by Ron Lealos
But we didn’t stop in District One, heading immediately to Cholon and Chinatown, the part of the city that was most like home to me. Nguyen drove straight toward the alley where I’d recently been taken to see Mr. Liu. He parked and the same man stepped out of the shadows, jumping into the driver’s seat as Nguyen got out.
“Follow me,” Nguyen said. “We’re expected.”
My feet hit what might have been the ground and I was floating as if on a cloud of Ma Jing’s finest Laotian Brown, wrapped in banana leaves and 100 percent pure. This had to be a dream. I was gliding toward a door I knew led up the steps to Liu’s apartment with a man who had my fingernail pulled out and shot an old Degar woman, a sworn enemy of Luong and Morgan, the atrocities I knew about. There were surely a lot of others in his scrapbook. The only thing that could have surprised me more was meeting Luong, Morgan, and Hatati.
The instant that thought resonated in my muddled head, another SUV appeared in the alley. Luong was driving. When he stopped, a second faceless man appeared from the depths and drove the car quickly away while Luong, Morgan, and Hatati hurried toward the door being held open by Nguyen. They nodded at one another while I tried to keep from fainting. There was one question that kept pounding in my head like a Tibetan monk’s call to prayer: How could it be?
Nguyen pushed toward the stairwell.
“Move it,” he said.
Luong was there before the words were out, smiling and giving me a reassuring nod that looked more like he was standing over the corpses of a dozen lowlanders he’d just slaughtered than encouragement. I let him nudge me, my guide to the next level of this strange life. We climbed the stairs and entered Liu’s dwelling, the old man himself holding the door open.
This time, I was less nervous than mystified. The priceless silk Song dynasty tapestries, displaying magnificent images of ducks and cranes, which hung on the walls were of less interest than why I was here. And still alive. I didn’t wait to be asked and took a seat on a hard-backed chair that must have been worth more than I’d make in three lifetimes. It was straight and rigid enough to remind me that money didn’t guarantee comfort, even if it was crafted a few hundred years ago for an emperor.
The shades on the windows were still closed. Luong, Morgan, and Hatati took seats, and Mr. Liu began the ritual tea offering. There was little conversation other than “sugar” or “cream, please.” Everyone seemed to be waiting for the elephant in the room to begin trumpeting. Me, I was approaching a coma and didn’t want to slip into the universe of the unconscious, a desired world in the past. I waited, trying to keep my eyelids from being welded together from the pressure.
“So, things must have worked out to our satisfaction,” Mr. Liu said, bowing after he’d finished pouring the tea that smelled of lavender and oranges. “And you didn’t have to shoot Mr. Nguyen.”
“No,” Luong said. “No matter how much I wanted to.” No smile. His back was as stiff and straight as a bamboo culm, and his face betrayed nothing but annoyance.
That made Morgan chuckle.
“My biggest challenge when I’m with Luong,” he said, “is to keep him from using a tactical nuclear warhead on the lowlands. I think he would anyway if he could get his hands on one.”
“And my biggest challenge with you,” Hatati said, looking at Morgan, “is to keep you away from the targets. You like to be up close and personal. Watch them die and try to get your morality play questions answered before you blow their heads off.”
“Since I’ve now been inducted to the team on the side of righteousness,” Nguyen said, “I’d like to know what comes next.” He glanced at me, nodding. “And tell me again why we need this crocodile lizard.”
“We don’t anymore,” Mr. Liu said. “You can go ahead and make bo kho out of him in the cooking pot.” Stew.
Nguyen lunged toward me. There was no time to react, and, besides, I didn’t have any martial arts moves in my repertoire to respond to his attack, being soundly on another planet and completely outnumbered. Before he could reach my throat, he stopped and the room erupted in laughter. This time, I did faint.
I awoke from my blackout to someone slapping me gently on the face. It was Nguyen, and it was the first time I’d seen what appeared to be an authentic smile creasing his mouth. Of course, that ignored the moment when the fire hose pushed me around the barren room at police headquarters. I thought that might have been today. Or yesterday. It was all melting together in my brain as one huge clusterfuck, a word I’d heard Luong and Morgan use.
