Saigon Red

by Gregory C. Randall

  “Your mother?”

  “And to be honest, she scares me more than the government. We will catch this Ghost. We will stop this Chinese organization. We will stop the spying and international intrigue associated with all this. But overall, I have to make my mother happy.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Detective Tran Phan’s secretary handed him a note with a phone number scrawled on it. He saw the area code, according to a quick check on his computer, was from Cleveland, Ohio. He did not know anyone from Cleveland, Ohio. Why was someone from the United States calling him? Then again, he could easily share a bottle of scotch with all the Americans he knew in HCMC. He tapped the note with his pencil. Curiosity got the better of him. He punched in the number.

  “This is Detective Tran Phan with the Ho Chi Minh City Police Department,” he said in English. “You called me?”

  Over the speaker, a woman’s voice responded, “Detective Phan, thank you for returning my call. My name is Alexandra Polonia; I’m calling about the incident at the Como Motors technology facility earlier this year—where two Americans were murdered.”

  Phan paused, surprised. “Ms. Polonia, how can I help you?”

  “I work for the company that employed those men. I’m trying to find out what happened. Our investigation has missing parts. I’d hoped that you might be able to fill in the blanks.”

  “Fill in the blanks? I think I understand what you’re asking, and the answer is no. We do not share our evidence with anyone. Sorry.”

  “You don’t want our help solving this crime? I find that hard to believe.”

  “We are a city of eight million. There are murders and suspicious deaths every day. My job is to solve them. I’m sure that I don’t need help from someone who’s in Cleveland, Ohio.”

  “I’m here in Saigon.”

  He tapped the note again. “We Vietnamese prefer Ho Chi Minh City.”

  “I’m sure you do. In any case, my boss ordered me to find out who killed our associates. And my boss always gets what he wants.”

  “Sounds like a nice guy. I met some of your people. They were not that cooperative. You didn’t want to help us then, so why now?”

  “New evidence has been found.”

  He paused. “New evidence? What would be more helpful is the truth. We still don’t share our evidence. And we’re pursuing our own leads.”

  “And these are . . . ?”

  “Again, Ms. Polonia, I am not one to share information.”

  “At least a conversation,” the woman said. “What we have might be considered a gift.”

  Phan retrieved his coffee from his new coffee maker and sipped. He nodded. While he preferred tea, this coffee was very good. “I’m always open to a conversation. Is there someplace you would like to meet?”

  “Your office? Is that acceptable?”

  “My office is a disaster. There’s barely enough room for another chair.”

  “Where do you suggest?”

  “The Sheraton hotel has a nice rooftop bar that looks over the city—say in one hour. You can buy me lunch.”

  Phan’s walk was exactly thirty minutes. Three-quarters of the way, breathing heavily, he decided for the hundredth time to quit smoking. As he walked through the lobby of the Sheraton, the air-conditioning chilled his damp shirt, extracting a shiver. The elevator to the twenty-third floor opened near the restaurant and bar. He liked this restaurant. From sixty meters in the air, the city looked deceptively serene; he knew differently. He ordered a beer, a Budweiser. After about twenty minutes, three crushed cigarette butts sat in the ashtray. A blonde, clearly an American, walked through the bar, casually studying the patrons that filled the barstools and tables. A large bag hung on her shoulder. When she passed by for the third time, he asked, “Are you Alexandra Polonia?”

  The woman stared at him and scrunched her forehead. “Are you Detective Phan?”

  “Yes.” He stood and offered her the opposite chair. “You looked surprised.”

  “I didn’t expect a European.” She offered her hand. “I’m Alex Polonia. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “The pleasure is mine. I’m half-American and half-Vietnamese. My father died during the war, before I was born.”

  She looked at his beer. “Budweiser?”

  “Very fancy—until a few years ago, it was imported. We now have a brewery here in Vietnam.” He looked at the waiter and pointed to his bottle. A second Budweiser appeared a moment later.

  “Ms. Polonia, why are you here and not that insufferable Mr. Karns or his boss, Jake . . . something?”

  “I work for their boss, Christopher Campbell. It’s his company, Teton Security and Defense. I understand that you’ve met Mr. Campbell.”

  “Yes, a brief visit. You’re not very good, are you?”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “If you’re such a big-shot international security firm, how come it was so easy for someone to break into your client’s facility and kill two of your people?”

  He grinned. He guessed she was not pleased with his comments.

  She smirked in return. “I used to do that; I was a cop. I’d badger and poke the bear, looking for a response. All to see if I could get something to use.”

  The waiter returned to the table.

  “Let me order,” he said. “Just a few dishes to nibble. I usually eat a light lunch.”

  He spoke in Vietnamese with the waiter, who nodded and left.

  “The food is good here,” he went on. “Not great, but more than just edible.” He lit another cigarette and saw the disapproval on her face. He took one long drag and then crushed it next to the others.

  “I didn’t mean to make you put it out.”

  “I’m trying to quit.”

  “That’s what my father said,” she said. “Just a few weeks ago, in fact.”

