The Price of Blood Part 36

"Perfect place," said Tuna, grinning. "You'll see."

Broker studied the relish on Tuna's face. Going out on one last joke.

"Wasn't hard to convince the pilots to dump the stuff. So I showed them where. There was this ravine. We dropped the sling into it, cast it off, and then we landed. We set some charges and blew this slope down over the gully."

Nina was bursting with her question. Broker stayed her with his hand. Tuna spoke rapidly now. "It was getting light. Without the load we could fly, they thought..."

Tuna sucked at the bottle and slowly lit another Pall Mall. He blew a stream of smoke and inspected his curled fingernails. "We didn't fly far. I saw to that."

"You sabotaged the chopper?" asked Nina.

"Part of the plan. We were going to drop the pallet on the boat and then deep-six the chopper and the pilots and Ray's body in the sea. So I put a whole magazine in the controls. Auto rotation time," said Tuna, his voice softened, musing. "Funny thing about gold, Phil. It's just a word until you actually see it, touch it. There's nothing like it, even in the dark of the moon, in the rain..."

Nina took a sharp breath and held it.

"Let him finish," said Broker.

"They were like kids, those other guys. They couldn't help grabbing at some ingots and stuffing them into their flak jackets before we covered it." Tuna cackled. "I'd tossed out the life jackets, except for one. Gold has a lot of magical properties but flotation isn't one of them. Saved me the trouble of shooting from a tippy raft."

Broker shook his head. "That's why LaPorte found ingots with the chopper wreck."

Tuna grinned. "When we went in the water I stuffed this in my jacket." He reached under the towel on the crate and threw a folded, worn piece of laminated paper at Broker. A tactical map of Quang Tri Province. Grid squares. One-to-fifty-thousand scale. "So simple. A piece of paper. An X that marks the spot," he said.

"Jimmy," said Broker patiently. "There's no X on this map."

"Not yet. Saved the best for last." He took another sip of beer. "Everyone was gone. Drowned by their gold. I sat on that raft all day memorizing that grid coordinate. I was the only person in the world who knew where it was. So I just played along with Cyrus's cover story. Said it all went into the drink. Last person I wanted on my case was f.u.c.kin' Cyrus."

"Dammit, Tuna." The fire and ice in Nina's eyes was starting to melt. "That creep Walls gave us this note that said my dad-"

"Walls is something, isn't he? I befriended him just by reading to him. No one bothered me in there after Walls and me were buddies."

"Yeah, buddies are nice," said Broker softly.

Tuna's chest heaved and he looked away. "We saved your young a.s.s in Quang Tri City. Maybe you belonged to us after that. Maybe you were ours to spend." His eyelids drooped and Broker thought he might be getting ready to go. He gripped the map in both hands.

"Jimmy, for Christ sake," said Nina.

Tuna's eyes rolled dreamily. "I had plans, man. You know, I educated myself in prison. I figured I had time. Be more mature. No more nutty stuff like that banks mess in New York. Be easier now, going back, because we were normalizing relations...Set up the whole operation with Trin."

"How much does Trin know about this?" Broker shook Tuna by the collar. "It's important."

Tuna grinned. "Remember how Trin used to know everything. Not this time, baby." His eyes turned dreamy again. "I was going to go back to this village in Italy where my family were dirt poor peasants and live like a prince..."

Heroin tears dripped down Tuna's sunken cheeks. For the first time he seemed to become aware of his physical condition. With a look of horror he touched his hands, his bony knees jutting through the trousers. Something snapped in his eyes. A malevolent grin twisted his festered lips. "Now to get the rest you gotta forgive me," he croaked. "Both of you. For my act of contrition."

"Man, I've done some hard s.h.i.+t in my life..." Nina breathed out, breathed in and said, "f.u.c.k you, Jimmy. And d.a.m.n you to h.e.l.l."

Tuna fell back in his chair and laughed. "Didn't hurt to try," he said. "Aw, s.h.i.+t. I don't care who gets it now, long as Cyrus doesn't. You guys take it. Give it to the gooks. Theirs anyway..." His voice tailed off and a whitewater of foul-smelling perspiration poured from the cancer rapids. They were losing him. Helplessly, they listened to his shallow breathing. The only living thing left in his body were his eyes, two bright Christmas ornaments sinking in decayed flesh.

"Ray," said Tuna very distinctly in a chilling voice, as if he were greeting a fourth person on the porch. "Gold," he muttered and then he slurred a word that sounded like "disgrace."

