Saigon Red
Page 1
OTHER TITLES BY GREGORY C. RANDALL
NONFICTION
America’s Original GI Town: Park Forest, Illinois
FICTION
THE ALEX POLONIA THRILLERS
Venice Black
THE SHARON O’MARA CHRONICLES
Land Swap For Death
Containers For Death
Toulouse For Death
12th Man For Death
Diamonds For Death
THE TONY ALFANO THRILLERS
Chicago Swing
Chicago Jazz
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2019 by Gregory C. Randall
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503904439
ISBN-10: 1503904431
Cover design by Jae Song
CONTENTS
START READING
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
VIETNAM
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
War is hell, but family relations can be worse.
—Anonymous
CHAPTER 1
Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, Present Day
In the predawn fog that drifted off the Saigon River, Detective Tran Phan leaned against the door of his white Toyota police cruiser and inhaled deeply. The stench of rotting vegetation, oily smoke, and burnt wood filled his nose. He’d hoped that the smoke from his cigarette would mask the smells. He looked at the gray-black clouds lit by the buildings of Ho Chi Minh City, then checked his watch: sunrise would be in less than an hour. Walking through the narrow gap between the warehouses, he reached the skeletal remains of a burnt-out Humvee. Firemen were pulling hoses down across the cracked asphalt.
“Where’s the body?” he asked, looking down at the debris strewn about the alley.
“Just past the burnt vehicle, Detective,” answered the fire captain.
“Thanks.”
The call about a vehicle and structure fire had come in an hour earlier. All routine. It’d been the follow-up call about the body found at the scene that made him turn the Toyota around and head across the Saigon River to District 7, Ho Chi Minh City’s main port. On his way there, he’d received the second report of yet another body found. There at the port, the decaying remains of old warehouses still stood, many built during the war, when the Americans had made this the largest and most active port in Southeast Asia.
The alley vibrated with the idling noise of the fire truck parked next to the blistered and charred Humvee. In the gloom, the truck’s flashing overhead lights filled the space with a silent yet bizarre light show.
Phan washed his flashlight over the remains. The body was male, possibly Anglo. One of the legs was missing. Phan moved the flashlight beam around the perimeter and spotted the severed leg a few meters away, at the base of the warehouse wall. He flashed the light down the alley and looked at the exterior walls of the warehouse: clean. No graffiti, even—surprising for this part of the city.
The far corner of the building was twisted and collapsed. Another fire engine continued to stream water on the burnt ruin. Steam rose, mixed with the heavy air, and transformed into a yellow haze that mixed with the fog drifting in from the river.
“The other body, it’s inside the warehouse?” Phan asked, turning to one of the policemen watching the firemen.
“Yes, Detective Phan. The door was open when we arrived. After discovering the body in the alley, we searched the building. That’s where we found the second. Then we were stopped and told to leave the building. Something about diplomatic sovereignty.”
“Who told you that?”
“Him, the tây. Said he didn’t arrive till afterward.” The policeman pointed to a man in a brash Hawaiian shirt and khaki slacks standing in front of the door under a wall-mounted light. He had a vague Asian look about him, as well as a bald head and a short beard that strapped his dark face from ear to ear. He was talking on a cell phone.
Phan walked over to the man. “I’m Detective Tran Phan,” he said in English, holding his badge up. “I’m going inside to see the body.”
“Can’t, sir. This is United States embassy property and, as such, is diplomatic property.” The man kept his phone to his ear.
“Bullshit. No such thing—and you know that. Who are you?”
“One second, Chris,” the man said into the phone, then pulled it away. “Harry Karns, chief of security for the owner, Como Motors. My company, Teton Security and Defense, is based in the United States. We’re under contract to Como.”
“So, Mr. Karns, are you going to let me pass, or am I going to have my men arrest you for obstructing my investigation? A few days in jail might change your mind about which country you’re in.”
Karns ended his call, slipped the phone into his pocket, and raised his hands in surrender.
Phan pushed his way past the man and walked into the warehouse. High above, a dozen ceiling lights illuminated the concrete floor, which was filled with long tables. On each were computers and monitors. He had never seen a technology center, but he guessed this is what one might look like. Small office cubicles, also full of technology, lined the back of the space. The farthest corner was walled in with no windows. Over a door that was twisted and hanging on its lowest hinge, a sign read “UFFICIO.” He guessed it was the office.
The acrid smell of explosives and burnt wood hung in the air, along with thick dust and smoke that floated motionless, like speckled fog. Three meters in front of the door lay a body. Phan crossed the facility to the bloody remains. It was ripped apart, half its upper body shredded. Next to the body lay a large-caliber pistol; it looked like a Colt. He heard footsteps behind him.
“You know this man?” Phan asked.
