by Ron Lealos
“Stop whinging,” Luong said. “You’re coming with us. Can you shoot an AK?”
“Of course,” I said. “I had to go through police training. Even if they don’t let me carry a weapon, I do know how to use one.”
Across the small room, Hatati continued to study the printouts. It was getting late now, and, Ma Jing’s being an impossibility, all I wanted was to go to sleep, cradling my still-pulsing fingers to my chest. I could barely process all that had gone on today and longed for a few seconds of closed eyes.
Morgan came back, holding the phone at his side. He glanced at me and stopped.
“Captain Fang,” he said, “you look like a dried lizard skin. You need some rest. Lie down on the couch while I speak with Luong and Hatati.”
For once, I didn’t argue or make a cynical comment. I did what he said, not even bothering to give Morgan a comic salute.
Morning traffic noise of bleeping motorbikes and honking horns woke me. I opened my eyes to wide-open windows that let daylight flood the room. I could hear murmurs from the kitchen and smell coffee brewing. It took a few seconds to figure out where I was, but the rich smell drew me to the other room.
“Chao buoi sang,” I said. Good morning. Three heads nodded, and I joined them at the folding table. They didn’t seem in the least tired, and I wondered if the amphetamines the Americans were famous for using had kept them awake.
“We’re just planning breakfast,” Hatati said. “We’ve got a big day ahead. What would you like?”
Typically, I wasn’t much for breakfast, but when I did eat, I stayed with the traditional Vietnamese morning dishes.
“Noodles with beef marrow, oxtail, flank steak, cloves, ginger, and onions would be fine,” I said, bowing.
Hatati stood and walked over to the cupboard, opening the door.
“How about a bowl of Special K?” she asked. “Milk?” She went to a small refrigerator.
When it was all in front of me, I ate and drank my cup of coffee while Luong, Hatati, and Morgan talked among themselves, acting as if I were a gecko on the wall. I was probably destined to be the getaway driver, not a soldier on this operation. From that point on, I didn’t pay too close attention, instead wondering how I’d stay alive without defecting to the West.
After my last spoonful, Morgan spun toward me.
“You’ll be carrying a pack with rope, C-4, plus an AK-47, a pistol, knife, radio, and grenades about two miles, mostly uphill,” he said. “The weight will be around forty pounds. Can we count on you not to have a stroke?”
“Can’t I hire a porter?” I asked.
“No. In fact you’ll be going in first. If it’s a trap, you’re the one we can spare.”
“Oh, here we go again. Sacrifice a squint.”
“There are a few billion of you anyway.”
“You know what my people call you whiteys?”
“No.”
“‘Mayonnaise’ is a nice one. I prefer ‘turd mold.’”
“Careful or I’ll drop a rock or two into your pack and take out all the bullets in your rifle.”
“I suppose you’ll want me to be the executioner too.”
“No,” Luong said. “I get that pleasure. You’re just a donkey.”
“When does the adventure begin?”
“Tonight,” Morgan said. “We’ll leave this afternoon. Luong and I have to go out and get supplies. Hatati will stay here with you and explain the details.” He got up from the table. “While you’re lounging around, check on the laptop if there’s any change you can find in Quang’s position.”
Hatati and Luong followed Morgan into the front room and I gazed at the small pool of milk in the bottom of my cereal bowl.
A poem. It resonated in my head, written by Nguyen Hue many years ago.
With the army on hasty march at night
The calm Prince quietly pulled out the dagger
He had long before hidden on himself
And aimed it at his neck ready to die.
I was no “Prince.” I wasn’t even close to a royal. More like the lice in the Prince’s hair. But I wasn’t prepared to be a suicide, even if a spin on my reincarnation wheel didn’t frighten me. As recently as yesterday, I might not have felt this optimism for life. Now, I was finally snared in the web of something that mattered other than the next bubbling bowl at Ma Jing’s. For the first time in memory, I was interested, not sitting on my dit thinking of how words were my sword and whether I’d win the eternal duel with my lashing wit. I wanted to be alive and would follow these three criminals straight to the hangman. I was convinced I wasn’t like the Prince of Hue’s poem. There was no dagger aimed at my neck, only choices. There was not a single doubt about the “team” I was on, whether or not it was my final game. I stood and went into the main room, not bothering to clear the dish or put away the Special K. I chuckled at the thought that any of that mattered in the universal comedy I had jumped into with an open mind.
