Shoot the Bastards

by Michael Stanley

  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 a chance of helping Michael?

  Nigel didn’t say anything more, just watched her with an earnest expression as she wrestled with the decision.

  “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 duong731a@vn.yahoo.com 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 as she wondered whether she would feel Vietnamese or American.

  * * *

  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 in 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 in 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.

  * * *

  After Crys had checked into the hotel, Do said, “You tired. Should rest.”

  Crys could feel the jet lag sneaking up, making her body droop and her energy fade. “Well, yes. And I could do with something to eat,” she responded. “I’m seeing an NGO tomorrow morning. Are there any other plans set up for me yet?”

  “After lunch tomorrow, I take you to a shop sells rhino horn and elephant ivory, and many more things. Ten-minute walk from here. Meet you at two. Okay?”

  She nodded. “Will they help me meet their sources—the people who sell the horns to them?”

  He shrugged. “Depends.”

  “Can you or Mr. Dinh arrange some other meetings too? Mr. Dinh has a list of people I need to see. Maybe I could also interview people from customs and the police?”

  “Will try.”

  “And a translator?”

  “Will come with me tomorrow.” He looked at his watch. “Must leave now. See you tomorrow.”

  With that he gave a small bow and headed for the door.

  * * *

  Crys hadn’t slept well on the flights from Geneva, so was determined to get a good night’s sleep. She showered, had a light meal in the hotel, then prepared for bed. After fifteen minutes of stretching, she decided to check her email to see if there was a reply from the mysterious Vietnamese address. There wasn’t.

  I may as well try again. Maybe they hadn’t understood English.

  Crys wrote another short email to duong731a@vn.yahoo.com, this time in both English and Vietnamese. She asked for a reply whether or not they knew where Michael was. But when she pressed SEND, it was with less hope than with the first one.

  A few seconds later, her computer beeped. An email had arrived.

  Oh no! Her email had bounced: “Recipient not known at this server.”

  Crys hit the desk with her fist.

  “Damn!” she said out loud. Her first email must have spooked them.

  Then she took a deep breath. Even if the email address had been canceled, maybe Dinh or Mabula could still trace it.

  But when she climbed into bed, she had to admit to herself that the email address was likely a dead end.

  * * *

  Crys’s first meeting was with End Extinction—Michael had visited them too. She didn’t expect to learn anything new, but couldn’t miss an opportunity to ask about him. Its director, Søren Willandsen from Denmark, spoke impeccable English with only the slightest of accents. His assistant, Donald, didn’t say anything, so she wasn’t sure how good his English was.

  “Mr. Willandsen,” she began, “I’m very interested in your views on the trade in rhino horn, but I believe you’ve already met my colleague Michael Davidson. I have his notes so maybe that will save us some time.”

  “I remember him very well,” Willandsen responded. “Interesting man. He wasn’t after the usual stuff, though. He wanted help to meet the kingpins in the trade here. I told him I couldn’t assist him with that and advised him not to dig too deeply or he’d end up in big trouble.”

  “Do you know what he did after that?”

  “No. We had a short discussion about our approach to saving the rhino and he left. I didn’t hear from him again.”

  Grasping at straws, Crys showed him the email address, but he didn’t recognize it. She sighed inwardly. Another dead end.

  They turned to rhino issues. Like Rhino International, End Extinction was in support of a total ban on rhino-horn trade.

  “I know it’s not working now,” Willandsen said, “but we believe that allowing trade would accelerate the extinction of the animals. It may be a case of the devil we know…but we can’t take the chance that broadening the availability of rhino horn will increase demand. If that
happened, the game will be over.”

  Crys told him that her research had turned up several rumors of a big operation against rhinos in South Africa in the near future.

  “We hear rumors like that all the time, but so far, the way rhinos are poached hasn’t changed much. Locals on the ground get paid more than they’ve ever dreamed of to shoot one, maybe two, animals at a time. We don’t think that’s going to change.”

