in Saigon. He smuggles him in cigarettes and money. He'll be all right. You don't intend to wait for him?'
Noelle shook her head and for just a moment Jean-Marie felt a surge of hope. “Of course not. Not five years. I intend to get him out long before that.”
Jean-Marie stared at her. “Get him out? Of prison? That's impossible.”
“I don't think so, Jean-Marie. Not if you'll help me.”
“Help you? How?'
“I want you to fly me to Saigon. I'll pay you, of course.”
Careful, he thought. You don't want to cross Rocco Bonaventure. Sure, he wanted to help Baptiste and Francisci would not object to a paying passenger, if the price was right. He did not have to know who she was. “I'll have to think about this,” he said.
“Sure. Take all the time you want. I'll give you till the chicken arrives. That would be appropriate.”
Jean-Marie felt himself flush beet-red. The little bitch. “How do you plan to get him out?'
“It's better you don't know. Just get me to Saigon, Jean-Marie.”
Jean-Marie gave his assent, an almost imperceptible nod of the head. When the food arrived he found he had lost all appetite, and the wine tasted acid in his mouth. A formidable young woman, this one. Perhaps Baptiste Crocé had met his match after all.
He drank to the New Year without his customary enthusiasm and was at home in bed by eleven. He had an early flight in the morning.
Chapter 12
Saigon
N OELLE had not been back to Saigon since the French defeat at Dien Ben Phu in 1955. She remembered it as a city of bicycles; it had changed utterly in the five years that the Americans had been there. Now it was a city of Vespas and Lambrettas; of crew-cut, red faced men in bright Hawaiian shirts; of huge, finned Chevrolets with red white and blue stickers on the chrome bumpers showing an American and Vietnamese handshake. What had not changed was the barbed wire around the US Embassy, the sandbagged machine guns outside the Doc Lap palace and the tanks in the streets.
***
They met in the Vieux Moulin beside the bridge to Da Cao. After sunset the jungle on the far bank of the river was a rustling nest of Viet Minh guerrillas. There was iron mesh on all the windows to keep out grenades and there was no glazing so diners would not be inconvenienced by flying glass in the event of an attack.
When she arrived Colonel Tran van Ky was already waiting for her at a table overlooking the coffee-coloured river. The night was redolent with the aromas of roasting capons and melting butter. He ordered a pastis for her, a cognac and soda for himself. He chose from the menu for her; Chapon duc Charles.
And then he settled back to decide how best to deal with her.
***
So this was Rocco Bonaventure's daughter.
Ky was impressed. She was everything he had anticipated; statuesque, elegantly dressed, exquisite as fine porcelain. There was no plumpness about her, which the thing he detested about most Western women. She had all the svelte qualities of an Asian, but with the wonderful roundness of her eyes and paleness of skin that made her a delectable prize.
This should be a very interesting evening.
“Your father did not tell me you were coming to Saigon,” Ky said. “I would have prepared a more formal welcome.”
“My father does not know I'm here. Nor do I wish him to know.”
Ky took a packet of Lucky Strike cigarettes off the table. “Do you smoke?'
Noelle shook her head.
“This is a great surprise. I am most honoured that you should have thought to contact me. I am a great friend of your father's, as you probably know.”
“Of course.”
She returned his stare, had none of the deference he was accustomed to in Asian women. It made him uncomfortable. He had the feeling that he, too, was being assessed. “What can I do for you, Mademoiselle Bonaventure?'
“I want your help.”
“As a friend and business associate of your father's, I will do all within my power, of
Noelle shook her head and for just a moment Jean-Marie felt a surge of hope. “Of course not. Not five years. I intend to get him out long before that.”
Jean-Marie stared at her. “Get him out? Of prison? That's impossible.”
“I don't think so, Jean-Marie. Not if you'll help me.”
“Help you? How?'
“I want you to fly me to Saigon. I'll pay you, of course.”
Careful, he thought. You don't want to cross Rocco Bonaventure. Sure, he wanted to help Baptiste and Francisci would not object to a paying passenger, if the price was right. He did not have to know who she was. “I'll have to think about this,” he said.
“Sure. Take all the time you want. I'll give you till the chicken arrives. That would be appropriate.”
Jean-Marie felt himself flush beet-red. The little bitch. “How do you plan to get him out?'
“It's better you don't know. Just get me to Saigon, Jean-Marie.”
Jean-Marie gave his assent, an almost imperceptible nod of the head. When the food arrived he found he had lost all appetite, and the wine tasted acid in his mouth. A formidable young woman, this one. Perhaps Baptiste Crocé had met his match after all.
He drank to the New Year without his customary enthusiasm and was at home in bed by eleven. He had an early flight in the morning.
Chapter 12
Saigon
N OELLE had not been back to Saigon since the French defeat at Dien Ben Phu in 1955. She remembered it as a city of bicycles; it had changed utterly in the five years that the Americans had been there. Now it was a city of Vespas and Lambrettas; of crew-cut, red faced men in bright Hawaiian shirts; of huge, finned Chevrolets with red white and blue stickers on the chrome bumpers showing an American and Vietnamese handshake. What had not changed was the barbed wire around the US Embassy, the sandbagged machine guns outside the Doc Lap palace and the tanks in the streets.
***
They met in the Vieux Moulin beside the bridge to Da Cao. After sunset the jungle on the far bank of the river was a rustling nest of Viet Minh guerrillas. There was iron mesh on all the windows to keep out grenades and there was no glazing so diners would not be inconvenienced by flying glass in the event of an attack.
When she arrived Colonel Tran van Ky was already waiting for her at a table overlooking the coffee-coloured river. The night was redolent with the aromas of roasting capons and melting butter. He ordered a pastis for her, a cognac and soda for himself. He chose from the menu for her; Chapon duc Charles.
And then he settled back to decide how best to deal with her.
***
So this was Rocco Bonaventure's daughter.
Ky was impressed. She was everything he had anticipated; statuesque, elegantly dressed, exquisite as fine porcelain. There was no plumpness about her, which the thing he detested about most Western women. She had all the svelte qualities of an Asian, but with the wonderful roundness of her eyes and paleness of skin that made her a delectable prize.
This should be a very interesting evening.
“Your father did not tell me you were coming to Saigon,” Ky said. “I would have prepared a more formal welcome.”
“My father does not know I'm here. Nor do I wish him to know.”
Ky took a packet of Lucky Strike cigarettes off the table. “Do you smoke?'
Noelle shook her head.
“This is a great surprise. I am most honoured that you should have thought to contact me. I am a great friend of your father's, as you probably know.”
“Of course.”
She returned his stare, had none of the deference he was accustomed to in Asian women. It made him uncomfortable. He had the feeling that he, too, was being assessed. “What can I do for you, Mademoiselle Bonaventure?'
“I want your help.”
“As a friend and business associate of your father's, I will do all within my power, of
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