Hour of the Assassins by Andrew Kaplan Page A

In the corner Lim’s daughter sat like an icon, staring into the fire. Her eyes were flames, the only thing about her that was alive.
    â€œRest easy, Tan Caine. You will lead us to victory as you have before. We will destroy all of them, God help them.”
    How can Chong not hate them, he wondered. He remembered the time Chong had straightened the contorted limbs of a guerrilla they had killed in an ambush, so that his soul would rest more comfortably.
    â€œLeave him alone,” Dao demanded angrily. “He was a Communist.”
    â€œHe was a man,” Chong had answered simply.
    But it was Dao who had been right, Caine thought. Compassion was weakness. Perhaps it was compassion that had made Chong hesitate that fraction of a second and led to his being captured. Death is nothing; it’s dying that is so hard, he decided. And Chong’s calm. He couldn’t understand that either. Perhaps he’d had a premonition. Lim had a premonition and it made her anything but calm. He’d awakened in the middle of the night to find her trying to stifle her sobbing so as not to disturb him.
    â€œI’m so afraid,” the words bursting out of her. “When you are gone, who will look after us? Who will protect your son?”
    He cradled her in his arms as though she were a child, gently stroking her long black hair. What the hell, he thought. What the hell.
    â€œPerhaps you’ll find another man, who will give you a dozen sons,” he teased.
    She shook her head wildly. “I’m yours forever,” she cried desperately.
    â€œOnly death is forever,” he said.
    Nowhere in the record of propaganda called history will one find any mention of the battle of Nong Het. The Communists never talked about their defeat, the Laotians publicly ignored it, and the Americans officially weren’t involved. Sure, Caine thought. Tell that to Chong and the thousands who filled that valley with the stench of death. More than anything, he remembered the stench of blackened corpses when they finally took the village.
    He had found Chong’s naked body tied to a stake at the edge of the village, recognizable only by the necklace around his neck. The flesh below his knees had been beaten off with bicycle chains and bones gleaming white in the sun were all that was left of his legs. They had gouged out his eyes and cut off his ears, nose, lips, and genitals. The wounds were black with maggots and fat swarming flies. With a shudder, he cut Chong down and forced himself to straighten the limbs as Chong himself had done.
    Lynhiavu came up to him, smiling, proudly holding up a severed head for Caine’s approval. The dusty street was full of bodies and by the thorn fence dozens of bodies were piled in a loose tangle. Sporadic fire and grenade explosions still echoed in the remorseless heat as the mopping up went on.
    â€œThere are many prisoners in the big hut, Tan Caine. What should we do with them?” Lynhiavu asked, grinning.
    â€œDon’t waste ammunition,” Caine replied tonelessly. “Secure the hut and set fire to it.”
    He was damp with sweat as he got out of bed to get another cigarette, lighting it from the still burning butt in his mouth. A gray misty dawn was breaking over the beach. He noted with satisfaction that his hand wasn’t trembling as he lit up. When he turned around, he found that C.J. was awake. She regarded him seriously, a vague concern mirrored in her soft blue eyes.
    â€œYou smoke too much,” she said quietly.
    He found that wildly funny and let out a short harsh laugh. Nobody in Indochina ever figured that they’d live long enough to get cancer. What do they know anyway, he thought. He remembered telling the psychologist during his exit interview in Langley that he didn’t want to burn down any more huts with screaming gooks inside.
    â€œWhat else is bothering you?” the psychologist had asked, as if that wasn’t enough.
    If