Morgan and Luong were at the door on the way out. Morgan stopped and gave Hatati a hug, wrapping his arms around her as if she were porcelain, whispering something tenderly in her ear.
The door closed and we were alone.
“I wondered how long it would take for you to get rid of them,” I said. “Now you finally have me all to yourself.”
“I won’t even bother with the warnings. You know as well as I do that I’ve been trained to kill in ten ways unarmed in less than five seconds.”
“And to think I believed you were such a gentle spirit. Like Tara, the goddess of love, who is reincarnated in every beautiful woman.”
“In your eyes, I should be considered Asara, the god of war.”
“You know your teachings. I thought Malaysians were mostly Muslim.”
“I’ve studied many religions. Now, I’m devoted to killing Quang.”
“Please tell me how you are going to do this and my role.”
Over the next few hours, Hatati explained the operational plan, along with the fallback positions and contingencies as best as they could predict. I was impressed with the amount of technical supplies, equipment, and armed support Morgan had organized. This shouldn’t have been a surprise after hearing his conversations with Nutley. MI6 was bound to have agents in place, and their access to arms would be nearly unlimited, especially since they were in bed with the CIA and could call on the cousins for help if needed.
The most amazing part of the details Hatati displayed were the pictures of a secluded villa on a hillside off the dirt road leading to the top of Cam Mountain, where a solar-powered lighthouse stood to guide the fishermen who were the prime residents of the island. There were photos of the entire land mass. The series of snapshots zoomed into the house that stood out for its size, splendor, and location, overlooking the diamond-clear water lapping on the white beach. In the highest resolution, several military Jeeps and civilian SUVs were parked on the driveway, and there was even a still of an armed guard smoking a cigarette on the deck beside the swimming pool. No other houses were nearby and the terrain was mostly rock sprinkled with small scrub brush. There would be little chance to sneak into the home in daylight.
Hatati showed no anxiety as she described the features. Nor excitement. It seemed like planning and carrying out an assault on a heavily guarded site was something she did most every day. She pointed at a medium-range picture of the house.
“That’s where he sleeps,” she said. “We believe there are always at least four guards patrolling and four sleeping or resting in the basement servant’s quarters. It won’t be easy, but we’ve had more difficult targets.” She swiveled toward me. “Do you think you’re capable of running a garrote around a man’s neck, cutting through his throat to his larynx while he struggles in a final death dance, his spurting blood making your fingers slick?”
“No problem,” I said. “And maybe I can drown a sack of kittens in the bay afterward.”
“This is no time for your cynicism,” Hatati said. “You will most li
kely be called on to kill someone. I want to know if you’re up to it.”
“If they are Vietnamese,” I said, “they have inflicted thousands of little cuts on my body and soul, and I am nearly bloodless. I will show them no mercy.” I held up my nail-less finger. “This is only the most recent wound.”
“Good,” she said. “And if you hesitate, I will shoot you myself. And if you can’t keep up, I will shoot you again.”
“Won’t I already be dead?”
“I don’t miss.”
I scratched the stubble on my chin, making sure I looked confused.
“Now that you’ve told me how cruel and ruthless you are,” I said, “how did you get all this intel in so short a time?” I waved my hand over the pictures and printed documents.
“The man you’ve heard called ‘Nutley’ can do magic,” Hatati said. “I believe he has friends all over the globe, many in a place called Langley, Virginia. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“Pardon me,” I said, bowing like a peasant. “I am a lowly half-breed Chinese. I only learned yesterday, with your kind guidance, that I should use that soft white paper on a roll in the loo to wipe my bum after a runny shit. I always thought it was for leaving messages.” I bowed even lower. “Please be so kind as to tell me about this ‘Lonely, Vagina’ place. It sounds extremely inviting to me.”
