He let that sink in for a few moments. Nigel got up, went to the window and stood with his back to them, looking out at the lights of the city.
Dinh continued. ‘Suppose the man’s story was true, I thought. Where would you find a group of rhinos like that?’
‘On a rhino-breeding farm,’ Crys said at once. ‘Like the one I visited. But the horns would be cut off.’
‘Yes, but I discovered there are some small private and state reserves where that’s not the case. Mainly along the east coast of South Africa. Maybe they would shoot from helicopters with people on the ground to cut off the horns. But then I was doubtful. You would need a lot of men and a lot of money. On the other hand, that could tie in with your story, couldn’t it, Ms Nguyen?’
‘So, when Nigel told you my story, it all seemed to fit together.’
‘Crys,’ Nigel said, turning back to the others, ‘do you know what a hit like this could fetch? Say twenty horns? Up to five million dollars on the street. And a small game reserve’s rhinos wiped out.’
She looked at both men, thinking the whole idea farfetched. Attack a game reserve? Wipe out rhinos from the air? In addition to a lot of money and men, you’d need to be crazy. ‘They’d call in the army. They’d never get away with it.’
‘It could be a guerrilla strike from Mozambique,’ Nigel replied, striding around the room. ‘The shooters could fly in from there, and the poachers with the horns would fade into the bush as they always do. It could be done in a few hours. Then they would disappear back to Mozambique and—’
‘But that would cause an international incident!’ Crys interrupted. This was a nightmare, and in spite of her doubts Crys was caught up in it. ‘The two of you must take it to the highest levels. Now you have both pieces of the story, surely they’ll take it seriously.’
Nigel dropped back into his chair, shaking his head. ‘You heard what Dinh said about Vietnam. The police there aren’t interested in what happens on their doorstep, let alone something that may happen halfway around the world. We’ll get our information to the South Africans, but we don’t have enough details to get them to act. Perhaps they’ll be on alert and manage to catch some of the poachers, but then it will be too late. The rhinos will be dead.’
‘Perhaps Ms Nguyen could write it all up for the newspapers and get public attention that way,’ Dinh suggested. ‘Use the power of the press.’ He raised his eyebrows at her.
‘But what evidence does she have?’ Nigel objected. ‘A Vietnamese man at a plane crash in South Africa – who is now dead. Another in Ho Chi Min City, who tries to sell a story – who is also now dead. No known connection between them, and no clear connection with rhino-horn smuggling.’
Crys knew he was right. No one would publish a story like that.
She turned to Dinh. ‘I believe you’ve met a colleague of mine,’ she said. ‘Michael Davidson.’
Dinh frowned. ‘I have indeed,’ he said. ‘He visited me about a month or so ago. If I remember correctly, he was researching a story on rhinos, just as you are.’
‘He’s in South Africa at the moment, but no one has heard from him for about five weeks. We’re all worried because the last we heard he was trying to contact a gang of smugglers.’
‘A gang of smugglers?’ Dinh asked, frowning. ‘Do you know anything about them?’
Crys shook her head. ‘Not really. It seems he was trying to negotiate something with someone in Vietnam – we found some emails on his New York Times email account—’
Dinh interrupted. ‘What sort of thing?’
‘It looks as though they were haggling over price.’
‘If you give me the email address, I can have one of my IT people try and trace it.’
‘That would be fantastic. Thank you.’ She asked Nigel for some paper, scribbled down the email address and gave it to Dinh.
‘Also, from an email he sent to me,’ she continued, ‘it seems that some Portuguese from Mozambique are involved.’
‘Some of the big smuggling gangs are based in Mozambique,’ Nigel said. ‘Nasty people!’
‘We were beginning to think he was dead, but then he managed to get a note out of where he’s being held. The police have it and are going house to house trying to find him.’
‘They have a note from him?’ Dinh seemed surprised. ‘What did it say?’
‘That he was being held against his will and wanted to be rescued.’
