligible. The tempo of their speech was rapid. I looked at my watch. God, what a long day. I figured it wasn’t over yet. If Hawk was going to recall me, he’d have told me before this.
“Nick?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Here’s what we’ve got. It isn’t pretty, but it’s something we have to face. Your turning up names — Layton, Wyler and Grimes — in connection with Martin gave us the key. A lot more checking and rechecking has to be done, but what you’ve steered us onto is a strange set of bedfellows. We know all about Martin and how he is almost revered by some Vietnam vets. Layton is one. He was in Hue with Martin during the tank crew rescue action that resulted in Martin’s capture. The man Wyler was a POW along with Martin and Gloria Grimes has been a fanatic on the MIA issue.
“All of them have something in common — deep-seated emotions about the war and an underlying hatred of the Vietnamese for treatment meted out to American prisoners. We have some tenuous information that indicates this unreasonable bitterness has been fomenting. It’s now reached the point of eruption. We are seeing evidence of an active, private vendetta against certain North Vietnamese who, according to Martin and men who think as he does, ignored and exceeded basic human precepts in their humiliation, torture, and murder of U.S. prisoners of war.”
“Hold on now,” I interrupted. “You’re telling me that this Ban Lok Huong, sitting there snug in his house in Hanoi, was the victim of an assassination plot masterminded by Keith Martin?”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Hawk answered. “And I’ll tell you why. Ban Lok Huong wasn’t the first — just the most important one so far. The night before Huong was killed, a minor bureaucrat — the administrator of a state hospital who, during the war, provided so-called medical care at the infamous ‘Hanoi Hilton’ — was chopped down with the same kind of Soviet Lekoyev 9 mm. machine pistol used to blow away Minister Huong.”
I knew the weapon. The Russians had supplied them in quantity to the Viet Cong. A number of them had been brought home as souvenirs by returning GIs. Three hundred dollars buys one on the streets of Baltimore if you know where to go. I wondered where Hawk was getting his information, but knew better than to ask. He implied a probable source during his next statement.
“We’re still digging in on this, but you’d best know that I’m now reporting directly to the president and no one else. General Jarrett and Secretary of State Ellsworth are the only other privileged ones. The chief is extra nervous about this. If Keith Martin is responsible for running an undercover murder operation in Hanoi and his connection with it is discovered, the global repercussion would be earthshaking. The president can’t disown him now; that would only focus attention on a situation that must be corrected at once and without fanfare.”
“Hasn’t Layton cleared the air?” I assumed the man who had rifled my pockets at Dulles airport had been questioned.
Hawk coughed lightly. “He’s evaded us... gone underground... disappeared along with Wyler. An order has been issued to the Marin County sheriff to pick up the Grimes woman on an open warrant. He should be knocking on her door even while we’re talking now. Taking her into custody guarantees she will remain incommunicado. We’ve got our butts in a real tight crack this time, Nick.”
In this case, I didn’t consider it an honor to be part of the collective “we” that included the president of the United States. “What’s next?” I asked.
“Some fast footwork back here to start with. The drill I’ve set up will give us a computer readout of the names of North Vietnamese who are potential targets. Not just those in Hanoi — I mean any who were directly associated with American POWs. There are two still in the U.N. delegation in New York. Five live in Paris. Others are scattered around. In a very discreet and indirect manner through third parties, we’re going to have them alerted. In a few cases we’ll be providing protection although the subjects won’t be aware of it. We don’t want an epidemic of North Vietnamese assassinations traced back to the White House. The best way to stop the tentacles of an octopus is to paralyze its brain. We’ve got to get to Martin wherever he is.”
I knew that by now Hawk had already tapped my best lead. “What did Quantas come up with?” I asked.
“His name wasn’t on any San Francisco departing flight manifests. Naturally, he’d use a phoney. We’re going to have to do it the hard way. That’s been put in motion.”
“So I just stand by?”
“For the moment, Nick.” He paused to choose his words. When Hawk does that, I generally don’t like what I’m going to hear. He didn’t disappoint me. “This effort we’re mounting back here is still badly disorganized. For a couple of reasons, I’m going to make some adjustments you may not like.” He was telling me in advance that he didn’t want to hear any protests.
“I’m listening.”
“With Layton and Wyler unaccounted for, I’m a little concerned. Some of their friends out there may look you up. Treat them gently if they do. To guard against any unexpected confrontations that might come at you from your blind side, I’ve arranged for some backup... a real pro who’s been helpful on a part-time basis in the past. Hold on again.”
Hawk knew I had strong feelings about being teamed up with anyone. I worked best by myself and Hawk generally kept it that way. I wanted to discuss this development further.
The wait was a short one. The voice that came back on the line wasn’t Hawk’s. It was female. The lazy southern drawl reminded me of Ginger Bateman. “Mr. Hawk was called upstairs to the Oval Office, suh. He asked me to tell you — let’s see now — oh, yes, it’s heah on this card. An odd name. Chinese, I think.” After pausing, she said, “Wee Low Kiang. Black hair, brown eyes, five feet eleven inches, age twenty-eight—”
“That’s fine,” I interrupted. “I’ll hold on until Mr. Hawk comes back.”
“Oh, he said you shouldn’t wait. Ah’m supposed to tell you that you’ll be met at your hotel. Did Ah get that straight? You were going back to a hotel?”
“What else?”
“Graduate of UCLA in Physical Educa—”
“Forget the card!” I snapped. “What did Mr. Hawk say?”
The magnolia-and-peaches voice took on a sharper tone. “If Ah remember correctly, suh, the only other thing he said was ‘Tell him good night.’ ”
Eight
Hawk had a point. The group backing Martin could become over-energetic in their efforts to curtail interference. Like Gloria Grimes, they might assume that my intervention was more sinister than sincere. Flashing Wilhelmina as a means of frightening Gloria into opening up might have been a mistake. Martin’s protectors could overreact at any time without the courtesy of preliminary conversation before taking positive steps.
I was tired enough not to be at peak alert. Despite my weariness, I took the precaution of following a roundabout way back to the Fairmount Hotel. I drove along Bay Street to Columbus Avenue, then cut back on Market Street to follow the cable car route to Nob Hill. My speed was slow enough that any obviously trailing vehicle would be noticeable. I saw none. Once parked in the hotel basement garage, I sat in the car for a full minute looking out the rear window for any sign of a tail.