The Sixth Man

by Ron Lealos

  “Go ahead,” Morgan said. “We won’t treat him like our minders have always behaved with us.”

  “If you’re talking about Nutley,” Hatati said, “I agree no one should act the way he does. Silly, juvenile jokes and as little information as we can force him to share.”

  Both Morgan and Luong nodded.

  “A few years ago,” Hatati said, “Nutley sent me to Phnom Penh to infiltrate a supposed terrorist cell of mostly women. They had been slowly moving from southern Thailand into Cambodia, and he said these fanatics were affiliated with the Sunni Islamic Resurgency radical group. That all made sense. What Nutley neglected to tell me was the women were all veteran guards who had spent years in the Khmer Rouge S-21 prison, specializing in the use of white-hot metal prods in order to get some of the thirty thousand prisoners who went through the gates to confess to being spies. I think it has been decided only three prisoners ever survived.” She stopped and looked out the window where a cyclo was being pulled from underneath a Mitsubishi garbage truck, the driver and his female passenger still lying in the street, her ao di ripped and showing bleeding legs. “Even worse, Nutley implied the women were amateurs and relatively harmless, so I didn’t need to have weapons.” She shook her head and frowned. “I’ve never been around such evil. Those women would have torn my skin off and made handbags, using my teeth for zippers. Luckily, it didn’t take long to discover what fiends they were. I’d snuck in a knife. Nutley said it would be too dangerous to go in armed, so no pistol. Had to kill one. I got to the safe house in Dangkao with the others close behind. I was told they were relatively peaceful.” She scowled more.

  “Is that true?” Morgan asked.

  “Maybe,” she said. “It’s ‘need to know.’” She smiled, reaching over and patting my arm.

  “So, the point of that fable is I get to carry a knife?” I asked.

  “I think you might need a Leopard 1 handheld missile to survive this one,” Morgan said. “And that might not be enough firepower.” He grinned like he’d just been dealt a Wong at the Pai Gow table.

  Hatati reached forward and gently boxed his ears. Then, unable to control herself, she began stroking his neck and cooing softly.

  “Get a room,” I said. “We’ll be passing the Faifoo Hotel in a few blocks. They charge by the minute. I’m sure Luong and I can spare five.”

  “You’re just jealous,” Hatati said, not bothering to remove her hand.

  Women. They sensed when a man lusted for them like a dog for a human leg. Usually they could easily take advantage of a man’s weakness and lead him blindly around, the promise and scent of sex taking the place of a nose ring and leash. Most times, I wasn’t victim to this temptation, more interested in smoking the Chinese molasses than burying my cac in a lon. But I did appreciate a masterpiece like To Ngoc Van’s A Girl by Lilies. Hatati was even more spectacular and I could reach out and touch her, not just appreciate beauty on the wall of the National Museum. The truth. I was incredibly envious, even beyond my cloud-blurred comprehension. In response, I did the “tsk, tsk” thing that was so common in avoiding reality.

  “We’re getting close,” Luong said. “I suppose we should tell Captain Fang what we have in mind.”

  “Brilliant,” I said. “Do I get to name my heirs?”

  “No need,” Morgan said. “We’re skilled at these kinds of ops. Haven’t lost anyone yet. Not this trip anyway.” Morgan swiveled toward me, trying to keep the corners of his mouth from curling into a grin. “Oops. I forgot about the agents in Belgrade. Oh, and the two on the clusterfuck outside Minsk. Those weren’t Nutley’s fault at all.” He shook his head back and forth. “The one in Dublin was.” He faced forward and I could tell by his shoulder movements he was silently laughing.

  “That’s fine,” I said. “I’m less afraid of being shot than a return to the basement at headquarters. I think I’ll just turn myself over to Nguyen and beg for forgiveness.”

  “Do you think you’ll get it?” Morgan asked.

  “We’re within blocks of Binh Thanh,” Luong said. “Give him his orders.”

  That was the Luong I had shared nightmares with, a man who was sure of himself and his destiny, willing to steer things as best he could, even with an AK-47 at his temple. I sighed, thanking him for always willing to be the director as well as an actor in his and the Montagnard’s movie.

  “Don’t bother,” I said. “I’ve decided to surrender, since you all don’t seem to care about the fate of a half-breed.”

