The Dead and the Missing

by AD Davies

  “I can’t be in DDS too long. They must be monitoring me. Besides, I think this is entering your area of expertise and leaving mine. I’ll email you a full list. Okay, it should be with you now.”

  My phone bonged to indicate I received it.

  I said, “Anything else regarding Benson?”

  Her voice changed. Hushed somehow. “I’ll call you back on this number in half an hour.”

  I hung up and Googled the Rex Hotel, and realized why it rang a bell. It was pretty famous if you liked Vietnam War movies. It was also the hit furthest away from my current position, so I decided I’d make my way there by way of the list, geographically rather than chronologically. But that meant surviving the roads.

  I had read about how to do this, but it was counter-intuitive to say the least. Although the flow of scooters and motorcycles and the odd car appeared constant, I waited for a gap sufficient for me to step into, not an actual break in the stream. Then I walked into the melee. And I kept walking at a steady pace. The riders seemed to sense my movement, my intent. Their action couldn’t even be described as “swerving.” They flowed, and other road-users eased round them. I was a pebble in a river, its current gushing around me.

  I made it to the other side, heart beating faster. A minor thrill that I could never forget, that of mastering a new trick for traversing a foreign land.

  The route from Pham Ngu Lao to the first bar was a straight line then a short dog-leg, so it wasn’t a stretch to say I was walking where they walked. Seeing what they saw. Dodging the slew of tourists and locals. Waving off a t-shirt vendor. They would have done all this too.

  I entered Purple Jade with my scruffy gear, shaved head and goatee, and took in its cozy booths and live piano, and realized it was geared toward business clientele. Gareth spent a hundred dollars here, and looking at the prices they seemed inspired by London or New York rather than the two-dollars-a-drink in the Go2 Bar. It was conceivable he’d made some friends and bought a round with a spot of food, but I flashed the photos of Gareth and Sarah to the bar staff and the manager, and no one recognized either.

  Next up was Insomnia, a retro-style place with modern, comfortable seating and prices more akin to a backpacker on tour. It advertised musical comedy and served a mean virgin cocktail, but alas, no one could recall Gareth or Sarah.

  The bars I entered gave a stark contrast to what lay outside. Clean, air-conditioned places with mid-to-high-priced drinks, their designs reflected any metropolitan watering hole, then back to the streets caked with fumes and disabled locals hocking more cigars and postcards and the odd bit of Vietnam-themed tat. I found myself buying four cigars from four different sales-folk, just to keep moving; a couple of purchases could feed them for an evening at least.

  The final bar I tried, Saigon đêm, was air-conditioned but it more closely resembled the bar in France in which I’d been drugged and carted out to the countryside to die than the swanky lounges I’d explored so far. The entrance took me down a staircase below street-level, and the patrons were all Vietnamese. I paced slowly through the thick cigarette haze. Each man I neared turned toward me, then feigned indifference once I passed. I was suddenly very aware of the rucksack on my back, which advertised that I was carrying all my money, cards and documents. Deeper into Saigon đêm were two booths, both occupied by fat middle-aged men in shirts and ties with much younger women sat on their laps in skirts and crop-tops. One of the men, when he noticed me, adjusted the gun on his hip. Then I noticed more guns, in shoulder holsters, on hips, and even slung on the back of a chair. The only women present I took to be prostitutes, including the one in gold leather bolero top and blue hot-pants who sashayed toward me as soon as I got to the bar.

  “You American?” she asked, slurring her words. Her eyes were glazed, hinting at more than alcohol in her blood.

  “British,” I said.

  “Ah, British. We like British.”

  I had four hundred dollars in one pocket, fake passport in another, an iPhone in a third. My real documents were in my bag along with credit cards and an iPad.

  I showed her the photos. “Wonder if you’ve seen these people.”

  She leaned over them, then in toward me. “I see you, baby.”

  “Aashka!” called a young skinny man from a Formica table. He levelled a look at her that left no room to argue. “Lại đây!”

