ad been a thing of beauty flawed by time and repetition； like a beautiful girl kept too long in her house by a jealous father。 Every day the mockup of the Song Tay camp had been erected by the players； and each day； sometimes more than once； taken down lest Soviet reconnaissance satellites take note of what was there。 How debilitating that must have been to the soldiers。 And it had all taken so long； the soldiers practicing while the higher…ups had dithered； pondering the intelligence information so long that。。。 the prisoners had been moved。
‘Damn；‘ Kelly whispered to himself。 It wasn‘t so much that the operation might have been betrayed。 It had just taken too long 。。。 and that meant that if it had been betrayed； the leaker had probably been one of the last people to discover what was afoot。 He set that thought aside with a penciled question。
The operation itself had been meticulously planned； everything done just right； a primary plan and a number of alternates； with each segment of the team so fully briefed and trained that every man could do every function in his sleep。 Crashing a huge Sikorsky helicopter right in the camp itself so that the strike team would not have to wait to get to the objective。 Using miniguns to take down the guard towers like chainsaws against saplings。 No finesse； no pussyfooting； no movie…type bullshit； just brutally direct force。 The after…action debriefs showed that the camp guards had been immolated in moments。 How elated the troopers must have felt as the first minute or two of the operation had run more smoothly than their simulations； and then the stunning； bitter frustration when the ‘negative Item‘ calls had e again and again over their radio circuits。 ‘Item‘ was the simple code word for an American POW； and none were home that night。 The soldiers had assaulted and liberated an empty camp。 It wasn‘t hard to imagine how quiet the choppers must have been for the ride back to Thailand； the bleak emptiness of failure after having done everything better than right。
There was； noheless； much to learn here。 Kelly made his notes； cramping fingers and wearing out numerous pencils。 Whatever else it had been； KINGPIN was a supremely valuable lesson。 So much had gone right； he saw； and all of that could be shamelessly copied。 All that had gone wrong； really； was the time factor。 Troops of that quality could have gone in much sooner。 The quest for perfection hadn‘t been demanded at the operational level； but higher； from men who had grown older and lost contact with the enthusiasm and intelligence of youth。 And a consequence had been the failure of the mission； not because of Bull Simons； or Dick Meadows； or the Green Berets who‘d gladly placed their lives at risk for men they‘d never met； but because of others too afraid to risk their careers and their offices … matters of far greater importance； of course； than the blood of the guys at the sharp end。 Song Tay was the whole story of Vietnam； told in the few minutes it had taken for a superbly…trained team to fail； betrayed as much by process as by some misguided or traitorous person hidden in the federal bureaucracy。
SENDER GREEN would be different； Kelly told himself。 If for no other reason than that it was being run as a private game。 If the real hazard to the operation was oversight； then why not eliminate the oversight？
‘Captain； you‘ve been very helpful；‘ Kelly said。
‘Find what you wanted； Mr Clark？‘ Griffin asked。
‘Yes； Mr Griffin；‘ he said； dropping unconsciously back into naval terminology for the young officer。 ‘The analysis you did on the secondary camp was first…rate。 In case nobody ever told you； that might have saved a few lives。 Let me say something for myself： I wish we‘d had an intel…weenie like you working for us when I was out in the weeds。‘
‘I can‘t fly； sir。 I have to do something useful；‘ Griffin replied； embarrassed by the praise。
‘You do。‘ Kelly handed over his notes。 Under his eyes they were placed in an envelope that was then sealed with red wax。 ‘Courier the package to this address。‘
‘Yes； sir。 You‘re due some time off。 Did you get any sleep at all？‘ Captain Griffin asked。
‘Well； I think I‘ll depressurize in New Orleans before I fly back。‘
‘Not a bad place for it； sir。‘ Griffin walked Kelly to his car； already loaded。
One other bit of intelligence had been stunningly easy； Kelly thought； driving out。 His room in the Q had contained a New Orleans telephone directory in which； to his amazement； had been the name he‘d decided to look up while sitting in James Greer‘s office in CIA。
This was the shipment that would make his reputation； Tucker thought； watching Rick and Billy finish loading things up。 Part of it would find its way to New York。 Up until now he‘d been an interloper； an outsider with ambition。 He‘d provided enough heroin to get people interested in himself and his partners … the fact that he had partners had attracted interest of its own； in addition to the access。 But now was different。 Now he was making his move to be part of the crew。 He would be seen as a serious businessman because this shipment would handle all the needs of Baltimore and Philadelphia for。。。 maybe a month； he estimated。 Maybe less if their distribution work was as good as they said。 The leftovers would start meeting the growing needs in the Big Apple； which needed the help after a major bust。 After so long a time of making small steps； here was the giant one。 Billy turned on a radio to get the sports news； and got a weather forecast instead。
‘I‘m glad we‘re going now。 Storms ing in later。‘ Tucker looked outside。 The sky was still clear and untroubled。 ‘Nothing for us to worry about；‘ he told them。
