‘I thought one of our search teams visited them before,’ said Condley in a near-whisper, eyeing the half-black children among them and remembering his conversation with Professor Muir at the Rex Hotel.
‘No,’ grunted the colonel. ‘I will be honest with you, because I made them explain this. They brought that search team to a different place. Another village, nearer to the road, where the black American did not live. The children from this village heard about the visit and some of them went down there to spy on the foreigners. The children were playing. Your people saw them only by accident.’
A thin, bent-legged old man with a wispy white beard, obviously the village chief, moved to the front of the villagers, leaning on a cane as he walked. He wore gray shorts and a faded green soldier’s shirt. He had a serious, etched face. Even at his advanced age his eyes burned brightly with a discerning curiosity. He stared at Condley and then Muir for a long time, saying nothing. And then finally he turned to Colonel Pham.
‘We have nothing for them,’ he said, turning his palms upside down in a helpless gesture as his clever eyes danced on Pham’s face.
Another negotiation, thought Condley wearily, giving Hanson Muir a secret, cynical glance. Another little toll booth.
‘What do they want, Colonel?’
The villagers erupted in surprised laughter, recognising for the first time that Condley spoke Vietnamese. The old man’s face brightened momentarily, and he addressed Condley.
‘We want nothing. Only to be left alone.’
‘We were told that you had something to give us.’
The old man shrugged again, as if helpless. ‘They came here and they asked me. But the black American has been dead for three years. Why do you bother us?’
Condley glanced at the two former soldiers who had guided them to this improbable spot. They were smirking at him from the back of the crowd now, seeming to enjoy the awkwardness of the moment. They did not know that a part of him was secretly rejoicing in this knowledge, for it meant that there would be no physical struggle with a deserter who did not want to go home.
‘It doesn’t matter that he’s dead,’ said Condley. ‘We will be happy to collect his remains.’
‘He became a part of this village,’ insisted the old man. ‘He married one of my nieces. He is buried in a family plot. His remains should stay here, with his family.’
‘It is very important for us to identify him,’ said Condley. ‘We are trying to solve a matter left over from the war.’
‘The war has been over for a very long time,’ said the old man as the rest of the villagers nodded their affirmation. ‘What difference can it possibly make?’
‘He must be identified,’ repeated Condley. Watching the old man’s face a long moment, he decided to take a different tack. ‘So that his American family can have peace.’
‘We know nothing about his American family. We do not even know his American name,’ said the village chief. ‘He gave himself a Vietnamese name. And so we called him Nguyen My Den.’
‘Nguyen My Den?’ Condley could not restrain a laugh. The dead deserter either had a great sense of humor or very little imagination, having named himself Nguyen the Black American. ‘Anyway, we don’t need his American name. If you gave us his American name we would still have to examine his remains. He could have made up an American name, just as he made up a Vietnamese name. We identify people through their bones,’ he said. ‘And especially their teeth.’
‘What good does it do, anyway?’ asked the old man. ‘He came to our side during the war and he stayed here after the war. He was not embarrassed by this. He did not want to go back to your country. It would insult our family if you took him from us.’
‘Then why did you agree to meet with us?’
The old man shrugged absently, nodding toward the nearby government officials. ‘Because they told us to.’
Condley was stumped. He paused for a moment, looking to Colonel Pham for help. The colonel shook his head, as if there were nothing he could do. ‘Shit,’ mumbled Condley, feeling oddly betrayed. ‘Just shit. ‘
‘What’s he saying?’ asked Muir.
‘Pepper’s been dead for three years, but they’re not going to give us his remains because he’s a part of the family now. He’s not an American anymore. They don’t give a shit about the war.’
‘All we need is his skull,’ said Muir calmly, stepping up next to Condley. ‘The skull. Tell him we want to borrow it.’
‘You’re a genius, Professor.’
‘As I said, distance from a problem has its benefits. And if you would please hurry up, I’d like to be very distant from this one.’
