Free Loose Cannon: The Tom Kelly Novels by David Drake Page A

to the program. Frankly, I tried to quash the whole trip, but Hoang seems to have convinced—certain officials—that his presence at the Conference will be valuable to his work. And also, the head of the Russian delegation has expressed a desire to see Hoang again. . . . Their Professor Vlasov, the one who visited last month. So Hoang is going, and well. . . .”
    “General, I’m very flattered,” Nguyen repeated. He was waving his free hand in the air in silent joy.
    “Well, Colonel,” Ve said. “I wouldn’t want you to think that we in Hanoi were unaware of your . . . ability. Not that I really think the Chinese would try something at an international conference, but—” He paused.
    “As well to be sure,” Nguyen completed.
    “Exactly,” agreed the general, “exactly. We’re working in liaison with our Russian friends. I’m sure you’ll be able to share the duties with their contingent. You’ve worked with them before, I believe?”
    “The technicians with the poison gas equipment,” Nguyen agreed. “Yes, their manpower should be very helpful.”
    “Well, the written orders will be along in due course,” General Ve said. “I just wanted to make sure you had time to take care of any arrangements in Dalat before you left. Good day, Colonel.”
    “Good day,” Nguyen said to a dead line. He cradled the phone.
    Arrangements. Well, somebody had to vette the entire guard staff, it appeared. Truong could handle that. Truong damned well better be able to handle that. As for trip preparations. . . .
    Nguyen opened the top drawer of his desk. He took out the pistol, removing the magazine before he locked back the slide. The round in the chamber spun out onto the pile of paperwork. It was an old weapon, a Tokarev TT-33, thirty years obsolete in Soviet service.
    Nguyen had killed sixty-two men with it when he headed an assassination team during the War. The Colonel worked the slide several times, studying its action with a critical eye. He had better get in some range time before he went to Algiers. Just in case.

VI

    “Can’t say I’m in much of a hurry this time, Specialist Phillips,” Tom Kelly remarked as he got in through the door the driver insisted on holding open for him.
    Phillips was grinning as he walked back around the hood and settled himself behind the steering wheel. “I’m glad to hear that, sir,” he said, putting the Concord in gear, “because I scared the crap out of myself the last time.” He chuckled. “Not as bad as I scared the lieutenant, though.”
    The gate guard saluted as the sedan passed him sedately. Anybody picked up at the front of the embassy was worth a salute. It was a lot cheaper than explaining to the Gunny why you’d ignored the CinC Med, who happened to have been in civvies that afternoon. . . .
    “Ah, look, sir,” the driver went on, watching traffic and not his passenger, “I, ah, heard about what you did for me. And well, if there’s ever something you need and I’ve got—well, look me up, huh?”
    Kelly grinned back. “Hell,” he said, “you just did what you were told to do. I only made sure that if anything happened because you followed a damned fool’s orders, that the USG knew it could whistle for any help it was going to need from me.” Kelly paused, watching the buildings past Phillips’ face. Traffic in the left lane was sweeping around them, but the sedan’s tires were riding the rough pavement with only a modicum of discomfort. “Where did you happen to hear about that, anyway?” Kelly added, as if the answer did not matter to him.
    “Oh, a buddy of mine drives most nights for the Adjutant,” Phillips said. “You know, when he’s going off to a reception and doesn’t want the flics to stop him driving home plotzed. He was talking to the Assistant Air Attaché. . . .” The driver shot a look over at his passenger. “We’re machines, you know. Typewriters and telephones and drivers . . . but you know.”
    “Sure,” said the