[Adam Park 01.0] The Dead and the Missing

by AD Davies

  I could not go to the authorities.

  While nothing else happened, I spent the time re-strapping my little finger to the one next to it using gaffer tape. Soon, another figure approached the group. It was the Goon, still mafia-sharp, still in his sunglasses.

  I pressed myself flatter to the ground, a foot from the fence that buzzed with current even with nothing touching it.

  The Goon stopped beside the women and clasped his hands. The man in the silk robe finished his dinner and placed the tray on the floor. The three women raised their heads, and when the man swung himself around to assess them, I confirmed it was Vuong Dinh, the doughy businessman I viewed in many press photos. He perused them, then pointed at the black woman. I now recognized her as the same one the Goon was manhandling back in Paris. I couldn’t remember her name.

  Vila Fanuco’s favorite.

  Sarah and the local girl cleared away the plate and took the phone, and the Goon escorted them back to the house. For a split-second, Sarah looked directly at me, like she knew I was there. In the harsh light I thought I could see her blue eyes. Her mouth was not happy or sad, but it was those eyes worried me, honed in like lasers on my hiding place. I even shook my head in case her condition bestowed her with some sort of super-powered vision.

  Not now, I tried to convey. Please don’t give me away.

  It was only momentary, though. At the Goon’s command, she disappeared with her handler behind the main building.

  Vuong Dinh’s robe was now untied, the black woman topless, and her head positioned over his groin, stroking smoothly up and down. I turned away. I didn’t need to see that. Didn’t want to think this was why Sarah got brought here.

  How far was I behind her?

  Two weeks?

  Facing the junction box, I picked the phone with the strongest battery life, and opened the line using a code Jess taught me five years ago. The hands-free speaker rang shrill in the night, and several unseen creatures scurried away. I switched the speaker off and held the handset to my ear, and a man answered in Vietnamese. I pictured the Goon, but couldn’t be sure.

  I said, “I need someone who speaks English.”

  “Speak English? Go.”

  “I am an interested party in a property you recently purchased. I am willing to pay more than you did. A lot more.” The second time I’d tried this trick. This time, though, I had nothing with which to back it up.

  The Goon said, “Which property?”

  “You paid about a hundred thousand for this property. A few days or weeks ago. You know the property I mean?”

  A nose breathed on the other end. Wind hissed through the jungle. Something chirped. Something replied with a shriek.

  I said, “I have half a million dollars in cash. For you, if you broker the deal. A further half-million for your boss.”

  “You are the British man. Go home, British man. Go home.”

  “I don’t want trouble. But I’ll create some if I have to. I want the girl, I want the belongings she was sold with, and I’m willing to pay enough to buy her ten times over. It’s good profit.”

  “Her … belong—belonging…”

  “Her things,” I said. “Her property.”

  “Hm. Yes. I call you back?”

  “I’ll call you in ten minutes.”

  I hung up and watched the garden, trying not to focus on the lounger. Shortly, the Goon crossed the lawn to where Vuong Dinh tied his gown and the black girl was getting dressed. The Goon waved her away and spoke to his boss. I heard every word but understood nothing. The Goon returned to the house.

  I called the number. “Do we have a deal?”

  “Her things,” the Goon said. “You know her things. Want them.”

  I’d played my hand too openly. Too eagerly. “You know the item.”

  “She have data sticks in special pocket. No use. Broken.”

  Sticks-plural. I tried not to sound surprised. “You still have them.”

  “Girl say they valuable. But cannot break code. You break code, British Man?”

  “She keeps the data sticks,” I said. “I’m offering far more than it’s all worth.”

  “Half million for girl. Half million to me. Half million for sticks.”

  I swallowed, as if I had any intention of paying. “Okay. Fine. I can be at your house in—”

  “No,” he said. “No house. You come, you die.”

  “Then where?”

  His turn to pause. “You know how read co-ordinates?”

  “Why?”

