by Peter Colt
“Ba Pham, I would like to express my condolences for your loss and apologize for bothering you while you are in mourning.”
“You are from Boston. I am not sure how I can help you.” Her hands were small and neat as she directed us to sit in the living room. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.” She slid away to the kitchen and came back a few minutes later.
I took the time to look at the pictures in the living room. They had the usual pictures of children and family portraits, but in one area was a picture of a young Pham in a navy uniform. There were others, and then one caught my eye. It showed the same man standing next to a man in a Vietnamese Navy uniform, wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses. They were facing the sun and something glinted on his chest above his ribbons. There was another man in the picture who wasn’t in uniform but was in a madras shirt and had long hair. The man with the madras shirt was a young Hieu. Mrs. Pham came back into the living room with a tray with cups of coffee, cream, and sugar. We all sat down. I took my coffee black, but Thuy took hers with a lot of cream and sugar.
“How do you think I can help you, Mr. Roark?”
“I think your husband’s murder is related to Thuy’s uncle’s murder.” I laid out the trail of breadcrumbs that had led us to Virginia. “I am hoping that I can find something that connects them. I just don’t know what it is.”
“I still do not see what my husband has to do with this?”
“Hieu had contacted him. How did your husband know Hieu? He had your husband’s name and the name of the company he worked for.”
“I see. They were friends in Saigon, what the English would call schoolmates. They went to the same lycée and école. There were a group of them that went to school together and then ran around Saigon when they were young. Then the war moved closer and closer, and they grew apart.”
“When did you come here to the United States?”
“We left Saigon the night before it fell. My husband was an officer in the Vietnamese Navy. He was young, but he was well thought of and gained rank quickly.” She was smiling at the thought of his career or perhaps a time that was not, a decade later, ancient history.
“What did he do in the navy?”
“He dealt with logistics, moving supplies but at a high level. They sent him to American military schools. He had a good understanding of what it took to move large amounts of cargo around the world. The Americans adored him. He helped them with moving freight. He brought much war material into Vietnam for the war.”
“What did he do when he came to America?”
“He was hired by an import/export company. American friends who thought well of him from the war. His knowledge of shipping was a large help, also his knowledge of Southeast Asia. His company does work with the government.”
“I see. Was he involved in anything else? Was he active in the Vietnamese community here?”
“He was active in the Committee to Restore the Republic of Vietnam.”
“The Committee?”
“Yes.”
“What was his role with the Committee?”
“He was very important, very senior. He helped move the gold out of Saigon.”
“Gold? What gold?” Few things pique a man’s interest like gold.
“Well, when we were evacuating Vietnam . . . we weren’t going to leave the communists our gold.” She said it like I was the slow kid in class. “We took it with us, on the ships that fled Saigon, the night before the North arrived. It took days to load them. It wasn’t just gold, but that is what my husband wanted to protect. They were going to need it to start a government in exile. He was trying to protect the dream of our Vietnam.”
“That was what funded the Committee? Gold?”
“Yes, I mean, there was a lot of it. Gold, U.S. dollars, lots of it.”
“Blended to fit in with a convoy of refugees.”
“Yes, so that one day, one day, the Committee could raise an army, and go back and destroy the communists. My husband was an important man.” We asked her more questions but, ultimately, we just went in circles for a few more minutes. She didn’t know anything more or she became lost in the narcotic-like memories of her husband as much as the Valium she must have taken. We thanked her and left. We sat in the parked car in the sunny Virginia morning. It was spring in Virginia—birds chirping, plants blooming—and I didn’t notice any of it.
“Andy, how much gold do you think she is talking about?”
“I don’t know, Thuy. How much could one country have in its treasury ten years ago? That is even if it made it here.... They stopped in a lot of friendly countries along the way. Hieu was looking for a ship here. Pham was here. The navy has a presence here as well.”
“Do you think it was the ship with the gold?”
“What else could it be?”
“Let’s go find Global Sea Transport.”