‘How did he get it out?’
‘Apparently he gave it to a young boy who was meant to lead the police back. But he never gave it to the police. It was found on a bench by a woman who turned it in.’
‘Where do they think he is?’ Dinh asked.
‘Near Giyani – that’s where Pockface was holding me. It’s quite rural.’
‘It could take weeks to find him in an area like that,’ Nigel exclaimed. ‘And why are they keeping him prisoner?’
Crys shrugged. ‘Maybe he’d found out about this big thing we’ve been talking about, and they can’t afford to let him blow the whistle on it.’
‘You’d think people like that would just kill him…’ Nigel’s voice trailed off as he realised what effect his words could have on Crys.
There was an uncomfortable silence.
Dinh finished his drink and stood up. ‘Well, I must take my leave.’
‘Before you go,’ Crys said, ‘Michael said in his notes that you were able to set him up with some interviews in Vietnam with people dealing in rhino horns.’
Dinh nodded.
‘I’d appreciate it if you could set up the same meetings for me.’
He nodded and switched to Vietnamese. ‘It was excellent to meet you, Ms Nguyen. Here is my card. Please contact me about your arrangements in Ho Chi Min City. It will be my honour to offer what help I can.’ Crys couldn’t tell whether his smile was genuine.
They shook hands and Crys thanked him.
‘I’ll see you out,’ Nigel said.
He ushered Dinh into the corridor, and they spoke there quietly for a few moments.
When Nigel returned, he headed towards the kitchen. ‘You can’t leave Switzerland without having a fondue,’ he told Crys. ‘If you cut up the bread into cubes, I’ll deal with the rest. It’ll be ready in a few minutes, and then we can talk about how Dinh’s story fits with yours, and what we can do about it.’
Crys hesitated, she wanted to keep the meeting professional. On the other hand, a fondue sounded fun and Nigel seemed keen to pursue the poaching issue despite his misgivings.
Nigel poured himself another glass of wine and topped up her orange juice.
Soon they were dipping the bread cubes in the rich cheese sauce, and fishing for the ones that got away. As they ate, Nigel talked about himself – growing up in a posh part of London and going to an English public school, and his eventual rebellion against those conservative values.
‘I’m sure you can’t imagine me as an angry young man,’ he said with a hearty laugh. ‘But I was. Eventually I decided to stop protesting about things like climate change and animal extinctions and actually try to do something about them. I’m sure you feel that way, too.’ He rescued a cube of cheese-covered bread from the pot and took it off his fondue fork.
‘I do,’ Crys said. ‘After high school, I moved to Duluth in northern Minnesota for college because they gave me a scholarship for cross-country skiing. But they gave me a lot more; they gave me the chance to be by myself, skiing for hours and hours through the Northwoods. Or running in the summer.’
‘You must have had some wonderful experiences there.’
Crys nodded. ‘One day, in my sophomore year, I saw a grey wolf looking at me from behind a tree. It was – I still don’t know quite how to describe it – it was like … magic. Then, it seemed like he was there every time I skied. In my mind, he became my friend. My only friend. The only one who didn’t make demands of me. I even gave him a name – Alfie.’
‘Alfie?’
Crys nodded, grin
ning. ‘I know it sounds weird, but it comes from the Norwegian for wolf, which is spelled u-l-v. I thought it was pronounced ‘ulf’, so I changed it to the diminutive ‘Ulfie’. Someone I skied with thought I was mispronouncing the name Alfie, so that’s what it became.’
‘Fair enough!’ Nigel smiled and speared another bread cube.
‘Of course, I didn’t see him over the summer, but he was there the next winter. I knew it was him because one ear was torn. Then, one day, halfway through the winter, he wasn’t in his usual place. I skied over to his tree and…’ Crys took a deep breath. ‘He was there. Dead. He’d been caught in a trap. It looked as though he had dragged the trap towards where he always saw me. At least, that’s what I thought. I convinced myself he was trying to get to where I could see him, so I could help him.’
