‘You tell me,’ said Mac.
‘The big Chinese crime families are supporters of Pao Peng,’ said Sammy, shrugging.
‘So?’ said Mac, completely lost.
‘So, Ray was probably a proxy for Vincent Loh Han,’ said Sammy as if speaking to a child. ‘Ray Hu was the money man for the Loh Han Tong.’
Mac sat at a picnic table overlooking the Srepok, the tributary river that met the Mekong at Stung Treng. Irish and Scots backpackers lay around on a blanket getting hammered on beer in the midday heat while the fishermen and boat people cruised up and down the brown river, hiding from the sun under their conical hats.
The phone call with Jen had been quick and unhelpful: the river boat Mac had pulled Lance and Urquhart off had been found downriver, abandoned: no kids, no clues. Jen had hauled in from Jakarta the old FBI/AFP crew, which she was no longer part of. Those women would usually interact with the local cops to rescue the children, and Jen would go to war with some ambassador or police chief about how they were obstructing an investigation, and then the sniggers about the Dyke Squad would start again.
‘Your friends come all this way to drink alcohol and be sick?’ said the low voice.
Captain Loan walked past him and sat on the other side of the table. She was wearing a sun hat.
‘Not my friends,’ said Mac. ‘When you’re Irish, every day out of your country is a cause to celebrate.’
A roar of laughter and swearing went up as a man and a woman attempted to drag an unconscious bloke into the river. His pants were falling down and one of the women yelled, ‘My God, John – but you’re huge.’
Mac got straight to it. ‘You wanted to talk?’
‘Yes,’ said Loan.
‘I’ll go first,’ said Mac. ‘How’s Tranh?’
‘He’s good, Mr Richard,’ said Loan. ‘Got a shot hand.’
‘I thought he was dead.’
‘So did I,’ said Loan. ‘But he’s okay – he asked after you.’
‘He could have called,’ said Mac, annoyed.
‘He was staying uninvolved. It wasn’t his idea.’
Loan opened a water bottle and sipped from it. She was nervous, as if wanting to say something but unable to bring herself to.
‘Suppose you want to know what kind of books I sell?’ said Mac.
Loan laughed. ‘We are past that, I think. I am going to ask you an unconventional favour.’
‘Yes?’ said Mac.
‘I have avoided my family business all my life – my father broke away before I was born and he wanted me to at least have the education so I could be a good citizen of the world.’ She said it with no irony.
‘You’ve achieved that, Captain.’
‘But the intelligence arm of my organisation has brought some matters to my attention,’ she said. ‘To do with this Joel Dozsa and his associations with foreign generals.’
Mac stiffened. Was she trying to bring him in? Hand him over to Vietnamese intel? Casually glancing up and down the riverfront park, he looked for white vans and people reading tourist maps.
‘I don’t mean like that,’ said Loan. ‘It’s not appropriate for me to become involved in this – I can’t be a police officer and speak for my family.’
‘I see. What can I do?’
‘I would like you to speak to someone.’
‘Someone?’ said Mac.
‘Someone who could resolve this Dozsa matter and perhaps help you stop larger political problems.’
As they stared at one another, Mac wondered who would break first. He wasn’t about to offer a thing – this woman had stood off for two weeks, because it suited her. She still held enormous power over him.
Mac broke. ‘Who is this someone?’
‘My uncle,’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘Vincent Loh Han.’
‘He asked you this?’ said Mac, shocked.
‘Yes, Mr Richard – he has a plane waiting at the airport.’
Screeching tyres woke Mac as they landed at Tan Son Nhat Airport in Saigon. The crisp air-conditioning of the Citation corporate jet gave way to waves of heat and humidity as he descended the stairs and was ushered by two heavies into a silver GMC Yukon.
Sitting in the back, Mac watched CNN on the in-car TV feed, mounted in the back of the seat in front. The headline news from the CNN Asia desk was the flurry of last-minute diplomatic and military talks between Japan and North Korea as the communist nation prepared to do its annual testing.
