The Sixth Man

by Ron Lealos

  “Talk like that could get you a private cell in Hung Dao, sharing your stale rice with the rats,” Nguyen said, shaking his head. “I had nothing to do with the death of that unfortunate woman.”

  “Which one was that?”

  He was about to take a sip of his frothy tea. Instead, he set the cup back down and scowled.

  “No more poking like I’m a con nhen,” he said. Spider. “Believe me, I bite.”

  “Then tell me what your eminence wants from a poor peasant like me,” I said.

  “A story,” Nguyen said. “One I started before, but was rudely disturbed. Your words have stirred my memory like a stick in an anthill. Again, the tale begins in the Phuoc Long Province of the Central Highlands, the ancestral home of the Montagnards. The spies from the CIA recruited Degars to help the American fish bellies against the Viet Cong, especially to harass the shipment of arms and supplies south on the Ho Chi Minh Trail. The Degars were ruthless and fought with a vengeance and brutality grown from centuries of supposed discrimination by the various Vietnamese governments, always directed from the lowland capitals.”

  Watching the clock on the wall being attacked by a gecko was more interesting than listening to this propaganda that every first-level schoolchild in Vietnam had heard many times in an attempt to ensure the ruling class continued to be able to squeeze every last dong out of the workers. Besides, he’d already recited this fable. I pulled at my ear and sighed, letting Nguyen know it was, once more, time to move on.

  Nguyen wasn’t pleased. That was obvious by the way he clucked his tongue on his teeth. He stopped his lecture and glared.

  “It must be a myth you chinks have learned patience,” he said. “Again, I would advise you to keep your thoughts to yourself. I have much to say.” He motioned the pink-clad waitress over and ordered another frothy tea, this time with extra milk and pearl tapioca.

  Maybe he could read my mind. Or it was the way I acted as if there were a nest of subterranean termites in my slacks. Two murders today and I was forced to sit and listen to political disinformation. I needed to get back to work. I smiled, in case my voice became too sharp, having decided a gentle approach would be more productive.

  “You’re about as interesting as watching a water buffalo chew on rice shoots,” I said. “Tell me what you want from me before I get too old to hear. Or care.”

  “I will ignore you for now only because you could be useful. Be quiet or I will send you screaming to visit your ancestors.”

  I bowed, motioning him to go forward with a wave of my fingers and a slight nod of agreement.

  “December 1967,” Nguyen said. “The Viet Cong, along with our comrades from what was then North Vietnam, were trying to establish transportation routes through the mountains along the Cambodian border. A few hundred brave soldiers came into Dac Sun and were attacked by the villagers. The freedom fighters retaliated, and the entire hamlet was destroyed. Three hundred Montagnards died. Old men, women, and children hid in bunkers they had dug out, but the mortars and machine guns found them. Everyone was killed. It was meant to send a message to all the other Degar communities in the Highlands. It was regrettable that nearly every able-bodied man was already away helping the American devils. This incident, no matter how unfortunate, helped pacify the locals and open up the trail.” He stopped and looked over my shoulder as if he were watching someone out on the busy street.

  Following his eyes, I noticed a man staring at us while he squatted on the sidewalk. Even from this distance, I could tell he was obviously Montagnard. The watcher made no attempt to conceal himself, his boxy face, or his concentration on the Quickly Bang’s customers.

  “Maybe you better get to the point and stop with the history lesson,” I said, turning back to Nguyen. “It seems there’s someone very interested in us. And I think it has to do with the dead comrades and the unlucky woman. Is that a fair guess?”

  He brought his eyes slowly back to me.

  “You Chinese seem to be in a great hurry,” he said. “I’ll try to finish before the next dynasty.”

  “Why don’t you focus on what I don’t know,” I said. “The massacre at Dac Sun is common knowledge. The important point is what it has to do with the murdered Politburo members and the woman we just left bleeding on the street from the new hole you put in her head. Mostly, what any of this has to do with me. I feel like the monkey in the banyan tree, watching the tigers battle below.”

  “Why do you believe I shot her?”

  “Every time you take a sip of your frothy tea, I smell the gun powder on your fingers.”