“Yes, an associate,” Karns said. “When I find that bastard that killed him, I’ll gut him from his balls to his chin.”
“You know who did this?”
“No, but we should
have him on our security cameras.”
“I want them,” Phan said. He looked past the body to the office with the twisted door.
“I’m not sure I can allow you access to the security tapes. I need to make a call, Detective.”
“I don’t care. Call whoever you need, but I want those tapes or digital records—and I want them today. Is there coverage outside?”
“Yes, but he avoided those cameras.”
“He? How do you know it was a he?” Not waiting for an answer, Phan walked through the shattered doorway and into the office, and Karns followed. The detective scanned the dark room, then stopped, his flashlight beam on the safe. “They weren’t able to get into the safe? Is it still locked?”
Karns hesitated. “As far as I know, they were not able to get in. It was closed and secure when I arrived.”
“And when was that?”
“Twenty minutes after the alarms were tripped. I was across town. My man texted me.”
“Which man, the one in the alley, or the one in here?”
“The man in the alley; he sent a message.”
“Show me your phone, Mr. Karns.”
“I’m not sure I can,” Karns answered.
“Either show it to me, or I will take it from you.” Phan motioned to one of his officers and said something in Vietnamese.
“Okay, I get it,” Karns said.
“You understand Vietnamese, Mr. Karns?” Phan said. “Excellent; it will make my questions easier for my men to understand. The phone, please. Open it and show me the message.”
Karns punched in his password, scrolled through the messages, stopped, and held the screen up to the detective.
Alarm at Como Tech Center—Duke and I are going to see what’s up—will follow up.
“Did you reply?” Phan asked.
“Yes. I told them I would be there in twenty minutes.”
“Your guys are security. Why weren’t they here?”
“I gave them the night off,” Karns said. “They’d just come in from Tokyo. They spent the afternoon here, and I gave them the lay of the land. Then I told them to report tomorrow—I mean today. They weren’t supposed to be here. The facility’s personnel left at six. We were here until seven o’clock.”
Phan wandered around the office, studying everything on the tables and desks. “Did these men work directly for you?”
“They’re on my team. We all work for Teton on contract to Como Motors.”
Using it like a spotlight, Phan panned the flashlight across the room, and a vase of flowers caught his eye. When he studied them, he saw they were plastic. A thin mist drifted among the fake petals. He stuck his nose into the arrangement and sniffed loudly. He gingerly grasped the flowers and removed them from the vase. The lowest stems were stringy and wiry, and they appeared fused and melted. With his flashlight, he peered inside.
“Well, well,” he uttered. He pulled a pair of green vinyl gloves from his pocket, slipped them on, and reached into the urn. A moment later he held up a device that looked like an old BlackBerry cell phone with an antenna-like apparatus attached to one end. “I assume this is not one of your security devices, Mr. Karns?”
“I have no idea what that is.”
“It’s evidence now.” Phan removed a large Ziploc bag from his pocket and dropped the device into it. “Still warm. So, it was purposely destroyed, or my guess, there was some type of self-destruct process involved. This room is unharmed—the gadget obviously did not start the fire in the corner of the structure. My people will see if we can figure it out. I suggest you inspect the safe, Mr. Karns. It may have been tampered with.”
Phan walked out of the office into the facility, lit another cigarette, and waited a moment for Karns to catch up. “Teton what?”
“Teton Security and Defense,” Karns said. “American.”
“Obviously.” Phan looked again at the body. He’d never seen such physical destruction. The arm looked like it had been explosively amputated—whatever did this was a vicious weapon. He turned to Karns. “You look military; maybe you have experience with explosives? Any idea what happened to him?”
“Duke was a good man. They were both good men. I’ve known them a long time. And no, I don’t. Whatever hit him packed an incredible explosive punch but was also localized. I’ve heard rumors about exploding bullets. Never seen one. If this is what it was, it’s powerful.”
“Mr. Karns, my people will go over everything. I expect your cooperation.”
“I have to get clearance from my boss and the owners of the facility.”
“What are you guarding here, Mr. Karns? I see computers, servers, locked cabinets, and a lot of other high-tech stuff. Whoever did this was after something. My guess is that you have an idea as to what that is. So, enlighten me.”
Karns said nothing.
Phan waited a few beats, then turned and walked across the warehouse. Halfway to the door to the alley, he noticed spots of what looked like blood on the floor.
Phan walked outside and removed a notebook from his pocket. He casually noted the blood trail and a few more details. His eyes followed the red dots to the base of the wall of the warehouse across the alley. There the blood had collected into a pool about the size of his hand. Additional splatter surrounded it. He looked up the wall to the parapet and with his flashlight spotted additional traces along the parapet’s edge. He made more notes, then proceeded down the alley toward his car.
