Her body was uncomfortable too—the air conditioner was barely working and no match for the hot, humid air that clung to everything. She was bathed in sweat.
Around six she climbed out of bed and took a long, cool shower. Then she called reception to order a cab. Her plan was to go and see the house where she spent her first year of life. She had no memory of it, only mental pictures created by the stories told by her parents. She hoped that actually seeing it would trigger memories and so deepen her connection to this country. She had a flutter of excitement in her chest as she set off. She had no idea of what to expect.
The house was closer to the city center than she’d imagined—it took only twenty minutes to get there. The driver pulled up at the address she’d written on a piece of paper for him and pointed at the building. She took a deep breath and asked him to wait while she walked around. He started to object in Vietnamese, but she shrugged and indicated that she didn’t understand. He muttered, and then nodded, but pointed at the meter.
The house that was her first home was a typical Vietnamese tube house—very narrow and very deep. It was one of about ten on the block; Americans would call them townhouses, for want of a better word. All of them were set back from the paved road by about six feet, giving each a minute front garden. Her house had a frangipani tree, giving off a sweet scent, some orchids, and two scooters. The building looked well-kept and was painted an ochre color. She stood on the road for a few moments, hoping that some memories might well up. But it clearly wasn’t to be.
Crys took out her phone and took several photos of the house and the surroundings. Then she returned to the cab, disappointed. She’d hoped to have an emotional attachment to the house, but there was nothing. It was just another house.
The driver looked slightly baffled as she got back into the taxi, but he didn’t say anything, and they headed back to the hotel. Crys felt oddly empty and a little sad.
* * *
After a breakfast of chicken pho followed by a strawberry-avocado smoothie, she headed out at once to Joe’s. Donald was already there, relaxing at a sidewalk café, drinking a cup of the turgid local coffee. As they’d agreed the night before, they didn’t greet each other.
Again, Joe’s shop was closed, but this time Crys wasn’t going to give up, however long it took. So, she sat down at a different coffee shop just down the road, determined to wait him out.
It was over an hour before she spotted him in front of his shop, unlocking the two big padlocks that secured the pull-down shutters. She waited until he’d opened the door and had gone inside, then paid for her coffees and jogged toward the shop.
“Joe,” she called as she walked into the multi-scented gloom. “It’s Crystal Nguyen.”
Joe pushed through a door at the back. Even in the dimness, she could see he wasn’t happy.
“I have nothing for you. Please go.”
This time she stood her ground. “Please help me. I need to find out about what’s going to happen in South Africa. It will be a big story for me.”
Joe frowned and shook his head, speaking through clenched teeth.
“I know nothing. You go now.”
“Nobody needs to know you gave me the information. I won’t use your name.”
He shook his head. “People here know everything. Go.” He walked toward her pointing at the door. “Go!” he ordered, raising his voice.
Just then his phone rang. He hesitated, trying to decide whether to answer or to finish getting rid of her. Habit won—he answered.
Crys pretended to look at the bottles on the shelves.
“I can’t talk now,” Joe said in Vietnamese walking to the back of the shop. “The journalist is back, asking about South Africa.”
He listened to the response. “No. Of course I haven’t told her anything. She knows nothing. She thinks the plan is to kill a lot of rhinos.” He clearly didn’t suspect that Crys could understand Vietnamese.
He listened again. “I can’t do that. I have two big customers coming this morning. If I’m not here, they’ll go somewhere else.” He started pacing around the small shop. “Yes. Yes. All right. Right away.”
He hung up and turned to her. “You must go. Now. I have a meeting I must go to.” He herded her to the door.
“Can I come back and talk to you?”
“No. I have nothing more to say. Goodbye.” He pushed her out of the door.
There was nothing she could do. She left, but she was determined that this wasn’t the last time she would talk to him. And she’d learned one piece of information—it sounded as though the plan didn’t involve a big kill of rhinos. That was good.
As she walked along the street, she wondered what she should do. The phone call was clearly something to do with her—or with something she’d be interested in. When she reached the café where Donald was waiting, she sat down opposite him and related what had happened.
“It sounds as though he needs to go somewhere soon. Let’s just wait and see what happens,” he responded. “I’ll keep an eye on the shop.”
Sure enough, after a few minutes he saw Joe locking up. “When he was on the phone, was there any clue as to where he’d go?”
Crys shook her head. “We’ll have to follow him.”
“That’s pretty dangerous. He won’t be pleased if he catches us.”
“This is my only good lead, Donald. Everything else led to a dead end.”
Donald gave up the argument. Crys was already moving off after Joe.
For the next fifteen minutes, they hurried to keep up as Joe rushed through the labyrinth of streets and alleys. Soon Crys had no idea where she was or where they were headed, but Donald seemed to know, and that made her feel better. The longer they walked, the fewer shops there were, and she realized they’d entered an industrial area.
