Angel in the Full Moon

by Don Easton

  Angel in the Full Moon

  To those with the courage to do what is right ...

  Angel in the Full Moon

  A Jack taggart Mystery

  Don Easton

  A Castle Street Mystery

  Copyright © Don Easton, 2008

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

  Editor: Barry Jowett

  Copy-editor: Shannon Whibbs

  Design: April Duffy

  Printer: Webcom

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Easton, Don

  Angel in the full moon / Don Easton.

  (A Jack Taggart mystery)

  ISBN 978-1-55002-813-3

  I. Title. II. Series: Easton, Don. Jack Taggart mystery.

  PS8609.A78A66 2008 C813’.6 C2008-900678-X

  1 2 3 4 5 11 10 09 08 07

  We acknowledge the support of The Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

  J. Kirk Howard, President

  Printed and bound in Canada

  www.dundurn.com

  Dundurn Press 3

  Church Street, Suite 500

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada

  M5E 1M2

  Gazelle Book Services Limited

  White Cross Mills

  High Town, Lancaster, England

  LA1 4XS

  Dundurn Press

  2250 Military Road

  Tonawanda, NY

  U.S.A. 14150

  Thank you, Thuy, for the help you have given me in completing this novel.

  chapter one

  It was ten o’clock at night in Hanoi as Bien stood at the back of the cargo van with his twelve-year-old daughter. The incessant January rain, coupled with a light breeze, made the fifteen-degree Celsius temperature seem colder. Bien had no idea that his dream for the future was about to become a permanent nightmare—or that the rear doors on the van opening in front of him were the gates to hell.

  The driver turned in his seat and gave Bien an impatient nod. Bien grimaced and shoved the plastic bag containing Hang’s belongings into the van. Saying goodbye was difficult and it was more than the rain that made his cheeks wet.

  Hang was the older of Bien’s two children. When Bien was given the opportunity for both his children to go to America he could hardly believe his good fortune. There was little future for them in Vietnam. He bent over to give Hang another final hug.

  A swarm of motor scooters zoomed past like angry, wet hornets and disappeared into the night. Hanoi was like a hive when it came to scooters. Few people could afford cars.

  Bien ignored the scooters and forced himself to smile at Hang. She smiled back, but the corners of her mouth twitched, revealing her nervousness. On impulse, she checked the pocket of her new coat again. Yes, the gift was still there. Wrapped in a small piece of tissue paper and tied with a pink ribbon.

  The silver necklace with the pearl from Halong Bay had cost Bien the equivalent of sixteen American dollars. An exorbitant amount of money, thought Bien. But the American lady will be grateful.

  Bien’s mind turned to Hang’s new coat. She will need it. It can be very cold in the United States. A long blast from the van’s horn interrupted his thoughts and he watched as Hang quickly climbed in to join a handful of young women who sat on the floor of the van. Bien had opted to leave his other daughter, nine-year-old Linh, back at their apartment with her grandmother. It wasn’t simply that he didn’t own a car. He often pedalled with both children on his bicycle. The real reason was he was afraid he might cry. He didn’t want Linh to see him cry. Especially when she was scheduled to leave next.

  The children’s mother died of cancer when Linh was six months old. Bien’s own mother lived with them, but time had been hard on both her body and her mind. Hang, despite being only three years older than Linh, had taken on more of a role of a parent than that of a sister.

  Bien started to close the doors but Hang looked at him and quickly blurted, “Con thu óng cha thot nhiêu.”

  Bien replied, “English now, Hang. You speak English.” He paused and said, “And I love you a lot as well ... but now it is time for you to be strong.”

  “I am strong,” she replied, trying to make her face look stern.

  Bien hid his smile and said, “I know you are. I will be anxious to talk with you.”

  “I telephone in United States,” said Hang. “Six months.”

  Bien shook his head and replied, “No. The word is weeks. Say weeks.”

  “Yes. Weeeks,” replied Hang. She frowned at her mistake.

  “Good. That is good. You call. Linh and I will be waiting.

  You be sure it is good before I send Linh.”

  “Con có the hy sinh tât ca vì cha.”

  “English ... please.”

  Hang sighed and said, “I will do ...” she hesitated, searching for the word she was looking for, “whatever ... you ask.”

  Bien smiled and said, “Good. Very good. I know you will do whatever I ask. I ask that you do whatever for Linh, too.”

  Hang nodded seriously as Bien closed the doors.

  Minutes later, Bien held his bicycle and stood silently in the rain staring at the empty street. His heart and stomach felt like they were being wrenched from his body. The image of Hang waving at him through the back window of the van would forever be etched in his memory.

  Bien climbed on his bicycle and pedalled toward his apartment. He brooded about his last-minute decision not to send Linh to America on the same boat as Hang. People were angry with him, but eventually he was told that the American family understood.