There were pictures of a Japanese admiral and a North Korean general sitting in armchairs beside one another; there were Asian guys in suits disappearing into ornate rooms; there were Asian men in suits thumping lecterns and pretending to pull out their own hair, which could mean only one thing: Japan’s Diet.
Televised maps showed two routes for the ICBMs – missiles that left Earth’s atmosphere and plunged down on a predetermined target at mach 10. One route flew over the Sea of Japan and then almost over Tokyo itself, dropping its booster rockets along the way before falling in the North Pacific. The other route flew south-east, over Okinawa, landing in the South Pacific. Either way, they flew over Japanese soil – although the Koreans would probably avoid Okinawa given the fact the US had a large military base on the island.
The tests were deliberate provocations of the Japanese, which the country was tearing itself apart over: ultranationalism was as alive in Japan as it was in China, and Japanese nationalists were waiting for their own excuse to drop the self-defence force and resurrect it into the most powerful military in the Western Pacific.
The report showed the Chinese and Americans trying to broker an agreement, but the Japanese and North Koreans weren’t bending. The China–Japan–Korea argument was old and deep, and the onset of the Cold War had merely papered over a significant conflict that pulled together racial, political, economic and territorial claims in one festering boil.
An analyst from a Washington-based institute was interviewed by the anchor: he said one of the worst things that could happen in the Asian region was China and Japan being lured into a military dispute over Korea. The regional disruption, not to mention the economic damage, would hurt the entire Western Pacific, which relied on the super-economies of China, Japan and Korea.
After fifteen minutes of driving through Saturday crowds, the Yukon was ushered into a private space behind an enormous grand- stand. The heavies stood around the door, looking for threats, as Mac was beckoned out of the back seat.
A goon frisked him at a small entry door – even though he’d been thoroughly searched before getting on the plane – and then Mac and the bodyguards walked through a series of hallways, up several flights of stairs, and through a door. The roar of the crowds exploded into Mac’s head and he blinked at the sudden blast of light. There were thousands of people around the brown circuit of the Phu Tho race track in western Saigon.
In the middle of the grandstand, roped off from the crowds, sat several people, spaced around a single man in a sand-coloured suit and sky-blue shirt.
Leading Mac into the enclosure, the heavies walked respectfully up to the man and waited for him to stop talking to an aide, who scribbled down the man’s bets and then left with bricks of money.
The larger of the heavies leaned into the man’s ear and the second heavy gestured for Mac to step forwards and take a seat. Sitting, Mac turned to the round-faced Asian man, who shooed away the heavies and called a waiter.
‘Vincent Loh Han,’ he said, all smiles and Singapore dental work.
‘G’day,’ said Mac, shaking hands.
‘Would you like a drink, Richard?’ said Loh Han in good English. ‘Or should I call you Alan?’
Chapter 63
Vincent Loh Han started with the history of the Saigon Racing Club and then explained why he attended the Magic Millions s
ales on the Gold Coast each year.
‘There’s only one legal horse-racing track in Vietnam,’ said the gangster. ‘So the Asian trainer don’t concentrate on Saigon – we get the tired or the spelled horse from Thailand, Malaysia, Hong Kong. They either building up, or they on the way down.’
‘They look okay to me.’
‘Now they look okay, Mr McQueen,’ said Loh Han, taking the gin and tonic that was delivered to him, ‘because I went to Magic Million for many year buying the good bloodstock and the fast yearling.’
‘Expensive hobby,’ said Mac, taking his beer from the waiter.
‘Yes, and popular,’ said Loh Han. ‘Vietnamese people love the Aussie horse – maybe not the long bone of Europe and North America, but the big heart.’
‘I know people who go to the sales, Mr Loh Han, and they say that it doesn’t matter how much you spend, there’s no certainties in this sport,’ said Mac.
‘Ha.’ Loh Han shook a playful finger at Mac. ‘That the Aussie wisdom – I like that.’