Condley patted Muir on the back, nodding now to the village chief. ‘My partner is a very distinguished American scientist. He has offered a solution, which I hope you will consider. We would like to borrow the head of the dead American, so that his family in the United States can examine his teeth and know for certain that he is dead. You can keep the rest of his remains here in your village. And once we identify him, we will return the head to you.’
The village chief glanced at the two government officials, then into the faces of his fellow villagers, looking for dissent. Finding none, he nodded.
‘All right. We will rent the head to you for five thousand dollars.’
‘Five thousand dollars?’
‘For the head,’ said the old man. ‘The body would be more. And only if you return it. Nguyen My Den is not American anymore. His head belongs here in my village.’
‘Who’s a genius?’ muttered Muir as Condley translated the old man’s reply. Condley looked wryly at his partner, and then over to Colonel Pham, who had broken into an amused smile.
Gotcha.
And as Condley followed the old man and his entourage toward the village, he was sure he heard the colonel laugh.
Chapter Sixteen
Sai Gon
‘This is a Heckler and Koch P7,’ said Nghiem Le Manh, taking a small black pistol from the shooting stand and holding it in front of Dzung. ‘It was manufactured in Germany. For many years the West German commandos used it as their weapon of choice.’
Staring at the beautifully crafted pistol, Dzung could not resist a small jibe. ‘So much for the revolution, if you want me to shoot an inferior capitalist weapon.’
‘This is not politics,’ shrugged Manh. ‘The Germans are the masters of weapons. Did you know they actually designed the AK-47 rifle? Oh, yes. Take a look at their STG-44 infantry rifle from World War Two. The Russian Kalishnikov stole the design.’
‘For the good of the revolution,’ said Dzung dryly.
‘I told you, I don’t like the Russians either,’ replied Manh. ‘Anyway, you will love shooting this pistol. If you are like I am, Dzung, and from your files we do seem to have this in common, shooting this weapon will make your heart sing.’ And then he smiled, raising his eyebrows as if he were letting Dzung in on a secret. ‘Besides, if you were ever caught with a pistol, it would not be good for the revolution if it was traceable to the government, would it?’
‘Manh, let’s be practical. You would never turn me loose on my cyclo with a pistol.’
‘Of course I would.’ Manh grinned widely now, enjoying the surprised look on Dzung’s face. ‘I know you perfectly, Dzung. I have carefully studied every page of your file. I have talked with the political officers who supervised you during your re-education. I have had you watched, on the street and even at your home. You are obsessed with the love of your family. It is your great strength and it is your tragic weakness. You will do nothing to hurt your family. And if your family is at risk, you will do anything to save them. So if I gave you this pistol and told you to show it to no one and to use it only when you were ordered to do so, you would obey me. Because if you did not obey me, your family would suffer. How many people could you shoot with seven bullets? Not enough to destroy the revolution. Only enough to destroy yourself and your family.’
Dzung searched Manh’
s face, accepting the truth of what the Interior Ministry agent had just said. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘For now, learn to shoot the weapon. Enjoy yourself.’
Manh became officious, standing next to Dzung and pointing out the characteristics of the pistol. ‘This is a nine-millimeter pistol. The magazine holds eight bullets, but we always load only seven, to preserve the tension in its spring. You are probably remembering the American forty-five-caliber pistol, which was very complicated and very unsafe, even though it had several different safeties. Remember? The grip safety, the thumb safety, the slide lock, and still the forty-five killed people accidentally all the time. There is only one safety on this pistol, the squeeze safety, but it is completely effective. That means that you must squeeze the grip when you want to shoot a bullet, or the pistol will not fire. Very simple. Very German.’
There were a half dozen loaded magazines on the shooting table. Manh picked up one of them, pushing it upward inside the pistol’s grip as he kept it carefully pointed downrange. A host of memories clogged Dzung’s mind as he watched Manh load the pistol and release the slide, arming it with a bullet in the chamber. It was amazing to him how easily he regained the memories and even the panache of a quarter century before.
‘I was born to do this, Manh. You should know that.’
‘I do know that,’ said Manh simply. He handed Dzung the pistol, giving the cyclo driver a taunting grin. ‘So go ahead, Dzung, shoot me. You can, you know. No one would be able to stop you from doing it.’