Nguyen stopped once he saw I was awake and moved back to his chair, a superior and satisfied look on his face.
“Con bat hieu,” I whispered. This was the worst insult a Vietnamese could utter to a countryman. It meant “you have no filial piety,” and was as close to saying “motherfucker” and truly meaning it as someone in Sai Gon could get. Since respecting the family was the highest aspiration of all Vietnamese, stating that a person lacked this deference was incredibly offensive. While Morgan and Hatati wouldn’t comprehend this concept, Liu and Nguyen knew I was striking back, revived from my trance. Slowly, I sat up.
“The Chinese have a reputation for trickery,” I said. “But you people win the Order of the Brilliant Jade, the highest honor in China.”
Mr. Liu bowed, the only one familiar with this rare award.
“All will be explained,” Liu said. “Be patient and drink your tea. It will still your soul.”
“Enough,” Luong said. “We have used him and he has cooperated. Now, it’s time to tell him why.” This was the pragmatic Luong I knew. The one who had to make something happen and not sit back waiting for the god of destiny, Li Tinh, to control his future.
Hatati was in agreement and said so. “It’s time to stop tormenting him. He’s done everything we asked.”
Morgan nodded.
“You were a diversion,” Nguyen said. “You were never a real target. We could have done worse than having Lat pull out a fingernail. Luong wouldn’t have it. For some reason, he thinks he owes you a debt. So, we used you the best way we could until we found if you could be trusted. Besides, the other buffoons would never have found what was happening. We knew you would. Better having you on our side.”
I scratched my chin and leisurely shook my head, not wanting to betray the raging conflict in my mind.
“That makes absolutely no sense,” I said. “You kill an old woman, kidnap and torture me, all the while murdering politicians and past enemies. Then, you fake an escape and take me on one of your massacres, making it look like Nguyen is after me. I’m enlisted in your scheme and then held by Nguyen again. Excuse me if I’m missing lots of details. The real question is ‘why’?”
“We’ll never give you all the particulars,” Morgan said. “We couldn’t even if we wanted to. None of us have the whole picture. We’re all being manipulated and compartmentalized. Nutley had the entire picture.” He looked at Liu. “And possibly Mr. Liu.” He crossed his legs and beamed. “That’s normal procedure, and I got to help to Luong get his vengeance. Good enough for me.”
“But that’s not all,” I said, “is it? Killing old enemies wouldn’t interest Nutley. There has to be more.”
Silence. It was clear no one wanted to take the next step, telling me what was really going on.
By now, the tea was tepid, and I could even imagine the orchids on the Ming dynasty end tables were drooping in boredom. The scent of lavender was replaced by body odor and dust mites drifting from the hardwood floor. Little illumination came from the curtained windows, the light supplied by lamps covered by silk shades portraying fishermen and rice farmers that were probably hand painted in the reign of the Qing. It felt like the jury was trying to decide who would deliver the verdict of capital punishment.
“Have you seen the classic Chinese Magic Stick trick?” Mr. Liu asked.
“Of course,” I said.
“The essence is that props and diversions cause the watcher to gasp in wonder,” Mr. Liu said
. “It is really quite simple. Like killing a number of vermin in the politburo who should have died years ago for the atrocities they committed on Luong and his people, just to list a few of their victims. The true objective is not revealed, while the audience squeals in delight and surprise.”
“So this was all a parlor trick?” I asked.
“Hardly,” Mr. Liu said. “Unless the woman being sawed in half dies.”
“So who’s the real target?” I asked.
“As far as I can tell,” Liu said, “you’re way beyond what the sham Vietnamese courts would need for a death sentence. If we let you go, you’ll only last minutes until Lat has you in his ghastly hands again. His joyous times will come just before you’re hung.”
“What about Nguyen?” I asked. “He must have quite a story to tell if he wants to keep out of Lat’s dungeon.”