Karns followed him. “Sorry, Detective, I have my orders. When my boss says I can, I’ll come and talk to you. Until then—”
“Mr. Karns, do not piss me off any more than you already have. Who really owns this place, and what was taken?”
“Like I said, Como Motors owns the place. But, Detective Phan, I honestly don’t know what happened here.”
“Mr. Karns, I will see you at three o’clock at my office. Here’s my card. The address is on it. Don’t make me look for you.”
Phan walked past the still-steaming Humvee. Four of his people, in white paper jumpsuits, were walking up the alley toward him.
“Good morning, Mr. Tan,” Phan said to the lead forensic man. “Rip this place apart and tell me what happened. Have the bodies checked for explosive residue and shrapnel. There are spots of blood on the floor—I want samples. There’s also a blood pool opposite the door, next to that building, and what looks like a trace at the building’s eave directly above. Maybe they’re from a victim, but I don’t think so. Sample them. I also saw a pistol—look for shell casings. There’s a lot of damage in there. Find out all you can. I want the works—DNA, everything.”
“Yes, Detective Phan.”
Phan turned to Karns and said, “You will provide ownership information, phone numbers, and the names and passport numbers of the dead men. Got it?”
Karns looked at Phan. “I’ll see what I can do.” He squinted and looked Phan up and down. “I didn’t realize they had Americans in the Saigon police.”
“Ho Chi Minh City, HCMC for short. Not Saigon. This isn’t 1975. And my father was American. I am Vietnamese. And from your looks, there’s also some Vietnamese in your family, am I right?” Phan, not waiting for an answer, turned to the policeman he’d talked to when he first walked onto the scene. “Don’t let them take anything from the facility or this property. I’m holding you and your men responsible if there are any fuckups.”
“Yes, sir.”
Leaving Karns in the alley, Phan walked back to the street and climbed into the white Toyota police cruiser, turned the air-conditioning to high, and punched in the number of his chief on his mobile phone. After updating his boss about the bodies, the destruction, and the blood trail, he was told to put it all in his report. When he started to tell him about the fire, the chief cut him off and reminded him it was too damn early to discuss such unpleasantness. He would see him later. Phan hung up. “Pompous asshole,” he mumbled as he lit another cigarette.
Phan picked up his radio. “Central, get me air contr
ol.”
“Yes, sir.”
A few seconds passed. “Air control.”
“Air control, this is Detective Phan. Do you have a helicopter up?”
“We have one. Over District 1, doing traffic and surveillance.”
“Can you send it to my location in District 7?”
“Location?”
Phan told the woman the address.
“Yes, Detective. Four minutes.”
Leaving the engine and air-conditioning running, he exited the car and walked back to Karns, who was still standing next to the burnt-out Humvee.
“Now what?” Karns said.
Phan pointed upward. “It seems that our criminal may have climbed to the roof up there. One of our helicopters will be over the warehouse in a few minutes. I want them to take a look.”
“For what?”
“Your employee may have gotten lucky and wounded the suspect. Maybe he’s still on the roof. I intend to find out.”
From the parapet of the neighboring building’s roof, a high-pitched whirring—a sound Phan couldn’t quite make out—cut through the thick air.
CHAPTER 2
Con Ma, hidden in the shadows, peered over the parapet and watched the police detective walk the length of the narrow alley. The lights from the fire truck intermittently exposed the detective’s face. Con Ma adjusted his night vision visor, softly said, “Magnify three times,” and studied the man.
Detective Tran Phan. Of course. Who else would it be?
Con Ma hated the detective and everything he stood for—honor, family, duty. It was all he could do not to shoot the man where he stood. However, at that moment, he had only a few minutes to escape. Shooting the detective, while satisfying, would alert the other policemen. He leaned back out of sight and removed a syringe from the small case on his belt. He placed the tip against his leg, an inch above the bullet wound, and for the second time, injected the anesthetic. Instantly, the pain began to ease. He’d already packed the coagulant against the wound, stopping the blood flow from the finger-sized hole in his leg. He sucked on the stimulant tablet to reduce the chance of shock. The whole operation was now seriously fucked up.
Earlier, the flight on the prototype cycle-drone from his base on the far side of the river had been uneventful. The landing had gone unnoticed. As he’d walked across the roof, he asked in Chinese, “Time?” The headphones inside the helmet replied, in an unhurried female voice, “Four thirty. Local.” He had fifteen minutes to complete the operation. He secured the thick rope to a vent brace and dropped it over the parapet, and in seconds he was on the pavement of the alley. From his belt, he removed a black box, placed it over the electronic lock of the door, and stepped back. A slight buzz filled the air, then a pop, and smoke rose from the lock. He turned the handle and pulled the door open.