by Ty Patterson
‘I made an appointment with his secretary,’ she insisted.
‘Master is not here. Come again.’ The guard wasn’t yielding.
He didn’t budge even when An Khoi came on the line and verbally tore a strip off him.
His master wasn’t at home. There was no way he was going to open the gate.
‘We will come back. You had better start looking for a job,’ Phuong threatened in defeat.
‘His secretary made an appointment. I don’t know what happened,’ she apologized as their driver took them back to their hotel.
Nang Quy Dang was an exporter of Vietnamese art. He had started off after the war by selling leftover American weapons and equipment.
There were several buyers who wanted artifacts of war, and Dang did very well.
As memories of the war faded, Dang graduated to selling art. He traveled to North Vietnam, procured handcrafted pottery from villages and sold it in South Vietnam. He sold South Vietnamese bric-a-brac in North Vietnam.
His reputation grew. He started importing silk from China and then hit the big time when he cultivated Vietnamese artists and exported their work.
The police had a file on him, as they did on every wealthy individual in the city. It was a communist country, after all.
Dang had fought alongside US soldiers. He had gone out on seek-and-destroy missions with the Fifth Infantry Division.
The Petersens had called other survivors of the unit, and many of them had identified Dang. It was quite possible that Nang Quy Dang was the Dang Billy Patten had scribbled about.
However, they had to speak to him to confirm that.
They left voicemail messages for him and waited.
Dang didn’t return their call.
They set out to the Cu Chi tunnels, at the Ben Duoc site, the next day, with Hy Phuong accompanying them. An Khoi stayed back to make progress on the hunt for the tunnel accident’s witnesses.
The Cu Chi underground network, northwest of the main city, was comprised of one hundred and twenty kilometers of underground passages.
The complex of tunnels had another tourist entrance, at Ben Dinh, where the passages had been enlarged and reconstructed.
The entire region was now a visitor attraction, and the tunnels themselves had been turned into a war museum. It had shooting ranges and displays of war weapons, and memorabilia that could be purchased.
An Khoi met them after they finished their visit.
‘This isn’t where it happened.’
Chapter Twenty-One
‘This wasn’t where the accident happened? Where they died?’ Beth repeated, dumbfounded.
‘No, ma’am. Some tunnels collapsed here, but no one died. Your client’s father didn’t die here.’
Beth stared at Meghan, who shrugged. Ken Farrell had given them explicit details about where the accident had happened.
Tunnel Ten, in the Cu Chi complex. He had been clear about its location, and its entrance. The tunnel had been part of the tourist attraction but was now closed.
An Khoi looked embarrassed and cast a glance around him to confirm that they were alone.
‘That is what we told everyone, that the accident had happened in Tunnel Ten. The newspapers, even Mr. Patten’s family, and his lawyers, they got the same story. I spoke to Colonel General Lanh. He agreed that we should tell you the real location. It is further away.’
‘Why the secrecy?’ Beth was intrigued. ‘These tunnels are old. It’s not as if accidents wouldn’t happen.’
‘It was not my decision, ma’am. I wasn’t even born then. The colonel general told me it was because we didn’t want the accident site to become another tourist attraction. And also, we were ashamed. We didn’t want a bad image.’
Meghan considered it for a few moments. Plausible. A communist country likes to present its best face to the world. We’ll dig into it, however.
An Khoi drove them in his police vehicle after dismissing Hy Phuong.
‘No luck with witnesses,’ he told them. ‘I don’t think we will find any. The records of that accident are sketchy. It doesn’t look like there was anyone else in the tunnel other than Billy Patten and his two sons,’ he explained as he led them away from Ben Douc, heading east.
Meghan pictured the region in her mind. Ben Dinh was to the southeast of Ben Duoc and was very close to Saigon River, whereas the site they had been to was further away from the main city.
An Khoi didn’t head to Ben Dinh. He continued going towards the river, and when they were a few miles from it, he went off-road, taking a dirt track that had a No Entry sign on it, in Vietnamese and in English.