  “Stop the nonsense,” Hatati said. “Give him his instructions. They’re not that complicated.”

  “Oh, so even one as slow as me could understand?” I asked.

  “Get rid of that chip on your shoulder,” Morgan said. “Or I’ll cut it off with my Ka-Bar.” A much-loved fighting knife used by many special forces soldiers.

  I bowed. “Please proceed,” I said.

  “It’s simple,” Morgan said, facing me from the front seat. The blankness on his face told me it was time to be serious. “You stand on the street and we try to make sure you’re not ground into gio.” Sausage.

  “Speaking of food, can we stop and get doughnuts first?” I asked. “It could be my last meal. Doughnuts Doughnuts is just ahead. They make the best Fruity Pebbles in the city.”

  “Not a chance,” Morgan said. “That’s where the cops hang out. We’ll have you on station in just a few seconds.” Morgan faced me, his arm over the seat back. “After we take care of Nguyen, we’ll treat you to haute cuisine at Le Bordeaux, the finest French food in the city. We could walk there from here, if there’re no bullets flying past.” He turned foward. “We’re here. Showtime.”

  Luong steered the car to the side of the road. On the sidewalk, two men were trying to look casual. Their thick brows and prominent cheeks screamed “Degar.” These Montagnards, dressed in Sai Gon chic of black slacks and white shirts, were as inconspicuous as “turds in a bamboo salad” according to Luong. Both could never be mistaken for lowlanders with their flattened noses and easy stares, hinting more of Australian aborigine than Kinh, the majority of Vietnamese people. The bulges under their untucked tops looked like huge tumors, but the shapes were obviously pistols. They didn’t smile and scanned the street and buildings across the road in a way that made them out to be ex-military in the way they quartered the horizon and stood with their feet spread shoulder width. When I got out, they silently disappeared and I wondered if they were opium apparitions.

  “Stay there,” Morgan said. “You’re being guarded.”

  “Ever heard of a ‘drive-by’?” I said before he could buzz the window up. There was nowhere to hide unless I ran.

  “We’re not in LA,” Morgan said, as Luong pulled away. “Here, they use AKs and grenades,” and they were gone.

  It would be a few minutes before Nguyen and his troops arrived. The question was how many there would be and if Nguyen would present a clear target. It wouldn’t have to be much. I’d heard from Luong about Morgan’s skill with a sniper rifle as well as his preferred Hush Puppy. Within a hundred meters, there was no missing. Nguyen would want to speak to me before I was used to fertilize the paddies, so there would be a period of confusion that Morgan and Luong were more than capable of exploiting.

  On the street, there wasn’t a lot of traffic. It was too late for the morning rush hour and too early for the evening anarchy. Still, it was relative. Taxis fought with mopeds, cyclos, buses, and motorcycles for the small spaces unfilled by pushcarts and bicycles. The din was less deafening, since most of the drivers didn’t seem to think Buddha was calling them and there were more blessed days to come on this planet. Things were moving, and I thought the first indication that Nguyen was near would be a sharp drop in the traffic. If he had enough time and people, he would close off the street.

  Wafting from the river, not more than fifty meters behind me, the aroma of Sai Gon sewage coated my nose, drowning out the sweet perfume from the flower stall across the road and the smoking sausag
e cart that served quasi-meat floating in clotted blood and served with stirred vegetables, some that could be identified. The block was a normal space in Binh Thanh. Knockoff CD and DVD markets were next to tire repair stores, camera and TV shops, and clothing door fronts, featuring “Ralf Loren” and “Kalvun Cline” originals. Overhead, the afternoon rain was building in the gray clouds, threatening to drown even the rats that scurried past in the gutters. I yearned for a quick hit on the pipe at Ma Jing’s and wondered if I’d inhaled my last breath of heaven. I was standing alone and unarmed, totally not in control of my destiny, reciting Buddha’s words “do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.”

  The sound came first. Squealing tires and horns blaring even more loudly than the normal meep of hundreds of cyclos jockeying for position. Drivers swerved aside, some getting thrown to the pavement, yelling “du ma may” or “go fuck your mother” to the black SUVs that were clearly from the security forces. It all happened so fast, I didn’t even have time to piss myself or surrender to the fight-or-flight reflex. Instead, I let my jaw drop in awe of the spectacle, knowing full well I was the dCON in the roach trap and there was little alternative than to act calm, a performance worthy of an Indochine film award.