The race finished and while Loh Han’s horse came fourth, he had a win on his betting. The aide took fresh orders for the next race and Loh Han doled out cash from a black leather overnight bag.
‘Chanthe is one of the favourite people in my whole family,’ said Loh Han, as the aide departed. ‘She is very honest and well meaning – and I don’t have a daughter of my own.’
‘Sure,’ said Mac, sipping the beer.
‘Beautiful and intelligent too,’ said Loh Han. ‘And as we know, such women can be very insecure, easily exploited by certain men.’
‘I guess so,’ said Mac, careful.
‘I want you to know that Chanthe likes you perhaps more than professionally.’
‘Look, I –’ said Mac, a little stunned.
Loh Han raised his hand. ‘I also know that you have not pressed your advantage in that regard, and that makes you a gentleman.’
‘It makes me married, Mr Loh Han,’ said Mac. ‘It’s not as if I haven’t seen what she looks like.’
‘Ha,’ said the gangster. ‘Good answer.’
As the fifth race was loading into the starting barrier, Loh Han stopped the small talk, and drew closer to Mac.
‘I have embarrassed myself, Mr McQueen,’ said Loh Han, lighting a short cigar. ‘I allied myself with some people who could now destroy my country, bring war to this region.’
‘The general?’
‘Pao Peng, yes,’ said Loh Han. ‘This started because I helped the general acquire certain technologies that would help his ambitions. My family has long ties with his and I allowed myself to help.’
‘You started managed funds that bought the assets?’
‘Yes,’ said Loh Han. ‘These are technologies open to sale and purchase on the world markets and I did not see a crime – I had some discussions with my chief money adviser and he set up the fund, started buying selected technology companies.’
‘Ray Hu?’
‘Correct,’ said Loh Han. ‘The general felt that if the fund was managed by a man famous for buying defence-related stocks and companies, then we would attract less attention from the various governments.’
‘And he’s an Australian fund manager, operating from Singapore?’ said Mac. ‘The Americans and British would ask the Aussies to do the audit?’
‘I believe that was the idea,’ said Loh Han. ‘Ray and I were very close – I spoke with him about many things, not just money. I shall miss his wisdom and humour.’
‘So will I,’ said Mac.
‘You knew Ray well?’
‘When I see something funny, I think of Ray laughing,’ said Mac, remembering how Ray would get drunk and hold forth on what an idiot some politician was, his cruel imitations reducing people to tears.
‘When I see a problem, I see Ray being three moves ahead already,’ said Loh Han. ‘I see how easily he beat me at chess – I’m his fool’s mate.’
‘Fool’s mate?’ said Mac.
‘Yes,’ said Loh Han. ‘It’s a chess strategy that creates checkmate in four moves. It’s what Ray would say if he was about to beat another bidder to a parcel of shares or make a takeover offer that he knew the directors couldn’t block.’
‘So, Ray was running this fund?’
‘Yes – I make money, the general is happy and Ray is making more money than ever.’
‘So what happened?’
‘I am introduced to a Jew who I do not like,’ said Loh Han, looking at his cigar. ‘He has charm and intellect, Mr McQueen, but it is corrupted charm. You know this type of man?’
‘I know Joel Dozsa,’ said Mac. ‘And he’s all that.’
‘Well, the general says Dozsa has an idea that will allow me to print real American currency – and that gets my attention because he can get all the codes from the US printing service, the . . .’
‘The BEP,’ said Mac.
‘Yes, that. And because I owe Pao Peng for getting the contract to supply new toilet bowls to the PLA’s barracks renovations, I go along with the counterfeit idea – we help with logistic and freight, and we provide premises and other things.’
‘An office at the Mekong Saloon?’
‘Yes, and an airline and –’
‘Airline? Is North Air a Loh Han business?’
‘Controlling interest,’ said Loh Han.
Mac’s heart sank. Loh Han pilots probably didn’t log genuine flight plans.
