Saigon: 1969
I ordered the local cuisine; I do that where ever I go because I have always found so many wonderful things to eat that way. The serving girl was surprised that I spoke her language. But I have forgotten how many languages I have learned in almost two centuries. I ordered a locally made wine, which also pleased her.
I considered my handler's instructions. I still smile when I think of the term; people have tried to handle me over the many long years, from my bastard of a father to every man who sees an unattached woman ans thinks whore, to those who would technically be my siblings, fathers by Kagan, to Professor Trumain of the Brimstone Society before he died, now Conrad. One day he would die. Only my enemy and I are immortal.
Of course that is not really true; immortal by definition means living forever. Considering how many vampires I have killed, we really aren't that. I work for the Society for only one reason; they send me where there are reports of vampires, and I kill vampires. Having them find my targets means I actually have some free time to sample food, or as the Americans say, smell the roses.
I had that thought when two American MPs walked in. Every since Kennedy died their presence in the country has increased. Thanks to the Tonkin Gulf incident, they have taken the gloves off in more ways than one. One of them pointed toward my table. Someone I had talked to about getting closer to the Cambodian border must have shopped me out to the Americans. If they had, and I had an idea who, it posed a problem. I had no business in Vietnam; I had to cross the border into Cambodia, which was undergoing it's own Communist meltdown with the Khmer Rouge offering ways for the Viet Cong to enter the country. If I, a woman, and probably European wanted to go there, I no doubt was dealing in heroin, or perhaps weapons for the rebels in both nations.
The biggest problem was my race. There aren't many European faces in the country any more; as such I would be easy to spot. The French had been beaten at Dien Bien Phu over a decade before, and most of the remaining Europeans had been liquidating their holdings and moving on since that disaster until the Americans had built up their troops in the country. If they had sent me here even four years ago I would have had only the locals to deal with. Now it's helicopters, the new night vision gear, thousands of American troops, and of course the vampires.
And of course idiots who shop me to the authorities, any authorities.
They came over toward my table, sure they could subdue a woman. After all, I'm only 1.57 meters tall. Like the old song; Five foot two, eyes of blue. If my eyes were blue.
"Identification please." One of them asked in French. For a moment, I considered pretending I didn't speak it. Of course he had probably used all he knew in French from his look. He was more of the 'beat on the problem 'til it goes away' type. I was sure that I didn't answer he'd just throw me on the table, cuff me, and drag me down to the station. Maybe someone there would know whatever language I did speak.
"Perhaps if we used English?" I asked. He looked confused at my accent. I was born in Floresti Romania in the Year of Our Lord 1783. To an American, the closest accents would be Bela Lugosi, or Russian. I was betting he would go for Russian, meaning I was obviously representing an arms merchant, or the Russian government. I could see staff sergeant's stripes dancing in his eyes.
"May I see your identification papers, please." I reached into my purse, and pulled out the Austrian passport. One of only about eighteen I have. He looked at it, but was defeated by simple German. Honestly, even as a Romanian, I know that Republik Osterreich means Eastern Republic, and all you have to do is pronounce Osterreich to work out Austria. But this guy wouldn't have been able to buy a clue if he had a quarter. He handed it to his partner, who wasn't much brighter. "I was born in Romania, but I am a citizen of Austria."
I might as well not have bothered, every one knows that Romania is now in the Warsaw Pact. That means Communist yet again. They shared a look; both now dreaming of promotion.
"We have had some problems lately, could you come down to the station with us please?"
Did I look that stupid? They were hoping to get me down there as happy as a clam right before the Tabasco sauce hits it. I sighed, signaling for the waitress. "Please make that to take away." I told her. "These morons want me to go with them."
"Please, Mademoiselle. Be wary of the Yankee." She hissed.
"I will be fine."
She delivered my meal, but thanks to the Americans, I wasn't allowed to take the wine with me. I picked up the bag, and climbed into their patrol car. They got in. "By the way, who turned me in? Phan?"
"Yeah." Idiot one said. All they needed was another man to be the three stooges.
"Thanks." I set down the bag, then leaned forward, a hand on the outside of their heads, and smacked their heads together. They went down, out for the count. The car had been requisitioned from the local Gendarme, and since they were American, they had disabled the handles by removing them. I leaned to one side, and kicked. The door ripped off it's hinges, slamming into the wall. A pair of local men merely watched me step out. "Don't kill them." I admonished them. "Stupid enemies are a treasure." Hopefully I had saved their lives. But I knew, in this city, that the car would be stripped within the hour.
Dealing with problems.
I waited until Phan had turned on the lights before I caught him by the neck and threw him into the wall. He spun, and I plucked the old Luger from his hand. That took me back. Then I caught by the collar, and slammed him down into his chair. He stared at me in horror as I took the other chair, emptying my dinner out. I went to his cabinet, and brought out a bottle of cognac. He winced as I poured an inch of it, drinking it down as if it were water. Part of my heritage. I opened the to go box, took his own fork and began to eat.
"Rayne! How good to see you." I could hear his heartbeat racing. Again, part of my heritage.
"Phan, I am unhappy with you." I scraped the stew onto the container of rice, stirred it, and began to eat. "You shopped me to the Amis."
"I would never-" I looked up, and he froze like a bird seeing the snake approaching.
"That is one lie. Do not make me get... angry."
"All right, I admit it!" He almost screamed. "They caught me smuggling some whiskey. They told me someone was trying to make a run into Cambodia. I knew you were going that way, but I didn't tell them about the arrangements, so they would have thought you were maybe a friend of the French who still live in that area."
"With an Eastern European accent, of course they would." I said smoothly. Lovely stew. If I had the chance, I would have to go back and get some more. "So what must I do about you?"
He was sweating like a pig. If I were a Flamenco dancer, I could have used his heartbeat for castanets. I saw his eyes dart toward the butcher knife on the table beside him. A quick man could grab it and kill me. I looked down into the container. As I did he snatched, stabbing at me.
I caught his wrist negligently, setting down my food as I looked into his eyes. Humans are always surprised by my strength. Briefly, but surprised. He tried to pull his hand back, but it was caught like a bug in amber. His eyes widened as I caught his elbow, and like a mechanical press, bent his arm until the knife was aimed at his chest. He had time to say one word, "Please!' Before it was rammed into his chest.
