Saigon Red

by Gregory C. Randall

  “Five by five. Got it. See you Monday.”

  “Monday, boss.”

  The paramount directive driven into her and the new recruits during their training was secrecy. Only management, the team, and the client were to know scope, schedules, and itineraries. No one else. And now—with what Chris revealed in her kitchen—she needed to manage the flow of information as well. Everything else surrounding the operation was outside the box, and that box had a lid. Nonetheless, she now had to define the boundaries that even a helpful boss might push.

  Alex’s premium-economy seat was significantly roomier than the steerage seat she’d had to Venice. A two-hour flight from Cleveland Hopkins to JFK, a two-hour layover, then nonstop to Milan—two flights to Europe in less than six months. She felt like a jet-setter.

  Chris’s visit nagged her. Her years as a cop had given her a jaundiced view of the human species. She’d come to the sad conclusion that many would do anything for a buck, some for even less. But to turn on your own people, to set them up to be killed, that was debased. There had to be more behind this treachery.

  Waiting in the JFK lounge, she received a confirmation text from Campbell that he would meet her in Milan a few days after she arrived. He had meetings in London and Munich first. He’d meet her at the Hilton early Monday morning. They were scheduled to visit with the Luccheses later that day.

  An hour into the eight-hour flight, Alex opened the new satellite-enabled laptop that had arrived at her house by messenger. Access to the computer was through her fingerprint and a temporary password that was sent to the phone Campbell had given her. She memorized the fourteen random digits and letters and rebooted the computer. The text on the phone disappeared. There were four folders on the desktop, one each for the Luccheses, Teton Security, Ho Chi Minh City, and Vietnam.

  She clicked on the Lucchese folder, and four new folders appeared: Como Motors, Nevio Lucchese, Ilaria Lucchese, and Lucchese Children. She opened the Como Motors file and the ten-page Word document within it.

  She read about the history of Como Motors since its founding in Milan after World War II. Included were addresses of its worldwide manufacturing operations in Italy, Brazil, Taiwan, and China and of the newest facility in Vietnam. Worldwide sales approached two billion euros, well ahead of other motorcycle manufacturers, such as Harley-Davidson.

  The document then went into the company’s management team and board of directors. She recognized a couple of the names from the news and their connections to international manufacturing companies and banks. The last section outlined the company’s future, and one paragraph—headed Future NATO Prospects—caught her eye.

  Our analysis and contacts within the domestic and international defense industries of Europe have confirmed that Como Motors is a subcontractor to NATO. This contract may include the development and manufacture of data management and helmet controls for the new NATO swarm drone program. These control systems are an offshoot of their motorbike helmet control systems that are being developed to assist the motorbike driver. These systems are based on swarm theory and dealing with unlimited data input. They are expected to help augment safety, peripheral visibility, and communications.

  Per NATO regulations, these systems must be manufactured within NATO countries in highly secured facilities. TSD is not sure that this contract has been signed, but we believe that it is possible over the next few months. TSD also believes that this software system may have military value, that it can be weaponized for both defensive and offensive purposes. The goal would be to overwhelm enemy defensive systems or provide an offensive capability that cannot be easily compromised.

  Alex noted that the last paragraph about NATO had been inserted by Chris—his name was posted at the bottom. She read, with special interest, the documents on the Lucchese family. Nevio Lucchese was fifty-eight and had been with Como for fifteen years. He managed the expansion of facilities in Italy and set up the Como manufacturing facility in Brazil. It was also speculated that he may be heading up the research for the swarm defense system.

  Ilaria Lucchese was thirty-six. She was Nevio’s second wife, and based on the photo, pretty. His first wife died eighteen years earlier in a solo car crash in the mountains above Genoa. It had been declared an accident due to excessive speed and road conditions. Ilaria was the complete opposite to the first wife. The biography noted that she didn’t drive. She was the daughter of an old political family from Milan with manufacturing and industrial roots. Apparently, her grandfather had been involved with Mussolini’s fascists, and his company had manufactured tanks and other military vehicles for Italy’s war effort. He merged the firm with Como Motors after the war. Her father, Enzo Giordano, had controlled the company until it became public in the early 1990s. He was still alive.