The gangster watched the horses jump from the barrier. ‘So, this Dozsa starts to change things.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I have lunch one day with Ray – at this restaurant right here,’ he said, pointing over Mac’s shoulder at the VIP suites at the back of the grandstand. ‘And Ray ask me what the new fund is really for.’
‘Harbour Pacific?’
‘Yes – and I know nothing about a new fund; it was supposed to be Highland Pacific. So after I argue with the general about Harbour Pacific, it seem Dozsa has overstepped and just forget to tell me about this fund; he thought the general had told me.’
‘Okay,’ said Mac, smiling.
‘Yes. So three weeks ago, I find out that Dozsa has not helped me print some real US dollars for my own amusement – he has built a factory in the forest and is printing the US currency by the billion.’
‘That annoy you?’
‘Yes, Mr McQueen, it annoyed me,’ said Loh Han, finishing his drink. ‘I am a businessman. Most of my income is from my banking and lending interests. We have assets in freight, shipping and trucks; we own hotels and we rent more motor scooters to tourists in South-East Asia than any other company.’
‘So?’
‘So a man printing US notes by the billions is not trying to get rich – he is trying to collapse a currency and, with it, the economy,’ said Loh Han. ‘People are rude about me because they say I the gangster, right?’
‘Sure,’ said Mac.
‘But I do not want the US currency to collapse in Asia,’ said Loh Han, eyes wide. ‘That the exchange currency for business – that’s our benchmark currency! Why I want to ruin that currency?’
‘You don’t, I suppose.’
‘No. So when I hear that an Aussie spy is coming to Saigon to follow the corrupt Australian, I try to get Tranh to be the driver, right?’
‘You did – he’s a good man.’
‘A good kid,’ said Loh Han. ‘But he reporting back and I realise you not following Geraldine McHugh, the currency traitor. You following her husband, Jim Quirk.’
‘Surprised?’
‘Sure,’ said Loh Han. ‘I ask why. I dig deeper, I follow you and then I follow the Americans.’
‘And?’
‘And the Americans are following you and their phone calls are talking about HARPA
C, and I think this can’t be Harbour Pacific, can it? This can’t be my fund that I didn’t even start?’
‘Shit,’ said Mac, breath hissing out of him. If the various arms of Aussie intel had worked together – and the Prime Minister’s office wasn’t so keen to outsmart the spooks – Mac would have known about the Harbour Pacific problems a month ago. He wouldn’t have put Ray in that position with Lao at the Pan Pac Hotel.
‘So, what happened?’ said Mac.
‘I made one of the great mistakes of my life,’ said Loh Han. ‘I rang Ray, said I wanted to come down and go through the Harbour Pacific books, to see what we were really buying. My private jet was being used by my accountants in Honolulu, so I flew Singapore Airlines and stayed with Ray and Liesl.’
Loh Han paused as the aide returned with a heavy chunk of cash in a canvas bank bag. Loh Han took the bag, issued orders for more bets and handed out a wad of cash. Mac laughed to himself: Loh Han kept every bag of winnings along with the betting chit – he probably checked his payouts later to ensure his own people weren’t stealing.
‘We went through the asset manifests, Mr McQueen, and we made a lot of calls. Ray talks to many people in defence technology so he was calling his friends in the Netherlands, Germany, United States and Japan. And it all added up to one thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘Harbour Pacific had the asset that allow us to control the launch of North Korean ballistic missile system,’ said Loh Han. ‘The last piece was a micro-transceiver that sits between the general staff’s key and mission controller – only when both are accessed at the same time can the missile be launched and controlled. Harbour Pacific owned the British firm that make the silicon-copper switch for this safety device – we had total control. It didn’t make me feel powerful, Mr McQueen, it made me feel sick.’
‘What about the vetting?’
‘An agent of the Australian Tax Office had visited two weeks earlier, demanding to audit Harbour Pacific because Ray was the Australian citizen.’
‘Who was the tax guy?’ said Mac.
‘Ray assumed he was spy from Aussie intelligence,’ said the gangster. ‘I took the tape from Ray’s office and showed it to my friends.’
Counter Attack Page 41