  “I hope not,” she responded. “It would be awful if there was a mass slaughter.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t see how that could happen.” He paused. “Who else have you spoken to about your project?”

  “I got very little useful information from the South African authorities. The minister didn’t show for her appointment with me and her stand-in wasn’t very helpful. I’ve also met with anti-poachers and rhino breeders in South Africa, as well as the police, and an NGO like yours in Geneva.”

  “Oh, yes? Which one?”

  “Rhino International.”

  “Ah, yes. Nigel Wood. We know of him.” Willandsen rose to his feet and extended his hand, but there was no smile on his face. “Thank you for visiting us, Ms. Nguyen. Good luck with your research. I look forward to reading your article.”

  As Crys walked out, she wondered what she’d said that had shut Willandsen down so suddenly. Maybe he and Wood were competitors. But why would two organizations that wanted the same thing be in competition?

  As far as she was concerned, nothing in the whole business made sense.

  * * *

  By the time she reached her hotel, after pushing through the bustle of people, she was sweating profusely. It was a far cry from the weather in Duluth. And even more humid than she’d experienced in South Africa.

  She realized that it had been a while since she’d meditated, and she had plenty of time before her next appointment. So, she laid some towels on the floor and did a series of warm-up stretches. Then she twisted into a half lotus, breathed deeply, closed her eyes and started her mantra.

  She began relaxing, and her heart rate slowed.

  Úm ma ni bát ni hồng…

  She banished all negative thoughts from her head and prepared herself for entering the lion’s den.

  * * *

  At two she met the translator in the lobby—a short man with oiled hair combed straight back. He introduced himself as Phan Van Minh.

  “Where’s Mr. Do?” she asked.

  “He’s not coming. The owner of the shop does not like him because he works for the government. He thinks it will be bad for your interview.”

  That sounded reasonable. Crys didn’t want to start at a disadvantage.

  “Is the shop owner expecting me?”

  “Yes. The Department of Intercultural Affairs made the appointment.”

  Crys wondered who they were. Dinh must have been behind the arrangement.

  “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  It was a short walk from the hotel, down several back alleys that seemed to get narrower the farther they went. Eventually they stopped in front of a small shop displaying all sorts of dried seeds, pods, and leaves in the window. The shop had no name that Crys could see.

  Phan pushed open the door, which rang a bell attached to the frame. They walked into a poorly lit room, filled with all sort of aromas, some sweet, some sour, some appealing, and some that made Crys want to hold her nose. There were hundreds of jars on the shelves, filled with who knew what—it was too dim to see. And below the shelves were banks of small drawers, all wooden with little metal handles glinting in the half-light.

  A door creaked open at the back and a man walked in, much younger than Crys had expected. He was taller than most Vietnamese and slender too.

  “You are the reporter for the National Geographic magazine?” he asked her in Vietnamese. Prepared for this, she looked at Phan to translate.

  “He welcomes you,” Phan said.

  “What is his name, please?”

  Phan asked the man and turned back to her after he replied. “His name is Le Van Tham.”

  Crys recognized the name at once. This was one of the men Michael had visited. She decided to keep that to herself for the moment. Perhaps he would raise it himself.

  She held out her hand. “Mr. Le, I’m very glad to meet you.”

  He hesitated, then shook her hand as Phan translated.

  Le indicated that they should follow him into a back room, where there was a small table and four chairs. Phan invited them to sit and asked if they would like some tea.

  A few minutes later, the three of them were seated with steaming cups of green tea in front of them.

  “Before we start, please ask Mr. Le if I can take his photograph.”

  Phan translated, and Le nodded.

  Crys took out her camera and took several pictures.

  “Cam ơn,” she said, purposefully getting the tones wrong. “Thank you.”

  Le smiled.

  “Mr. Phan, please ask him how long he’s been in the business of selling rhino horn.”

  Phan translated and the answer came back: “Four years.”

