Under Attack

by Eric Meyer

  Someone was following me. Several times I checked the reflections in store windows, stopped to check out displays of cheap, tacky souvenirs. ‘Guaranteed genuine, made by Vietnamese craftsmen using traditional techniques.’ I picked up a statuette of a Buddha, and they’d forgotten to remove the ‘Made in China’ sticker from the base. But it gave me a chance to survey the street, a confusing array of brightly dressed bar girls who flocked the sidewalks, giving dazzling smiles to soldiers as they walked past, offering something more ethnic than a Chinese Buddha. Themselves. I put the Buddha back, no contest.

  I couldn’t see them. It was impossible with so many people walking past in both directions, scooters weaving in and out of the traffic, and cops’ whistles blasting at the intersections. I gave up and walked on, deliberately avoiding the street where Gracie died, victim to a Vietcong bombing attack, and I found a side street with a sleazy-looking bar that looked perfect. It was also empty, which would give me a chance to spot anyone who was following me.

  I walked to the other end of the bar and sat on the stool. “Whiskey. Leave the bottle.”

  The barkeep gave me an expressionless glance, put a bottle of Jack Daniels on the counter with a single glass, and went back to reading a newspaper. For all I cared it could have been the Communist Times of Saigon. Neither did I care about the whiskey, and although I checked the bottom of the bottle and found no ‘Made in China’ sticker, it tasted like it had come from a distillery not too far from Shanghai. I was on my second glass when a pretty Saigon Suzie entered the bar and took a stool next to me. She gave me a look from her dark, sloe eyes, and I felt an electric shock at my spine. It was Van Le, yet somehow different.

  She wore a dark blue silk ao dai, with a slit almost up to her armpits, leaving little to the imagination. Dark, lustrous hair piled in an ornate style on top of the head, and her face made up to perfection with luscious, rich red lips and heavy mascara to enhance those wondrous eyes. It couldn’t have been Van Le. I knew for a fact she was banged up in a cell at Police Headquarters. I looked closer, and it wasn’t her. This girl was slightly younger, but no less pretty.

  She smiled. “You like what you see?” She spoke English with a sultry, lilting accent. I had no doubt that accent attracted as many punters as her beauty. But it didn’t attract me. I was here to drink, not to fuck.

  “Sure I do, but I’m not buying.” I poured myself another glass of whiskey and knocked it back, “Beat it, lady. You can see I’m the only customer and you’re wasting your time.”

  “I’m not a prostitute.”

  You could’ve fooled me.

  “I’m sorry, lady, my mistake. But like I said, whatever you’re selling, I’m not in the market.”

  “My name is Van Lam.”

  I nodded. “Pleased to meet you.” I poured another drink, and it struck me she had the same family name as Le. Probably related in some way, which explained the similarity in looks, “There’s another bar across the street, and when I passed it they looked real busy.”

  “I’m her sister.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Van Le, I am her younger sister. I hoped you might want to help her.”

  It explained a lot, and I felt guilty in assuming she was a prostitute. Even if most Saigon girls who looked like her made their living on their backs. Simple mistake. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Help her in which way?”

  “Until yesterday, I was a constable in the National Police. Yesterday afternoon I went to visit my sister, and she told me many things about the crash site next to the DMZ. She asked me to check her locker, where she had some documents she’d hidden, and which should be passed on to an aide to the President. They must have been listening into our conversation, for when I went to the locker it had been opened, and it was empty. An inspector told me to report to Colonel Vong Cao, the aide to General Phan, and Colonel Vong ordered me to hand in my badge and my gun. They fired me with immediate effect and escorted me from the building.”

  I’d lost count of how much whiskey I’d drunk, and I was starting to feel the effects. Some of what she told me registered, especially the bit about Le. But I wasn’t thinking straight, and I gave her stupid grin. “I guess you’re out of a job. Too bad there’s always work in Saigon for…”

  I silently cursed myself for almost saying, ‘a pretty girl.’ Almost a suggestion she could try prostitution, like so many other Saigon Suzies, but I stopped myself in time, “A girl with police experience.”