Chapter 10
Virginia in March is the very opposite of Boston in March. In Virginia, it was slowly warming, there were buds on some of the trees, and the daffodils were bright yellow. The air held the promise of warm summer days to come, of dogwoods and cherry blossoms. The one rainstorm had come and gone with little fanfare. Virginia hadn’t felt the need to punish us for hoping for spring.
We drove through suburban Virginia, home to all of the bureaucrats and spies who kept Washington, D.C., running, with the windows lowered, which you would only do in Boston at this time of year if you had a burning desire to fill your car with slush. We smoked, and the tendrils whirled out the window like Chinese dragons. We talked about gold, Vietnamese gold. We tried to guess how much the Vietnamese treasury would have been worth then and now.
Global Sea Transport was in an unremarkable suite in an unremarkable strip mall that was just off the highway. If it were a car, it would have been a Ford Escort. Feeling paranoid, I took a couple of turns through the parking lot. I was thankful for the .38 poking me in the side. I parked a few spots away from the door. I got out of the car stiffly.
“Are you all right, Andy?”
“I’m okay. Feel like a million bucks.” I was good at bundling my lies together.
We walked to the glass door that seemed like it belonged more to a convenience store than an import/export business. It was tinted, as many were; the sun in summertime Virginia could be as unforgiving as winter in Boston. The door was locked, but there was a sign that told us to ring the bell for help.
After a time, the door was opened by a heavy man who had a face like a canned ham. Pink, fleshy, and didn’t have a lot going for it. He had a blond crew cut, sunburn, and blue eyes. I wanted to call him Hammy. He was thick, running to fat, and wore a blue suit that I was pretty sure was made of special NASA-designed space age fabric. His tie was a combination of tan and gray striping that was wide and had been new at the end of Jimmy Carter’s presidency. He was wearing black wingtips on his feet; “low quarters,” we called them in the army. The toes were polished to a mirror shine, and I was sure that Hammy spent his youth in the service of Uncle Sugar. I could relate.
“Hey there, can I help y’all?” His accent south of the Mason Dixon line.
“Yes, we were hoping to come in and talk about imports and exports.” I tried to sound Southern. I have to believe that my mustache helped.
“From Asia?” he said, looking at Thuy.
“Is there any other kind?” Then I did my best guffaw.
“C’mon in. Y’all want some coffee? I’d offer y’all some doughnuts, but the danged Krispy Kremes just don’t last around here.” He showed us through a waiting room that was so generic that the Ficus trees couldn’t tell each other apart. The carpet running throughout was a unifying theme of nausea-inducing burnt umber. He showed us into a wood-paneled office with pictures of ships and planes on the wall. Here and there were pictures of men in uniform. Vietnam was prominently featured. We sat in chairs that were chrome and leather and designed by someone who knew nothing about comfort. His desk had a nameplate that said
JEFFERIES. He had a pen set, what looked like a framed family portrait, a brass letter opener that looked like a knife, and a solid crystal globe a little bigger than a baseball. He had a phone with a lot of lights and buttons across from me.
“What brings y’all in here to Global Sea Transport?”
“Well, we’re looking for a boat. Something good size. A friend of ours told us to look at the James River and told us Global Sea Transport was the place to go.” Thuy seemed content to let me do all the talking.
Hammy looked confused for an instant. “A boat, on the James River? For what? Mister, we don’t deal in pleasure craft.”
“No, we are looking to do some importin’ and exportin’ from Asia mostly, some from Asia Minor if business is good.” I was Southernizing my voice. There was something about Hammy that was annoying me. He screamed military officer, and it was irrationally triggering my irrational dislike of authority.
“Well, sir, we can help you with a boat. The James is only navigable to oceangoing vessels from Richmond on down. We mostly lease ships and planes to facilitate international commerce. Depending upon your needs we can set you up with some inexpensive options. What are y’all—” He was interrupted by the phone ringing. “Excuse me, my girl, Doris, is at lunch.”