They stooped forward. Nina held a bottle up and dribbled beer on his caked lips. He coughed and p.r.o.nounced with deliberation, "Cigarette case." His hand fumbled toward his b.l.o.o.d.y works that lay on the towel, then suddenly dropped still. The bowl of cherries spilled over and cracked apart on the deck and the fruit bounced in a frenzy around their feet.

51.

BROKER NODDED. "RAY'S CIGARETTE CASE."

Nina's eyes narrowed. "Mom gave it to him for Christmas."

They leaned close, undeterred by Tuna's putrid breath. He arched as if electrocuted and fell back and groped feebly and muttered, "Big one..."

Nina's fingers flew over the towel on the crate. "Hold this." She slapped the cooking spoon in Broker's hand like a scalpel.

"That's too much," said Broker as she shook the heroin into the spoon and thumbed the plastic lighter. They watched the powder turn gummy in the heat, bubble.

"Sorry about the dirty needle, Jimmy," Nina said under her breath as she inserted the syringe and drew back the plunger. "Okay." She took a breath.

Broker fastened the rubber tie around Tuna's left arm. Last time he'd shot in the right. Then he held the arm straight down and with both hands tried to duplicate the motions of clenching Tuna's fist.

"Not much of a vein," said Nina, judging her target.

"Hit him," said Broker.

The needle punched into the flour-colored parchment of Tuna's arm. She pulled back the plunger and got a watery blossom of blood in the clear liquid. She shoved the shot home. Total concentration. Nothing but steady. She was field-grade material, all right. She could send men to their deaths. No problem.

Tuna's jaw unhinged and fell slack. His tongue got stuck in the dry rot of his cheeks. Nina reached for a napkin next to the food plates and wet it with San Miguel and swabbed his lips. "C'mon, Jimmy," she crooned. She could have been coaxing an infant.

This time Tuna didn't vomit. Broker imagined the cancer chasing down the jet of heroin like a sparkle of tracers in the dark cavern of Tuna's brain.

"Joke," gasped Tuna. "Joke's on Cyrus."

"We got him back," said Nina.

Tuna blinked and then smiled with immense calm. "Man, she's something, ain't she," he said and stared at the b.l.o.o.d.y needle in Nina's hand. "They teach you that at OCS?"

"What about Ray's gold cigarette case?" asked Broker.

"Evidence," said Tuna and nodded out. They shook him.

One eye rolled open. "That night...morning really...when Cyrus showed up, Ray wouldn't do it. You know Ray. By the book. Insisted on getting the orders in writing. Made Cyrus write it down, sign it. Op order to go for the gold...get it?"

Broker and Nina locked eyes.

Tuna giggled. "Saw him fold it in a piece of radio battery plastic, tuck it in his cigarette case, and b.u.t.ton it into his chest pocket. All comes down to me f.u.c.king up. I was supposed to take it off him...forgot when the shooting started."

Nina made a face but did not look away.

"He rolled out. But he fell into the cargo net. Snake city, fire coming in. The guys on the ground had the gold on the forklift, tipped it into the net on top of Ray. Get it?"

"If he stole it why's he buried with it," recited Nina.

"You got it, he's on the beach under the gold, orders should be there with his...remains. Evidence," he p.r.o.nounced, again. Then he surged up toward Nina. "You still got that copy of the UCMJ, the article I underlined?"

"Yes I do," said Nina.

"Figuring that out kept me going after I got the cancer. Now go out there and burn Cyrus at the f.u.c.king stake for everybody to see. That's my act of contrition. My gift to you..." said Tuna. He turned to Broker. "You keep her on track over there. Do this right and you and Trin can get moderately rich. But to nail Cyrus the gooks have to catch him digging it up. So promise me, they get most of it."

Broker nodded.

Tuna croaked again. "Map."

Broker held up the map. Tuna blinked. "There's this gook graveyard, on a hill over the dunes. And this little cove-here." He stabbed the map. "It's about four klics north of Trin's vet's home." Tuna cackled. "Jimmy Tuna's Memorial Home for Crippled Viet Cong. I love it. See the cemetery symbols?" Broker saw them. "Three of those old graves, with the big round walls...hope they're still there."

Broker nodded. "Get me something to write with," he said urgently.

Tuna shook his head. "Don't mark the map." He grinned. "Trin's rules, remember. Memorize the location. Center grave. Fix on the grave to your right, shoot an azimuth, one hundred and sixty-three degrees. Walk eighty-two steps. I paced it off. And dig."

"You getting this?" said Broker, looking up.

"Got it," said Nina.

There was an interval of silence while Tuna rested. All things revolved unsaid. Just eyes.