She stopped and glanced at Nigel. He seemed to be taking her seriously, so she went on. ‘I made a commitment over his body that I would always do everything I could for wolves.’
They sat in silence for a few moments.
‘That’s why I became a journalist,’ she continued. ‘Writing about the environment and conservation and so on.’
Crys was surprised she’d said so much, but it felt good to tell someone all this – especially after South Africa. It helped remind her of why she was so committed to protecting the environment in all its forms.
Nigel was looking at her with his intense eyes, but she couldn’t read his expression. ‘Have you had enough to eat?’ he said after a moment.
They adjourned to the living room, and Nigel brought coffee and Swiss chocolates. He sat next to Crys on the couch facing the view, but not too close. Then it was back to business.
‘Crys, I’ve been thinking about what Dinh said,’ he began. ‘This operation in South Africa – it must be big. Think about the money it would take. Nothing personal, but they wouldn’t have wasted all that time and effort on you for, say, ten thousand dollars. That’s peanuts in this business. My guess is it’s more like ten times that. For the risk of bringing in their own people as well, they must be expecting to get at least ten horns.’
Crys didn’t say anything, but she turned it over in her mind. His estimate of the money was out by a factor of at least five. That could mean fifty rhinos. And Pockface had said ‘three’. Was it possible they would target three game reserves at once? It seemed hugely ambitious – mad even.
‘We just don’t have enough to go on,’ Nigel continued, helping himself to a chocolate. ‘We have a possible date. And that’s only ten days from now. But we have nothing but guesses at what and where. Maybe the two stories aren’t related at all. Maybe the Portuguese are after elephants, and the Vietnamese are after rhinos. But we can’t afford to ignore it and lose more rhinos. And if Dinh’s right, and the plan is to hit one of the game reserves, there will be people there too, and they won’t hesitate to kill them if they get in the way. We must have more information. But there’s no one in Vietnam who can get it for us.’ He frowned.
‘What about your people there?’
He shook his head. ‘They’re picking up nothing. It’s all quiet. Too quiet. We need someone these people don’t know.’
Suddenly Crys realised where this was going, and she felt her heart sink. She thought she’d managed to shift this whole matter onto someone else’s shoulders. Now, in a single speech, he’d seemed to shift it right back.
‘You want me to do it?’ she asked, her coffee cup halfway to her mouth.
‘You’re going there in two days anyway. It’s all part of the trip you’ve planned already. And you’re a journalist. It’s the perfect cover for asking questions, sticking your nose into things.’
‘Being a journalist isn’t a cover, it’s my job! I can’t go around asking questions in confidence and then leaking the information. How unprofessional is that?’
‘Not even if the people are intending to massacre twenty rhinos and murder a few conservation people on the side?’ he said, putting his hand on her arm. ‘What about the commitment to conservation you were telling me about?’
She didn’t know what to say. Put like that, the niceties of journalistic practice didn’t sound very compelling. But she knew that what he wanted her to do was totally unethical.
‘Look,’ he went on, in a quieter tone. ‘I’m only asking you to keep your ears open and speak to the right people. Don’t you need to interview the smugglers and people who sell rhino horn anyway? Isn’t that crucial for your article? I haven’t thought it through, but maybe you can pretend to be in the market for horn yourself to sell to rich Vietnamese people in the US. Pretend that your National Geographic article is partly a cover for that. It will make a fantastic story afterwards…’
Crys shook her head. ‘What about the bit about disappearing and no one finding your body?’
He took his time replying. ‘Look, I can’t pretend it won’t be dangerous, but asking questions just for your article could be too. These aren’t good people. They’d think twice about assaulting a foreign journalist, though.’
She laughed ruefully. ‘That didn’t seem to bother Pockface and his sidekick.’
‘You’re right, Crys. You have your article to write, and that’s really important too. Getting the inside story of what’s going on out there to the public. All I’m asking is that you try to pick up information and feed it back to us while you’re doing that. Let Dinh set you up with a few contacts. We’ll do the rest.’
