Inside, he came to a dead stop.
Strong light reflected from multitudinous teardrop crystals decorating an ornate chandelier that hung low over the huge dining table caused the assassin to blink, but he had his pistol halfway aimed when he saw that — contrary to his information — Minister Ban Lok Huong was not alone.
On either side of the table were a man and a woman, Caucasians, who stared at the intruder in blank shock. A thin-necked Vietnamese woman in traditional national dress was seated with her back to him. The gunman froze momentarily, totally surprised. Huong, formerly General in charge of all military security and prisoner-of-war confinements during the Vietnam War, was supposed to be alone. Who were these people? His hesitancy had already given three of them the chance to identify him, despite his disguise.
He had an impulse to flee, but at that instant the chunky figure of Minister Huong, who was facing the intruder, rose to his feet. Huong’s sudden movement was like that of the pop-up silhouette target on a firing range where the gunman had practiced to react against this very contingency.
Suddenly calm, he leveled his weapon and sprayed the minister with a short, accurate burst. Huong had just started to dive under the table when the slugs caught him in the chest. He fell forward heavily onto the table.
The killer fired continuously, raking the table from right to left. The chatter of the pistol hardly missed a beat as he removed the empty clip and inserted the second loaded one. The Vietnamese woman’s head dropped to one side suddenly, the muscles and arteries in her neck severed. The pallid European in a tailored dinner jacket remained sitting upright, but his head sank slowly as if to contemplate the stitching of blood welling and spreading on his shirt front.
The woman across the table from him was halfway to her feet with her mouth open to scream when the deadly bullets stifled her. A single whistling gasp escaped her before blood gushed from her throat and she was flung loosely upon the chair from which she had risen, at once painting its needlepoint a bright crimson.
The man wearing the black-smudged face and combat boots stared hard beyond the smoking muzzle of his weapon at the collapsed figure of the chubby Vietnamese who should have been his only target. One of the man’s hands spasmed and seized the tablecloth, following which the lifeless body of Minister Huong slid to the floor, dragging silver, china, and exquisite crystal wine goblets from the table with a tremendous crash.
The intruder elevated the automatic pistol and fired two short bursts into the chain supporting the heavy crystal chandelier. It crashed down onto the elaborate floral centerpiece in the middle of the table and a curtain of darkness descended upon the grisly scene.
Fifteen seconds later, the retreating dark figure swarmed up the lemon tree, swung from its overhanging branch, and was over the wall with the shredded peasant jacket in his hands. The hot-barreled machine pistol was safely secured. Both coolie hat and bicycle were retrieved. It was all he could do to hold back his urge to pedal away at sprint speed. But he restrained himself and was almost a mile away before any positive reaction occurred.
He began sweating again, but this time from more than the warm night. He evaluated his mission: nothing had gone wrong except that the old goat hadn’t been alone; but four go as easily as one at close range. Besides, the Vietnamese woman and the two Europeans were in the way of the assignment.
He wondered who the two Caucasians were.
Neither one had had a chance to speak.
And now they never would, which was all to the good.
Dead men tell no tales.
Besides, he told himself again, they were in the way of a mission he’d vowed to carry out to the very end, no matter what the cost.
One
I had no idea why I was sent to the conference room adjacent to the secretary of the army’s office on the second floor of the Pentagon Building. The glitter of silver stars and rainbows of ribbons on the uniforms of the officers waiting with me were impressive. I was the only civilian present.
The five men clustered together were generals — the two and three star kind. All of us were expecting the imminent arrival of four-star General Harold Jarrett, the U.S. Army Chief of Staff.
None of the assembled officers spoke to me. The two that kept glancing at me from across the room seemed more than curious about my presence. Their looks were dark and openly wary. It was pretty clear that I was not particularly welcome.
I kept to one corner of the carpeted, well-lit room. Its most prominent feature was a huge walnut table large enough to accomodate a twenty-member committee with ease. Through the window next to me, I could see across the sluggish Potomac River in the foreground. Beyond it, to the left, the pillars of the Lincoln Memorial were dazzling white in the bright morning sunshine. On the right, the rounded dome of the Jefferson Memorial reminded me of a smooth mushroom cap. In the distance between the two marble structures was the clean, slender obelisk of the Washington Monument.
I reached into my jacket pocket for my cigarettes. They are custom-blended to my taste by a tobacconist who embosses the initials N.C. in gold on the filter tips. My action was interrupted by the arrival of General Jarrett. The tall, gray-haired man’s entry caused the others in the room to stiffen slightly. He waved a hand toward the conference table. “Be seated, gentlemen. This matter should be dispensed with quickly.”
The lesser generals scrambled for chairs, automatically seating themselves in protocol position determined by rank. An efficient-looking, middle-aged woman carrying a stenotype machine placed herself strategically near the head of the table. I put away my cigarettes and moved to a chair at the far end. The army chief nodded to me, either approving my choice to segregate myself or tacitly acknowledging my presence. I had met him once; I wondered if he remembered me.
General Jarrett dispensed with the formalities of calling a meeting to order. He got right to the heart of things. “Gentlemen, I see no alternative but to postpone once more the scheduled meeting of the Strategic Options Board. Without the full panel, we cannot function and — as you can see — General Martin is absent. Continued attempts to bring him in attendance have been fruitless. The board can no longer put off fulfilling its obligations. This third false start in the space of ten days is intolerable. I must ask that we take steps to have a replacement appointed to assume General Martin’s duties on this panel.”
The bald, full-faced lieutenant general sitting on Jarrett’s right glanced down the table toward me. “Go ahead, Sam,” the chief said. “Mr. Carter is here at my express invitation.”
The general whose silent question had been answered was Samuel Bromley, a crusty old West Pointer who was still so shot in the butt with discipline that it was rumored he slept at attention. He and Jarrett were always at odds. Open hostility over strong opposing views erupted between them frequently. “Martin knew we were scheduled to convene on Tuesday,” growled Bromley. “Because of him we’re way behind. An’ his leave was up six days ago. I’m beginning to get pressure from Congress. We all are.”
“We don’t need a re-hash, Sam,” General Jarrett replied. “We have to make a decision — right now — whether Martin’s going to be accomodated or removed.” His alert eyes speared the two-star general sitting closest to me. “How about it, Jack; have you been able to get any sort of lead on on him?”
“Not a thing, sir,” was his answer. “We checked his leave address in ’Frisco three times. Nothing. A dead end.”
“That’s not like Keith Martin,” injected another voice. The speaker was a stout man whose thick eyebrows shaded small eyes imbedded in a fat-cheeked face. “I don’t like the sound of this at all. Men like Martin don’t just up and disappear. Aside from his being needed on the S.O.B., I think we’ve got a personal responsibility to investigate further. He isn’t your run-of-the-mill general officer, you know.”