  She frowned, and I knew that she knew exactly what I’d intended to say. “I don’t care about another job. I care about Le. Will you help me?”

  “I, uh, barman, a glass for the lady.”

  “I don’t drink alcohol.” Her gaze was frosty, as if I’d just offered her money to take her to bed.

  “How about fruit juice?”

  She nodded. “Cold orange juice.”

  The drink seemed to take an age to appear, and while we waited I thought about what she’d told me. Sure I’d like to help Le, but short of blasting my way into Police Headquarters with a squad of heavily armed troopers, I didn’t think there was much I could do. The drink arrived, and she sipped it delicately.

  “How’s the juice?”

  “You haven’t answered my question. Will you help me, help me to get Le out of prison?”

  I didn’t reply at first. I was thinking back to what she’d said. More missing documents, just like the manila folder at Da Nang. Everything that related to that downed aircraft seemed to disappear, to vaporize as if by magic. While I was deep in thought, I poured another glass of whiskey, downed it, and when I tipped the bottle to refill the glass it was almost empty. Added to the quarter of whiskey I’d downed at Tan Son Nhut, I’d gone way past drowning my sorrows.

  “How?” I could have bitten off my tongue. Why the hell did I say that, as if I was about to start digging a tunnel through to her myself?

  “We need to expose the men who are involved in the conspiracy.”

  “Uh, huh, and how do you plan to do that?”

  “I don’t know. But you are an experienced investigator, you must have some idea.”

  She was wrong. Right then my only idea was to order another bottle of bourbon from the bar. After the first bottle the taste didn’t seem so bad, so I reasoned the second bottle would be even better, or less bad. I didn’t get the chance. It was history repeating itself, the past coming back in a flash of déjà vu, and when I saw the canvas satchel flying through the open door into the bar, I knew what it was. Knew that the Vietcong had decided to target this particular bar, just like they had before when they murdered my wife Gracie. When it happened I wasn’t in the bar, and I didn’t die. To be wracked with survivor’s guilt, and not a day had gone past when I didn’t wish I’d been with her at the end. We’d lived together, and I reasoned we should have died together.

  It was almost with a sense of relief I saw the satchel land on the floor and skid toward me. Some instinct made me grab the girl and throw her over the bar to land behind it, and a split second after she disappeared out of sight, the bomb went off. A blinding flash, an explosive blast that smashed into me and propelled me through the air, and everything went black; a final recollection flashed through my brain, a face staring into the bar across the street. It wasn’t what I’d expected, a non-descript civilian. The face belongs to a cop wearing the green uniform of the South Vietnamese police. As I passed out, welcoming the chance to meet Gracie again, I was thinking how clever it was for that VC to disguise their bomber as a policeman.

  I didn’t die, much to my regret. I woke, opened my eyes, and I was still in the bar with Lam kneeling over me. She was wiping blood from deep cuts and gouges on me. “How do you feel?”

  I had to think about that for a few seconds, and I tried to move my arms and legs to make sure they were still there. Everything seemed to be in order, up to a point. I felt like they’d beaten me with baseball bats, and I was on fire from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. “Like
shit.”

  “I want to thank you for saving my life. We were both lucky.”

  I didn’t feel lucky. “How come?”

  “The bomb skidded under a heavy wooden table, and it absorbed most of the impact. If it had exploded in the open, you’d have been dead.”

  I’d be better off dead, I’m hurting that much.

  “I saw a guy across the street. I think it was him who threw the bomb. He was wearing a cop’s uniform, did anyone see where he went?”

  She looked up, and two policemen were walking into the bar. They didn’t look to be in any hurry. “I saw him, too. We’ll talk later.”

  The two cops gave me a careless look, looked at each other and shrugged. As if they’d been called out unnecessarily. The round eye American hadn’t died, and the bar owner could take care of his own mess. The older one stood over me and Lam, and took out a notebook.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Only my pride.”

