Black Diamond

“Bruno,
ça va
?” before she gestured to them to move quickly inside the back door to Tran’s restaurant. She was holding an automatic pistol down by her thigh.
    Behind her, Tran waited beside the door, two burly security men flanking him. To Bruno’s eyes, he hadn’t changed much since Sarajevo, still tall and pencil thin and looking completely French until his face broke into a wide smile at the sight of his old comrade-in-arms, and as the eyes narrowed the Asian genes shone through.
    “Bruno, it’s been too long,” Tran said, hugging him as Isabelle fretted to get them indoors. The two men broke off their embrace and, arms around each other’s shoulders, tried to squeeze through the narrow doorway.
    “The place is secure,” Isabelle said once they were all in the cramped hall and the door closed behind them. There was barely room for one person to pass at a time with the stack of cases of soft drinks and beer piled against the grimy wall. On top of them, Bruno noted with appreciation, stood four shiny new industrial-sized fire extinguishers, a precaution against further gasoline bombs, he suspected. Two poker-faced Vietnamese stood by a door at the far end of the passage that led to a kitchen. Steam and cooking smells and the sound of clanging pots leaked from the opening.
    “We had the dogs in earlier to check for explosives,” she said. “The Viets have their own security upstairs and next door and in the kitchen. Tran here is the liaison for that. The entrance to the restaurant is at the front of the building on the next street, but it’s been closed for the evening, and we have another unmarked car outside.”
    “Who are these two?” asked the brigadier, looking at the two burly security men who stood by the door.
    “Fusiliers Marins from the naval base at Lorient,” she said. “The same unit we’ll be using for the mission. I’ve been training with them.” The brigadier nodded, and Bruno was impressed. What mission? The marine commandos were the elite of French special forces. Knowing that she was liaising with the British navy on a joint operation against illegal immigrants, he was now pretty sure it would involve boarding a ship at sea.
    “Is there a specific reason for all this security?” the brigadier asked.
    “The Viets insisted on coming armed,” she said, shrugging. “But there are no threats on our radar.”
    “The meeting will be upstairs in the banquet room,” said Tran, leading the way up a narrow staircase. The brigadier followed him, and Isabelle hung back, insisting on taking the rear, her gun still in her hand. It was all turning out very differently from the amicable reunion of old soldiers that Bruno had expected.
    The banquet room occupied the full width of two houses, and with its dark wood paneling, louvered shutters and dragon lamps it looked as if it had been imported direct from one of the old French colonial mansions in Hanoi. The big oval table and chairs were in heavily carved rosewood, and places were set for eight people. Three Vietnamese men were already seated, and the first of them to rise was Vinh. He greeted Bruno with an apologetic grin. The second Vietnamese bowed and came around the table to shake hands with the new arrivals. He was in early middle age, as tall as Bruno, and looked as tough as the two marine commandos downstairs. The last of the Vietnamese remained seated,smoking a
kretek
cigarette held between thumb and forefinger. It filled the room with the scent of cloves. His hair was white, and the veins on the back of his hands were thick and twisted, making his age much greater than his almost unlined face suggested. A bottle of Rémy Martin stood before him.
    “A pleasure to see you again, Vien,” said the brigadier, leaning across the table to shake the hand of the still-seated old man. “Let us hope our discussions this evening can prove as fruitful as they were in Marseilles.”
    The old man nodded and studied J-J and Bruno with a piercing eye. Bruno had absorbed enough of the history of the Binh Xuyen to know that “Vien” was the honorary title of the sect’s leader. The post was named after the legendary Le Van Vien, who had risen from being an illiterate river pirate to control the city of Saigon as police chief, army general and drug lord.
    “How’s your wife?” Bruno asked Vinh. “I haven’t seen either of you since the attack in the market. We’ve been worried about you.”
    “She is recovered, and we are very