Dzung grinned also, looking up and down the empty firing line of the shooting range and then back at Manh. The Interior Ministry agent was indeed correct that Dzung could kill him with ease at that moment. But both of them knew that Manh had the ultimate defense against such action, greater than any bullet-proof vest or indeed any gun. For if Dzung shot Manh he would never make it out of the shooting range, much less back to his home. And even if Dzung was given the gun and later shot Manh on the street, there would be no place for him to hide. And even if he found a place to hide, some of his family would be marched off to prison, and all of them would suffer for the rest of their lives whenever they tried to find a job or a school or a house. Nor would they ever be allowed to emigrate away from such misery. The whole country would become their jail, to set an example for the others, because shooting Manh would be a crime against the revolution.
‘Bang,’ said Dzung, pointing the pistol for a moment at Manh’s head.
Manh did not even flinch. ‘Go ahead. Get all of the anger out of your system.’ And then he lit a cigarette, watching Dzung as if he were sitting in a spectator section, far away.
Dzung toyed with the pistol for a while, admiring its sleek design and testing the squeeze mechanism on its grip. The pistol felt immediately comfortable in his hands. Without coaching, he spaced his feet sideways and apart, as if in a boxer’s stance. Then he raised his right arm until it was straight, pulling his left hand into the pistol to steady his grasp, and looked for a moment through the sights, lining up the dot of the front site exactly with the two dots of the rear sights.
‘It is a beautiful weapon, Manh.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Manh. ‘Shoot it.’
Twenty-five meters away, Manh had set up three circular metal targets. The pie-plate targets stood atop metal stands. Two of them were chest-high, while the one in the center was head-high. Dzung took careful aim at the center target and slowly squeezed off a round. The pistol exploded and the center pie plate immediately pinged loudly, rocking on its base.
‘You are very good,’ said Manh. ‘First shot, dead center.’
‘I am better than good, Manh.’
‘Prove it.’
Dzung squeezed off the other six rounds, firing quickly and putting two bullets onto each of the targets. A thrill raced through him as he fired. This was the ultimate empowerment. For a second he allowed himself a wild fantasy, that every cyclo driver in Sai Gon might be armed with one of these sleek pistols, so that they might all fire at once until Manh and every one of his fellow government officials were dead. And then he laughed, this time at himself. Most of them would probably miss anyway. Weapons had been his talent, all those years ago. Most of the others, even the former soldiers, had probably never fired a pistol in their lives.
‘Excellent!’ Manh smiled, taking Dzung’s laughter as an expression of simple enjoyment. ‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘Fire another magazine if you like.’
Dzung ejected the spent magazine, marveling at the engineering of the pistol, and popped a fresh one into the receiver. He squeezed the grip, which automatically brought the slide forward, loading a bullet into the chamber, and fired off all seven rounds within five seconds, pinging all three targets once again.
‘Perfect!’ said Manh.
‘Firing a pistol is as natural to me as breathing,’ said Dzung.
‘What are you thinking?’ asked Manh.
Dzung masked his seriousness with a small grin. ‘I’m wondering again how we lost the war.’
‘History was not with you,’ laughed Manh, his smile curling up behind his drooping mustache. ‘So get over it, and keep shooting.’
Dzung dropped the second magazine from the pistol, reaching for another full one. ‘Why am I doing this, Manh? Who do you want me to kill?’
‘Today, no one,’ answered Manh. ‘And besides, you are not ready, Dzung. We have much preparation to do. This is only familiarisation. Once you are completely comfortable with the pistol we will put you through a combat course.’
‘A combat course? I was in combat for seven years,’ said Dzung. ‘Seven years, Manh! What are you going to teach me about combat?’
‘You won’t be using this weapon on a battlefield,’ said Manh. ‘You must learn to shoot quickly, from only a few meters away. And then if you wish to save yourself, you must learn to get rid of the pistol and disappear without being caught.’