  He ignored my attempt to be macho. “Do you need a hospital?”

  “Only for the guy who threw that bomb, when I get my hands on him.”

  He didn’t smile. “You must not take the law into your own hands.”

  “Pal, it wasn’t the law I had in mind. It was his scrawny neck.”

  “We do not allow vigilante action in South Vietnam. You will find yourself in trouble.”

  I was lying on the floor of the bar that had been attacked by a satchel bomb, my body bruised, face chopped up like raw meat, my body feeling like Muhammad Ali had used me for a punch bag. And he was telling me I’d find myself in trouble.

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  He gave me a nod of satisfaction. “If you need anything else, contact Police Headquarters.”

  He put his notebook back into his pocket, nodded to the younger cop, and they strolled out. The girl watched them go, and when they’d disappeared, she whispered, “We must get out of here now.”

  I thought she meant to avoid settling the bar bill, and someone would be picking up a heavy tab. When the bomb exploded the racks of bottles displayed behind the bar had shattered into tens of thousands of fragments. The reek of alcohol mingled with the stink of explosives, and I doubted they’d be open for business that evening. She didn’t wait for me to reply but dragged me to my feet and put her arm around me, helping me to the door. We walked up into the street, and it was as if nothing had happened. People were hurrying past, cars, cyclos, motor scooters, and bicycles carrying impossibly heavy loads. The bomb attack on the restaurant was just part of normal, everyday life.

  She hailed a cab and spoke rapidly in Vietnamese to the driver. We climbed into the battered Renault and seated ourselves on torn plastic seats. The driver weaved skillfully through the crowded streets, and we were heading out of the city.

  “Where are you taking me? I don’t need a hospital.”

  “We’re not going to a hospital. Our destination is somewhere else.”

  “Like where?”

  Her eyes flashed toward the driver, and she shook ahead. “Later.”

  We eventually arrived in a suburb of Saigon called Da Kao, south-east of the city. She paid the driver, led me through the gates of a single-story villa, and pressed the bell on the door. It opened. A wrinkled old Vietnamese woman gave her a nod of greeting and stood aside.

  “Please, enter.”

  She as good as pushed me through the door and followed. We were in a cool hallway, dark and furnished with several dark wood pieces of furniture. She took my arm and pulled me through another doorway into a spacious living room.

  “Please, take a seat.”

  I didn’t need much encouragement, and I slumped on one of the three sofas strewn around the room. It was soft and comfortable, but not comfortable enough to take away the pain still surging through my body. My ears were ringing, and I wondered if I’d been wrong not to go to a hospital for a checkup.

  “Would you like a drink? I have whiskey, which I know you enjoy.”

  “I don’t think whiskey agrees with me. I’ll try something less explosive.”

  She smiled. “I have Coca-Cola in the ice box.”

  “Fine.”

  She left the room and brought me a glass of ice-cold Cola, condensation frosting the outside of the glass, and plenty of ice cubes and lemon slices floating inside. I downed it in a gulp, put the glass down, and looked at her. “Okay, what’s going on?”

  She paused and offered me another Cola, which I refused. Wiped the damp ring on the table where I’d placed the glass. “It’s complicated.”

  “People throwing satchel bombs into bars is always complicated, but we were talking about Le. Why don’t you spit it out?”

  “You said you saw the man who threw the bomb.”

  “Dressed like a cop, right.”

  “Until yesterday I served in the National Police, and I’ve seen him around Headquarters. He is a cop.”

  “You’re sure? I know the Vietnamese police can play rough, but that’s not their style.”

  “I promise you, he is a policeman.”

  “You’re saying they’re siding with the Communists, bombing bars when they see an American soldier having a quiet drink inside?”

  “I’m not certain you were a target. It could have been me.”

  “How come?”

  “I told you, they must have been listening to my conversation with my sister, and they’re worried I know too much.”

