Saigon Red

by Gregory C. Randall

  “From what you included in my packet, Saigon seems reasonably safe. Is this additional protection necessary?”

  “Yes, they feel it’s even more warranted now after the tech facility incident. His position with Como and their corporate-safety policies for their employees at certain international locations require it. Como Motors also has contracts with governments and international agencies. I’m told the NATO contract is the most important. They do not want their employees to be put into positions where they might be compromised.”

  “Like the threat of being kidnapped and held for ransom?”

  “Yes, that’s one of the issues. Or extortion, intimidation, even terror. Our job is to prevent these incidents from happening.” He handed her the thick, padded envelope.

  From its weight, she immediately knew what was inside.

  “When on the job, all my operatives are armed. I’m not one who believes in nonviolence. If there is a threat, you will be prepared to meet that threat with equal or greater force. Please open it.”

  Inside the envelope were concealed permits for Italy and Vietnam, a box of nine-millimeter bullets, and a Glock 43. The firearm was comfortable in her hand, and compared to other Glocks, including her old service pistol, small and more easily concealed. The pistol was in a black belt holster.

  “I don’t have to tell you to think first before using it,” Chris said. “Your training and experience should take care of that.”

  Alex nodded.

  “On Friday, you’re flying to Saigon,” Chris went on. “But there will be a two-day, one-night stop in Dubai—the Luccheses do not want to subject their children to the long flight from Milan to Saigon. You’re flying Emirates. The adults are in first class; you and the kids are in premium economy. Once in Dubai you and the Luccheses will be staying at the Four Seasons Resort.”

  “Are you or anyone else from TSD flying with us?”

  “No. I’m going back to London, then Miami, then Dallas. For the first leg, you’re on your own. Harry Karns will meet you in Dubai. He’s handling logistics for the stopover. He’ll be coming in from Ho Chi Minh City.”

  “Is that necessary? It’s only a couple of days.”

  “Since you’re new, Harry offered to help. I had no problem with it. The children will have their nanny, Maria. Other than that, it’s just you on the first leg. Harry will provide added security from then on.”

  “Is there anything more about the tech facility break-in?”

  “Jake and Harry are checking DNA against databases, and we’re trying to isolate as many people as we can to see who may have leaked information that led to the Como warehouse massacre.”

  Alex removed the pistol from the holster. She dropped the magazine, checked it—empty. She pulled the slide and confirmed an empty chamber.

  “May I?” she asked, holding up the magazine.

  Campbell nodded.

  She loaded the magazine, inserted it into the weapon, reholstered it, and secured it to the waist of her slacks. “It’s been a while. I feel dressed again.”

  McCorly stayed with the car in the visitor parking area outside Como Motors. Inside the lobby, Alex and Campbell greeted Nevio Lucchese. He was late.

  “Please, follow me,” Lucchese said after introductions. “We can talk in my office.”

  They passed through long corridors lined with offices. Lucchese stopped and directed them into a rather inconspicuous office. The view out of the large window at the back was of another Como parking lot. A beige desk, a sofa, a chair, a bank of file cabinets, and two bookshelves were the sole pieces of furniture in the office. Lucchese pointed to the couch, and the Americans sat.

  “Coffee?”

  Campbell shook his head, and Alex politely declined.

  After pouring himself a cup, Lucchese took a seat in a matching chair. “Ms. Polonia, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Mr. Campbell has told me a great deal about you. My family is also eager to meet you. Ilaria completely understands the need for security, especially these days. However, she is concerned about the children. They are defiant, stubborn, and confused about this move. Paolo is fifteen and is into soccer—his grades are excellent. He doesn’t understand why he must go. He wants to stay with his grandmother, Ilaria’s mother. Gianna is almost a teenager. She’s twelve and worships her older brother. They’re close. She doesn’t want to leave her friends. In fact, she told me that one of her girlfriends offered her a room until we return. When I told them about you, they seemed, how you say, unimpressed.”