  “I came directly from the firing range.”

  “No one ran. I was right there, and the gun was fired from exactly where you appeared.”

  “There were many standing or walking around that could have done the shooting.”

  “I would guess none had your information or motivation. Or a pistol. I think the Degars may have come down from the mountains and you might be a tool in the cleansing.”

  “And I’m a target for surveillance?”

  “Maybe now that you’re involved in the investigation, you are. Or, it could be me.”

  Nguyen laughed. The first time his face had creased into a smile. He was truly worthy of his own TV series.

  “You? Why would anyone be after you?”

  I grinned, too, making sure it was obvious to the man outside we were having a jolly good time.

  “Pardon me, but I would like to continue your fable myself. It will become clear to you.” I bowed my head and waited for Nguyen’s consent.

  Nguyen only blinked. I took it as a sign of his approval.

  “After the end of the war with the American running dogs,” I said, “I met a Montagnard who called himself Luong. He told me a story. One that involved a man nicknamed Night Snake. And the slaughter of Luong’s village. Twice. He started his tale with a few highlights of his days with the Night Snake.” Nguyen didn’t look in the least interested in the Luong and Night Snake saga, making me wonder if he already knew the highlights. The Viet Cong had a long memory and the Saigon police was still largely run by ex-black-pajama’ed soldiers, meaning this young officer would have read the files.

  The man was asleep. Beside him, a woman snored softly, while two young children next to her sucked their thumbs and imagined full rice bowls. The family was curled into thin burlap blankets, even in the stifling heat of Delta summer darkness. The Night Snake was closest, his silenced Hush Puppy .22 already pressed against the man’s head. He pulled gently on the trigger and the victim’s skull bounced, rising an inch off the pillow made of rags stuffed into an old T-shirt. The woman and children didn’t stir, continuing to spend time in a dreamland that would never be the same.

  The assassin’s real name was Morgan. Frank Morgan. The Viet Cong had given him the title Gan Con Ran, Night Snake, and a reward of one million piasters for his capture. Dead or alive. Morgan’s weapon of choice was the silenced pistol or a garrote, both capable of killing with little noise. Besides killing, his talent was a ghostlike ability to sneak into a room unheard and unseen, vanishing after he left at least one target dead. That was why he was feared across the Mekong Delta and into the Central Highlands. If you were on his list, sleep would soon be suddenly eternal.

  This starless night, the target was a supposed local Viet Cong cadre chief. The space where the family slept was the back of a two-room hootch in a tiny hamlet a few klicks south of Can Tho. No one would ever know if the rumor about the now-dead man supposedly confirmed by the Rand computer in Saigon was true. It only took a single wrong word and it was a death sentence. A slap of a punch card and no judge. No jury. Just wasted.

  Morgan wasn’t alone on this op. Covering his back at the door to the small hut, a Montagnard scanned the surrounding dried mud, paying close attention to the tree line fifty meters away. His name was Luong and his home was the village of Dac Sun.

  Luong had returned to Dac Sun after helping a Special Forces squad clear a very ac
tive Delta sector of North Vietnamese Army and Viet Cong fighters. They’d been ruthless, spending weeks in the bush until anyone even remotely suggested as the enemy was killed. Luong was the lead scout, and much of the body count came from his knife or M-14. When he came back on leave, Dac Sun was empty, the village burned to the ground, only spirits of his loved ones remaining. Luong swore to the animal gods that should have protected Dac Sun that he would murder as many flatland Vietnamese as possible. Within a year, he was recruited by agents of the Phoenix Program, the CIA’s name for those directing the secret assassination squads. Luong was teamed with Morgan, and they became the most lethal and notorious pairing in the country, giving Luong the opportunity to murder or help eliminate even more cut cho Vietnamese. Dog shit.

  On this starless night, a man appeared from the palm and jackfruit trees, moving slowly across the open area of the vil. He was followed immediately by a half dozen more black-pajama’ed fighters with their AK-47s covering every direction. Luong clucked his tongue lightly on the top of his mouth, the danger signal for Morgan, who was already moving toward the thatched door.