  As for the two children, Paolo and Gianna, the files gave their ages, school test scores, and little else. Their photographs showed handsome children with bright eyes. Something about Paolo’s look reminded Alex of her brother John. It was the look of a troublemaker. She smiled at the thought. The girl had the childish grin of an ingenue and the eyes of a starlet. She would have to watch out for the boys with this one.

  She restudied the TSD folder. It contained everything she learned from her weeks at the Country Club. She rubbed the sore point in her shoulder from the butts of the assorted rifles. She then waved at the attendant and ordered another Belvedere on the rocks.

  The folders on Vietnam and Saigon were the most interesting. She scanned through the pages on Vietnam’s history, old and recent, as well as those detailing its current political structure and climate. In the section on its economy, she learned that the nation was becoming an economic powerhouse in the region, and not just for its cheaper labor. The documents included articles, photos, and maps that showed a country far different from the one her father had left fifty years earlier. Saigon, relabeled Ho Chi Minh City by the communist victors, was even more surprising, especially its population. In Cleveland and Cuyahoga County, there were one and a quarter million people. Saigon and its surrounding countryside held more than eight million.

  As she drifted off to sleep, thoughts of overcrowded streets, a million motorbikes, and oppressive heat and humidity drifted around in her head. Let the fun and games begin.

  Alex cleared customs and walked into the Milano Malpensa terminal expecting to see Javier standing there with a grin on his face and a paper sign saying “Polonia.” She was greeted with the sign, but it was held by an older man whose tailored black suit and chauffeur’s cap gave him a distinctly British look. She pointed at him.

  “Ms. Polonia, I’m Dugan McCorly. Mr. Campbell sent me to collect you.” The accent confirmed it: British indeed.

  “Collect me?” she answered. “Why am I being collected, by you?”

  “An unfortunate word. I’m sorry, Ms. Polonia. I am to drive you to your hotel. I expect you’re tired after your trip.” He took the two bags from Alex and began to roll them toward the door.

  “Stop,” she ordered. “I’m just fine, Mr. McCorly. So, stop right there. I do not like surprises, and this is a surprise. You will wait.”

  “Certainly, Ms. Polonia.” He stood next to her two bags, an extension handle in each hand, and waited.

  She extracted the phone Campbell had given her and punched in a number. After four rings, it went to voice mail. “Chris, I have a McCorly collecting me. This was not in the program. Call me now. I’m not leaving the airport with this man until you do.”

  “Mr. McCorly, I need a drink,” she said as she ended the call. “Is there a bar somewhere in this airport?”

  “Not on this side of the security gates, unfortunately. Just a couple of small delicatessens. Sorry, lass.”

  Alex followed McCorly until they reached a sign that read “Restaurant Gourme.” At ten in the morning it was half-full. A few people from her area of the plane were there drinking wine. This would have to do.

  She threw her backpack on one of the plastic seats an
d pointed McCorly toward an empty one. As he sat, so did she. “Who are you, and why are you here?”

  “Mr. Campbell said you would be suspicious. I am who I said I am. Dugan McCorly: Milan liaison for Teton Security and Defense.”

  “Were you some kind of spook in an earlier life too? Or military? Everyone at Teton seems one or the other.”

  “British MI6, yes. I met Mr. Campbell in Mumbai. He offered me a position, so here I am—your personal chauffeur and Sherpa. Today anyhow. Airport collections aren’t my normal route.” He took off his hat and set it beside him. “Red wine, or white?”

  “White. And cold.”

  “I’ll be right back.” McCorly stood and walked to the counter. Alex heard him order in Italian. A few seconds later a glass of white wine sat in front of her.

  Her phone pinged. Christopher Campbell’s text message sat on the screen:

  Had to change the plan. I’ll tell you why later. Ask McCorly what his favorite color is. If he says red, he’s good. If he says blue, shoot him.