Manh’s comments washed over Dzung like a sudden, cold rain. Shooting a pistol on a firing range was a novelty, even fun. Going into combat was as natural as waking up and cooking rice. But killing someone on the street at the direction of the very government that hated him, and then escaping without being caught, was beyond his ability to comprehend. And what then? Would they allow him to disappear back into the anonymity of his cyclo trade? Would they catch him and charge him anyway, having set him up as a scapegoat for the same crime they forced him to commit? And if they didn’t charge him for the crime, what would they want him to do next?
‘I am not the person to kill someone like that, Manh.’
‘Not yet,’ said Manh, finishing his cigarette and tossing it toward the targets. ‘But we will teach you.’
‘There’s nothing about this that you can teach me.’ Dzung emptied the third magazine into the pie plates effortlessly, almost without looking. Seven shots, five seconds, seven hits. ‘Are you sure you want me to have a pistol? You’re taking a risk, Manh.’
Manh grunted, unconcerned. ‘You are as predictable as the rains.’
Dzung turned casually toward the young Interior Ministry official, letting the barrel of the pistol rest just underneath Manh’s chin. ‘Check my file. I have a very bad attitude.’
Manh grinned coolly back, not the least bit intimidated. ‘Yes, but you will never let your family down. We know you, Dzung. We are not foolish in these matters. So, keep shooting. You have a great deal to learn, and not much time.’
Chapter Seventeen
Hawaii
The skull of Nguyen the Black American lay on a clean sheet at the top end of its own gurney, as if awaiting the arrival of Prince Hamlet, who might pick it up and stare moonfully into its dirt-crusted recesses. Or perhaps, thought Condley a little more cynically, the members of the Central Identification Lab, Hawaii, actually believed that someday the rest of Pepper’s remains would magically appear from the harsh village with no name far toward the peaks of the Que Son Mountains and cover the entire gurney with ribs and vertebra
e and femurs and patellae, all the missing, irrelevant evidence that might allow him to picture the dead man more clearly.
‘I hate his guts,’ he said flatly. ‘That is, if he still had any guts.’ He was wishing that Nguyen the Black American might come alive just for a moment so that he might kill him properly instead of allowing him the luxury of a simple, peaceful death.
‘Behold Alphonse no-middle-name Smith,’ said Professor Hanson Muir, reading with his characteristic flourish from five pages of summary notes. ‘Born April 27, 1948, in Chicago, Illinois. Father unknown. Mother presently unlocatable and probably not still alive. Nine and a half years of schooling. Enlisted in the Marine Corps on September 5, 1966. Arrived in Da Nang on March 21, 1967, where he was assigned to the Force Logistics Command.’
‘You’re telling me this guy was a supply pogue from FLC?’ interrupted Condley unbelievingly. ‘That this so-called badass was a rear-echelon puke who spent his days stacking boxes of skivvies in a warehouse?’
‘According to his records.’
‘How’d he ever end up leading NVA patrols?’
Muir chuckled ironically, looking up for a moment from his notes. ‘Don’t you always like to boast that every Marine is a rifleman?’
Condley grunted, amazed. ‘The closest the FLC guys got to combat was loading ammo and C-rations onto the convoy trucks.’
‘Well, it appears he made up for it when he joined the other side, doesn’t it?’ Muir began reading again. ‘Where was I? OK, here. Commanding officer’s nonjudicial punishment, 11 September, 1967, for the offense of disrespect to a non-commissioned officer. Ten days’ confinement and loss of pay. Special court-martial, 14 November, 1967, for being absent without leave for twenty-seven days. From these notes it seems he was apprehended while trying to live permanently in the transient barracks at the R and R Center in Da Nang.’
‘Not a bad choice if you’re going to run away from your unit,’ mused Condley grudgingly. ‘The officers in charge see you walking around and think you’re in from the bush, on your way to Hong Kong or Bangkok or Singapore. You don’t have to show any R and R orders to eat in the mess hall, so you get three hot meals a day for free. Find yourself an unassigned cot in the barracks after everybody goes to bed at night, so you have a place to sleep. There are new faces every day coming in and out from R and R, and no permanent occupants in the barracks, so who’s going to finger you for being AWOL?’
Lost Soldiers Page 20