  The two Montagnard men who had been trying to be invisible surrounded me before I could run, one-stepping in front as a human shield. The SUVs slid to a halt and both men drew pistols, aiming them in the general direction of the three security force vehicles. If it had been the police, they would have arrived in Hondas or old Jeeps, but this operation was way above the pay grade and clearance of a regular Sai Gon cop. I couldn’t see inside the blackened windows. Within seconds, the doors burst open, and men began to scramble out, Nguyen from the passenger seat of the middle SUV. If Morgan, Luong, and Hatati were coming to the rescue, now was the time.

  Before my guards or any of the security forces could fire their pistols, the sound of both of the Dragunov sniper rifles I’d seen in Morgan’s arsenal boomed from the shanties behind us. We were close enough to hear the gas discharge after every shot as the 7.62 rounds thudded into another target. Between the lookouts and the riflemen, it was less time than a deep breath before the pavement was littered with bodies, none Montagnard, Caucasian, or half-breed.

  Obviously, no one had aimed at Nguyen. He was still moving quickly toward me, a Russian-made Makarov PM revolver pointed at my stomach. In the silence that shattered the barrage, he pushed the handgun into my side and shoved me toward the open door of the front SUV. Someone had shot out the tires of the other two and Nguyen instantly recognized he had only one chance.

  Reaching the car, Nguyen shoved my quivering body inside and used the butt of his pistol to slam me on the skull. I slumped to the seat, unconscious. When I awoke, in what must have been only a few seconds, the Makarov was jammed into my side, and Nguyen was swerving through traffic on La Duan Street, barely avoiding killing a pedestrian or motorcycle driver every few yards. I watched in terror as he broke through the mayhem like an elephant in saw grass.

  The mystery was twofold, and I didn’t want to make it some kind of Chinese riddle. First, why I was alive? Next, why Morgan and his comrades hadn’t prevented me from being taken? They could easily have shot Nguyen, and I wondered why he wasn’t the primary goal like they’d told me. If they’d killed him when it was simple, it would be all over. Morgan and Hatati could head back to their Grecian paradise, and Luong could hike into his beloved mountains. And me? Thanks, Morgan. I was completely at the mercy of whatever was about to unfold if we made it to wherever he was headed without a fatal crash.

  “Don lon que, dee chaw,” I said. You’re having your period, bitch. “Slow down and smell the orchids, not just your tampon.”

  The slap came so fast I didn’t have time to register the pain on my cheek before his right hand was back on the handgun. When the blow came, Nguyen hadn’t taken his eyes off the cars, people, and cyclos he was barely missing as he slalomed around corners and jumped curbs.

  “Your childish attempts at humor make me sick,” Nguyen said as we clipped a vegetable stand. Piles of water spinach fell to the pavement next to heads of cabbage and pak choi, making a slippery green blob as the vendor shook his fist and tried to stay upright in the slime. “If there were time, I would kill you now and make the country a happier place.”

  Rubbing my jaw, I wondered if I cared if my passing came now or from a blowtorch in a dank basement.

  “The best part of you was flushed earlier today when you took your morning shit,” I said. “If you weren’t so full of it, you’d just shoot me now and quit with the empty threats.”

  “Old man,” he said, “you have no idea what I’m capable of or what’s going on. If you’d shut up, you’d find out. And maybe we’d both survive.” He squeezed the steering wheel firmly and jammed the gun harder into my side. “Now let me concentrate on driving before we both die at the hands of a fruit stand.”

  “Fruit stands don’t have hands,” I said, shaking my head like he’d just misspelled “duh.” But, I chose to stay quiet and not jeopardize our lives threatened now by an oxcart filled with bags of rice that appeared out of an alley. The beast saw us coming and started to buck, just as we raced past, his huge horns piercing the sky.

  Since I’d been struggling lately with my personal code and whether it should be guided by Buddha or Confucius or Ma Jing, I examined the wisdom of the first two and lusted for the third. As it regarded the current mess and Nguyen, Confucius had it spot on. “When we see men of a contrary character, we should turn inwards and examine ourselves.” I did just that, unbalanced at the possibility Nguyen may not be who I thought and why I believed that could be true other than out of desperation.

