The Sixth Man

by Ron Lealos

  “This is too important to me and my tribe,” Luong said. “Dung has led the crusade to exterminate my people. He is willing to provide nukes to the jihadists. The Degars and the world have suffered too much. Dung must die. There will never be a time for me to ‘relax.’”

  Morgan stood and stepped to Luong, touching him gently on the shoulder.

  “During the war,” Morgan said, “you stood watch while I carried out my assignments. Never did you question or object. I will be with you to the end of this operation. But now is too early. We have to wait. Everything is in place. You’ll get your chance. I promise.”

  Luong went back to his chair, his body still quaking in anticipation and filled with deadly energy.

  We waited. Mr. Liu made sure our teacups were never empty. Finally, Liu’s cell phone buzzed. He nodded, not saying a word. “Game’s on.”

  While Dung’s official residence in Hanoi was a magnificent building designed by French architect Auguste Henri Vildieu and renowned for its acres of ponds filled with pink and white koi, Dung used his own home when he was in Sai Gon. Certainly, it wasn’t ancestral, since his fortune was new money made from drugs and selling favors, the modern communist ideal. Poo Ping’s villa was near the Botanical Gardens in District One, not far from where we now took turns using the loo to empty ourselves of the gallons of Mr. Liu’s extraordinary tea. This was a part of town I knew both Morgan and Luong were familiar with, since it was the area where the son of the ex-vice president was the victim of an assassination I now realized was done at the hands and silencers of Luong and Morgan. We stood, looking back and forth at one another, nodding like the English National Soccer team after the singing of “God Save the Queen,” ready to do battle with the hordes. We needed a team handshake, but that would never happen.

  My job was simple. I would be in the black SUV, parked along the walls, fifty yards down Nguyen Binh Khiem Street from the entrance to the gardens and a block away from Poo Ping’s. There would be little chance anyone would be around the Botanical Gardens, since it was closed at this time of night. It was often described as the “most depressing zoo” in the world. That was manifested by the eight-thousand-dong entrance fee. Thirty-eight cents USD. Not even stupid foreign gaijins would pay more for the chance to see monkeys in filthy cages and elephants in gray rooms smaller than Mr. Liu’s flat. Certainly, no one would be interested in visiting this disgrace after dark.

  I would be the watcher, ready to sound the alarm if anyone from the outside came to Dung’s rescue. Also, the entire team was wired with the latest RedStart 1689 earpieces that both sent and received signals hands free. Winky would be listening to the transmissions, since it was all connected to the open line of a cell phone beamed directly to MI6 headquarters in London. At least I could hear the action, but still felt a little castrated because no one trusted me with an M16, silenced .22, or M84 stun grenade. Even Hatati was part of the assault. Her role was to guard the exterior of the villa once the walls were breached and Luong and Morgan were inside the house.

  In the hours spent at Mr. Liu’s amid the endless rehearsal, I’d learned much about Dung’s residence and the security around the complex. The slayings of the politburo members and Degar killers was more than revenge. The goal was to sidetrack Dung’s defensive squad into joining the nationwide hunt for the killers and make them believe Dung couldn’t possibly be a target. It must have worked or the agent on Nutley’s payroll wouldn’t have called in the signal that the op was on.

  Now, I was parked just down Nguyen Binh Khiem Street, my earpiece engaged and listening skills totally focused on the few words the team members spoke. A wire led from my transmitter to the open cell on the seat. The sound in London was switched to mute, so Nutley couldn’t waste anyone’s time with second-guessing from his leather chair on the Thames.

  I’d watched Luong, Nguyen, Morgan, and Hatati scale the wall using ropes and hooks that made them look like they were climbing in Ha Long Bay, the mecca for Vietnamese rock addicts. Dressed totally in black and faces smeared with charcoal, they were mostly in shadow. It took them only seconds to breach the fifteen-foot-high, solid concrete fence. They looked like they’d practiced the moves a hundred times. I knew they hadn’t and it was a testimony to the thoroughness of their training, no matter what country had paid the tab. That effort was punctuated by a few “cut” grunts. Shit. Now, I mostly heard whispers, none frantic.