  Something must have alerted the VC, who were already watchful. Instantly, the first man dropped to the dirt and began firing toward the hootch. Luong turned quickly and pushed Morgan back into the hut as bullets began to shred the bamboo walls. The night was lit by tracers and the crack of shattering reeds overwhelmed even the screams of the surviving family. Aiming at the back wall, Luong began to fire his M-14 into the bamboo, shoving Morgan through the hole. Morgan rushed outside, while Luong turned, letting loose burst from his assault with one hand while he pulled an M61 grenade from his belt with the other and tossed it at the VC. Bullets had nearly cut the hootch in half, chunks of wood filling the air. Luong dashed out the back as Morgan threw another M61 and ran toward the tree line, Luong close behind.

  Before they made it to cover, Morgan stumbled in the dried mud from the impact of a 7.62 caliber Kalashnikov bullet in his calf. Luong hesitated only long enough to grab the back of Morgan’s camo fatigue and pull him to his feet, pushing him into the trees as the bullets exploded all around them. Dropping to the ground and protected by the hardwoods, they turned back toward the rifle fire and began to pick off the remaining VC one by one, their M-14s on semi-auto. The mad minute was over in seconds, and Luong helped Morgan to his feet, guiding him through the jungle and back toward Can Tho.

  As soon as he felt safe and hidden under the dense jungle roof, Luong stopped Morgan and cleaned the wound, wrapping it in gauze bandages. The round had just grazed Morgan, taking out a clean chunk the size of a stubby pencil. He was going to be OK, even if it was awhile before they reached base camp. During one rest break, Morgan stared into the darkness and began to question Luong, both their backs resting against a giant banyan, the trunk as wide as a VW bug was long.

  “Why do you do this?” Morgan asked. “I think you’d have taken their scalps if we’d have had the time. At least an ear. Or a nose. I’ve never seen so much hatred in one man.”

  Luong was not one to talk much more than about basic needs and simple translations. And who or when to kill, especially a need-to-know when his hunger for dead Vietnamese would be satisfied. In fact, Morgan used to think he got more conversation out of one of the temple monkeys, who at least screeched for food. Even in the dark of a triple-canopy-jungle night, Morgan could see Luong was thinking, trying to decide what to say. Whatever it was, Morgan knew it would be short and packed with meaning.

  “They kill all family,” Luong said. “I fight with Green Berets. Come home to village. All dead. Women. Children. Old men. Everyone. Their souls must be free. The only way, kill Viets. Any Viets. All filthy Viets.” He began to grip his M-14 as if he would snap it in half like a dried VC bone.

  It was the only time Morgan heard the story. But it was not the last time he witnessed the loathing and revenge that consumed Luong. Over the next few months, Morgan had to pull Luong away from several slaughters that would have threatened both of them.

  That was just the first chapter.

  The Quickly Bang was fast becoming overwhelmed. All the Formica tables now held patrons studying the tea and juice choices. As usual, the level of conversation was at a decibel level to match the screeching cyclos on the street. It nearly drowned Nguyen’s response to my tale. He put down his cup and glowered.

  “I’ve heard this kind of trau di tieu before,” Nguyen said. Buffalo shit. He didn’t look me in the eye. It sounded like the words had been rehearsed. “These malicious tales are just lies spread by the western money mongers in order to disrupt our worker’s utopia. We welcome all citizens of Vietnam with open arms into the community and family of socialism.” He stopped with the platitudes and smiled like I imagined a bamboo snake would before the creature bit. “Even the box-faced mountain apes.”

  It was not the only time I’d laughed at the absurd jingoisms and intolerance that sprouted like rice shoots throughout the country. One thing the slogans had in common was they were fed by the cac coming from the mouths of our supposedly elected officials. I had to hold my fruit juice tight to keep it from spilling on the table that already held a half-dozen rust-colored weaver ants starving for more sugar.

  As experienced as I was in poking the tiger in the rotting cage of Vietnamese politics, it was a guess how much Nguyen would tolerate without having me taken to the basement of Hung Dao Street for a long chat with an electric prod. As with our politburo members and politicians around the globe, “crows everywhere are equally black,” and I sensed Nguyen understood this Chinese proverb more than he would admit. I pressed onward, not waiting for him to make the call requesting a squad car.