"That's it. Now go," Tuna blurted. He reached up and pulled Broker close by the arm. For a second his old strength flowed with the heroin. "Wait. Tell Tony not to bury them. And gimme the Colt. When the time comes I'll have Tony leave me down there with the rifle and the pistol. Send for the sheriff so none of this rubs off on you."

Nina nodded and handed Jimmy the .45. He squinted. "When push comes to shove, go with Trin, you understand?"

"I understand," said Broker.

"Now you better split," said Tuna. "Tony and me will fix it all here. Don't worry, they won't get to me. Be nice, though, if a few more of them would come through the woods into that field." He lurched in his chair, fumbled at the rifle leaning against the rail, picked it up, and locked his eye to the scope. He scanned the trees. "Coming. Hear 'em in the gra.s.s. Black maggot sonsab.i.t.c.hes."

Broker stood up and tucked the map under his s.h.i.+rt. He hefted the Mini-14 and turned to Tuna. "Does this square it for killing Ray?"

"f.u.c.k you, Broker." He grinned and brandished the rifle. "Get outta here and let me die in peace."

"That's it, let's go," Broker yelled to Nina.

They ran.

Halfway across the field she stopped and held him by the arm. "What did he mean? Trin's rules?"

"Trin's first rule: Trust no one," said Broker. "Now run."

They jogged down through the springy alfalfa and into the oak grove. Jimmy Tuna's raucous stoned laughter and the crack of the Carcano echoed through the trees, over the roar of the cicadas. Crazy. Shooting at sunspots.

A beleaguered Tony Sporta, breathing heavily, his overalls smeared with mud, waved to them from across the swamp. They plowed into the deep drag trail that now furrowed the sunken causeway, sinking past their knees. The two bodies lay in the muck just ahead.

"C'mon, c'mon. Leave 'em be," yelled Sporta, waving them on. "I gotta go get some logging chains for weight."

"There's been a change," yelled Broker. "No logging chains." Sporta held his cupped hands to his ears and then stomped in a circle, swearing.

As they dragged their feet through the mire and struggled, half stepping, half slithering, over the corpses, Nina panted, "Remind you of anything?"

Broker frowned and she started chanting something under her breath, upbeat and vaguely familiar.

"Country Joe and the Fish," said Broker. He scanned the trees. The Mini-14 floated in one hand, the other touched the tiger tooth under his s.h.i.+rt for luck. The mud sucked at his feet.

Next stop, Vietnam.

52.

THEY HAD A MAP. THE MAP WOULD DRAW CYRUS like honey. Broker popped the clutch. Rubber scorched. Tony Sporta had thrown them the Beretta and Nina's purse and shooed them from his office. Now he ducked a volley of gravel and, still swearing mightily, waved them on with a final gesture of good riddance.

They were wearing slimy hip waders of mud. Broker's tennis shoe slipped off the accelerator.

Nina yelled over the grinding engine, "We have to run this by the U.S. Mission in Hanoi. Catch him red-handed. Arrange to get him...extradited."

Broker rolled his eyes and yelled back, "The United States doesn't have an extradition treaty with the Vietnamese government, G.o.ddammit. They haven't even set up an emba.s.sy yet. I want Cyrus, Nina; I want him bad. But it has to go down right or he'll weasel away. We have to check out Tuna's story first. Locate the stuff. See if the orders are with...the remains." He swiveled his head to see the road behind. "Is there anybody following us?"

"No. I've been watching," she went on without missing a beat. "There's an advance team in Hanoi. There's the U.S. liaison office. I have a number-"

"Slow down."

Nina grabbed the wheel as Broker overdrove the shoulder and swiped ten yards of weeds growing at the lip of a ditch. "You slow down." She glanced in the back-seat where the Mini-14 lay, locked and loaded, in plain view. "Isn't it against the law to drive around with that rifle uncased?"

Broker ignored her and reached across her knees and clawed his cell phone from the glove compartment. The battery was dead. And no spare. They'd left the other one with Tuna. He slowed down to seventy-five when he saw an Amoco station up ahead at a crossroads. He braked precipitously, leaving another smoking swatch of Goodyear products in Wisconsin.

"Jesus," muttered Nina, bracing.

"Phone," said Broker.

"What?"

"Tickets. Visas. Phone." He left the motor running and the door open as he ran for the pay phone. After he picked up the receiver he realized it was a toll call. He still had a wad of hundreds in his pocket from New Orleans. Two dimes and six pennies.

He ran back to the Jeep. "I need quarters." Nina dug in her purse, handed him two coins. He used one of the quarters to call an operator and place a collect person-to-person call to Don Larson's office in Stillwater.