  I questioned her for some time, trying to get her side of the story, and she didn’t know much. Just that her sister had been arrested on a trumped-up charge. A cover-up, but the question was what? Le had been investigating corruption inside the police, and that would be the obvious one. On the other hand, she’d visited the site of the air crash, and it was also obvious that someone was trying to cover up the fact that a bomb had been the cause. Too many theories, too many conspiracies, and my body was covered in too many bruises.

  “Lam, I’m confused. I need to get back to Tan Son Nhut, change into a clean uniform, and get some sleep. My head’s pounding, and I can’t think straight. Do you have any Tylenol?”

  She nodded, went away, and brought back a glass of water and two tablets. I downed them and started to get to my feet, but I was still suffering from shock, and my legs felt like rubber. I nearly collapsed, and she gently steered me back down to the sofa.

  “You must stay here until you feel better.”

  “Where are we?”

  “This is my mother’s house. She is a widow and lives here alone.”

  “Okay, I’ll stay for a few hours if that’s okay, and then I have to get back to Tan Son Nhut.”

  “I’m not sure that would be wise. They may try again.”

  “If I was the target.”

  “Is it wise to gamble with your life? Why don’t you stay overnight? You’ll feel better, and you can return in daylight.”

  It wasn’t difficult to agree, and I lay back and closed my eyes. I must have slept for a few hours, for when I opened my eyes it was dark outside, and the house lights were on. What had awakened me was a pounding on the door, and a man shouting in Vietnamese.

  Lam appeared suddenly, fully dressed, but now she was wearing khaki pants and a bush shirt. “They’ve come. The police.”

  I shrugged and winced as the pain surged back. “You have to let them in.”

  “You don’t understand. The shouts you can hear are saying they have a warrant for my arrest. Just like Le, and if they put me in a cell I’ll never get out alive. They may take you as well.”

  “I’m an American soldier. They’d have to hand me over to the Army.”

  She shook her head in irritation. “You don’t understand, Mr. Yeager. They’ll kill you if they decide it’s necessary. We can get out of here. There’s a rear entrance. What do you want to do?”

  Dying in a police cell after a severe beating wasn’t my favored option.

  “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Three

  We left th
e villa through a rear door, crossed a courtyard, and she opened the gate. She waited while I went through, or rather limped through, and they weren’t stupid. A cop was waiting several meters away, hiding behind a parked truck. I was about to turn and look to make sure Lam made it out okay when he stepped into the open. He was grinning, like he was enjoying himself, and he brought up his AR-15 and pointed it at my belly. I froze, not wanting to give him the opportunity to put a bullet in me, and he chuckled.

  “Say your prayers, Mr. Yeager.”

  In that tiny instant of time I recognized the man who was about to kill me. The same guy I’d seen outside the restaurant, the man I’d assumed was disguised in a cop’s uniform, except it was no disguise. He was a cop, and now I knew I was the target. He walked closer to me, confident he had me cold, and I tensed. Ready to make a move, but knowing I was far too slow to be able to get past that rifle. I carried my sidearm in a holster at my side, but long before I’d reached down and dragged it out, I’d be dead.

  I was still standing there, trying to work out my next move, and concluding there were no next moves, when Lam shot him. She stepped through the gate; gun raised, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet took him in the chest, and he staggered back gasping in shock and agony. She skipped forward, pointed the gun at his head, and fired again. He flopped back on the ground, and she looked at me.

  “Quickly, we have to get out of here.”

  No shit.

  I followed her to a parking lot two streets away, and we raced past the attendant, who flipped a wave, and reached her vehicle. A VW Beetle in bright yellow, and it looked like an outsize banana. She gestured for me to get in, jumped behind the wheel, and started the engine. We roared out onto the street.

  “We have to find somewhere to hide from them.”

  I was thinking Upper New York State would be a good place, but we needed somewhere closer. “I need to make a call. I have to get to a telephone.”