  By now, we’d reached the Ho Chi Minh City Highway and didn’t have to worry so much about oxen and food carts. The traffic was flowing. Nguyen expertly zigzagged down the four-lane road, obviously knowing where he was headed. I had no idea.

  In a few minutes, Nguyen turned back toward downtown on Hai Ba Trung Boulevard. This route could take us to police headquarters or to the Rex Hotel for a mimosa at the rooftop bar. He took the pistol out of my side and slid it into his still fresh, uncreased jacket. This man would retain his movie star looks and calm in front of a firing squad. He slowed the SUV and bent toward me, his black eyes simmering charcoal and a Hollywood smirk on his face.

  “That story you told me about Luong and the Night Snake,” Nguyen said, “you left out a few details. One is Hatati. Two is all three of them and their relationship with MI6, especially a man named ‘Nutley.’”

  Once, I’d gone to my office, closed the door, and wondered why I continued accepting the abuse of my comrades without committing murder. I took a deep, cleansing breath and tried to relax, dreaming of the upcoming release at Ma Jing’s. Still, there was paperwork to finish, and I opened the desk drawer to get out a pen. I stuck my hand inside and touched something I couldn’t comprehend. Looking down, I realized it was a giant Emperor scorpion close to a foot long. Its fat black claws tickled my hand, and I knew a sting could kill me if I didn’t pull away fast. I did, my heart about to detonate in my chest and my head twirling like a dust devil. Not even that hideous arthropod surprised me more than Nguyen’s short revelation. I breathed again deeply, hoping a repeat gesture would bring some peace.

  “Shocked?” Nguyen asked, grinning wider, his sessions with the orthodontist and teeth whitener clearly visible.

  “If you told me your mother wasn’t a whore,” I said, “I’d be even more stunned.”

  “Now, now, Captain Fang,” Nguyen said soothingly. “It’s time we call a truce. Save the trash talk for your real friends. If you have any. Or pay enough.”

  “You’re not going to tell me you’re involved in all this,” I said, making a circular gesture with my still-throbbing hand minus two fingernails.

  “Have you heard of ‘need to know’?” he asked. “Suffice to say, I’m aware o
f what you’ve been up to and could have had you executed a few days ago. Or most anytime since.”

  “And why didn’t you?”

  “If you haven’t grasped this by now in your monkey brain, we’re on the same team.”

  “And the old Degar woman you murdered?”

  “I told you it wasn’t me.”

  “Who did it?”

  “I have my suspicions. No proof.”

  “You’re telling me you’re friends with Luong and Morgan?”

  “Not exactly ‘friends.’”

  “Fellow travelers?”

  “Why do you think I speak such fluent English? Cambridge? Oxford? MI6? Get the clues? You are a detective, aren’t you? Put it together yourself.”

  “Oh, you’re a spy recruited by MI6 while studying in England. A true cliché. Were you on the sculling team?”

  “How did you know? I was a middle rower on the Oxford Old Blues Crew.”

  “Now I know you’re lying. That is easy to check and I don’t believe you. There’s never been a Vietnamese rower on any Oxford Crew.”

  “Check the Oxford University Boat Club website. You’ll find my picture for the 2001 squad.”

  “So you went from Oxford to MI6 on the Thames? Trained in the art of spying? Learned how to peep through windows?”

  “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

  “And how to assassinate the queen’s enemies?”

  “Need to know.”

  “Then you came back and joined the Security Services here?”

  “They were the ones who sent me. Someone needed to learn what the capitalist pigs are doing and have planned for us in their campaign for world domination.”

  “Sure. They want our shrimp and fish balls.”

  “Golf courses and massage parlors. Just like Thailand.”

  “And now you’re a double agent?”

  “Need to know.”

  “Yes, I do. If you want my help, I need to know. I will not betray Luong and I really have no country, so don’t try any ‘loyalty’ cut on me.” Shit.

  Silence. By now, Nguyen had slowed the SUV as we approached the center of the city. I had no idea if the next stop was police headquarters and a reunion with Lat, the court torturer, or a drink on the terrace at the Majestic, watching the palms sway in the afternoon breeze and sipping a frosted mango martini, while fat, old white men in safari shirts and cotton slacks entertained their young Vietnamese “dates.”