  “You must know where my chronicle is going,” I said. “Whether or not the rulers acknowledge their existence, the mountains are covered with a few million tribesmen who would fight to the death to burn any commissars or their lackeys alive.” I took a short sip of my drink, watching a man pass outside the window behind Nguyen. The man was on a bicycle and covered completely by wicker baskets holding chickens. Feathers drifted in the wind, covering him in a white blanket. I turned back to Nguyen, who seemed to be at least tolerant of my rant. “Our job is to find out which one.”

  “Even if I believed a word of your mythical wanderings,” Nguyen said, “you still haven’t explained why anyone would be targeting our leaders in the politburo.”

  If I wanted to continue in this investigation, and I did, I would have to play my matching mahjong tile now. I reached in my pocket and took out the jungle picture, handing it to Nguyen with a smile that let him know how valuable I was.

  Taking the photo in his hands, Nguyen stared down at the death scene.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked.

  This time, I couldn’t contain the grin.

  “Coincidentally,” I said, “at the home of a man named Nguyen. Maybe he was a relative of yours?”

  “No.”

  “I think you recognize him. You were just at his house and followed me. That was a few minutes before you shot the woman.”

  “I’m tired of telling you I didn’t shoot that woman.”

  “Oh, I forgot. You’re as innocent as the men in the picture.”

  “Would you like to come down to headquarters now? Or tell me?”

  “It was upstairs at the last victim’s villa. Three of those smiling above the dead girls have been murdered recently. A snapshot nearly the same as this one was left on each victim. Certainly, they were younger then. I think you understand and are only tolerating me, a lowly Chinese detective, because I might be useful. I’m like injecting venom to save your life.”

  “And you recognize the smiling men?”

  “Of course. You do too.”

  “Do you have copies?”

  “No. I just found it a few minutes before we were introduced.”

  “This print is why you’ve been tiring me with your story of assassins? You’re as dreadful as a hairless street mongrel with rabies.”<
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  “Well, they didn’t promote you for being handsome. You can figure out a mystery just as fast as it took you to find out who was truly your mother.”

  “At least mine raised me. It would have taken questioning all the whores in District One to find your true mamasan. Every papasan in the neighborhood drank from her honey bags.”

  “No matter how much I enjoy the banter, you asked a serious question. I’ll try to answer to your satisfaction, though that might give me as hard a time as it was for you to make your girlie-boy friend happy last night.”

  “Go ahead. I’m speechless with anticipation and hard as a rock.”

  “First, I’ll start with a question. Who else is in the picture?”

  “It looks like some dead hill people and some others behind them, three of whom have recently been murdered.”

  “Did you recognize the man on the far left?”

  It was the real reason this dandy was tolerating my barbs. He knew the answer and had only been patient while he tried to figure out if I was aware the smiling man on the right was still alive and now was the most powerful man in the country, Nguyen Minh Triet, the President of Vietnam. Triet had risen to power by supposedly going after corruption, both in the government and private enterprise, especially the arrest of Truong Van Cam, better known as Nam Cam, the Orange Man, who was the leader of the city’s secretive underworld. Most people on the streets of Ho Chi Minh City knew Triet differently and distrusted him as much as any other politician who hid behind walled bougainvillea-covered mansions and rode in armored black Mercedes limousines. If I didn’t already realize it, I’d have to be careful this wouldn’t be the last day I ate rice balls and nuoc mam fish sauce with my favorite ivory chopsticks. I just kept smiling and nodding like I was another stupid, subservient Chinese.

  “Who do you think it is?” Nguyen asked.

  “I believe he lives in the Presidential Palace in Hanoi,” I said.

  “How many more have seen the picture?”

  “If you’re thinking about eliminating them, let me suggest the ones who’ve seen the photo recently are not the threat. More likely, it’s the ancestors of the dead innocents at Triet’s feet in the picture.” Now, I tried to add a little hot sauce to the discussion, suggesting I was important to the ongoing investigation. “And maybe their Night Snake friend.”