  She ambled over to the skinny man and sat on his lap, kissed his neck while he watched me, his hand clasping the girl—Aashka’s—buttocks.

  The heavyset elderly barman stood still, eyes boring through me. He shook his head and folded his arms. I nodded understanding. The room’s glare weighed heavily upon me as I retraced my path toward the staircase. A chair scraped.

  I stopped.

  Some guy with a gun in a shoulder holster weaved toward a dim W.C. sign. Most of the patrons lost interest in me, although a couple of the more disgruntled men lingered. I took the first of the stairs and emerged into the stuffy street.

  What the hell was Gareth doing in that place? Drugs? Was Sarah with him?

  Traffic had eased, but I was sticky beneath my shirt and the rucksack dragged me down more than before. It was after ten, and I still had three other places to try, but I figured I should make my way to Gareth’s least likely transaction: The Rex Hotel. It was the most out-of-place establishment, so it could have held the key to his odd bar-crawl.

  A twenty-minute walk away on Nguyen Hue Boulevard, The Rex Hotel was the focal point for American and western journalists during the war, and the scene for regular press briefings by the US military. As the war progressed and the briefings bore less and less resemblance to facts relayed from embedded journalists in the field, the sessions became known as “Five O’clock Follies.” The rooftop bar would serve GIs and war correspondents during downtime, where they could enjoy a beer or cocktail whilst observing the flash of artillery ghosting over the horizon. Today it is a five-star establishment with around three-hundred rooms, two ballrooms and swimming pools, a gym, spa and six restaurants. The hostesses who greeted me in the lobby were pristinely garbed in red and gold, with perfect hair and jewelry. Figuring I needed some sort of base from which to operate, I saw nothing wrong with a little luxury, so checked in to a standard room and dumped my bag, before heading straight back out.

  The rooftop bar presented a bird’s-eye view of the surrounding streets. The traffic’s raging torrent had calmed to a steady stream, but the horns still tooted merrily twelve stories up. The Saigon đêm aside, everything seemed so relaxed, despite the cacophony of noise. Even the hawkers acted friendly more than pushy. The beer itself was another testament to communist imagination in that it was titled Saigon Beer, but it was as nice as any Budweiser or Heineken and so refreshing after an hour or so traipsing about with my rucksack I thought I might start dribbling.

  I showed the photos around the bar staff, but didn’t get a single hit, although I was informed that over thirty staff worked here, so they couldn’t say for sure. A shift change was due in an hour. There were worse places to spend an hour than watching over Saigon at night.

  Jess called and I could tell by the background noise she was in a coffee shop or pub. She said, “Curtis Benson’s shipments go to a Bahamian island called Lana. They are plastic-packed and the official documentation lists them as medical supplies. Nothing that requires additional paperwork or permits, but the island’s only hospital is a wreck. Population of fifty-thousand, and a mortality rate more in keeping with the middle-ages.”

  “How is Curtis Benson interested in this?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Before he was … taken, Harry said he suspects Curtis Benson has people on Lana. Possibly shipping heroin or coke out there to boost his titty-bar income.”

  “Sounds sensible, but it’s still guesswork.”

  “Want me to stop guessing?”

  “No, your guesses are usually more accurate than most facts.” I waved my empty at the waiter in his spotless waistcoat. He n
odded. I came to a decision about something that had been preying on me a while. “Don’t take any more chances on PAI property. I wondered what Roger meant by saying you’d have serious problems, and I realized he can file a criminal complaint against you for aiding a fugitive. And he’d do it too, just to hurt me.”

  A ping sounded on the other end.

  “Hold on a sec,” she said.

  “I mean it, Jess. I can fire you when I get home and you’ll walk into another job, but not with a criminal record. Especially in some cyber-crime—”

  “Shut up.”

  I did so. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  Shuffling on Jess’s end. “Just a sec, I need to check someth—” Her words cut off. It didn’t sound like anyone else was present. Then she said, “Oh. Em. Gee.”

  “What is ‘oh em gee’?”

  “O.M.G. Oh my God. He’s active.”

  “What?”