  The American family had lost two daughters in an unfortunate accident. The Americans wanted to fill the emptiness they felt and were willing to take his daughters into their home. They would pay for them to go to school in America.

  Perhaps, some day, Bien would be allowed to go to America, too. For now, they agreed that Hang would travel first. Another boat was scheduled to leave when it was known that the first boat arrived safely.

  Not that there was any real danger, Bien had been told. The passengers would be smuggled into the United States from Canada. Even if the authorities caught them, the worse that would happen is that they would be returned to Vietnam.

  If that happened, Bien knew, he would face some criticism from his own government. The opportunity for a prosperous and happy future for his children was well worth that risk. He was told that if all went well, eventually the right people in America would be paid and both his daughters would become American citizens.

  Bien heard that there were many other passengers being smuggled. All young women who were being given jobs in the hotel industry. They would have to work to pay for the cost of being brought to America. That would not take long. There was a tremendous amount of money to be made. They would have no problem paying off their debt, even while sending money home to their families.

  Bien knew that for
many of the young women, their fate would no be so. He had heard rumours that some of the young women lacked morals and became greedy, opting instead to make more money by selling their bodies. Some sent money home to Vietnam for their parents, who became rich, but when asked about their daughters, the shame was evident. They said their daughters worked in hotels or restaurants, but few believed it. Maids in hotels were not paid that much.

  Bien had talked at length about this to both his daughters. He had also spoken to the smugglers. If there was even a suggestion that they engage in any impropriety, he would go to the authorities. He was assured otherwise. This family was decent, heartbroken over the loss of their own daughters. He was told that he was foolish to worry. Still, these were his daughters. What father would not worry?

  Bien’s daughters were fortunate. They would not have to work at all to pay for their voyage. His was a special situation. Bien’s contact had taken a picture of Hang and Linh standing in front of the One Pillar Pagoda close to where Bien worked. The picture was sent to America and Bien heard that the family instantly loved his daughters. He was told that if his daughters were truly unhappy, then the American family would pay to return them to Vietnam.

  Bien thought about the Westerners’ use of the word love. He decided that it was a word they used as if they were saying hello. From Westerners, it sounded about as genuine as the fake Rolexes sold at the market. The Vietnamese expressed love more often through action, by doing something nice for the person. It had more meaning.

  It was the same with Western names, Bien mused. They never stood for anything. His own name, Bien, meant ocean. Western names did not usually have meaning. Bien was told the name of the American family was Pops and it meant friendly father. Believing the name to be real, he felt reassured. Had he known it was a nickname with a secretive, twisted, and perverse meaning, he would have been aghast.

  Bien reflected upon the picture of his two daughters. His contact had graciously provided him with a black and white photocopy. In the picture, Hang held Linh’s hand. Not that she was afraid Linh would run out into traffic. She knew better. She held Linh’s hand because she loved her. Their spirits entwined like one. Anyone looking at the picture could see their true beauty. Perhaps the American family were sincere when they said they loved my children? It would be impossible not to ....

  Bien had not always lived in Hanoi. As a child, he was raised in the South. Saigon. Bien still preferred the city by its old name, but while working in Hanoi, he was careful to refer to it as Ho Chi Minh City.

  Bien’s father had served with the South Vietnamese army and fought alongside the Americans until the Communists achieved victory in 1975. His father had learned English and taught it to Bien, who in turn, taught it to both his daughters. After the war, Bien’s father was placed in a re-education camp, where he died thirteen years later. Bien scoffed at the term reeducation. It was a camp of forced labour and brutality.

  Bien’s wife, formerly from Dong Ha, had been exposed to heavy concentrations of Agent Orange during the war. Their daughter, Hang, like many second generation children, was born with an abnormality. She had an extra thumb protruding off the thumb of one hand. This was only a minor imperfection, Bien decided, when so many other families had children who were born without feet or arms.

  Hang’s extra thumb was not something that had been hidden from the American family. Bien was told that Pops would have an American doctor fix it, but only if Hang wished. Bien knew that Hang would wish it to be so. She wanted to be perfect. She does not understand that she already is.

  Linh was born without any abnormalities. Something that was cause for extreme joy. A sign that the future would improve, thought Bien. He had received a teaching degree just days after Linh was born. He felt like their lives were complete and that their future would be good. But it was not good.

  Bien’s wife died six months later of organ failure brought on by the dioxin in her body. The closest Bien ever came to being a teacher was doing janitorial work at a school. The Communist party was only too aware of his family’s sympathy to the South during the war. He would not be allowed to teach.

  It was not until recently that the government recognized the benefit of tourism and knew that Bien’s ability to speak English could be an asset. He was sent to Hanoi to act as a tour guide at Uncle Ho’s Mausoleum.