  “Teenagers can be like that,” Alex said.

  Lucchese smiled. “Paolo asked all about you, your name and what sports you played—guy things. When I told him you were a woman, and a police officer, he seemed disappointed. I think he thought that Alex was a man’s name. Gianna said she hopes you like horses, because she loves them. She has a mare she rides at the equestrian center. She will miss that horse.”

  Alex paid attention, as this was all new information about the children. Gianna’s fondness for horses was interesting. Paolo’s passion, when not studying, was soccer. Then again, what teenage boy, in most of the world, was not passionate about soccer?

  “Mr. Campbell, my family is the most important thing in the whole world. I will do anything to secure their safety and happiness. You are here to ensure that. I will accept nothing less.”

  “We completely understand,” Chris answered.

  They spoke for another twenty minutes about the roles Teton Security and Defense staff would play during their time in Vietnam. Lucchese appeared comfortable with the scope and depth of the team and the personnel. Alex knew he had complete veto power over the people assigned to his family—so far, she had survived the interview.

  Lucchese looked at his watch. “We have time for a tour of the facility. Would you like to see what it takes to build a motorcycle? The plant in Ho Chi Minh City manufactures smaller motorbikes and scooters. Here in Milan, we build larger and more powerful motorcycles—our primary competitors are Ducati, BMW, and Harley-Davidson.”

  The tour took an hour. Afterward, Alex was impressed by both the cleanliness of the plant and the professionalism of the managers. “You said that the facility in Saigon was already open,” she told Lucchese. “I was under the impression that you were going there to build the plant and make it operational.”

  “We call it Ho Chi Minh City, so as not to be rude to our government supporters. Yes, it rolled out its first motorbike five months ago,” Lucchese said. “Since then, it has been running nonstop. Our products fit well in the Southeast Asian marketplace. Our Vietnamese customers like the fact that the motorbikes are made in their own country. We’re also expanding the technology facilities inside the plant, and I’ll be there to oversee those as well. I have, as you might say, a full plate.”

  “The plant in Vietnam—is it as large as this?” Campbell asked, looking across the large manufacturing floor.

  “Ho Chi Minh City is significantly larger. We will also employ twice as many as here. Labor costs are lower, so some of the automated tasks we do here are done manually in Vietnam. We also ship motorbikes to Cambodia, Laos, and Indonesia. After the expansion, we intend to increase sales to other Asian countries.”

  “And the animosity by the Vietnamese to the war?” Alex asked.

  “I have found little, if any. Most Vietnamese are too young to even remember your war. Some, academics and politicians mostly, still have issues about past colonialism, and primarily with the French, but it was an American war, not Italian. Today, our communist partners and friends enjoy money and profit as much as the next Westerner.”

  The drive to the Lucchese villa took twenty minutes. The eighteenth-century stone structure sat along the ridgeline of hills to the north of Milan. Ilaria Lucchese met Alex, McCorly, and Chris in the soaring entry to the villa and invited them in. Tapestries hung on the walls.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Polonia. I was drawn to your name. It’s Italian for Poland, am I right?”


  “Yes, and thank you,” Alex answered. “I’ll tell you the story behind it sometime.”

  Ilaria gave them a tour of the main rooms and took them out onto the terrace that overlooked the gardens and, to the south, the skyline of Milan.

  “It can be very pretty here in the evening,” Ilaria said to Alex. The men were admiring the small garden that Nevio had planted alongside the house. The early tomatoes were just turning red. “Nevio will miss his garden.”

  Alex nodded. “Yes, it must be hard to give this up.”

  “This house and the property have been in my family for almost three hundred years. Mine is an old and respected family. We have been industrialists since the founding of modern Italy more than a hundred years ago. We’ve survived two terrible wars. Some days, with the state of European Union politics, I’m not sure we will survive the peace. That’s why we’re building in Vietnam.”