If she would have been drinking the tea that had now gone cold, I’m sure she might have spewed green liquid all over me and the dossier below. Of course she didn’t. She was a professional. Signs of emotion were off limits. She just glared.
In order to keep her from using me as a practice dummy, I smiled, letting her know I was playing the harmless buffoon, a character I was used to portraying.
“Did you use carrier pigeons?” I asked. “Or does this ‘Vagina’ place demand something much bigger?”
“Enough,” she said, slamming her palm on the table. “When all of this is finished, I’ll be able to clear up your newfound ‘Vagina’ fetish. It will include handcuffs.”
“I’ll be waiting with my hands in my pockets,” I said.
“The information we have is fresh. The photos are from the KH-13 spy satellite’s latest orbit and only a few hours old. If needed, we could have read the time on the guard’s watch. We don’t need that kind of resolution.”
“In order to make a nighttime strike on Phu Quy, we’ll need things like, uh, boats.”
“As I told you, there are people who have long memories. Men who want nothing more than to eliminate Quang before they die. He didn’t just murder Montagnard women and children in the Central Highlands. He and his comrades butchered and tortured many Americans too. As long as these survivors can have ‘deniability,’ they will do whatever they can to help us. And some are in very lofty positions.”
“I guessed as much. When do we leave?”
“We’ll know the exact time when Morgan and Luong get back. I wouldn’t count on having a green omelet and spring rolls for lunch, though.”
“I was thinking more of sweet and sour spam.”
“None of that nuoc cham sauce. It will make you too thirsty, and you have to concentrate on killing.”
“Easy. I will massacre more Vietnamese than I eat hot fish paste.”
We danced a few minutes longer, Hatati outlining the skeleton of the plan as she knew it. I felt exhilarated, finally able to be the man I’d seen in my visions. Then, the door opened. Morgan and Luong walked in, both carrying heavy bags stenciled with “Team Vietnam” in gold on the sides.
In the kitchen, Morgan and Luong unloaded the arsenal, both of them taking turns snapping out the slide release on Sig Sauer P226s and other types of pistols and examining the latest model of the M67 fragmentation and smoke grenades. They both “ooh’ed” and “ahh’ed” over the treasure trove, paying particular attention to the slabs of C4 explosive and the detonation caps. Morgan threaded the silencer onto a .22 and hoisted it like it was his baby. Hatati joined in as if she were the last one to the party. I watched, hoping to learn how these unfamiliar foreign weapons worked. Most Vietnamese police still used the decades-old Chinese knockoff of the Browning M1911 .45 caliber pistol, and these grenade launchers could have come from Star Wars as far as I knew. I crossed my arms and didn’t join in the frenzy.
“Where’s the big guns?” I asked. “You can’t stop Asian elephants with pea shooters.”
“In the car,” Morgan said. “The rifles and dark clothes are stored in the garage, waiting for us. We’ll be leaving in an hour or so.” He snapped the firing pin on a pistol and began to load the cartridge chamber with a pile of bullets Luong had dropped on the table. “Pick your weapon.”
They all seemed the same. I chose one of the Swiss revolvers no one else had touched. On contact, it felt like it was part of my hand. The pistol seemed more comfortable in my fingers than the wooden-handled garrote and fighting knives that were also in the heap. This was not part of my daily routine, unraveling clues in my head being the norm. Physical action was left to the cretins who spit on me when no one was looking. I even puffed up my skinny chest. A man of action was the new me and I didn’t know how the jacket fit.
“Go ahead, Quang,” I said, pointing the pistol toward the window, “make my day.” I dry shot the revolver and blew on the tip of the barrel.
This time, even Luong snorted.
Over the next hour, we checked and prepared all the weapons, took turns refreshing in the bathroom, and ate banh mi sandwiches, the Vietnamese version of a baguette. These were filled with gio thu, headcheese, a combination of pork ears, tendons, skin, fat, and other pig brain parts, all on a freshly toasted bun from an ABC bakery downstairs.