  They would all make a circle around the outside of the villa, hiding in the bougainvillea when necessary. Perimeter guards would be neutralized without hesitation even if that meant a quiet bullet to the head. Nutley had assured the team that any motion detectors or other electronic surveillance had been deactivated. Dung hated dogs, his dossier said, so there would be no Doberman threat. How Winky discovered all this information was no concern of ours, only that it was accurate. While I jiggled my nervous legs, I pushed hard into the earpiece, never trusting I wouldn’t miss a word.

  The first noise I heard was a phuppp. It was immediately recognizable as the sound of a silenced .22 pistol. I didn’t know who had fired the shot, since they all carried the Hush Puppies as well as other weapons. Morgan was especially versatile in the use of a garrote and an Ultima fighting knife, both quiet killers. He had carried out many of these night raids, according to Luong, and wouldn’t hesitate to shoot a dog or sentry.

  Over the next few minutes, the phuppp sound was repeated at least five times, often punctuated by an exhale of breath and the muffled noise of a body slumping to the ground. Back in Cholon, Luong had told me most victims immediately voided their bowels and the smell was “nauseating, the worst part of midnight executions.” He still said it with one of his horrific grins.

  We had figured there wouldn’t be more than a half-dozen guards outside, and the body count was almost there. Once the lookouts were neutralized, Morgan and Luong would make their way into the villa, while Hatati watched from near the front door, Nguyen, the back. All of this had been carefully planned, schematics and aerial reconnaissance photos supplied by Nutley and verbal updates from Mr. Liu and his legion of agents. All electronic security had been jammed or shut down through the magic of MI6 I would never understand. The attack had been rehearsed so many times even I was familiar with the nuances of the plan and the layout of the house. At least they’d promised me a Sig Sauer P226 in case it all blew up and I could point it at my head before Lat got another chance to cream his black slacks. Unfortunately, they’d forgotten to give it to me.

  The next word I heard was a whispered “in.” Nothing else. It was Morgan and it meant he had gone through the French door on the garden side.

  “Check,” Luong said. That signaled he’d made it into the back of the house. Now, the accuracy of Mr. Liu’s intel was critical. There should be several guards roaming the house and a few sleeping, while the night shift protected Dung. Liu hadn’t been sure of the exact number of men, since it had been changing rapidly due to the Night Snake killings. Morgan and Luong would sanitize the villa before they headed to Dung’s bedroom.

  At least I could visualize what might be happening. All possible surprises we could anticipate had been thrown out and planned for, knowing full well that, according to Sun Tzu, it was necessary to “do everything in your power to be prepared, because it’s only a matter of time until something goes wrong.” Several times in the past, Luong had told me, it was chickens or pigs. This time, it was a girl. And a parrot.

  Her shriek startled me. Without breathing, I waited for the phuppp sound. It didn’t come. That meant it was beaming from Morgan’s transmitter, not Luong’s, who wouldn’t have hesitated. Within a heartbeat, the stifled gag of someone with a hand over their mouth resonated in my earpiece. In the background, a bird squawked, the first one not loud, the next increasing in volume. Then, the screech of a bird’s “du ma, du ma,” fuck you, over and over, the speed and intensity increasing with every repetition. Another phuppp and the noise stopped, the only sound Morgan’s whispers to someone
I guessed was a child.

  “Su im lang,” Morgan hissed. Be silent.

  I heard just the slightest squeal that had to come from a girl or a very young boy. Liu’s intel had said Poo Ping was hung up on little girls even more than boys, like so many of our esteemed national leaders. Vietnamese political and military officials must have been intimidated by the dragon ladies they usually married. They escaped with twelve-year-old children. Or younger. Recently, a high-ranking member of the Vietnamese Communist Party, Nguyen Truong To, had been accused of having “unhealthy relations” with a dozen girls, all under fifteen. Of course, To was released. His position and the Party’s reputation were too fragile for this type of investigation and ensuing public mockery. It seemed one of Dung’s young prey had gone down to feed the parrot and Morgan had shot the creature, while he tried to quiet the girl. Too late.

  Through the mic, I could hear pounding feet and yells.

  “Code Red,” Morgan barked.