  “You must take a boat where I tell you. We exchange there, at noon.”

  “She comes to me undamaged, with all her belongings and travel documents.”

  “Of course.”

  My mind somersaulted, searching for some sort of plan. “She holds onto the data sticks. I’ll bring a computer to check they’re the real thing. Then I hand you your cash, the rest will be transferred by satellite phone. Clear?”

  “Is acceptable.” He dictated the coordinates before he signed off with the bad-guy handbook’s standard farewell: “Come alone, and do not try anything.”

  To help him feel at ease, I said, “I’ll be there.”

  Except, I had nothing to offer in terms of power or sex, so pretending I could offer money was the only option left. Trouble was, I had no real plan beyond tempting them to move Sarah out of that house. I’d just negotiated a deal in which there could be no winners.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The Gulf of Tonkin is host to Ha Long Bay, a vast area with over two thousand islands and islets formed of limestone pillars rising individually out of the sea. With their sheer contours and thick foliage, they are more likely to be inhabited by mammals and birds than by human beings, but their beauty attracts hundreds of thousands of tourists per year, most sailing from Bai Chay Wharf. A long-time UNESCO Heritage site, the cruises are tightly regulated, although shipping and other non-tourist transports are able to navigate further out, where the islands continue almost to China. The islands vary in size from fifty-meter fenglin towers to hundred-meter lumps, all unique in shape, housing secluded bays, hundreds of caves and even sprawling markets floating around specially-allocated islets.

  This was the chosen location for our exchange. A location I identified after a fitful night sleeping rough in a bus stop, Giang’s knife in my hand and my pack close by. The cover of the jungle was the more obvious option, but I kept flashing back to the cacophony of animal noises, of scurrying and slithering in the undergrowth. The prospect of jerking awake with a cobra coiled on my chest flung up an invisible barrier to that option. In the morning, I communicated using hand gestures with a couple of dock workers, one of whom had an app on his five year-old iPhone that mapped the coordinates for me.

  Despite the thousands of daily tourists, the scale of Ha Long Bay allows for a degree of seclusion, if you know where to look. It was one of these secluded limestone mounds where I suspected the coordinates would lead. Not a place you’d pick for a business meeting, but perfect to dispose of a body.

  I had no intention of venturing out to such a rendezvous.

  I caught another two buses in order to reach Ha Long City, the first Vietnamese hub I’d seen with more minibuses than mopeds. I spent five dollars on an hour’s internet with strong drip coffee and several servings of something called Gat Gu, a rolled rice pancake that was sweet and delicious. I was told to nod three times whilst eating each one, a local custom I would normally embrace, but since nobody monitored me I stuffed them straight into my face whilst scouring maps in and around Ha Long City.

  This was my old gig. My Sherlock-Holmes-in-board-shorts work. Assess the geography, check the starting point, go over the reasons for coming here; predict, conclude, then hope. When I was simply tracking a missing gap-year student, though, if I got that wrong I could attempt several other avenues. Here, I had one guess, so it had to be as accurate as any guess could be.

  I finished my pancakes by nine, so that gave me extra tim
e to reach the coordinates which, according to a quick online calculation, were an hour from Bai Chay. I guessed the Goon would bring her here by car before departing on one of the private vessels moored half a mile south of the wharf, one of which I learned from some basic online research belonged to Vuong Dinh’s holding company. It was here where he hosted casino nights for clients and, it was rumored, government officials, whose luck was usually higher than the average punter.

  Providing they honored my instruction and ensured Sarah was physically carrying the USB drive(s) at all times, the only snag would occur if they decided to take Sarah to the island via helicopter, but given the nature of the Bay, it would seem unlikely. This was a covert arrangement, and a helicopter would draw attention. Plus, if they wanted me to come here specifically, it made sense they’d utilize Dinh’s boat.