“The tale is quite complex,” Mr. Liu said. “Chinese lore provides the answer to all questions. In this case, it’s the story of King Fu Jian in the fourth century. His army of nine hundred thousand men was defeated by eighty thousand troops because of trickery. Jian’s foe, General Xie, convinced Jian’s officers and army to retreat in order for Xie’s army to cross the river and the battle commence. Xie’s spies spread the rumor that Jian’s soldiers were being slaughtered. The ensuing withdrawal became a panic.”
“Quaint,” I said. “It still doesn’t tell me why Nguyen and I are here and what you’re trying to accomplish.”
“I knew you would quickly figure it out,” Luong said. “Especially with the clues we left behind. We understood Nguyen would be put in charge of the case and you’d be his prime investigator. We’d control the flow of evidence if we could get the two of you on our side. Besides, the best outcome is we all either go back to our jobs or leave the country standing up. You can glide to heaven at Ma Jing’s and Nguyen can continue his quest for a cover spread in GQ Vietnam. There’s only one more fish ball remaining in this meal.” Another shockingly long tale from Luong’s mouth. He must have taken speech classes since we last shared an ant.
“And the flavor is?” I asked.
Over the next hour, the plan was laid out, and we were assigned our roles. The only disturbance was a satellite call from Nutley. Morgan handled the conversation from our side, only passing the phone to Mr. Liu for a short time at the end. When they were finished, both men nodded at each other calmly as if they had just completed the Seven Steps of Buddhist meditation. Obviously, it was a “go,” and we had the full support of the queen.
“In the famous words of that great Chinese lesbian actress, Lan Yen, ‘a full belly conquers all.’” Mr. Liu said. “I have prepared a feast for us before we embark on this final journey.” He clapped his hands and led us to the formal dining room, taking a minute to make sure we were seated according to his wishes.
The first course was jien duy, sweet sesame seed balls. Next, came yu saang, made with sashimi-grade tuna grilled in white radish, ginger, carrots, chilies, onions, and peanuts. Then was my favorite, jiaozi, flour dumplings filled with cabbage, pork, snake, egg white, pepper, and a few other spices. Absolutely tasty. This was followed by caterpillar-fungus-stuffed duck, also reputed to cure tuberculosis. Fried and white rice were always available in massive quantities, steaming in hand-painted antique bowls, the value of which could have bought a high-class Szechuan restaurant in any district of Sai Gon. Unfortunately, no one had room for the heaping plate of Shanghai Noodles that was steeped in rice wine, pork belly, and ginger and sat forlorn at the end of the table. As usual, the meal ended with soup. This time it was egg drop, made with cornstarch, chicken broth, and beaten eggs, followed by a dessert of a variety of Chinese sweet cakes. By the time we were finished, I could have rolled into the living room for the post dinner tea.
“No time for a nap,” Luong said, on purpose as always, especially when the chance to kill a few more lowlanders was imminent. “We should be making our final preparations.”
Not much chitchat had been exchanged during the banquet; the focus was on savoring the exquisite and exotic tastes. We all realized it could be the last supper for the group unless our planning was carried out successfully. My role was mostly as lookout, no one trusting me with any of the modern weapons and technology that would come into play. This time, being the stupid half-breed meant I wouldn’t be on the front line. There were some advantages to my checkered gene pool.
The main objective was a man well above my pay grade or anyone else’s in this band of murderers. He would be allowed much more than a cell phone and an old desktop computer like me. Much more. In fact, an entire country more. His name was Nguyen Tan Dung, the Prime Minister. Nutley believed he was supplying the Taliban with Russian-made arms in exchange for opium that he marketed through a syndicate based in the Little Sai Gon area of Westminster, California. Of course it wasn’t Dung directly. It was an organization headed by his brother, Le Duc Dung, or Poo Ping as Nutley called him, short for “he dropped a Poo Ping in the loo,” in reference to Dung. Poo Ping was rumored to be a cannibal and little boy and/or girl lover who always wore pink slippers, attributes MI6 tolerated with prejudice, lots of pat-on-the-back joking, and knowing smiles.