  “He spent thirty dollars in a bar.”

  “He’s spent money in a lot of bars. Why is this so special?”

  “Because that ping was an alert I set on my phone. He just made the sale. Right now.”

  “Right now?”

  “Five minutes ago!”

  “Damn. Where?”

  “The … I can’t pronounce it. The Saigon… Saigon đêm.”

  Oh, wonderful.

  The waiter delivered my beer. I paid my bill and left a tip, and hurried back inside, handing my untouched beer to an elderly lady sat alone as I went.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The Rex loaned scooters to their guests, but rarely so late at night. I paid yet another bribe and the duty manager opened the office especially for me, and I signed a contract putting me out two thousand dollars if I didn’t return the vehicle. It took me twenty minutes, but I was back on the street, a full-face crash helmet pulling sweat straight out of my skin.

  At one in the morning I was still surrounded by motorists. A thin flow, but constant. I wouldn’t have wanted to try this during daylight hours. I pulled in a hundred yards down from Saigon đêm. Plenty of taxi-bikes queued, and people socialized outside the bar. I crossed my fingers that Gareth hadn’t left yet.

  When freeing my gym-friend’s daughter from that pimp in London, a rage had swollen within me, before exploding to life all over someone I deemed deserving. It didn’t take a psychologist to work out that I spent a year preparing physically and mentally for any sort of attack and, when it finally happened, I panicked. Now I was about to walk into a bar full of men who looked at me the way a prison population regarded pedophiles in a shower block.

  No one went into Saigon đêm, no one came out. Few shops were open this close to midnight, but clubs emitted muted thuds, all hosting a gaggle of bicycles, mopeds and motorbikes outside, while hip and cool Saigonians conversed and compared machines. It was more than forty minutes since Jess’s ping, so I crossed the road easily, took three deep breaths, and entered the dark stairwell.

  The crowd had thinned to about a dozen men, although scantily-dressed women still displayed themselves about the place. The booth where the two fat men sat earlier was now occupied by four different men and two women, all laughing as they swigged whatever the Vietnamese called Champagne.

  Probably Saigon Champagne.

  I received one suspicious look after another as I advanced toward the bar. Perhaps my dodgy-bloke appearance was putting them off. It still nagged at me, though.

  Why was Gareth spending money in here?

  Working on getting more documents? Did he and Sarah part ways?

  I got the greasy, heavy-set barman’s attention and asked if he spoke English. He did not. I showed the photo of Gareth and stabbed at it with my good hand.

  “Have you seen him?” I asked slowly. Because foreigners understand English better when you speak it slowly. Next, I’d try raising my voice.

  The barman shrugged.

  “Like me.” I gestured to my face. “English. Spending money.” I rubbed my thumb on my forefinger.

  Again, the barman shrugged. This time he added a down-turned lip and a head-tilt.

  It was a woman who stepped forward. A different one than before, older, with green eyes and too much rouge on her cheeks. “I speak good English,” she said. “Very good English. First class. You got a nice hotel, mister?”

  “I’ll give you twenty dollars to ask if he’s seen either of the people in this photo.”

  She took my money and spoke to the barman, who replied quickly. “He say he tol’ you already. He didn’ see him.”

  Must’ve been lost in the body language. “Ask him … ask him who spent thirty dollars recently.”

  “Sorry, I don’t … what you wan’ know?”

  “Thirty dollars. On a credit card.”

  As she spoke, the barman’s attention flicked to one side then back to the photo. Someone moved behind me. A trim man in a decent suit headed quickly for the door. Tall, broad-shouldered. Short, cropped hair.

  I had found Gareth Delingpole.

  I took a step in that direction.

  The barman held my wrist. The green-eyed girl said, “Yeah, he know him. In bathroom. Guy in bathroom.”

  “Thanks.” I pulled free and strode toward the guy with his back to me. I called out, “Gareth,” and the guy bolted for the exit.