  She looked at the British agent. “What’s your favorite color?”

  McCorly smiled. “Red, of course. Now you won’t have to shoot me.”

  She took a long sip of the wine. “My loss.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Alex sat uneasily in the rear seat of the BMW sedan. She appreciated the luxury, but she was still annoyed by McCorly’s surprise “collection.” What happened to her original driver, the Texan from Waco? She looked at her phone every five minutes hoping for a text or email from him—nothing.

  Milan was hectic, even on a Saturday morning. Trolleys and taxis filled the streets. She didn’t know what to expect as they drove through an industrial area, which, with its brick buildings, looked like one of the older neighborhoods of Cleveland. Not a good thing.

  “Ms. Polonia,” McCorly said, his eyes in the rearview. “I fear we got off to a bad start. I apologize. This was a last-minute request by Mr. Campbell, who is in London. Other arrangements must have fallen through. I was free this morning, so he sent me.”

  “To collect me?”

  “Precisely.”

  “I understand, I think.”

  “You’re at the Hilton? The one near the train station?”

  “Hilton, yes. The train station I don’t know. This is my first time in Milan.”

  She removed the paperwork from her bag. “Is it the one on Via Luigi Galvani?”

  “Sì, sì, quello e l’unico.”

  “Now you’re just showing off, Mr. McCorly.”

  “Sorry, I’ve lived here a long time. Some days I won’t say a word of English. And please call me Dugan. Only my wife calls me Mr. McCorly, and that’s when she’s vexed.”

  “Now why would someone be vexed with you, Dugan?”

  “Some weeks my address is the doghouse. The hotel is not far. And the train station is across the street from it. You can be in Venice or Florence in just a few hours, Rome a little more. North is Switzerland. The train station is central to northern Italy.”

  “Do you know why I’m here?”

  “Not my place to know. Excuse me, ma’am, I have a call.” He tapped something on the steering wheel. “Dugan here.”

  Alex watched an enormous and ornately carved white cathedral pass on their right. It was bigger than anything she remembered in Venice.

  They build big cathedrals in Italy. Then again, I guess they’ve had a long time to do it.

  “Change in plans, Ms. Polonia. I’ve been instructed to take you to another hotel; the Hilton has been canceled. Our travel director tells me the new location is the Hotel Principe Di Savoia. It’s not my place to comment, but it’s one of Milan’s best. Just a few blocks from here.”

  “Great, another surprise.”

  Standing under the porte cochere to the hotel, she looked up at the white stone-faced building. At each arched window, a flower box overflowed with spring flowers. It all screamed expensive. She assumed it was Campbell’s idea, but why?

  McCorly handed her bags to a bellman, who gave him a receipt. McCorly walked over and passed the slip of paper to her. “All you have to do is check in. Everything is taken care of. I must go. I hope to see you again, Ms. Polonia.”

  “I apologize for being rude,” Alex said. “There was no reason. I was surprised. I hate surprises, and I was expecting someone else.”

  “In my line of work, I don’t like surprises either. I completely understand. Until later.” He extended his hand, and she took it. “By the by, there’s an excellent bar just inside the door.”

  As McCorly drove out between the white columns of the hotel’s entry, she wondered what other surprises her boss had for her.

  Inside, a dapper man in a beautiful suit met her. “Ms. Polonia, I am Signor Mazzetti, the manager. I have your key card here.” He handed her a stylish cardboard envelope. “Your bags will be taken to your room. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  She stared at the man for a moment too long. She wasn’t sure whether she was jet-lagged or just plain tired. “Thank you, Signor Mazzetti. I think a cocktail, then a nap.”

  “Eccellente. I hope you enjoy your stay with us. If you need anything, please ask. Buongiorno.”

  “And buongiorno to you, sir.”

