Page 70 of Cry Havoc
“Monsieur DuBois, bonjour,” he said in flawless French.
“Bonjour.” He was short and thin with thick gray hair. Wrinkles dominated his forehead and crept around eyes that failed to hide a permanent sadness.
“Ah, Mademoiselle DuBois,comment ça vá?” Serrano said, lightly kissing her on both cheeks in greeting.
“Ça vá,”the woman responded.
She removed oversized square tortoiseshell sunglasses to reveal mysterious almond-shaped eyes. She placed the glasses in a small pouch-style straw handbag, snapped its closure, and turned to the two MACV-SOG operators. She was possessed of a small nose, full lips, and defined cheekbones, while her porcelain skin was radiant and striking. She wore a form-fitting black silk button-down shirt with a high collar that was tucked into loosely woven white linen pants. A tan canvas oversize belt and black Mary Jane shoes completed the ensemble. A single green aventurine rounded amulet necklace rested against her chest just above the last fastened button of her shirt. It was tied to a simple black string thatdescended from a graceful neckline. She projected an understated and effortless beauty.
“Monsieur DuBois, Mademoiselle DuBois, may I present two American colleagues, Frank Jones and Tom Smith.”
The impromptu last name changes caught Tom by surprise. Lying seemed to come naturally to Serrano. Perhaps it was a prerequisite for this type of work.
“Frank, Tom, this is Gaston DuBois, proprietor of DuBois Consortium, and his daughter Ella.”
“Nice to meet you,” Quinn said, shaking both their hands.
“Pleasure,” said Tom, doing the same.
“Enchanté,”Ella said, her voice demure yet firm.
Tom’s eyes caught Ella’s and lingered a moment too long. He had to force himself to look away.
“Monsieur DuBois runs an import and export business here in Saigon,” Serrano explained.
The man smiled to reveal the yellowing teeth that came with time on Earth.
“For now,” he said. “But Ella will be taking over one day so I can enjoy retirement.” His English was heavily accented French. It was evident that he was proud of his daughter.
“Frank, Tom, remember, call if you need anything,” Serrano said.
“Au revoir,” Tom said, once more catching Ella’s eye.
“Au revoir,” she responded, turning to follow her father and Serrano into the CIA annex.
A baby blue Citroën DS 19 with a white roof passed a horse-drawn carriage as Tom and Quinn made their way down the steps to the street where a black Agency Simca 1501 four-door sedan waited.
Tom looked back at the French colonial.
“Come on, Romeo,” Quinn said.
“What?”
“What do you mean, ‘what’? If you stood there any longer you would have spontaneously combusted.”
“Give me a break.”
“She might have as well. And by the way, you save the word ‘elegant’ for a woman like that, not the pistol on your belt.”
Tom rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the tip.”
“You’re welcome. Just remember what I told you about women and SOG.”
“You won’t have to worry. I’ll probably never see her again,” Tom said.
“You’ve got Serrano’s card. Ask him to set you up.”
Quinn walked around to the opposite side of the car and climbed into the back seat.