  That meant Hatati and Nguyen were to immediately join Morgan and Luong inside. Stealth would no longer be possible and I would need to move the SUV closer, blocking the gate if anyone answered the alarm before the wet work was finished. I was already missing the forgotten Sig Sauer.

  Then, the real shooting began. Mainly, the early assault was heard as a series of phuppps and groans, punctuated by short comments like “here,” “on the right,” and “clear,” all in hushed gasps. Within seconds, the staccato of AK-47s on full-auto rang in my ear. Those sounds were highlighted by screams and shouts. None seemed to be coming from my new team.

  Sitting in the SUV was nearly as tough as having Lat threaten to peel my skin like a mango, starting with my cac. There was nothing I could do but watch and listen. Inside the house, the thump of feet racing up the stairs pounded in the earpiece. This meant the lower floor was secured enough that Luong and Morgan could make their way to Poo Ping’s bedroom. The element of surprise was gone, and there was no way to anticipate what awaited them inside. For all they knew, he could be armed with an AK himself.

  The sound of an explosion. It was a stun grenade, mostly flash-bang, and not meant to demolish a room. It would give Luong and Morgan the few seconds they’d need to kill Dung. Morgan would hesitate, making sure no more girls were there before spraying the area with his M16. Luong wouldn’t pause for a heartbeat; more dead flatlanders meant less panfaces to persecute his people, no matter the age or gender. Either way, there wouldn’t be time for a face-to-face with Dung. He was terminal.

  The noise of sirens wailing and getting closer howled from outside the open window. It was time for me to move the SUV, disable it in front of the gate, and go to Plan B, a hurried retreat that included elephants and monkeys. I started the engine, backing up to the turn-out in front of the villa’s entrance, stopping parallel to the gates so no vehicle could come or go. Grabbing the sat phone, I jumped out, making sure to break off the key in the ignition and ripping out the wiring under the steering wheel. Outside, I punctured the front tires with the fighting knife Morgan had given me. Within seconds, I was running toward the Botanical Gardens, realizing if it was more than a few hundred yards, I’d probably have an oxygen-deprived heart attack. Even if I made it without fainting, I had to scale the wall. At least there were masses of fruity vines to help me climb.

  At the same time that several blue-on-white police cars swerved to a halt at the gate to Poo Ping’s villa, I reached the corner of the fence that surrounded the zoo. Grabbing handfuls of woody liana vines hanging from the spiked peak, I was glad we’d remembered to bring gloves that kept the small thorns from cutting my hands into bamboo slivers. By the time I pulled myself to the top, I was nearly gagging on the pungent smell that rubbed off as I touched the flowers I knew were pink and in full bloom even in the dark. I was older than Nguyen and younger than the rest of the squad, but I figured none of them would dillydally thinking about broken bones and immediately jump to the ground below. They’d leap into the void as if they were indestructible and it all was just a bit of fun. Me. I dithered, wondering what the future held for a half-breed detective with a mangled leg. While most Sai Gon policemen made sure their meager retirement benefits were propped up by the daily “donations” of the city’s residents, I spent my entire pension at Ma Jing’s. The Sai Gon police graciously called the never-ending bribery and corruption a “trang thue,” or “white tax,” and it included anything from a few dong for a broken headlight on a cyclo to many millions for the murder of a mistress. I turned around and grabbed the top of the fence, sliding down as smoothly as possible. At least I hadn’t picked the tiger’s cage for my clumsy landing.

  Back at Mr. Liu’s, we’d all memorized a map of the Botanical Gardens. I’d scaled the fence, ending up in shrubbery just to the east of the War Remnants Museum and west of the main gate. Pausing a second, I listened to the assault raging in Poo Ping’s house, the noise of firearms still raging in my ears. My job was to make sure this Plan B escape route was clear, since I’d abandoned the getaway SUV.

  No one was sure whether or not a guard would be posted in front of the War Remnants Museum. The building held many treasures from the era of the American invasion like a pile of unexploded ordinance, barrels of Agent Orange, a Huey helicopter with machine gun holes in the skin, and photos of the My Lai massacre. It was mostly a testament to the atrocities committed by the United States military and seemed out of place in a zoo and lush gardens. The current status of Vietnamese–American diplomacy determined whether there would be a sentry and it was impossible to comprehend what that meant or who decided. I was prepared for it either way. Staying in the shadows of the immense tropical plants and trees estimated to number close to two thousand species, I moved slowly past the overhang that covered the entrance to the museum. There was no guard.