Beth, who was sitting in the front with him, flicked a glance at her sister, towards Meghan’s jacket.
Meghan nodded imperceptibly. She was armed. Her Glock was in her shoulder holster, spare mags in her pockets.
They trusted An Khoi, but they didn’t know where he was taking them.
Their questions were answered when the officer braked to a halt after another half an hour of driving.
They were in a clearing, surrounded by dense bamboo trees. A hut that was blown away by the wind. The ever-present plastic bags and empty water bottles littered the ground.
‘That way.’ An Khoi pointed and took them down a barely-there track in the forest.
A fifteen-minute trek brought them to another clearing.
‘There was a village there, once.’ He pointed in the direction of the river. ‘A mile away. No longer exists. It was bombed by the Americans.’
A shocked expression appeared on his face. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘That’s alright. The war was a long time ago,’ Beth told him kindly.
‘The forest was regrown in this area. No traces of the village remain.’
‘What’s here?’ Meghan placed her hands on her hips and looked around.
An Khoi’s eyes twinkled. ‘This, ma’am, is still part of the tunnels. There’s an entrance here. Can you see it?’
The sisters narrowed their eyes and sectioned each part of the clearing, the way Zeb had taught them.
A termite mound. Another track leading into the jungle. Plastic trash. A faint depression, like old vehicle tracks. But nothing like a trapdoor, a hole in the ground, or anything remotely looking like a tunnel.
An Khoi laughed at their expressions. ‘That is why the Viet Cong were so successful. They were masters at deception.’
He strode to the termite mound and knocked the mud away with a fist.
He scraped the loose soil away with his shoes and pointed to a wooden door set in the soil.
It was padlocked and had another No Entry sign.
‘Down there. That is where Billy Patten and his son died. His surviving son was found outside the hole, dazed, with no recollection of how he had escaped or what had happened.’
Beth crouched down and fingered the door. it was flush with the ground, the same color as the surrounding surface.
Cakes of mud stuck to it in places, and a few shoots of grass thrust out.
‘It is larger than the original doors,’ the police officer continued. ‘I read some of the files back in the office. We think it was widened, and even the tunnels below it were made bigger.’
‘Why?’
‘We don’t know. We interviewed several people. carried out a thorough investigation. But no one knows.’
‘Maybe they didn’t tell you?’ Meghan offered.
‘That’s highly unlikely.’ An Khoi went to his vehicle and removed a black plastic sack. He collected and bagged the trash around the site and tossed the sack in the rear of the SUV. ‘Very few people lie to us. If they are found out, it won’t be pleasant for them.’
Meghan didn’t reply, knowing what he said was true. In such a country, only the rich or those with lawyers can afford to lie. The police wouldn’t have questioned such people. They would have asked the tunnel diggers, the peasants, the surviving VC soldiers.
Beth wandered off into the jungle to explore
the area. After rustling around, she returned.
‘There must be more holes. All these tunnels had more than one exit.’
‘You are correct, ma’am. But all have been sealed by us.’
They followed him to the river, down the trail they had seen earlier. He left the track and pushed through dense undergrowth, and near another clearing, he scraped through dirt and pointed to another door.
It too was sealed.
‘You don’t need directions?’ Beth squinted at him, not hiding the suspicious note in her voice.
An Khoi held up his wrist in answer and turned it over to face them.
He was wearing a smartwatch on which was a map. ‘I don’t need them, ma’am. Technology,’ he deadpanned.
They went to three more holes in a two-mile radius, both of them sealed, and then returned to the vehicle.
‘Why did Billy Patten come here?’ Beth wondered aloud and got a shrug from An Khoi.
‘I don’t think we will ever find an answer to that, ma’am. It’s possible he went underground in this particular network and wanted to show it to his sons.’
