“Well, there were periods when Martin was taken out of the regular camp and placed in the custody of a radical, politically-motivated North Vietnamese faction that had access to prison camps. They were aware of Martin’s brave disregard for danger and ability as a killer. The new evidence turned up strongly suggests that his power-seeking group in Hanoi could have subjected Martin to intense mind-bending pressures that included deep post-hypnotic suggestion. It’s believed they programmed Martin to kill certain North Vietnamese government officials if he should escape from the prisoner-of-war compound.”
“That sounds weird,” I rapped.
“Hawk thought so, too, until he dug deeper and found strong documentation. Martin did make an unusual number of attempts to escape. Some were coordinated with the escape committee, but there were others apparently engineered and aided from the outside. None were totally successful. This seemed to build up frustration and make Martin more determined to try again. The whole process seemed designed to imbue Martin with a burning obsession. The odd thing is that each time Martin was recaptured, he was not shot as he could have been, nor even given extra punishment.”
“That’s wild,” I said. “If it happened, one would think Martin was being primed to have an uncommon drive to carry out implanted instructions while feeling he was invincible and should suffer no punishment for his actions.”
“Something like that.”
“He seems perfectly normal... not like he’s in a trance. Hawk really believes Martin isn’t responsible for his actions?”
“No mention was made of that. They want him back, though. You can understand how anxious they are to delve into Martin’s psyche.”
“Or court-martial him,” I added.
“Neither will happen unless we get a move on. The recovery unit held on alert has now received action orders. Hawk specified it is to be a Lily Pad pickup with the bubble at sixty feet. The starting gate is Haiphong. East sector bearing one-thirty-five. I had to repeat it and wait for a confirmation, which is why I didn’t get here sooner. Does it make sense to you?”
“It certainly does though I’m not pleased with the prospects of having to get to Haiphong. What’s the time frame?”
“On station for two, two hour periods spaced twenty-four hours apart beginning tomorrow night at 0310 hours local time.”
“We can make that,” I said after figuring how long it would take to cover the fifty or so miles between Hanoi and Haiphong under the adverse circumstances we faced. “We’ll start as soon as the hubbub back at the villa fades away so we can collect Martin and Phan Wan.”
“We can’t leave tonight,” Willow said softly.
My rebuttal was halfway up my throat when red lights started flashing in my brain. I pursed my lips to hold back an explosive outburst. I tried to be calm. “Why not? What sort of tightrope has Hawk strung up for me to walk?”
“A unique opportunity never presented before or apt to happen again — those were the words the president used — exists because we are where we are. You know that all efforts to get a full and complete accounting of American POWs from the North Vietnamese has never been successful. It’s a painful post-war issue, both politically and emotionally. Some believe the North Vietnamese are playing blackmail with this issue in order to force the United States to grant billions in war reparations. There are hundreds of MIA wives and families agonizing over the fate of their loved ones. The few times the Hanoi government releases piecemeal information or turns over a few bodies, hopes run high again.”
“In a war that goes on for years, you can expect to end up with some permanently missing dead,” I injected.
“I know, but some of the nearly one thousand missing men yet to be accounted for were known to be alive when captured. Some were photographed safe in prison camps, yet never returned.”
“Does the president want us to bring someone back in addition to Keith Martin?” It was possible.
“No. But the records of American POWs, and quite possibly an account of the MIAs, are on file right here in Hanoi. You’re to bring them back.” Excitement shaded her voice.
I didn’t get churned up with the idea, but if some dissatisfied Commie government employee was enterprising enough to make photostat copies of official records and offer to sell them to the United States, the least I could do was smuggle them out. “How do we go about picking up the package?” I sighed wearily.
Willow unfastened her peasant coat. She reached down between her lovely breasts and drew out a packet of folded papers. My eyes lit up. “You already have the lists?” I said admiringly.
“No. These are building plans. I don’t have a photographic mind like you, Nick. I had to bring them.”
I unfolded the papers. There were four sheets. Despite the feeble moonlight, I saw that three were architectural drawings. The top two were renderings of floor plans of a large building. Underneath them was a schematic of electrical circuits. The last, a long teletype message, gave detailed instructions on how the hardware in the satchel given to Willow was to be used in conjunction with the other three.
“No!” I blurted out as I realized what Hawk meant for me to do. “What does he think I am... some superhuman comic book character?”
My agonizing growl of protest was drowned by a passing ambulance’s wailing siren. The flashing red roof light laid a crimson screen over Willow’s grave face. “Just think what it would mean, Nick. If all America knew... once and for all—”
“You can stop waving the flag,” I muttered. I folded the plans together and tucked them inside my jacket. “A second-story job in one place can’t be any tougher than in another. There are a couple of things I don’t like about this. There’s not enough time to plan it properly, and I can’t possibly do it alone.”
“I’m here, Nick,” Willow said assuredly.
I looked down into her large brown eyes. “I could use two like you.” I meant it, “Guess I’ll have to settle for the next best thing. Let’s go collect Martin and Phan Wan so we can get this sneak thief operation underway.”
Eighteen
I got to my feet. “Take the satchel, leave the bike,” I advised Willow. With her trailing me, I moved quickly along the alley to the street where I had left Martin and Phan Wan.
The noises of the commotion in front of Phu Thone’s driveway gate seemed to have shifted in our direction. I thrust my head out of the alleyway and looked toward the corner where the buried culvert lay. At first glance, I thought the two figures standing near the open end of drainage tile were Martin and Phan Wan. When they were joined by two others bearing rifles, I knew their hiding place had been found by soldiers.
Shouts went up from the foursome as two bent down and shined flashlight beams into the tunnel.
From across the street where the pipe ended, a rapid drumming of muffled gunshots pierced the night. Martin was blazing away with distracting, covering fire. The upright soldiers dropped out of sight in the weeds of the ditch. At the same time they unloaded repeated volleys of shots into the culvert. The entrapped bullets screamed and whined as they ricochetted through the cylindrical pipe like a swarm of angry wasps.
Phan Wan didn’t appear at the opposite end next to Martin.
The firing stopped abruptly. Martin was down on his knees next to the opening of the spillway. I heard his mournful wail clearly. He reared up again. A single shot from a soldier crossing the street spun him around. He staggered a few steps and dropped to his knees again. Uniformed figures dashed over and huddled around him.
“Good God!” breathed Willow. “Do you suppose—?”
I didn’t have to guess. I pushed Willow back into the alley. Headlights of a vehicle reaching the scene illuminated the clutch of soldiers crowding around Martin. He was dragged to his wobbly feet. His right hand was gripping his left shoulder. Blood trickled through his fingers.