Now, there were almost no other people about. She felt her adrenalin level increasing. This was becoming more risky. It was harder and harder to ensure Joe wouldn’t see them if he looked back. They hid behind corners of buildings until he either turned down another road or was far enough away he wouldn’t recognize them. Crys was both scared she would lose him and scared he would see her. Sweat trickled down her face as she scampered from one hiding place to the next, feeling faintly self-conscious. She wasn’t trained to do this; if anyone was watching her, they’d know she had to be tailing someone. Donald wasn’t any better.
Eventually Joe turned down a road and, by the time they’d reached the corner, he was nowhere to be seen.
Given the pace he’d been walking, Crys figured that he could have reached any three of the six buildings on the street, but there was no indication of which he’d gone into. She pulled back, out of sight from any of the buildings, and signaled Donald to join her.
“He’s gone into one of the buildings. What can we do now?”
Donald shook his head. We can’t go door to door. He’d recognize us at once. I think our best bet is to wait at each end of the street. Then when he comes out we can pick him up again.”
“But it’s important to know who he’s talking to. This may be our only chance to discover what the South African plan actually is.”
Donald shook his head again and started walking to the far end of the street, keeping his head down so that his face was as hidden as possible.
Crys felt a wave of frustration. She was sure that eventually Joe would emerge from one of the buildings and head back to his shop. All they would know was that he’d met someone here to talk about something. But Donald was right; they didn’t have any other option.
After a short while, Donald reached the end of the road, and took cover in a doorway. Almost immediately after that, Crys heard a door slam shut. Peeking around the corner she saw three men she didn’t recognize walking up the street toward her. She immediately walked away from them. That way, by the time they reached where she�
��d been hiding, she’d be halfway down the block. Hopefully, they would think she was just visiting one of the other warehouses in the area.
She didn’t look back.
But as she reached the next cross street, two more men came around the corner, just ahead of her. As she stepped aside to let them pass, she realized that one of them was Joe.
He stopped, looking at her, his face a mixture of surprise and anger. She froze for a second, staring into his eyes.
She realized she was in trouble and spun round to run, but in a flash, he reached out and grabbed her arm. “Come with us,” he said. His grip tightened on her arm till it hurt.
She tried to shake loose, but he was strong. He just clenched her harder—until she thought her bones would crack.
“Let me go!” she cried, struggling.
“I told you I had nothing more to tell you.” He started dragging her along. “Now you’ve made my boss mad. He wants to meet you. And you’re not going to like that.”
She saw that the other three men were now close. “Help me!” she shouted trying again to shake loose from Joe’s grip.
“Please help me,” she begged.
The three men stopped.
One of them laughed. “So, this is the stupid American,” he said in Vietnamese.
With a lunge, she finally wrenched herself out of Joe’s grasp and tried to bolt away. But there was nowhere to go, and she ran right into the arms of one of the other men.
“I’d like to take her home,” he said holding her arms to her sides, his hot breath against her face. “I can teach her a few things.”
She struggled some more, her fear skyrocketing.
Joe grabbed her left arm while the other man held the right and they yanked her along toward one of the warehouses. The pain in her shoulder was excruciating.
She could hear them joking with each other in Vietnamese about what they’d like to do with her. It was all she could do not to show she understood. Pain lanced through her shoulder. She stopped struggling. There was no point. She could only hope that Donald had heard her screams.
* * *
She was pushed into a chair in front of an old metal desk. The chair opposite her was empty.
Then they waited. The five men stood behind her chatting to each other. None of the talk was about rhinos or South Africa or even about her. It was typical men’s talk—football and, surprisingly, women’s volleyball. But even that was predictable—the discussion focused less on the game and more about how the players would be in bed. She gripped the sides of the chair. How could she get away? The men were between her and the door.
Suddenly, the talk stopped, and a male voice greeted the men. They responded respectfully. Then, a nondescript, middle-aged man walked around the desk and sat down behind it. He stared at her for several seconds before speaking.
“You cause me big problem,” he said in heavily accented English. “You steal money in South Africa. Now you try to find out about our rhinos.”
“How did—?” Crys began.
He opened a drawer, took out a piece of paper, and slid it across the desk toward her. She leaned forward and picked it up—it was a photo of her, tied to a chair. The chair where Pockface had held her. She didn’t remember him taking the photograph, but then she looked almost unconscious in the picture.
“Hurt?” asked the man, smiling and pointing at her fingers, which were still strapped together.
She couldn’t speak.
“We hurt you much more…” He wasn’t smiling now.
“You are wrong, Mr…?” He didn’t finish her sentence. “I didn’t steal any money from anyone.”
He ignored that. “What you do here now?” He glared at her. “I think you make Ho tell you about me.”
She shook her head. “Ho was dying. He didn’t say anything.” She turned in the chair and pointed at Joe. “I followed him.”