  “My kids pester me almost daily.”

  “How many?”

  “Two at home, Kim and Kha. Kim is in college. She’s nineteen. Kha is finishing high school this year. He hopes to go to college. They’re both good kids, considering.”

  “Considering what?”

  “Being Amerasian. There’s still resentment to mixed-race children here. My wife and I had a tough life growing up and dealing with it. The kids are still dealing with some of it.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Yes, Jessica is also half-American. We fell in together, probably because we were both outcasts—that’s not the right word. More like on the fringe. We Amerasians are called bui doi, the dust. And it’s not meant to be complimentary. We’re okay; we both had good parents raise us. Jessica is an interpreter working for American Express.”

  “You said at home. There’re others?”

  “Am I being interrogated, Detective?”

  “Ex-detective. And it’s for your rude behavior when I sat—payback.”

  He raised his hands in surrender. “Yes, we have another son. We’ve not seen or heard from him in years. He had a difficult time dealing with the street gangs and the racial taunts. Beat up a few kids when he was a teenager. We did what we could. Then one day he disappeared. I’ve looked for years. We hope someday he will return.”

  The waiter returned and left plates with chicken wings, egg rolls, skewers of meat, shrimp, and scallops, and some pieces of sushi. Detective Phan described each of the items.

  “Looks delicious,” Alex said.

  He ordered two more beers.

  “Now, what do you have that would help me with this investigation?” Phan asked.

  “How about a trade? I may have something you need.”

  He bit off the end of a fried shrimp. “Need? I’m curious. So, being magnanimous and since you’re paying the bill, I will start.”

  For the next ten minutes, he told her about the evidence that was found at the crime scene, the residue left by the bullets, the speculations about the man based on the grainy data files that TSD had handed over. He offered his explanation about the theft. He believ
ed that someone, probably Chinese, wanted something in the facility but was interrupted before they could finish the operation.

  “Why Chinese?”

  “My coroner and crime-scene investigators believe that the weapon used was sophisticated and high-tech. We have nothing like it, and neither does anyone else—as far as we know. Here in Vietnam, we immediately suspect the Chinese. Two thousand years has burned our suspicion of them into our DNA.”

  “You haven’t a suspect?”

  “No, the modus operandi is like other break-ins. In fact, last fall there was a robbery at the Bitexco Financial Tower—it’s that building there—where, we were told, software was stolen that allowed financial organizations to manipulate bitcoins. A security camera caught the back of the man; he somewhat resembles the man in the video we were given by your company. That’s one piece of this crime that I don’t understand: the thief acted as if he knew where every camera was located. Now how do you think he knew that?”

  “We’re investigating that ourselves.”

  “It’s too bad that your company didn’t have better surveillance videos; it would be a great help.”

  The woman’s phone began to ring. Annoyed, he looked at her.

  “Sorry,” she said. “One moment.” After saying hello, she listened, then said, “I’ll be home in an hour.” She clicked off.

  “You have your family here?” Phan asked.

  “No, it’s my other job. I’m security for a foreign family living here. My client is a manager with an Italian manufacturing firm.”

  “You wear lots of hats. You said you have something for me?”

  She reached into the large bag she’d brought, removed a brown envelope, and laid it on the table. “We were not all that forthcoming, Detective.”

  Phan pursed his lips. “I’m shocked.”

  She slid the large envelope to him. “We did have additional footage from other cameras, data that we didn’t turn over. We attempted to independently try and find out what this was all about.”

  “And did you?”

  “Our firm has resources around the world and is closely aligned with some governmental agencies.”

  “American agencies?”

  “Yes, and others. Based on this, we’ve determined that this thief and murderer is a man who works for a Chinese company that’s involved in industrial and governmental espionage on an international level. He’s a sociopath. Many have died; the two at the facility were added to his crimes.”

  “Do you have any idea who this killer is?”

  “Various international agencies call him Con Ma.”

  “Con Ma? Vietnamese for ‘the Ghost.’ How creative.”

  “The bodies he leaves behind and the information he’s stolen have cost countries millions of dollars, not to mention the pain of the families of the dead.”

  “That’s not my problem. However, I do not like it when people are murdered in my town. I’m a simple policeman.”

  “So was I, until the world fell out from under me. Now I’m working for TSD and trying hard to discover Con Ma’s real identity.”

  “And I assume who is also behind the thefts of data and technology. That is more to the point. Some days, I think that people value information and their cause more than lives. Vietnam’s history for the last hundred years has proven that over and over.” He put his hand on the envelope and pulled it toward him. “Inside?”

  “A clear photo of Con Ma, the Ghost. We hope that the police have information that will help us find him.”

  He opened the envelope, slid out the photo, and stared at the picture. His stomach turned, and he thought he would retch. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat away from his forehead. He then set the photo back on the table.

  The woman said something, but he didn’t hear what. It was as if his ears had filled with the buzzing from the street sixty meters below. He ran the handkerchief over his face again. He reached for a cigarette and tried to light it. His fingers wouldn’t work the lighter, and his heart pounded heavily in his chest. The woman said something again. All he heard was, “. . . you, are you all right?”