‘There’s so little time. What can I possibly find out in a week? I can’t pretend I’m a local. I may look Vietnamese, I can talk Vietnamese, but I’ll be a foreigner there. No one’s going to tell me anything about a plan to attack a game reserve in Africa.’
‘Don’t underestimate yourself. With Dinh’s contacts there, and your nose for news, we’ve got a decent chance of coming up with something. That’s if you’re willing to try…’
Crys had a sinking feeling. Nigel wanted her to trade in Pockface for a gang of Vietnamese smugglers. It was the last thing she wanted to do, but how could she turn her back on the rhinos and people who might be killed?
Nigel didn’t say anything more, just watched her with an earnest expression.
‘All right,’ she said finally letting out a big sigh. ‘Tell me how we’re going to set this up.’
PART 4
Vietnam
Chapter 27
Flying from Geneva to Ho Chi Minh City was like so many flights in the era of hubs. Crys flew for six hours or so to Dubai, where she spent more than three hours in the middle of the night, parked in a café. This was followed by another seven-hour flight to Ho Chi Minh.
She spent most of the time worrying about what was ahead. Digging out information for her National Geographic article was one thing. Deliberately sticking her nose into the affairs of dangerous people was another. Sometimes she was tempted to just stick to writing her article and forget about the rest. But she had a strong intuition that Michael’s ‘something big’ started with his connection with the mysterious [email protected] in Vietnam, and she needed to get to the bottom of that.
Only she and Bongani knew the truth of how much money had arrived in Africa, and where it was buried. And she was haunted by the size of the project it might be paying for. Her instincts told her that the money was somehow connected to Michael’s search for the smugglers. It was up to her to find the connection.
Also, it was the first time she’d been back to her city of birth, which had been called Saigon at that time. What was it going to be like? she wondered. She remembered nothing about the place and had only seen photos of the house where she’d spent her first year.
Her emotions were in turmoil.
Dinh had told her someone would meet her at the airport and take her to her hotel. He was also arranging a translator for her meetings. They’d decided that only Nigel and Dinh would know she spoke decent Vietnamese. It was Crys’s idea; she’d suggested this deceit to Nigel on the off-chance she would pick up something useful i
n conversations not meant for her. She was hoping the locals would see her as an American journalist and not as a Vietnamese spy.
A Mr Do, who described himself as one of Dinh’s colleagues, met her in the arrivals hall. She nearly greeted him in Vietnamese, but stopped herself and behaved as a full-on American. She needed to stay in character.
‘You come with me,’ he said. ‘I take you to hotel.’
They walked through the oppressive heat and humidity to his car, an old Renault with a nasty knocking sound from the engine and no discernible air-conditioning. If it was this hot and humid at the beginning of winter, she thought, what was it like in summer?
On the road to the hotel, Do gave a running commentary of what they were passing. Crys was amazed that he could avoid the thousands of scooters and motorbikes and talk at the same time, but he negotiated them casually, sometimes taking his eyes off the road to point out a feature of the city.
‘Vietnam much changed since war. Ho Chi Min City now modern city. Like New York. And country also modern,’ he told her. ‘New buildings, many jobs. People earning money. All Vietnamese working for good future. Want country to be good for our children.’
‘What do Vietnamese think of Americans today? It’s been forty years since the war.’
‘We happy to welcome Americans. Bring money and happy faces.’
What a different attitude from the States, she thought. Many Americans were still bitter about the war, and she’d endured a lot of racism over the years for being Vietnamese.
‘I don’t understand something, Mr Do,’ she said. ‘If the country is modern, why do people still believe rhino horn can heal sick people? We know it doesn’t work.’
‘Old men don’t change. Still believe it powerful medicine. Young men use powder to show off lots of money.’
It was a simple explanation, but it was the most convincing she’d heard so far.
Dead of Night Page 22