By early afternoon, we were on Highway 1A, heading east about 150 kilometers to Phan Thiet, where we’d find the Zodiac that would take us to Phu Quy. On the way, Morgan, Luong, and Hatati discussed operational plans, leaving me out. That was fine. I wasn’t a military strategist. My forte was liars. Everyone lied when under investigation. The challenge was to pinpoint the when and then find out the why. None of these three were being deceitful, their noses all pointed toward one grub. Quang.
The satellite phone that lay on the console between Luong, the driver, and Morgan in the passenger seat rang several times. Morgan didn’t talk much, only nodded as he got more intel and updates on the rest of the equipment he wanted. He seemed pleased and sincerely thanked the person on the other end of the line. After the last call, he turned toward Hatati, who was in the backseat next to me.
“Everything looks like a ‘go,’” he said. “Nutley has arranged the lot the way I asked. Now, it’s up to us. He thinks it’s the ‘mutt’s nuts’ we’re going after the wanker but doesn’t want any pissing about or he’ll have us all ‘sacked.’ Permanently.”
“And you let him play into your Anglophilia as always,” Hatati said. “You know he doesn’t give a rat’s arse about us. He’s always a dozen moves ahead, and we’re just pawns to be sacrificed if it fits the queen’s interests.”
“Sod off,” Morgan said, grinning. “I was just practicing being limey. The important thing is the Zodiac is ready and it’s all up to us tossers now.”
“Sweet Fanny Adams,” Hatati said with a growl. “Isn’t that smashing.” She punched Morgan on the arm. “Please, no more. Speak American English.”
The trip was only a few hours, and it seemed Morgan and Hatati wanted to spend the afternoon joisting since we had already rehearsed the assault on Phu Quy several times. I wished they’d get a room, maybe at one of the Eden Hotel chain sites, known for their hourly rates and “magic finger” beds.
As we got closer to Phan Thiet, the sparse jungle turned rockier and the sky became blue rather than the murky gray of the tropics. Ocean breezes allowed Luong to shut off the air conditioning. Traffic on the paved highway had been mostly cyclos and tourist buses, sprinkled with a few police Toyotas and fruit carts that looked as if they were about to tip over from the uneven weight of their cargo.
A few hundred meters north of the market that stretched from the main road to the beach, Luong parked the SUV inside a thatched hut. He got out and pulled a curtain over the door. It was as if he’d been here before and knew exactly what to do. For me, it was reminiscent of the whoretels that had popped up around Sai Gon, modeling the Bangkok system of motor inns where the curtain was not only pulled over the entrance but also on each and every parking spot in the garage. Discretion was the purpose, and angry wives often had sharp fingernails. My personal favorite was the Rub and Tug on Le Loi, where Phan would hang out in the basement and tickle SpongeBob while he waited for my business meeting to climax.
The mood had shifted. No one was smiling or joking. Not even me, even though I was dying to tell them the old line while we were in the darkness. How many Buddhists does it take to change a lightbulb? None, change must come from within.
The garage was constructed of thick bamboo poles and palm fronds for the roof. Plywood had been tacked to make the walls. The whole thing would have vaporized in a strong breeze. It smelled like sand and we had escaped the worst of the Sai Gon scent, only a trace of the sewage smell mixing with the aroma of motor oil. The feng shui of the shed was missing all of the five elements other than wood and was classic early twenty-first century beach rubble. Morgan and Hatati went to the back of the vehicle and began to unload the gear while I took out the few things we’d need that were still on the other seats. Luong went to the door, playing the role of sentry.
From a crack in the curtain, I could see the sun was already beginning to set. Morgan motioned for us to change into the black costumes. When we finished, taking turns watching outside, he took out black balaclava masks that hid everything but our eyes. After we checked the weapons, the last thing was the headsets, transmitters, and receivers for each of us. Morgan had already demonstrated their use back in Sai Gon. Now, we made the final checks. There was very little chitchat, everyone focusing on preparations. By the time we’d finished, it was completely dark.