  They continued like this for nearly an hour, interrupted on a couple of occasions by Le needing to attend to a customer or getting up to refill the teacups. Overall, Crys was impressed with the translator: he didn’t give her questions or Le’s answers any slant.

  She learned that Le bought his stock from a man located in the Saigon Port area—hardly surprising since it was well known that most horns came from Africa by boat. That agreed with what he’d told Michael. She also found out that he sold both powdered horn and whole horns, more of the former because it was a lot cheaper.

  “How much do you sell a whole horn for?”

  When the answer came back, it was one hundred and fifty thousand U.S. dollars per kilogram.

  “That is very expensive,” she said, thinking of what the South African poachers hoped to make.

  When Phan translated, Le shook his head.

  “He says it is the best price in Ho Chi Minh City,” Phan told her.

  “And how much does he pay for it?”

  Phan and Le talked for a moment, then Phan told her that it was usually around sixty thousand dollars a kilogram.

  “Good profit,” she said.

  Phan translated. Le smiled.

  “Are you worried that your business may result in rhinos going extinct someday?”

  After Phan translated, Le frowned and shook his head. His reply depressed her.

  “Mr. Le says that saving rhinos is not his business. If rhinos disappear, he’ll sell something else.”

  “And your supplier,” she asked. “Can he sell you all that you need?”

  The two men had a discussion, most of which was about the difference in availability of powder versus whole horn. Powered horn was freely available and usually mixed with ground up water buffalo horn, but whole horns were in short supply. They also talked about whether it was a good idea for her to know there was a shortage. Crys waited patiently for the answer. It was a good test of Phan’s reliability.

  “Tell her that it is easy to get horns,” Le eventually told Phan in Vietnamese. Phan frowned, then turned to Crys.

  “He says it is easy to get powdered horns—usually fake with mostly water buffalo horn—but harder to get whole horns.”

  Le smiled and nodded.

  They chatted for another five minutes or so as she asked questions about Le’s clientele. Who were they? How old? Did they really believe in the power of the horn? Crys could have written the answers without asking. The buyers were those Do had told her about—older people with money, who believed in what the horn could do for them, and young people flaunting their money, who didn’t care about what the horn could do, apart from showing they could afford it—often mixing it with V
iagra or cocaine, depending on the occasion.

  Eventually Crys ran out of questions—except an important one.

  “Mr. Le, do you remember meeting a man named Michael Davidson? He’s my colleague.”

  Le’s eyebrows rose when she mentioned the name, but when he heard the translation he smiled and nodded. He had met Michael, he said, and had a similar discussion, and then hadn’t seen him again.

  She showed him the email address and again his eyebrows shot up, but he shook his head vehemently. He turned to Phan and said, “It is one of the addresses the boss uses! How did she get—?”

  “You are mistaken! Look again,” Phan interrupted. Le met Phan’s eyes and glanced at the email address again.

  “Oh, yes, I see. It is not the address I thought. I have never seen this one before.”

  Phan turned to Crys. “He first thought he knew it but it was a mistake. He says he’s never seen it before.”

  She was sure Phan had just shut Le up! But she didn’t know why.

  “Please ask him to look again,” Crys said firmly. “I think he did recognize it.”

  Phan complied, but Le obviously knew what was happening now. He explained that it was hard to tell with email addresses that were just a mixture of letters and numbers. It was definitely not the one he’d first thought it was.

  Crys was frustrated, but she couldn’t see how she could take it further at that moment. She stood up, thanked Le, and asked if she could take some photos of his shop. When Phan translated, Le nodded.

  She took about a dozen pictures and thanked Le again in what she hoped he thought was her only Vietnamese phrase. He smiled and bowed slightly.

  “Mr. Phan,” she said turning to the translator, “please ask him how I can contact his supplier.”

  When Phan turned back to her, he said, “He will let me know.”

  She thanked Le again and walked out. As she held the door open, waiting for Phan, she strained to hear what they were saying.