  “You’re part of the company too, aren’t you?” Alex said, remembering the information in the dossiers she read on the flight.

  “Yes, I sit on Como’s board, and my family retains a significant part of the company. Nevio is an experienced manager who, as I like to joke, married into the family business. We’re not selling the villa. It will be cared for during the two years we’re gone. We will be coming back—that was one of the promises to the children. My business connections and involvement with the company will require us to return quarterly to Milan. That helped to mollify the kids, a little. It’s not so bad.”

  “You are aware of what my job is?”

  “Yes, Ms. Polonia. However, I’m not sure why we need two people watching us. Knowing the thoroughness of Mr. Campbell, I would have thought one was more than enough. And it’s Nevio who is the primary target—don’t you think?”

  “Signora Lucchese, I was a cop. I’ve seen many things that would say one thing but are really another. My job is to protect you and the family, and that includes Signor Lucchese. I don’t expect trouble, and if there is a threat, it will be deterred by our presence. However, we are trained to protect and respond as necessary. It’s my hope that we never have to exercise that training. We intend that you and your family go about your lives as you like.”

  Ilaria paused for a moment as she looked across the garden at her husband. “Nevio is my life. He is a good father, an excellent provider, and a wonderful husband. Our children are strong and healthy. What more could a woman and a mother want?”

  Alex thought about the madness she’d been through during the last year. Yes, what more could a woman want?

  Two children left the villa and walked across the lawn toward them.

  “Alex—may I call you that?” Ilaria said.

  “Certainly.”

  “And you can call me Ilaria. And these are my two most favorite people in the world,” she said as the children stopped a few paces from their mother. “They both speak English, and quite well. Paolo and Gianna, I would like you to meet Signora Polonia; she will be helping, along with Maria, to take care of us.”

  The two children extended their hands, and Alex shook each in turn. Gianna seemed shy and kept close to her mother. Alex thought the child seemed a little unsure. Paolo stared at her and puffed up like a teenager trying to impress his teacher.

  “I know what you really are,” Paolo said with a touch of defiance. “You are like the police. We don’t need you. Do you carry a gun?”

  “Paolo, that is impertinent and rude,” Ilaria said. “Apologize to Signora Polonia.”

  The boy hesitated.

  Alex’s work had given her experience with countless troubled and confused youths, rich and poor alike, so she knew what Paolo was doing: he was asserting his role as the oldest. She was after all an interloper into the tight Lucchese family. But she was not about to let him take the high ground.

  “Paolo, I am here to protect you, your sister, and your mother and father from the bad guys. I am a trained professional, and I have the tools necessary to do that. These tools require years of training. I do not, and neither should you, treat them as something from an American cowboy movie. I hope you understand.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “That may be true, but who will take care of your sister? Things will be strange and confusing. The cities, the travel, the food, and jet lag may make you feel out of sorts. You are a strong and tough kid—I see that. I’ll need you to help us get through this. We all have our jobs; my job is watching all of you. Your job will be to take care of your sister and yourself. Can you do that? Can you help me make this work?”

  Paolo’s defiant look softened, yet his eyes sharpened. He looked at his sister, who was standing next to their mother. He reached out and took Gianna’s hand. “I can do that.”

  “Excellent. On a ship, the second in command is called Number One. Paolo, can you be my Number One?”

  “Like in Star Trek?” he said.

  Alex smiled. “Yes, like Will Riker in Star Trek. So, you’re a Star Trek fan?”

  Before Paolo could answer, Ilaria said, “You have no idea. Paolo, you can show Signora Polonia your room later. She will then understand.”

  “Can I be Number Two?” Gianna asked.

  “I think that’s a brilliant idea,” Alex said. “So, my Numbers One and Two, shall we go see your father?”

  The two children walked ahead of them, whispering to each other and laughing.

  “You could not have been a bigger hit,” Ilaria said. “How did you know about his love for Star Trek stuff?”