He loved New Orleans； a city in the European tradition； which mixed Old World charm with American zest。 Rich in history； owned by Frenchmen and Spaniards in their turn； it had never lost its traditions； even to its maintenance of a legal code that was nearly inprehensible to the other forty…nine states； and was often a matter of some befuddlement to federal authorities。 So was the local patois； for many mixed French into their conversations； or what they called French。 Pierre Lamarck‘s antecedents had been Acadians； and some of his more distant relatives were still residents in the local bayous。 But customs that were eccentric and entertaining to tourists； and a fortable life rich in tradition to others； had little interest to Lamarck except as a point of reference； a personal signature to distinguish him from his peers。 That was hard enough to do； as his profession demanded a certain flash； a personal flair。 He accentuated his uniqueness with a white linen suit plete with vest； a white； long…sleeved shirt； and a red； solid…color tie； which fitted his own image as a respectable； if ostentatious； local businessman。 That went along well with his personal automobile； an eggshell…white Cadillac。 He eschewed the ornamental excesses that some other pimps placed on their automobiles； nonfunctional exhaust pipes。 One supposed Texan even had the horns of a longhorn steer on his Lincoln； but that one was really poor white trash from lower Alabama； and a boy who didn‘t know how to treat his ladies。
This latter quality was Lamarck‘s greatest talent； he told himself with great satisfaction； opening the door of his car for his newest acquisition； fifteen years old and recently broken in； possessed of an innocent look and demure movement that made her a noteworthy and enticing member of his eight…girl stable。 She‘d earned the pimp‘s unaccustomed courtesy with a special service of her own earlier in the day。 The luxury car started on the first turn of the key； and at seven…thirty； Pierre Lamarck set off on another night‘s work； for the nightlife in his city started early and lasted late。 There was a convention in town； distributors for something or other。 New Orleans attracted a lot of conventions； and he could track the cash flow of his business by their ings and goings。 It promised to be a warm and lucrative night。
It had to be him； Kelly thought； half a block away； behind the wheel of his still…rented car。 Who else would wear a three…piece suit and be acpanied by a young girl dressed in a tight mini？ Certainly not an insurance agent。 The girl‘s jewelry looked cheap…showy even from this distance。 Kelly slipped the car into gear； following。 He was able to lay back。 How many white Caddies could there be？ he wondered； crossing the river； three cars back； eyes locked on his target while peripheral parts of his mind dealt with the other traffic。 Once he had to risk a ticket at a traffic light； but otherwise the tracking was simple。 The Caddy stopped at the entrance to an upscale hotel； and he saw the girl get out； and walk towards the door； her stride a mixture of the businesslike and the resigned。 He didn‘t want to see her face all that closely； afraid of what memories might result from it。 This was not a night for emotion。 Emotion was what had given him the mission。 How he acplished it had to e from something else。 That would be a constant struggle； Kelly told himself； but one he would have to contend with successfully。 That was； after all； why he‘d e to this place； on this night。
The Cadillac moved on a few more blocks； finding a parking place by a seedy； flashy bar close enough to the nice hotels and businesses that a person could walk there quickly； yet never be far from the safety and fort of civilized safety。 A fairly constant stream of taxicabs told him that this aspect of local life had a firm； institutional foundation。 He identified the bar in question and found himself a place to park three blocks away。
There was a dual purpose in parking so far from his objective。 The walk in along Decatur Street gave him both a feel for the territory and a look at likely places for his action。 Surely it would be a long night。 Some short…skirted girls smiled at him as mechanically as the changing of the traffic lights； but he walked on； his eyes sweeping left and right while a distant voice reminded him of what he had once thought of such gestures。 He silenced that voice with another； more current thought。 His clothes were casual； what a moderately fortable man might wear in this humid heat and heavy atmosphere； dark and anonymous； loose and baggy。 They proclaimed money； but not too much； and his stride told people that he was not one to be trifled with。 A man of understated substance having a discreet night on the wild side。
He walked into Chats Sauvages at eight…seventeen。 His initial impression of the bar was smoke and noise。 A small but enthusiastic rock band played at the far end。 There was a dance floor； perhaps twenty…five feet square； where people his age and younger moved with the music； and there was Pierre Lamarck； sitting at a table in the corner with a few acquaintances； or so they seemed from their demeanor。 Kelly walked to the men‘s room； both an immediate necessity and an opportunity to look the place over。 There was another extrance on the side； but no closer to Lamarck‘s table than the one through which both he and Kelly had entered。 The nearest path to the white Caddy led past Kelly‘s place at the bar； and that told him where his perch had to be。 Kelly ordered a beer and turned conveniently to watch