‘I know the area,’ Cy said. ‘The river’s very pretty down in Cahn Roc.’
‘You also know Quatch.’
There was a long pause. ‘Yes,’ Cy said after a moment, ‘I remember Quatch. Used to see him a lot in Saigon at one time. He was in the sugar business, if I remember. Learnt afterwards he was a leading political officer of the Vietcong.’
Van Khoa nodded slowly, took a pack of Chesterfields from his pocket, opened it and knocked out a cigarette on his torn hand. ‘We know that you began paying money to Quatch after a chance meeting in Geneva in 1987.’ Cy got up and poured himself a glass of water. He raised it, watching Van Khoa across the lip of the glass. ‘We know that you returned to the United States and arranged for large sums of money to be transferred to the Banque Helvetic in Switzerland. A numbered account belonging to Quatch.’
‘Go on, Mr Van Khoa, please.’
‘We know that the source of the money is the Meyerick-Vietnam Fund which you took over as president when the founder, Mr Philip Rose, died.’
‘Where does this lead us, Mr Van Khoa? Where are we going?’
‘The trial of Quatch is concluded.’
‘Already?’ Cy looked at him in bewilderment. ‘Reporters were invited. I expected to read something about it in the Western press.’
Van Khoa inclined his head. ‘I think now it will be a small story. My government has taken a decision at the highest level.’
A tiny nodule of hope was growing inside Cy Stevenson. ‘Your government changed its mind about a show trial?’
‘It decided that, in the last resort, it would not be in the national interest to disclose too many of these facts. I was unaware of the scope of the matter when the trial began.’
‘Having decided what would not be in the national interest, have you decided what would be?’ Cy said cautiously.
‘Yes.’
‘That is?’
‘That the payments from the Meyerick-Vietnam Fund should continue to be lodged at the same numbered account in Switzerland.’
‘The same account.’
‘Vietnam is desperately short of dollars, Mr Stevenson. The US went back on its promise of economic aid after the war. The sum your fund pays is not great, but it is not insignificant.’
‘There will be no revelations?’
The self-disgust showed in Van Khoa’s face. ‘No.’
‘No names named?’
‘No. You simply continue paying as before.’
A great wave of relief swept over Cy Stevenson. ‘We should shake hands on this.’ He extended his hand and looked down, recoiling. ‘I’m sorry.’
Van Khoa’s black eyes fumed hate. ‘Don’t be,’ he said and thrust his ugly stump into Cy’s hand.
The phone rang in Fin and Mary Butler’s house, its monotone sounding through the empty drawing room, up the imported English stairwell along the deserted landings and into the south bedroom where the former Steve Wokalski of Soden Avenue, Detroit, straddled the mistress of the house, Mary Page Butler. ‘Leave it,’ she said. ‘For God’s sake leave it.’
He pressed into her, leaning across her body. ‘It could be good news,’ he said, picking up the phone.
She stared up at him, horrified as she made out the sound of Sunny’s voice on the end of the line. Without speaking he handed the phone down to Mary. By now Sunny’s voice was shrill. ‘Mary, is that you?’ she was repeating.
‘It’s Mary,’ her sister-in-law managed to gasp.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘I’m out of breath, that’s all,’ Mary said, an elder sister’s impatience coming to her rescue. ‘I just ran in from the garden.’
‘Is Cy there? I called home. He should be back from New York by now. I’m dying to know what his meeting with the Viets was about.’
‘No,’ Mary said. ‘Sorry, Sunny. I’ll get him to call you if he drops by.’ She waited for Sunny to ring off then gave the phone to Cy who, still straddling her, reached over and dropped it on the rest. ‘What meeting?’ she said.
‘Later.’
‘Get off me, Cy. What meeting?’
‘Very good news,’ he said. ‘One in the eye for George Savary. The trial of Quatch has been concluded without evidence of corruption even being offered.’ He lifted her thigh and with a quick shift in his own weight, entered her.
‘For God’s sake, Cy!’
‘All they want,’ he said, riding gently back and forth, ‘is for us to continue paying the money for the same service. But this time it’s better. We pay direct to the Vietnamese government. Even Savary can’t object to that.’
She tried to wriggle up but he held her hips strongly, pulling her down on him. ‘Cy, please. Secret payments to the Vietnamese government? You’re getting in too deep.’
They both stopped as she laughed, realising what she had said. He bent forward and kissed her nose.
‘OK,’ she groaned. ‘Go now – talk later.’
Chapter Seventeen
Max stood on his balcony looking out across the square. By this time of the evening it was almost empty of bicycles. The low yellow buildings of the hospital opposite were touched with gold as the sun went down. Long fingers of shadow stretched between the stone arches of the old French building. He supposed, from the cross that rose above the main doorway and the niches filled with the effigies of saints, that it had once been a hospital run by monks or nuns. For a few moments he watched the figure walking through the arches, a Bhuddist monk, his robes glowing cream-yellow and gold as he emerged on to the square.
Max turned back into his room. Most of the journalists had already left. One or two had gone to spend the waiting period in Ho Chi Minh City. He knew the reason he was staying on had nothing to do with the outcome of the trial.
Leaving the room he went down to the ground floor. The lobby was deserted. Walking quickly through it he came out in the square. He knew where he was going. Passing the corner of the courtroom he went on down the sloping Rue du Port towards the long wharf where the fishing boats were hauling up their sails.
He could see the harbour tower at the end of the steep street and behind it the backing of an empty sea. Walking slowly down he passed stilted, thatched-roof fishermen’s huts, a roper’s shop with thick coils of hemp displayed on iron hooks and painted plank coffins stacked outside a coffin maker’s.
He knew that he had never before been touched by a girl in this way. He felt he was beginning to understand her, slowly learning how to look beyond her obvious beauty to what he sensed was a woman of great softness and great strength.
His father’s ideas of commitment, of a definitive act passed through his mind. He smiled to himself and walked on, responding as the coffin maker raised his hand in greeting.
Nan Luc was disturbed. What troubled her was that she could not be sure how much she was disturbed. She had tried throughout the day to identify the feeling but that had proved impossible. It was a feeling akin to embarrassment. Yet at the same time a feeling of deep pleasure. And again a feeling of intense self-criticism.
She could go on but each attempt to analyse the feeling brought her back to the same place: all these currents of introspection, pleasure, and self-examination were intensified in the company of Max Benning.
She was aware that a Westerner might say that she was falling in love. But that to Nan Luc and to many Vietnamese girls was an experience only possible after a long gestation period. In that private core of self which she had defended from her teachers at the orphanage, from her grandmother and even, that appalling night, from Quatch, she was angry at the thought of love. At least of love after a few hours together, of love based on physical attraction. She thought about that for a few moments. A physical attraction. Clearly he was unlike Van Khoa for example. He was taller by seven or eight inches. He had fair hair and eyes of a blue-grey colour. Yes, she conceded, he possessed physical attraction. More than Van Khoa.