  “I didn’t, but I’m a fan myself. And I have a few nieces and nephews that keep me up-to-date on all things Trekkie.”

  Alex was introduced to Maria, the nanny. The surprise was that Maria was Vietnamese. She told Alex her parents escaped on one of the boats during the mass exodus in the midseventies. They became part of a small group of refugees that settled in Italy. The forty-year-old Maria Nguyen spoke fluent Vietnamese and English, had been married once when she was younger, and had been the Luccheses’ nanny for ten years. She was excited about traveling to Vietnam; she hoped that she would be able to see some of her family.

  Lunch was served on the terrace.

  CHAPTER 21

  Alex’s cell phone vibrated not long after midnight.

  “Good morning,” she said. “This is way too early. You okay?”

  “Maybe,” Javier said. “I don’t know. We need to talk. Something’s come up. Can we get together for breakfast?”

  “I’m up now. Once up, I’m up. The cop in me just won’t go away. How about now?”

  “There’s a small breakfast place at the train station, north end. When can you meet me there?”

  “Fifteen minutes. I need to dress.”

  “That works. Be careful.”

  Before she could ask why, Javier had clicked off.

  A dozen thoughts twisted around in her head. Javier sounded stressed, out of sorts. She dressed and walked through the small lobby of the Hilton. It was empty except for the young woman standing at the reception desk. She smiled as Alex walked by.

  “Can I get you a taxi?” she asked.

  “No, but thank you.”

  “Be careful, signora.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she answered, and tightened her leather jacket. The pistol was secured into the back waist of her jeans, hidden under a knit sweater and the jacket.

  Milano Centrale train station was a block and a half from the hotel. She crossed the grand piazza that fronted the station. She and Javier had crossed this same plaza early Sunday on their way to Florence. Now it was empty. Beyond it rose the white wedding cake of marble that was the train station. Javier had mentioned that Mussolini built it before World War II.

  She hurried inside and walked under the stone-and-glass vaulted ceiling of the main concourse, looking left and right. The great hall was empty except for a few tourists dragging their bags.

  “Follow me,” a voice said from behind.

  Startled, she turned and faced Javi
er. “What’s happening?”

  “This way.” They walked to the end of the terminal, where a small all-night café filled one of the corners. Signs in red neon offered pizza, drinks, and espresso. He pointed to a small table. Except for three young people at the coffee bar, the other tables were empty.

  They ordered double espressos.

  “Are you okay?” Alex asked.

  “One minute. I need caffeine. It’s been a crazy eighteen hours.”

  After the small cups and saucers were placed on the table, the disinterested waitress left them.

  “Cloak-and-dagger stuff?” Alex said, sipping. “What?”

  She looked at his eyes. Bloodshot.

  He took a deep breath. “I’ve been in meetings all day, meetings that deal with NATO issues. Issues that I can’t discuss with anyone—especially you. But they’re issues that concern you and your assignment.”

  “What do you know about my assignment? You know I can’t talk about any of this with anyone. I have a contract. Other than people with TSD and you, no one knows exactly where I am. I told my folks about Milan and Saigon—all they know is I’m on assignment, but they don’t know who I work for. You’re the only one who knows who my employer is. And I’m here because of you and your friendship with Chris.”

  “I know. That’s why this is so important.”

  “What is?”

  “Information came up in my meetings that someone is involved with the illegal distribution of military information, and the recipients are associated with people not friendly to the United States.”

  She looked at Javier, hoping he would say more. “And . . . ?”

  “I’m in a precarious spot here, both professionally and personally. I’ve learned about things that are both a great concern and a possible personal disappointment. Things I can’t talk about.”

  Alex thought for a moment, then waved at the waitress and pointed to the cups. The waitress turned and walked back to the coffee bar.

  “I think I get it. You have your duties and responsibilities, and I have mine. You can’t talk about your work, and I can’t talk about TSD. Hell, it was like that with Ralph and me—and look what it got me.” She stopped while the espressos were delivered.