  I walked the mile south to the private pier and discovered it was part of a hotel complex, with a separate dock and outbuildings. I expected the pier to be part of some form of club where boat owners would wear pastel shades and pullovers tied round their shoulders for no particular reason, but this was a functional concrete pier that saw six large vessels moored—three junks with folded sails, a 115-foot yacht (a Derektor if I wasn’t mistaken) and two lunking heaps of the sort you can sleep on in lieu of a hotel, out on the Bay itself. Workers came and went from all of them. Except the Derektor. Its name was the Hoà bình đẹp. I’d seen it online. It meant “Beautiful Peace.”

  I had developed that idiotic Batman delusion again, where I could take on whatever thugs came my way and glide out of there with the damsel now relieved of her distress.

  Adam Park, the white knight.

  When the Goon and his Goon-squad brought Sarah here, I planned to surprise them, start a fight, perhaps, and encourage Sarah to scream and tell everyone about her kidnapping. I’d take a beating, sure, but when the police were called she’d give her statement and I’d be arrested. But Sarah would be free and available to give Benson his USB drive.

  I found a clothes shop on the complex and selected a pair of black, loose trousers, a V-neck top, and a conical hat that a legitimate Vietnamese would wear. The stooped saleswoman charged fifty dollars for the lot, but I haggled down to fifteen, plus the dead iPhone and charger. She was happy enough to throw in a surgeon-like facemask for free. The clothes fit well enough, the trousers a mere two inches short, although Giang’s knife sat heavy in the pocket and the loose material made it sway against me. I switched my boots for strapped sandals and fresh air washed around my toes as I left the store.

  The hotel charged me twelve dollars for up to twenty-four hours of left luggage, but they accepted my final ten. I kept my binoculars and the knife and picked up a tatty paperback from the book exchange, and—literally penniless—headed back to the concrete pier. I took a perch beside the only way in, pretending to read. The mask covered my lower face, and I pulled the hat low to obscure my European eyes. No one bothered me.

  Thirty minutes later, they pulled up in big-bad gangster cars: two Land Rovers and a Lexus, all with blacked out windows. They drove really fast up a dusty driveway, just to enhance their gangster credentials. They all got out by a gate at the end of the jetty. I counted eight in total. Sarah was in traditional Vietnamese dress and clutched a small orange shopping bag to her chest, her upper arm enclosed in the Goon’s paw, bringing the total number of people to nine.

  I guessed I could take out three if they were surprised enough, but then I’d have five more to contend with, plus Sarah who had absolutely no idea who the hell I was. I should have prepared a better escape route than … umm … than no escape route.

  It was possible, if she didn’t panic, that we could make it to the hotel, but if we didn’t get there we’d likely be mowed down by gunfire, or else they’d catch up and take us away and do … horrible things. Beating me. Beating Sarah too. They could go further than those in Bangkok and kill me this time, and I would have failed everyone.

  Failed Harry.

  Jayne.

  Caroline.

  The group came closer. A brisk walk. One girl. Of the eight men, all but one were Vietnamese. The final guy was Caucasian, a wiry, grey-haired guy in his fifties, carrying a canvas holdall.

  I stood no chance. But I had to try. For Sarah’s sake.

  For Harry’s.

  The workers took no notice.

  The Goon manhandled Sarah roughly along. They were almost upon me.

  These men.

  I gripped the knife as Sarah came closer. Prepared to strike at the second-to-last man. He was the smallest, the most nervous.

  I had killed already.

  I would stab him in the throat.

  Neither Sarah nor the Goon spotted my eyes in the shadow of my hat. All it would take would be to move the book away, tense my legs, and launch forward. Take out the Caucasian guy fast, since I had no clue what he was doing here; maybe get another of the Goon-squad into the water before the rest were upon me.

  Holding me down.

  Beating me.

  And just like that, my window was gone. They passed by and I relaxed my grip on the knife. I bowed my head and tried not to watch the party board the Hoà bình đẹp.

  She had been within touching distance, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t help her.