Not that MI6 or the cousins in Langley would shirk from the heroin trade if it kept the right people in power. History had shown that policy to be the case many times. It was the supply of military-grade weapons to terrorists that upset the mandarins. Cannibalism, smack importation, poor choice in footwear, and child fetishes could be explained away as “just a little bollocks on the side, old chap,” but not the latest AK-47s that might be used to kill anyone including the minders back on the Thames. Greatly bothersome was the ton of Soviet-made PVV-5A plastic explosive Dung had delivered to Sai Gon and subsequently left via Poo Ping’s shipping company, Kinshasin. That material could blast another few hundred bodies into jelly doughnuts in the London underground or be left on the side of the road to blow up a passing Bentley on the way to a weekend golf match in Surrey. Besides the fact that Dung was consorting with known terrorists, he was outspoken in his communist beliefs, while he stuffed his Swiss bank account with dong and dollars. Earlier in his career, he’d held the position of Director of the Vietnamese Banking System, so he knew all the tricks. The cousins would cooperate, the Red Scare still raging in the heads of the old guard who still ran the Company.
None of this compared to the intel Dung that had acquired a small amount of fissionable material contained in 2S3 Akatsiya 152 mm self-propelled artillery shells, capable of detonating a small nuclear blast. This was the Holy Grail of all terrorists and worth untold millions to the Saudis who funded the fanatics. One Akatsiya ignited in Piccadilly would kill many thousands and contaminate the area for years.
Our mixture of Chinese, Vietnamese, American, Montagnard, and Malaysian was truly a multinational smorgasbord, united mostly in our common ability to speak English. I was the last to understand that “motherfucker” wasn’t a term of endearment, but I mostly got the drift of the conversation. It seemed everything that had taken place so far was a distraction, aimed at getting Dung out in the open. Every resource available to the security forces, police departments, and all governmental agencies, including the secret services, would be focused on stopping the killings of senior politburo members. When it was discovered that all the victims were connected to the photo left on the bodies, and Dung wasn’t pictured, all the firepower would be devoted to catching and executing the perps. Us. In the meantime, the nearly impenetrable guard around Dung would be reduced, giving Morgan and Luong a chance to do what they did best.
By the time most of this had been explained, the tea was cold and the light was fading outside the curtained windows. The afternoon rain torrent had ended, and we were all getting into the proper mood for the night’s mission. Still, there were a few unanswered questions and I leaned forward, putting my porcelain cup on the end table. There was one thought that was consuming me since it was directly related to any future I might have.
“You believe Nguyen and I will be allowed to return to our positions as if nothing has happened?” I asked to no one in particular.
“Yes,” Mr. Liu said. “It has all been thoroughly analyzed and planned. Nguyen was positioned so he would lead the investigation for the security forces and you would be the lead for the police.”
“And I would feed selected information to my superiors,” Nguyen said, “making sure they understood about Morgan, Luong, and the significance of the cobra and photo, all supplied by you.”
“Then you were sent out as bait after Nguyen had you tortured to verify your authenticity,” Luong said, merry as he envisioned my pain. “Your kidnap and disappearance played perfectly in the script. Even Nguyen’s timely rescue. He’ll easily be able to explain how he was protecting you and went into hiding, afraid of more betrayal. He’ll spread the blame around, playing right into their paranoia. We’ll finish tonight. You should be back at your desk tomorrow, with the fingernails you still have remaining and the queen’s never-ending gratitude.” He smiled, and it was frightening. Like a corpse had come to life. “You’ll be busy. Many gooks will die tonight.”
It appeared Luong may have spent time at Sandhurst, the British Military Academy. He even spoke with a hint of the accent graduates often conveyed. I knew because of my hours of watching the BBC on VietCable and the liaison work I’d done with some ex-SAS men from Scotland Yard. No wonder Nutley liked him, if anyone could feel affection for an iguana. Luong stood, making us all aware that it was killing time.
“Relax,” Morgan said. “You know the schedule. We’re likely still a few hours away, and we have to wait for the call.”