  I ran after him and skipped over a leg extended to trip me. Vaulted a table. The shouts in Vietnamese sounded loud and sharp, but I caught hold of Gareth and—

  It was a Vietnamese man. Taller than average, middle-aged. A forced grin, yellow teeth. He was one of the big-spenders from the booth.

  “What?” he said. “I don’t know no Gareth.” Good English. Suspiciously good.

  “You’re spending on his card,” I said.

  “Prove it.”

  “I don’t have to prove it.”

  “Sure you do.” He nodded behind me.

  At least six men held guns in my direction. Mostly drunk men. It may not have been the first gun pointed at me this week, but the experience didn’t get any more pleasant. I knew all six could not shoot without hitting the man spending on Gareth’s card. But they wouldn’t miss me, either.

  I let go. The man smoothed himself down. He must have given a signal of some kind, as the posse lowered their guns.

  I said, “You have a credit card.”

  For the first time, I noticed a sore on his lower lip. It glistened even in the dim lighting, looked like a herpes scab opened by his sudden amusement.

  “You are not from police,” he said. “They are not so desperate to use foreigners.”

  “I’m just looking for someone.”

  “You say you look for credit card.”

  Everyone around us twitched, the occasional glance at a friend, a slow-nod here, a fist-clench there. Primed to pounce at the slightest signal. I considered rushing the man and treating him like a hostage, but someone might have got a shot off.

  I said, “Who are you?”

  “I ask you first.”

  “I’m an investigator. I have no interest in causing trouble for you, but I have to ask you about that card.”

  His yellow smile flashed again. “I am someone who does not have to answer questions.” The man took the photos off me, ripped them into four pieces, and dropped them on the floor. Then, instead of leaving as he originally intended, he slinked off back to his booth and the people there chuckled smugly.

  I approached, but two other punters got in my way. I lifted my hands non-threateningly and called to the guy in the booth, “I can pay you.”

  He waved a hand. Simultaneously, the two punters shoved me toward the door. I stood my ground. Two more stood, this couple holding old-looking handguns. I expected taking out the first two would not have the effect of making me the alpha in the room, but rather a swarm of fists and feet would pummel me into a hospital, if not a hail of bullets.

  But it was my one lead. If I was chasing the wrong guy, being here was pointless. Yet, if the man with the lip
-sore was using that card, he’d had some contact with one of them, with Gareth or Sarah. He was a lead. One I could not allow to fade away into the night.

  The two with guns stepped towards me and one of them, a guy with really bad acne, spoke in Vietnamese. I gave no indication that I understood. He shook his head like I was stupid. He said the same thing again, louder and more slowly.

  “Huh,” I said. “Doesn’t that work in any language?”

  The green-eyed prostitute joined the group and placed her hands on my chest. “You have to go now, mister.”

  “I need to ask about—”

  “You ask.” She patted my chest gently, held my eye. “You ask already.”

  The man with the card lifted a glass in my direction and swigged from it, dabbed his open scab with a napkin. The woman, now on his lap, giggled and kissed his neck. No one in this place was going to move.

  I took the stairs slowly back up to the street, and the laughter of around twenty men barreled up the passage behind me.

  Chapter Thirty

  Half an hour later, grinning man with the herpes scab emerged alone, wobbling some. He lit a cigarette and stood beside the taxi drivers, and chatted for a bit. From behind a Dumpster-size bin, I held my new iPhone steady on the moped’s handlebars, enabled the camera and used the optical zoom to observe him better. It was not as good as the phone Jess gave me, the one I smashed in the quarry, but I snapped a couple of shots anyway.

  He had seemed well-respected by the other punters, or possibly feared. But his use of the card meant Gareth could have been mugged or had his card cloned, and that guy was simply the beneficiary. Still, he must know something. I wanted him to tell me where Gareth was mugged, and—if possible—what happened to him.

  Once the cigarette smoldered to a stub, he dropped and crushed it and undid a chain on the railing beside him. Mopeds, motorbikes and pushbikes—all were secured there. He heaved his vehicle to one side. I couldn’t get the camera to focus on the moving figure in low light. He looked around once more, then swung his leg and pulled into the road on…