Shoot the Bastards

by Michael Stanley

  He greeted Crys at the door and asked her to call him Nigel, making a joke about British formality.

  “And people call me Crys,” she said with a smile. He took her arm and walked her to the living room.

  Dinh, the Vietnamese government official, was already there. He was dressed casually in jeans, a leather jacket, and a cream shirt with a garish tie loosened around the neck. Nigel introduced them, and Crys extended her hand, Western style. Dinh hesitated momentarily at this un-Vietnamese greeting, then took her hand and shook it.

  While Nigel went to fetch drinks, Dinh chatted to Crys in Vietnamese, asking about her family and when they’d left Vietnam. She replied that she’d left as a child and hadn’t been back, and that she was looking forward to her upcoming trip. He nodded a few times but didn’t push for more details, apparently understanding that the period after the war was best left undisturbed.

  When Nigel returned, Dinh switched back to English and told him, “Ms. Nguyen speaks very good Vietnamese. If a little rusty.” He gave Crys what she thought was a rather condescending smile.

  “I’ve briefed Dinh on your experiences, Crys,” Nigel said before she could respond. “I think he needs to tell us what he knows.”

  Dinh nodded. “Of course. It’s not much. Really only one thing. A man came to see me about a month ago. He said he had important information about a big operation in South Africa. Many rhino. This year. He said he had the details.”

  “Why did he approach you?” Crys asked, her reporter’s hat firmly on now.

  “He knows I’m with the Department of Environmental Affairs. He thought I’d pay well for the information. He wanted five thousand U.S. dollars—a lot of money in Vietnam. I told him he must explain how he got the information and show me some proof. He said his brother works with the smugglers, and he’d heard about it from them.” He shook his head. “I thought it was probably a scam—fake news, as your president would say.” He gave the condescending smile again. “I told him he must come back with his brother and some proof of what was planned, then I would give him the money.” He paused. “I never saw him again.”

  “So, you were probably right about it being a scam.”

  “That’s what I thought. But then I saw this...” He dug in an inside pocket of his jacket and produced a folded newspaper cutting, which he passed to Crys.

  She unfolded it. It was a short article from a Vietnamese newspaper. At the top were photographs of two similar-looking young Vietnamese men, both smiling for the camera. Dinh looked at her expectantly, a small smile on his face.

  He doesn’t think I can read it, she thought.

  She was irritated, and although she was sure Nigel had heard the story before, she read it aloud anyway, just to make a point.

  It was quite short. The two men had been shot to death in an alley in the Saigon Port area. The men were brothers; the one on the left was known to be involved with rhino-horn smuggling. The police believed this might be the reason for the hit. The other man had no record. The police were asking the public for information.

  “The one on the right is the man who came to see me,” Dinh said when she was finished.

  “Did you report it to the police?” Crys asked.

  “Of course. They wrote it all down. But nothing happened. The smugglers have a lot of friends, a lot of money.” Dinh sipped his drink. “Of course, I was intrigued and investigated, but I couldn’t find out anything more. No one was willing to talk to me. Nor to the police. People disappear in Vietnam. One day they don’t come home, and that’s it. The police go through the motions. Sometimes they never even find the bodies. It’s not good.”

  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 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 realized 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 honor 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 toward 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 gray 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. He actually reminded me of myself.” She took a deep breath. “Wolves are very social creatures, you know. They live in very tight groups and depend on each other. But this wolf was different, it seemed. A loner with no group.” She shrugged. “I even gave him a name—Alfie.”

  “Alfie?”

  Crys nodded, grinning. “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 toward 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 what she was doing—saving animals, one at a time.

  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 off 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 realized where this was going, and she felt her heart sink.

  “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.”

  “No way, Nigel! I was lucky to get out of South Africa with my life. Now you want me to go looking for the people responsible for this?” She held up her injured hand. “And being a journalist isn’t a cover, it’s my job! I’m a reporter, not a spy. I can’t go around asking questions in confidence and then leaking the information.”

  “
What about the commitment to conservation you were telling me about?” he said, putting his hand on her arm. “If we’re right, these people are intending to massacre twenty rhinos and murder a few conservation people on the side.”

  “Right now I’m more concerned about them murdering me!”

  “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 U.S. Pretend that your National Geographic article is partly a cover for that. It will make a fantastic story afterwards….”

  Crys shook her head. “Dinh said people disappear and no one ever finds 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. 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.”

  Crys said nothing and stared out at the lights of the city.

  “And you might come up with some information about your friend Davidson,” Nigel added. “These may be the very people he was emailing.”

  She realized that was a possibility.

  “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…”