He was making a lot of “yes” and “aha” noises into the phone while turning. He would glance at us then away. He said into the receiver, “Yes, he is.” He started to open the middle drawer of the desk. I leaned forward in my chair, and we made eye contact. I shook my head from side to side. He looked at me and stopped. He said good-bye and hung up the phone. He carefully put both hands on the armrests of the chair.
“I am thinking that before the gun in the drawer cleared the desk the letter opener would be in my subclavian artery.” That was a very specific way to kill someone, but it seemed to be following me from Boston. It was a technique taught to OSS (Office of Strategic Services) commandos in World War II because it was fast and efficient.
“The paperweight, into your forehead. Not the temple. I don’t want to kill you, but I don’t want to get shot, either. What is it—a .45 or a Magnum?”
“Magnum, a Ruger .357. It’s heavy, and you are faster than me. . . .” It wasn’t a question. We had just been there, and he had his answer. The fight had been decided when I shook my head.
“Yes. You shouldn’t keep it in the drawer.”
“It digs into my side when I am sitting. I wasn’t expecting you, Mr. Roark. My colleagues just called me to tell me that I shouldn’t have answered the door.”
“They called just to tell you they told you so. Look, we are just here investigating two deaths. We aren’t looking for trouble, and we are no threat to anyone.” He laughed, short little barking laughs that didn’t make me like him any better.
“Mr. Roark. We know you. We know you intimately. You are actually a very dangerous man. You know it and we know it.”
I shrugged. It seemed like he and I spoke the same language, learned in the same schools. “Okay. Well, tell me about boats on the James River and Global Sea Transport.”
“We arrange for transport of cargo mostly to and from Asia, South and Central America. We facilitate the movement of cargo that U.S. government would like moved but doesn’t want just anyone to move. If necessary, we can supply ships and planes.”
“Shit.”
“Yep.”
“Air America, except now Sea America, too?”
“Something like that. Except we are a private entity that has one client.”
“You guys were supposed to have closed up shop in 1976.”
“Sure, I heard that, too. I also heard that every December a fat guy shimmies down chimneys all over the world to bring kids toys. Don’t make it true.” He had gone all Southern and folksy.
“What did this have to do with Hieu?”
“Nothing. He was an annoyance but not our annoyance.”
“And the guy in Boston, Pham . . . he was your guy?”
“Yes, Pham knew shipping. He knew Southeast Asia. He had been very helpful to us in Vietnam, especially at the end.” Suddenly the pictures on the walls were making more and more sense. They were pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, but only pieces. Some of them showed rows of cargo ships, Liberty ships lashed together. Some of them showed Jefferies in Navy khakis, arm and arm with two Vietnamese Navy officers. One was dead in Boston. One was wearing mirrored aviators and something reflective on his chest.
“Shit. You knew him.”
“Yes. God help the son of a bitch who murdered him, if I get to him. If you find out who . . . I would appreciate it if . . . Pham . . .we were shipmates, friends. We had a lot of miles together. . . .” He trailed off. I knew what he meant. His friend had survived the war only to be murdered in America. It wasn’t fair . . . but death rarely is.
“There is a mothball fleet on the James River?” I pointed to the pictures.
“There is. Mostly rusting hulks from two wars ago. All of it about as exciting as a bowl of soggy cornflakes.” He looked at me, and I knew that was as far as it was going to go. I tried, but, in the end, all he said was, “I have nothing left to say to you. Go back to Bahhsstin, Mr. Roark; Virginia isn’t for you. Go back and find out who killed my friend.” Thuy and I left.
We consulted and found that we should head back to the city. It would be too late for lunch, but a drink and early dinner might be nice.
“Andy, what is Air America?” The way she said it made me feel old. Her generation didn’t care about the war. To them, it was ancient, embarrassing history. It reminded me of the old joke where the punch line is, “You mean Paul McCartney was in a band before Wings?”
“Air America was a CIA operation. It was an air transport wing that they developed in the fifties to help out Chiang Kai-shek. It was called Civil Air Transport then. But in Vietnam, it was used to fly resupply missions or cargo missions that were secret, and the U.S. Air Force couldn’t do them.”