  It was a quarter to noon. She had been traveling for the last twelve hours, and it was a toss-up between the room and the bar. Her stomach growled as she walked through the lobby and turned into the bar. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dark, wood-paneled interior. Tables, mostly unoccupied, populated the main floor. Overhead, a crystal chandelier glowed. Her eyes lazily drifted to the bar, where, on the center stool, sat Javier Castillo, an ice-filled tumbler at his side.

  At first she thought she ought to walk over and dump the drink on his head. Instead, she marched up to the Texan and gave him a kiss. After thirty seconds, he mumbled something about not being able to breathe.

  “Too bad,” she said into his ear. “Maybe I should strangle you while I’m at it.”

  “That will wreck the rest of the weekend I’ve planned.” He patted the stool next to him and handed her the drink as she slid onto the seat. “Your Belvedere on the rocks.”

  “This will not get you off the hook, but it’s a start. Why weren’t you at the airport?”

  “Government business. I couldn’t reach you; you were in the air. I texted Chris, and he said he’d take care of it. Did Dugan McCorly pick you up?”

  “Yes, strange man.”

  “He’s an old spy. He plays the role of the dandy snoop just for fun, but he’s a serious player in this part of Italy.”

  She looked around, took in the grandeur. “I don’t think I can cover this place on my expense account.”

  “I’ve worked it out with Chris. I had some American government officials staying here, all paid up through next week. They went home yesterday, no reimbursement, so it’s yours until Monday. Then, I’m afraid, Cinderella’s pumpkin turns into a Hilton. That’s when Chris gets you back.”

  “You mean it’s just you and me?”

  “For the entire weekend.”

  “I’m not sure what to do for an entire weekend.”

  “It’s Italy. I’m sure we’ll find something.”

  “I’m famished.”

  “They have a menu somewhere around here,” Javier said, looking at the bartender. “Can we eat here at the bar?”

  “Sì, sì,” the bartender answered.

  Alex stood. “Room service will be just fine.” She slung her backpack over her shoulder, picked up her drink, took his hand, and headed to the elevator.

  CHAPTER 20

  Two days later, Alex exited the elevator and crossed the marbled lobby of the Hotel Principe Di Savoia. McCorly stood at the BMW just outside, holding the door open for her. Her bags nestled into the spacious trunk, its lid still open.

  “Good morning, Mr. McCorly,” she said, stepping into the car.

  “Good morning to you. The boss will be here momentarily.
”

  She settled into the back seat and smiled at her reflection in the window. For the first time—in so long she couldn’t remember—she was happy. The surprise of meeting Javier and the stay at the hotel, their Sunday trip to Florence, the wonderful meals, the evenings, the lack of expectations, the comfort of his shoulder in the mornings. What they had discovered of each other in Venice, they had found again in Milan.

  “Welcome to Italy,” Chris said, hopping in next to her. “I hope the change in plans was acceptable.”

  “More than acceptable, and thank you. Javier says he will call you later in the week, something about NATO. He had to leave early this morning. Other than that, I’m reporting for duty.”

  “There’s a cup of black coffee in the holder, Ms. Polonia,” McCorly said as he handed a manila folder and a manila envelope to Chris, one thin, the other thick. “The boss said that’s how you like it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. McCorly,” she answered, then turned to her boss. “So, it begins.”

  “It begins,” he said as McCorly started the car. As the Englishman steered away from the hotel, Chris opened the thin folder and handed Alex a sheet of paper. “This is the schedule. For the most part, today is a get-to-know-each-other day. We’ll meet Signor Lucchese at his office, which is about twenty minutes away at the Como Motors plant near Cinisello Balsamo. After that, we’ll meet with the family for lunch at their villa in the hills above Monza. The children are home from school. I’ve been told they’re not happy with this move. They do not want to leave their friends.”

  “My brothers have had the same problems with their kids, and those were merely moves from one neighborhood to another in Cleveland. The children may be confused and puzzled. But I’m prepared.”

  “Ilaria Lucchese moved with her husband a couple of times early in his career, but that was before the kids. His last overseas assignment was Brazil, and she stayed with the children here in Italy. They’re older now.”