  Most bothersome was the shooting that continued to crash in my earpiece, every few seconds highlighted by a scream or loud groan. The assault should have been finished by now, and I couldn’t tell if the team had become engaged with the police or more military. Or even if they were winning. I moved past the rhino and monkey enclosures, turning north. At least the paved path was bordered by manicured jungle bush, giving me lots of places to duck into if anyone appeared. Beyond the tigers and lions, the trail ended at a huge banyan tree and bamboo forest. Farther on was the Kenh Thi Nghe Channel and the boat we’d used to escape from Binh Thanh what seemed like ages ago, but was only a day or two before. Luong’s men had been instructed to leave it tied up on the shore right where I would emerge from the undergrowth. Plan B was that I steer the motorboat quickly to a rendezvous point behind Dung’s house that also bordered the Channel. It was then only a short cruise to the Sai Gon River and safety hiding among the sampans and dinghies that dotted the river and its edges.

  When I pushed aside the giant ferns, my first thought was Luong’s tribesmen had failed. I looked both ways and saw nothing but lantern lights from houseboats moored to the shore and city reflections across the water. But something was bulging from the bamboo about ten yards to my left and looked like a tumor on the forest wall. It was the back of a boat camouflaged with lilies, creepers, and brush. I pushed my way through the foliage and, untying the rope, pulled the boat free. Luong had made sure I knew how to push the starter button and drive the vessel, even if it wasn’t done hands-on. I did as I was instructed and was motoring up the channel in seconds. It was less than a half mile to the meeting point and the sounds of battle at Poo Ping’s had begun to diminish, only an occasional pop of a weapon and a hushed “over here” or “follow me” coming into my head. I slowed within a few minutes at a boathouse and dock where Dung kept his twenty-seven-foot Bayliner Sunbridge cabin cruiser just as described by Mr. Liu from intel gathered by his legion of informers. I backed the boat in and waited, silence now in my ears.

  The first to appear was Hatati. She ran down the dock, stopped next to me, and crouched, her body now faced back toward the house that was showing flames dancing in the windows and
smoke pouring out of the roof.

  “Be ready,” she yelled. “They’re right behind me.”

  Next was Nguyen, holding Luong under the armpits and dragging him as fast as he could, an AK-47 hanging from his free hand. Luong’s head was slumped on his chest and he looked barely alive. I started to get out in order to help.

  “Stay there,” Hatati barked. “We’ll put him onboard. You take care of the boat and be prepared to get us out of here fast.” She didn’t move to aid Nguyen, continuing to stare toward the path from the house where Morgan had to soon materialize.

  When Nguyen reached the boat, I ignored Hatati and stood, holding my arms out to take hold of Luong’s limp body. He was heavy and awkward, especially with the boat swaying in the current. Together, Nguyen and I managed to wrestle Luong into one of the padded seats while the Degar moaned, obviously unconscious and in great pain.

  Just as we got Luong settled, Hatati began firing her AK toward the house, and bullets started pinging off the metal dock. Nguyen turned around and opened up with his rifle, aiming up the slope from where a tall white man was running toward us through the thickening smoke. Morgan was limping and only held a pistol. I moved behind Luong, getting between him and any shots that might hit the Degar in the head. I reached inside his shirt and found a Sig Sauer P226. Finally, I was armed, too, but the enemy was too far away for the gun to be of much value. All the same, I sighted in on a man just moving into the open and fired. He went down, and I didn’t know if it was a fluke or Hatati’s work, since Nguyen was occupied with targets farther up the hill. With all our fire power blasting away, it was loud. The smell of cordite mixed with the stench of a burning house coated my nose in grit. Morgan was close now and Dung’s defenders were getting more desperate. I dropped the rifle and made my way to the steering wheel, the engine idling. Hatati waited only a second when Morgan stumbled at her feet, pushing him onto the boat, and jumped in right behind. I shoved the throttle forward and three hundred horses leapt away from the dock, bullets continuing to rattle into the sides. Within seconds, we were into the channel and too far away for anything but a lucky hit.