  Bien lived in a one-room apartment facing an alley that he shared with his daughters and his own mother. His kitchen, like others in his neighbourhood, was a small plastic table and chairs set out on the sidewalk at the front of the building. The rest of his kitchen consisted of a hot plate set up on wooden boxes in the alley. The boxes were on their sides and a piece of cloth wired to the boxes acted as a curtain to keep the dust off the dishes. All this was enclosed with a wrought-iron grate bolted to the alley wall, which protruded just over an arm’s length away from the boxes. Entry was through a padlocked door.

  For the first few months, he was paid barely enough to buy rice and noodles. Later, he learned to become a little shrewder about accepting tips from the tourists. Soon he would be able to afford a bigger apartment. One that would give his mother her own room to snore in.

  It was midnight when Bien pedalled back through the Ba Dinh district of Hanoi and quietly carried his bicycle into his apartment. Tomorrow he would face questions. He did not like the fact that he had to deal with smugglers. Lying to friends about where his daughter went made him feel guilty—but he understood the need for secrecy.

  Hang sat quietly on the floor as the van continued through the streets of Hanoi, occasionally stopping to pick up more women. Hang figured they were all about six or seven years older than her. She caught the friendly smile of a younger woman who had been in the van when Hang got in. Hang forced a quick smile back before turning away—directing her attention to the floor of the van. She remembered her vow to stay strong and did not want anyone to see the tears on her face.

  “Em tê;n là gì?” the young woman asked her.

  “Hang,” she answered, continuing to stare at the floor.

  “You ... talk ... English,” she noted, slowly enunciating the words of this foreign language.

  “A little,” replied Hang.

  She smiled again. “Yes, me talk a ... small ... English,” she said, holding her thumb and finger close together to emphasize her point. “My name Ngoc Bích. You, me, we teach English each other, okay?”

  “Okay,” replied Hang, looking down at the van floor.

  “You cold?” asked Ngoc Bích.

  Hang shook her head.

  “Very cold in America. I think you cold now,” said Ngoc Bích, while changing positions and sitting beside Hang. “You be okay,” said Ngoc Bích. “Okay to be afraid,” she added, while putting her arm around Hang’s shoulders.

  “I’m not afraid,” said Hang, glancing up defiantly at the other women in the van.

  Ngoc Bích caught Hang’s expression and said, “That okay. They no speak English. They no understand what me say with you. I see you cry. I am sorry with you.”

  Hang paused for a moment, and said, “I’m not afraid. I only miss my family.”

  “My family live in Nha Trang,” said Ngoc Bích, pulling Hang closer. “My father dies two years before. I cries. The day last, my mother say goodbye to me in Nha Trang. I am oldest five kids. Two brothers. Two sisters,” she said, holding up two fingers on each hand. “It is good I send money from America—but yesterday I cry the same as you. You father and mother many kids?”

  “One sister. No mother,” replied Hang.

  Ngoc Bích paused briefly and said, “It okay to cry.”

  Hang solemnly studied Ngoc Bích’s face but did not respond.

  “I cry for my brothers and sisters today. You want, you ... me ... be sister now,” added Ngoc Bích.

  Hang reflected upon this briefly, before nodding. They each smiled and hugged each other.

  Eventually the van came to a stop and everyone got out. The driver warned the
m to be quiet and to follow him. Hang slung her bag of belongings over her shoulder and, along with everyone else, obediently followed. They entered an apartment building, trudged up four flights of stairs, were led to a room halfway down the hall, and ushered inside.

  Hang and Ngoc Bích quietly sat on the apartment floor with a dozen others. The driver left but two other Vietnamese men remained in the room. The men told everyone to sit quietly and not to speak.

  Later, there were more soft knocks on the apartment door as several more groups of young women arrived. Hang counted thirty-five women but lost count when the room became too crowded.

  An hour passed, and the silence in the room made Hang more conscious of the humidity and the sticky feeling from the heat generated by their cramped quarters. Eventually there was another knock at the door.

  Another Vietnamese man entered the room, followed by two other men who were both foreigners and appeared to be about fifty years old. One foreigner was lean and tall, with a thin, grey moustache that matched the colour of his brush cut. His face was pointed with sharp cheek bones and large dark eyes peered out from a nose that reminded Hang of a beak on a bird. Like a long-billed vulture ... She heard the Vietnamese man call him Petya.

  The other foreigner took off his jacket and Hang saw that he was wearing a golf shirt and slacks. His head was shaved bald and he had a large pot belly ... but it was his arms that caught Hang’s attention. She had never seen arms covered in so much thick, black hair. More black hair unleashed itself from the open neck on his golf shirt. It made Hang think of a bald ape and she quickly looked away so as not to be seen as being rude.

  The two foreigners spoke to each other in a language that Hang did not understand. After, the bald ape turned to the Vietnamese man.

  “Tell them all to stand,” said the bald ape, speaking English.

  “Yes, Styopa,” replied the Vietnamese man. He then gave the command in Vietnamese and everyone got to their feet.