The Man from Saigon

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Marti Leimbach. The Man from Saigon

Contents

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

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MARTI LEIMBACH

The Man from Saigon

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He looked at her as though she were a live circus act. As though trying to decide if she’d fall off the wire.

First there had been the bunker in Con Thien, then Marc saw her at a party in Saigon. It wasn’t like him to go to such a party. He’d been in Vietnam a long time, been to more than his share of events in hotel rooms and embassies and restaurants, private rooms and villas, hotels and offices and bars. He’d grown weary of them. But tonight’s casual, crowded gathering took place in his own hotel, one floor down. He’d have had to make an effort to escape it and there had already been enough talk about him. About how solitary he’d become, how remote. The rumors—that he kept his own M16 under his bed, that he was never without the dried hind foot of a rabbit, either in his pocket or around his neck; that he, in fact, had a mojo bag full of talismans and holy cards, wore a St. Christopher’s, counted backwards from seven before jumping from choppers—used to make him laugh. But lately, he’d come to wonder if he appeared strange to his colleagues, enough so that they thought some explanation was in order. So he went to the party, arriving at the door to the welcome of Brian Murray, about whom no rumors were ever put forward. The man never seemed to travel five minutes for a story these days.

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