  CHAPTER 32

  “Are you okay?” Alex asked, seeing Phan’s distress. “What’s the matter, Detective?”

  The cigarette finally lit. He took a long drink from his beer, then set it back on the table next to the photo.

  “I’ll be all right,” Phan answered as he continued to stare at the photo. “Where did you get this?”

  “A low-light digital video camera attached to exterior of the facility. I’m authorized to apologize for not handing it over sooner. There’s a thumb drive in the envelope as well—it has the entire video.” Alex looked around for their waiter. “You don’t look well. Let me get you some water.”

  He held up his hand and waved her off. “Ms. Polonia, are you positive that this is Con Ma?”

  “Yes, Detective. In fact, I saw this same man in Dubai a week ago and yesterday at the Ben Thanh Market. He had contact with my—”

  “Yesterday? You saw this man yesterday?”

  “Yes, he’s involved in an operation that may be compromising NATO security. I saw him. He wasn’t more than twenty feet away.”

  Alex watched as Phan turned his face back to her. She had never seen such pain. In fact, it wasn’t pain—it was anguish. It was as if everything was being twisted out of the man. The agony was obvious.

  “Do you need a doctor?”

  She watched as the detective placed both hands on the edge of the table and took a long, slow breath.

  “What is this, some kind of sick game you Americans play?” He looked again at the photo, then turned it over. “I do not appreciate this—this ambush. Yes, I know who this man is, but it’s a Vietnamese national security interest. We will handle it from now on. As far as I’m concerned, if you pursue this any further, I will have you and your entire organization tossed out of the country—or worse.”

  Stunned, Alex asked, “So, he is who we think he is? Do you have a name?”

  “National interest! I can’t add anything more to this conversation.” Phan stood, and his hands visibly shook. He motioned to the waiter, said something in Vietnamese. The waiter removed a vinyl folder from his apron pocket. Phan looked at the bill and stuffed it with some cash, then turned and began to hurry out of the restaurant.

  What the hell? Alex thought.

  She collected her documents and followed the man. He was waiting at the elevator, pounding his fist into his hand. Then he took his fists and began pounding on the elevator door. Alex reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him away.

  “Damn it, what’s the problem, Detective?”

  Tears were running down the man’s face. The door opened, and four businessmen pushed their way out. Phan slipped in between them and hit the lobby button. She followed him in.

  “No—you, out. Go.”

  “No, not until you tell me what’s happening.”

  His glare scared her. He then put one finger up in front of his nose. It vibrated like a tuning fork. “I know I will regret this—follow me.”

  The ride to the lobby seemed to take forever. Alex never took her eyes off the man. Phan hurried out the hotel doors to Dong Khoi Street and turned toward the river. He said nothing as Alex quick-walked alongside. She knew something was going to burst—her skills said so—but the man needed time to pull it together. She waited, said nothing. They passed the rear entry to Campbell’s hotel. She thought about calling him but decided against it. They crossed Duron Ton Duc Thang that paralleled the Saigon River and went into a park that overlooked the river.

  Chess tables were scattered under the trees, three with players. A carousel full of children turned to a tune she didn’t know. Benches lined the walk, and boys and their girlfriends walked hand in hand.

  Phan looked out on the river, and Alex followed his gaze toward a small fishing boat that motored slowly upstream.

  Eventually he pointed to t
he envelope. “Show me the picture again.”

  As he sat at an open table, she spread the photo and two others on its weathered checkerboard surface.

  He looked at the photo a long time, then tapped it. “This man, this Ghost, is my son, Lin Van Phan. What do you know about him?”

  Now it was Alex’s turn. Her stomach rolled over. At the same time, her heart fluttered. She felt the immense pressure of a thousand pounds on her shoulders. She looked again at Phan and felt her face harden. The confusion on his face grew.

  “Are you having an attack?” he asked. “You look terrible.”

  She took a deep breath, deliberately exhaled, and steadied herself. “I cannot believe this. In fact, I won’t believe this. After the break-in, this man—who you say is your son—was wounded. Our people took DNA samples from the blood he left at the scene. The profiles matched another profile that was in our data bank.”

  “It matched me? I’ve never had my DNA tested. Are you saying you knew this was my son, and until now, you wouldn’t tell me?”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m not saying that at all. The DNA was a match to . . . me.”

  “You? How the hell could it be a match to you? There is no way . . .” The impact of the realization hit Phan so hard, he jerked to his feet.

  “Now, I know this is a trick,” he exclaimed. “A trick by you Americans—a trick to force me to turn over my son.”

  “Sit down,” Alex demanded. “Now!”

  Phan reluctantly sat.

  “This concerns me as much as it concerns you,” Alex said. “I came to you hoping to find the answer to a question: Who is this man—this man who, it seems, is my nephew? And now I find out that I have a brother that I never knew existed, that he is a policeman, and that my father’s family has grown—significantly.”

  Phan shook his head. “I cannot believe this. My father is dead—I will not believe it.”