“They still exist?”
“Yeah, I am pretty sure they do.”
“Andy, what did he mean when he said you were dangerous. . . that he knew?”
“He was referring to the war. He was there, too. He was in some advisory or clandestine position. He was telling me that he knew what I had done in the war.”
“What did you do in the war?”
“I did Recon work in Special Forces.”
“Recon?”
“Yeah, short for Reconnaissance. My job was to go up to the Ho Chi Minh Trail and spy on movements and report back. It was very dangerous, and many times we had to fight our way out.”
“Oh . . . did you kill . . . kill many men?” Her eyes were big, and her lower lip was quivering.
“I don’t know. I killed men. It was a war; they were trying to kill me. They killed a lot of my friends.” This was not a conversation I wanted to have with a pretty Vietnamese girl, winding our way through the streets of suburban Virginia. There was no way to explain it all.
“Was it bad?” It was a question that was impossible to answer. No one wanted to talk about the war. Despite Magnum P.I. being on TV or the occasional movie about paralyzed vets, America wanted to forget Vietnam the way you want to forget having a one-night stand with a girl your buddy is now dating. You all knew what happened, but no one wanted to talk about it. When someone did ask about it, they didn’t really want to hear the answer. Women, they always asked me if it was “bad.” Nobody wanted to talk to a vet or to admit that they had spit on us or called us baby killers.
“It wasn’t good.” That was only partly true. I had loved Recon work. It was exhilarating. I was good at it. I felt alive. It was a giant, deadly game of cat and mouse. It was the only thing in my life that I had been exceptional at.
The problem was that as the game went on, I noticed that the faces of my friends kept changing. Guys would get killed or go missing, and new guys would show up. It wasn’t just that the old hands were disappearing, but new guys were, too. Recon had a ridiculousl
y high casualty rate. Each loss took a piece out of me. Then, one day, I realized that there was no one left that I started with.... Then I wondered when I would buy it. When was it was my turn to go to Valhalla? When you start thinking like that . . . then it is over.
We were making our way back into the city. The afternoon was giving way to early evening, and we were contemplating food. We were passing all of the monuments when she said, “Have you been to the memorial?”
“The Lincoln Memorial?” I could hope.
“No, the one from your war. The Vietnam Memorial.”
“No.” In 1982, when the memorial was dedicated and opened to the public there had been a big push to get the Vietnam vets to go. I thought about it, but I couldn’t bring myself to go. I couldn’t stand to see my brothers’ names on that wall. I still couldn’t understand why their names were on it and not mine. They didn’t deserve to be killed any more than me and I didn’t deserve to live any more than them.
“We could stop there. It is close.”
“No thank you.”
“Why not? You should see it. It celebrates your war dead.”
“No. I am all set with that.”
“But . . .”
“No. I don’t want to go, and I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” My voice had steel in it, and I had not heard that version of it since leaving the army.
Later that night, we tried dinner. The mood was tense, and we were snipping and sniping at each other like dogs fighting over the scraps of our fight. We ate and drank and smoked. That night we lay awake in bed, the stony silence lying between us like the walls bisecting the New England countryside. There was no lovemaking, tender caresses, or soft words, just two bodies in a bed trying not to touch. Peace offerings and a hand on her back were both rejected.
In my dream that night, I was moving slowly. Quietly. Moving down the paddy dike in the mist. Everything was indistinct. But I was back in Vietnam . . . back in Recon. I was moving quietly on my jungle-booted feet, bristling with weapons: silenced Swedish K, Hi-Power on my hip, knife on my web gear. Weighed down by grenades, little Danish ones that were cute—a little bigger than golf balls and smaller than American ones. A White Phosphorus grenade the size of a soup can taped to the left shoulder of my web gear. I was carrying a United Nations’ worth of weapons. I was weighed down with ammunition but light on my feet. I moved like a fucking Baryshnikov, a badass, deadly ballet dancer.