KARR SPOTTED THAO Duong as he came out of his building. Duong turned to the left and began walking in the general direction of the port area near the mouth of the Saigon River.
“I’m going to tag him,” Karr decided, telling the Art Room that he was going to get close enough to put a disposable tracking bug on Duong’s clothes. Karr drove down the street, then pulled his bike up onto the sidewalk to park. From the side pouch of his backpack he removed one of the filmlike personal tracking bugs, carefully peeling the back off so that it would stick to its subject.
Though his white shirt and white cap were hardly unusual on the Saigon streets, Thao Duong was easy to spot as he approached. He walked with a nervous hop, and held his hands down stiffly at his sides, as if they were a boat’s oars trailing in the water.
Unlike the street, which was packed solid with motorbikes and the occasional bus or taxi, the sidewalks were fairly clear, and Karr had no trouble timing his approach. Sidestepping a row of bikes parked against a building at the corner, he lumbered into Thao Duong just before the intersection, sending him sprawling to the ground. Karr scooped the thin man to his feet, planting the clear bug on the back of his hat at the same time.
“Sorry, pardner,” Karr said cheerfully. “Very sorry.” He repeated the translator’s apology in Vietnamese.
Thao Duong’s face had turned white. For a moment, Karr thought he was going to have a heart attack. But he sped forward, skip-walking across the intersection just as the light turned.
“Working?” Karr asked the Art Room.
“Yes,” said Chafetz. “He’s crossing the street about halfway down the block.”
“Must have a suicide wish,” said Karr as the motorbikes whizzed by.
ABOUT FIFTEEN MINUTES later, Thao Duong entered a three-story office building within sight of the port. The building looked as if it dated to the early 1950s, and its stucco exterior looked as if it hadn’t been painted since then.
“Which side of the building?” Karr asked the Art Room.
“North side,” said Sandy Chafetz. “We’re not sure what floor, second or third.”
Karr took what looked like an expensive tourist camera from his backpack and began fiddling with the lens. The camera contained a miniaturized boom mike that could pick up vibrations on window glass, but it had to be aimed at the proper window.
“How’s this?” he asked, aiming the device at the top floor. The feed was sent back to the Art Room via the booster in his pack.
“Nothing. Try the next room,” said Chafetz after two minutes.
Karr aimed the “camera” at the next window.
“Two women talking. Next window,” said Chafetz.
It took three more windows before Karr found the proper room. By that time, it appeared that Thao Duong’s conversation was nearly over; he was telling someone how disappointed he was.
“It’s a dispute about money. The other guy seems to be holding him up for more than they bargained for,” explained Thu De Nghiem, the Art Room translator. “And he wants payment by the end of the day.”
“Don’t they always?”
“Thao Duong is coming out of the building,” said Rockman. “In a hurry.”
A white-haired Vietnamese dockworker was staring at Karr’s camera when he turned around.
“Take my picture?” Karr asked the man. Before he could object, Karr had clicked the “camera” off and thrust it into the man’s hands. “You look through the viewer, see? Then press the button on the top.”
The man gave Karr a confused look, then did as he was told, aiming it in the general direction of the blond American giant who had just accosted him. As soon as he pressed the phony shutter button, Karr came toward him.
“Didn’t work,” said the man in Vietnamese. “No click.”
“Thanks, Pop,” said Karr, grabbing the camera.
“No click. No click.”
“He’s telling you that the camera didn’t work,” said Thu De Nghiem in the Art Room.
“No, well, then I’ll have to get it checked out.” “You want the words in Vietnamese?” Thu De Nghiem asked.
“No,” said Karr. “But tell me how to ask him where there’s a good restaurant. My stomach’s growling.”