  With a shake to my hands, I folded the knife into the book and walked away.

  Even if I’d acted as planned, they would have taken Sarah away before any police arrived. She would still be a captive. And I’d be dead. Or worse.

  That’s what I told myself, anyway.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Bai Chay Wharf jostled me around as if I were invisible. Shoulders barged. Elbows dug. Rucksacks were swung at my head. It may have been because I was walking in a straight line without any sense of what to do next. I planned to earn some money by selling more phones or other possessions, charter a boat, then go to the drop, but without a new plan, I’d be killed, and Sarah returned to whatever duties awaited her back at chez Dinh.

  The fear I suffered on the pier was a complete surprise. I’d not been paralyzed in that way for many years. Even in the quarry on the outskirts of Paris, being shot at, arrested by the French police, even holding a gun on Major Giang, I didn’t freeze. I did what was necessary.

  No compromises.

  Between young backpackers and silver-haired tour groups, I made it to the chain-link fence along the boarding pier. The bay and its limestone monoliths were visible in the gaps between dozens of waiting boats, a mix of faux-traditional junks, modern functional barges, and luxurious cruisers. By far the most numerous were the barges. Westerners and Easterners boarded in a constant stream, but I needed something smaller. I wasn’t sure I had enough time to sell my stuff.

  How long would it take for them to launch the yacht? I doubted health and safety would be as big a factor as back home, but they’d still need to do some checks. Plot a course. Possibly inform someone of their route.

  Then I spied an alternative to a fire sale.

  A man all in beige, late 20s, hung around the food stalls at the edge of the seating area filled with backpackers drinking coffee, cold soda, snacking, chatting … and not paying enough attention to their luggage. Most threaded their feet through the straps so their bags couldn’t be snatched, but the Beige Man assessed each one. He held a card for “Zuma Cruises” but I saw no ticket kiosk or boat by that name. He dropped the card, crouched, made a big deal of the mishap with his outstretched hand—standard misdirection—then with his other hand close to his right leg he slashed the nearest rucksack with a straight razor, thrust his hand in, and took out a passport, a wad of money, and a hairbrush. He placed the hairbrush on the floor, palmed the loot, and was on his way. The operation took less than ten seconds.

  I fell victim to his type a few times. Live out of a suitcase or rucksack for enough time and it was inevitable. The key is in being prepared or, like me, get to know the tricks of these so-called “petty” thieves, althoug
h “petty” sanitizes what they do. They are just “thieves” to me. Or “scum-sucking-selfish-bastards.” Many times, people I was searching for had encountered someone like this Beige Man, and was the reason they had gone dark on the family. No money, no phone, no passport. I traced one girl working in a beach bar on the east coast of India after being robbed of everything. She’d been there six weeks, trying to raise enough cash to move on, too embarrassed to ask her mum for help.

  The thief skirted a chain-link fence behind the ticket kiosks and ducked behind the toilet block. I circled the opposite way around the outbuilding and approached him from behind as he counted his latest score. A couple of hundred dollars by the look of it. Some kid’s spending money. Their holiday ruined. He turned as I got within arm’s reach.

  I said, “Speak English?” and he said, “Yah, but not speak to you,” and I punched him in the stomach.

  He doubled over and I brought my knee into his cheekbone. He fell, stunned. I snatched his most recent acquisitions and knelt on his spine while I searched his pockets. Two thick wads of cash—one of dong and one US currency; about a thousand dollars in total. Three more passports, four necklaces of limited value, keys, and two phones. He bucked beneath me and I slapped the back of his head so his face met the dusty ground.

  “I asked you a perfectly civil question. Do you speak English?”

  He coughed. “Little bit.”

  “Good. I’m taking this money, and you get the rest of the day off. Clear?”

  He nodded rapidly.

  I said, “Where’s your boat?”

  “My…”

  “Your boat, dickhead. Where is it? I know you have one.”