Nobody said a word, but the man behind the desk didn’t look at all pleased by that news. She looked back at him and tried to sound calm and matter-of-fact, but her hands felt clammy and her pulse was racing.
“I’m writing a story for National Geographic about the killing of rhinos and the smuggling of rhino horns. That’s why I was in South Africa. That’s why I’m here now. I want to speak to everyone involved so people get an accurate picture of what’s happening.”
“Why you follow Joe?”
“I asked him about an operation to kill lots of rhinos in South Africa. He wouldn’t answer me. That’s why I followed him. I want to know more about it. It’s the whole point of my job.”
“Who told you about South Africa?”
“The police in South Africa said they’d heard some rumors.”
“Police very stupid in South Africa. Too difficult to kill many animals. I think you force Ho Van Tan to tell you what money was for before you kill him. He tell you this stupid story to confuse you. He was carrying money for us. He dead now. You kill and steal money!”
She shook her head. This was even worse than she’d feared. “I think Ho was stealing your money. He killed the pilot of the plane. Shot him in the head.” The words were tumbling out. “Then he tried to shoot me. But he was injured.” Desperation popped an idea into her mind. “He died in the Land Rover I was driving to take him to hospital.” The story was close enough to the truth.
The man frowned. “Ho not steal money. Trusted partner.”
“You can believe what you like, but I think he decided to steal from you and hide the money. He didn’t have any money when I found him.”
The man stared at her for what felt like an age. “No. I think you don’t tell the truth. You know where money is. You tell us now or you not happy.”
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know. I’m just a journalist…”
The man stood up. “We find out if you know.” He nodded at the men behind me.
She was grabbed by the arms—again wrenching her sore shoulder—and pulled up from the chair. Then they pushed her through a side door into a large room that was obviously a warehouse.
The boss man walked up to her and stuck his face right in front of hers. “I give you fifteen minutes to change your mind. If you don’t tell me where the money is, you will see what we do to people who try to steal from us. Not nice.”
He turned to Joe and spoke to him in Vietnamese. “You showed her the way here. If she doesn’t tell me where the money is, you will make her talk.”
Joe nodded with a smile. “Thank you, Chủ Nhân.”
Crys suppressed a shudder, convinced still that she shouldn’t let them know she understood.
“But if she still doesn’t tell me, you are to blame for this problem.” Joe’s face fell.
With that the man walked out, and the others followed, leaving Crys to try to find a way out of the mess she’d gotten herself into.
* * *
She stood in the middle of the empty room, desperate to find a way out but at a loss for what to do. There was another door at the opposite end of the room, so she ran over to it and turned the handle, but, of course, it was locked. She looked around. The only windows were too high to reach. They were near the top of one wall, and the ceiling was about thirty feet above her.
With no escape route, she looked for something she could use as a weapon. The only furniture in the room was a metal chair and an old desk with a lamp with a naked bulb. Apart from that there were only some empty cardboard boxes with MANGOES printed on the outside.
And her cell phone was in her backpack, which one of the men had ripped from her when they’d dragged her into the building. It was sitting on the boss man’s desk.
The situation looked hopeless. She shook her head, wondering why she hadn’t learned her lesson in South Africa.
She searched the room again in case she’d missed something. The only thing she found,
behind the mango boxes, was an old can of paint and a bottle of what smelt like paraffin with barely any liquid left in it.
She’d just sat down at the desk when the boss man’s door opened, and he walked in.
“Get up.”
He held a camera in front of her—her camera. It showed a photograph of her translator.
“Who is this?”
“My translator, Mr. Phan Van Minh.”
“How did you find him?”
“Someone from the Department of Intercultural Affairs sent him. He must work for them.”
He swiped through a few photos, then stopped. “And this?”
“He’s the first dealer I spoke to. Mr. Le Van Minh. The department arranged my meeting with him too. And I think he arranged for me to speak to his supplier in Saigon Port—Mr. Ng.”
The boss man swiped some more. “This him?”
I nodded.
“And how do you know about Joe?”
“Look, everything I’m doing here has been arranged by the Department of Intercultural Affairs. I don’t know how they chose the people I should meet. I said I wanted to meet different people—dealers, suppliers, importers, people who use rhino horn. Everyone associated with the trade. I assume it’s a legitimate government agency.”
He stared at her for a few moments. “Why no photo of Joe?” he said at last.
“He told me to leave when I asked him if he’d heard about an operation to kill lots of rhinos in South Africa.”
He stared at her again and shook his head in disbelief. Then he looked at his watch. “Five minutes more, then Joe have some fun.”
He turned and walked out, and she heard the key turn in the lock.
So, they definitely weren’t going to kill animals in South Africa. But they were obviously planning something. Perhaps they were going after horn or tusk stockpiles.
But there was nothing she could do about it. There was no one she could alert.
In the meantime, she had a more pressing problem. How was she going to stop Joe from beating the life out of her?
Shoot the Bastards Page 25
