The Chevrolet, its lights still out, stood broadside on the pavement. Christopher saw the rice move near the Chevrolet as Pong waded into the paddy, his revolver held above his head.
The Simca came around the curve with its tires shrieking, swaying from side to side. The driver saw the Chevrolet at the last moment and switched on his lights. For some reason he sounded the horn, and in the glow of the instrument lights Christopher saw him pulling the steering wheel to the right, hand over hand like a falling man clawing at the face of a cliff. The Vietnamese in the passenger seat braced his feet against the dashboard, his teeth bared in fear.
The Simca flew for an instant after it left the road. Christopher had no real idea of its speed until it struck the paddy, sending a great sheet of water into the air. There were three sounds one after the other: the hard slap of the flying car on the surface of the paddy, the splash of water hitting the road and the parked Chevrolet, and a brief shriek of pain from inside the wrecked car. The Simca turned end over end and settled into the paddy on its top. Its yellow headlights shone over the water, then sank below it to glow among the stalks of rice for a moment before they went out. It was very quiet; Christopher heard water filling the car and, when that stopped, the faint rustle of the rice, disturbed by the wind.
Pong, wet to the waist, came out of the paddy with his pistol in his hand and stood at the edge of the road. Christopher stood up.
“I thought they hit you,” Pong said. He walked back and ran the toe of his sneaker, smeared with dark mud, along the skid marks.
Christopher waded through the paddy, still holding the submachine gun, and looked at the car. All four windows were under water. He beckoned Pong and together they rocked the car until it tipped over on its side. Pong opened the door; both men were crumpled together behind the wheel. He clambered onto the car, seized one of them by an arm, braced his feet against the door frame, and pulled the limp corpse out of the seat. He threw it into the paddy and pulled out the other body. Christopher helped him carry them through the water to the tar road, which was still soft from the afternoon sun.
Pong searched the bodies methodically, finding nothing but weapons and a little money. The man who had killed Luong had not attached the silencer to his.22; Pong found it in his trousers and held it up for Christopher to see. When he was done, Pong stood up and threw a handful of coins from the men’s pockets into the water. He started to roll the bodies back into the paddy.
“Wait,” Christopher said. “Do you have a camera in the car?”
Pong nodded and opened the trunk. He came back with a Polaroid camera, fitting a flashbulb into its reflector. He offered the camera to Christopher. “No,” Christopher said, “you do it.”
Pong knelt and took pictures of the dead men. The flashgun erased the shadows from their faces, so that they looked as Luong had looked, lying on his back with the morning sun shining into his extinguished eyes.
“Take two of each,” Christopher said.
3
At Luong’s house, the old woman who had given Christopher food that morning told him that Phuoc had gone away to pray. Christopher found him in the Xa Loi Pagoda, where the Ngos’ enemies had waited for arrest only a few weeks before. He sent Pong, a Buddhist, into the pagoda. Phuoc came out alone and got into the car without hesitation.
Phuoc looked at the submachine gun and the two-way radio and turned his body in the seat, watching Christopher’s profile. Christopher gave Phuoc the Polaroid photographs Pong had taken and turned on the interior light.
“These are the men,” Christopher said. He opened the glove compartment and brought out the long-barreled.22 pistol. “This is the gun.”
Phuoc examined the dead faces of his brother’s murderers. Christopher turned off the dome light.
“How did they die so quickly?” Phuoc asked.
“They drowned. It was an accident. I wanted to talk to them, but they went off the road and overturned in a paddy.”
“You wouldn’t have killed them?”
“No. I would have given them to you.”
Phuoc gave his sputtering laugh. “I see.”
“Do you know them?” Christopher asked.
“How should I know them? They look like boys.”
“So did Luong when I found him.”
“Tho.”
“All right, Tho,” Christopher said. “Phuoc, have you ever seen them? If you have, tell me.”
Phuoc slapped his palms together twice, sharply, in the dark. “Yes,” he said, “they were outside Yu Lung’s, drinking in the street when Tho and I came out the other night.”
“You went with him to Yu Lung’s?”
“Yes, I know Yu. His father taught me horoscopy.”
“Did you sit with Yu and your brother while they talked?”
“Yes,” Phuoc said, “but Yu said nothing of value. He wanted money, that’s why my brother was coming to find you. He thought you would have it.”
“What was Yu going to tell your brother in return for the money?”
“That wasn’t clear to me. Yu can talk like a fool when he wants. When Tho spoke about Le Thu, Yu became very alert. He talked about a voyage. Tears must be carried in a special vessel,’ Yu said.”
“What voyage? What vessel? He spoke to me in a very brisk way, like a French psychiatrist. Why should he talk to your brother in riddles?”
“I’ve known Yu since we were boys-he suits his approach to the client. He’s Chinese.”
“He said nothing more?”
“Oh, yes,” Phuoc said. “He leaned across his desk and whispered, ‘Five thousand dollars.’ Then we went away, Tho to get the money from you. I came here-I sleep nearby.”
Christopher touched the brake pedal twice, to signal Pong. Pong came out of the shadows, walking in a slight crouch, his head moving from side to side as if to catch a scent. Christopher was reminded of the drowned men, following him through the crowd in Cholon.
“I won’t see you again,” Christopher said.
Phuoc opened the door and seemed startled that his action bathed them in light. He still held the photographs in his hand; he glanced at them again before he closed the door, and gave them back to Christopher.
“One thing I know,” Phuoc said. “This Lê Thu-it was the death name of one of the Ngo women. She was killed in ‘54, by the French or the Viet Minh, no one ever knew which, as she was coming down from the North. The Viet Minh brought her child, a small girl, to the Ngos. Their Truong toe raised her. It’s said he loved her mother.”
“The child was Dao, the one who calls herself Nicole?”
“Yes, Dao. It means ‘peach blossom.’”
“Who was her father?”
Phuoc opened the door again. Sitting in the light with his face turned away, he said, “Do Minh Kha. Do went with the Viet Minh in the early days, and after they won, he gave up his wife to stay in Hanoi. She and all the other Ngos who were Catholics came south after Dienbienphu. The Truong toe had a great passion for this woman-Ho Chi Minh himself wrote a poem about it, how she had chosen a brave fighter over a rich man. Do chose the revolution over Lê Thu and the revolution killed her. So the Truong toe got the women he lost to Do after all-he keeps her altar, and he has her daughter.”
4
Christopher called Wolkowicz on the car radio and, speaking German, asked him to bring two things to their last meeting. An hour later, he found Wolkowicz waiting in his Mercedes on the Yen Do Road, near the airport.
Wolkowicz walked from his car to the Chevrolet and got into the back seat. When Christopher told him what had happened, he showed his teeth.
“What did you do with the bodies?”
“Put them back in the paddy.”
“The cops’ll think it was the VC.”
He handed Christopher an envelope. “Is this what you wanted?” he asked.