‘The story that Cole Patten and his lawyer told us—that he was found outside Tunnel Ten, with quite a few witnesses, and someone took him to hospital. That was deliberate misinformation, too?
‘Yes. Taking him to hospital was correct. But there were no witnesses. A farmer found him, called the police and an ambulance. We have already spoken to the surviving police officials and the ambulance and hospital staff. They don’t remember anything. The farmer is dead.’ An Khoi had the grace to look embarrassed.
The Petersens were silent on the way back, knowing they didn’t have many more leads to pursue.
Meghan’s cell rang as they were entering the hotel after An Khoi had dropped them off.
She glanced at the number and lifted a finger to silence her sister, who was ready to fire a question.
She put the phone on speaker, and a familiar voice came on. Debbie, the receptionist at the nursing home in Fredericksburg.
‘I asked Leroy about Dang, just as you requested,’ she said without preamble. They could hear voices in the background, and the faint sounds of an ambulance. ‘He went into the past and started talking about Brenda. I tried again, and this time he started talking about Josh Patten. How nice a boy he was. The only visitor he had. On the third attempt, he started talking about Pete Garrett.’
‘Can you try again?’ Meghan asked hesitantly. She wasn’t surprised when a firm no came back.
‘You have to understand,’ Debbie said, softening, ‘Leroy’s well-being is more important to me than your hunt.’
‘We do, Debbie.’ Meghan thanked her and dialed another number.
‘Who are you calling?’
‘Pete Garrett. We should have tried him in the first place.’
Before her call connected, a short, bald, bespectacled man approached them.
He was well-dressed in a suit, his black shoes gleaming. Lean physique, only the wrinkles on his face indicating he was in his sixties. Behind him was another Vietnamese, carrying a briefcase.
‘Beth Petersen? Meghan Petersen?’ he asked in accented English.
‘I’m Meghan.’ She canceled the outgoing call.
‘I am Nang Quy Dang.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Meghan checked out the lobby instinctively, feeling Beth move away from behind her.
It was an upmarket hotel with its own security system. It catered to a Western clientele. Men in suits were normal, as were formally attired couples.
No sign of any gun-toting thugs. No outline of a weapon on the suit behind Dang.
‘I heard you have been looking for me.’
‘You missed our appointment, Mr. Dang.’
‘I am here now.’ He made no apology for his absence and pointed to an alcove that was empty. ‘Shall we?’
‘What was your relationship with Billy Patten, Mr. Dang?’ she asked once they were seated.
‘I don’t know any Billy Patten.’
She stared at him. ‘Mr. Dang, you were in the Vietnam War—’
‘We call it the American War, in this country,’ he interrupted, his tone factual. He wasn’t rude. His eyes met hers squarely. ‘I got the voicemail someone from the HCMC police left for me. I was traveling. My EA,’ he said, jerking his head in the suit’s direction, ‘accepted the appointment by mistake.’
‘We’re searching for someone who knew Billy Patten. He was with the Fifth Infantry. On the Cu Chi American base. You went on missions with them,’ she stated.
Ball’s in your court, buddy. You’ll either deny or confirm.
Dang went for the first option.
‘I didn’t come across Billy Patten. There were many American soldiers, many battalions. It was many years ago.’
‘Who do you remember?’
‘Why do you need to know? Who is this Billy Patten?’
How much do we tell him?
He seemed to read her thoughts. ‘Ms. Petersen, I am a businessman. The fact that you got the police to set up an appointment tells me two things. One is that you are well connected. Secondly, if the police could have helped you, they would have. So, this isn’t a criminal matter, or a war crimes matter. A civil matter, probably? In your country?’
Meghan was impressed but didn’t show it.
Smart. He’s very smart. That reference to our connections…he knows if he doesn’t cooperate, the police can make life hard for him.
‘Billy Patten was a Tunnel Rat. You’re right. There’s a development back home concerning him. We’ve been hired by his family to talk to those who knew him here.’
‘He’s no more?’
‘No, sir. He died. In this country, in a tunnel accident.’
She outlined the incident quickly, watching his face for any giveaways. There were none. No flashing of eyes. No tics. No looking away.
‘I am a good poker player, Ms. Petersen,’ he said blandly.
‘You are.’
‘I don’t remember that accident either, but that month, I was in China. I wasn’t paying much attention to what went on back home.’
‘Mr. Dang.’ Beth pinned him down with her eyes, her voice cool. ‘Why should we believe you didn’t know Patten?’
‘I was in Saigon those days, but nowhere near Cu Chi. My commander is still alive. You can ask him. You can ask the other soldiers in my unit. I have nothing to hide.’
He rattled off a series of names and waited for them to take notes.
‘You have a good memory?’ he asked when neither sister made a move towards pen or paper.
‘No need, Mr. Dang.’ Meghan smiled wolfishly and held her cell up. ‘You’re being recorded.’
The Vietnamese left shortly with no further insight.
‘What do you think?’ Meghan asked as she headed to the elevator and pressed the button to their floor.
‘He’s not our Dang.’
‘Why do you say so?’
‘Those names. He gave them out readily. He might be in a position of wealth, but you can bet not many of his fellow soldiers are. It’d be far too easy for the cops to lean on him and get the truth.’
‘My smarts are rubbing off on you.’
The sisters were in their late twenties. However, that didn’t stop Beth from sticking her tongue out at her twin.
Meghan stopped abruptly in the hallway leading to their rooms.
‘Garrett,’ she explained and dug out her phone.
They got Pete Garrett on the second ring, and after he had listened to them, he sighed.
‘Nope, I don’t know any Dang either. However, maybe, just maybe, I might know someone who does.’
‘Who, sir?’ Meghan aimed dagger eyes at her sister, who was fist-pumping silently.
‘Luc Cham. He was in the SVA, the South Vietnamese Army. I remembered him after our last call. He was in their Seventh Infantry and came out with us on sweeps. He, a few others, and us. We got close. Shared cigarettes, choc
olates. That kind of stuff. If we had a Vietnamese friend, it was Cham.’
‘Would he be alive, sir?’
‘Yeah. Got a card from him just a few months back. Hold on. I’ll search for it.’
‘Got a pen?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He doesn’t need to know we’re recording this.
‘He owns fields, just outside Sa Dec. That’s about three hours from HCMC. You want me to tell him you’ll be visiting?’
‘Yes, sir. And if you can share his number…’
‘Sure.’
They went for a run the next day, just as the sun rose and turned Ho Chi Minh City to gold.
Past tree-lined avenues, down sidewalks, as motorcycles whizzed past on the street. They passed high-rises and rows of stores. Flower vendors on the street, hawkers who sold cheap trinkets to tourists.
The Western world’s influence could be seen in Vietnam, but surrounded and modified by local culture and by history. Young men turned to look at them, two American women in their youth, their brown hair bouncing on their backs, headbands on their foreheads, shades on their faces, jackets concealing the ever-present Glocks.
They returned to the hotel an hour later to shower, and when they went down to the lobby, An Khoi was waiting for them.
He was in his uniform, drawing curious looks from guests and deferential reverence from the hotel staff.
‘My staff will be working one more day on witnesses. If we don’t make any progress today, I will have to reassign them,’ he told them awkwardly as he shook their hands.
Can’t blame him, Meghan thought. ‘We understand, An Khoi. Maybe our luck will change at Sa Dec.’
He snapped a salute, bowed grandly, and held the door open for them.
They had called him after finishing with Pete Garrett the previous evening, and the officer had volunteered to drive them.
The sisters had accepted his offer. They needed someone who spoke the language, and his presence would help break down any resistance.
The officer kept a commentary going as he drove out of the city, all traffic falling away from his police vehicle.
Sa Dec was almost at the center of the Mekong Delta, a region of fifteen thousand square miles, where the Mekong River emptied in the sea.
