Neither was badly shot. The sniper either had an awkward firing angle from behind his truck or had rushed himself after Condley’s ear-shattering scream. Condley took off his T-shirt and ripped it, fashioning a battle dressing that he pulled tightly over the wound in Muir’s thigh. He then folded another piece into a square and pressed it hard into his shoulder, holding it there in an attempt to stanch the bleeding.
‘What now, oh master improviser?’ asked the professor. His shoes stank of river mud and hog guts, and his face was wet with sweat as he fought against the pain of his wound.
‘Now comes Father Mike,’ said Condley, nodding toward the rear of the line of trucks.
From the moment he was shot he had known that Father Mike would find him. The only question was whether the priest would bandage him or bury him. Father Mike’s ministry was in Klong Toey. Nothing in the district went past him. And here the frail priest came, half jogging along the dirt road, his hands fussing with each other just above his waist as if he were counting beads on an imaginary rosary. His eyes went this way and that, searching, until he saw the bodies in the road. He stopped, looking down at them and shaking his head. And then behind the bodies he finally saw Condley.
‘Brandon, is that you?’ Father Mike crossed himself as he approached the bodies. ‘They’re all dead, are they?’
‘I’ve been waiting for you, Father.’
Father Mike knelt next to Condley, examining his wound. ‘What have you gotten yourself into now?’
‘I found the guy who killed my Marines. Remember?’ The rest of it was too complicated. Condley thought about it and came up with some shorthand. ‘He murdered Sal Marino this morning.’
Father Mike crossed himself again, closing his eyes. ‘May the Lord bless Sal and keep him.’ He looked at Condley. ‘And you decided to kill him in return, did you?’
‘No, I didn’t kill him,’ said Condley dismissively. ‘Father, I need to get out of here. There are some well-connected people who are going to be upset about those bodies over there. And the Thai police can be extremely weird.’
‘An astute observation,’ nodded Father Mike. ‘If you’re in line for some form of retaliation, I don’t think it would be healthy for you to be spending the night in a Bangkok jail cell.’
‘Not to mention that I need very badly to catch a plane tomorrow.’
Hanson Muir groaned unbelievingly. ‘I need a doctor, Brandon, not an airplane.’
‘Trust me, Professor. An infected leg is better than a dead brain.’
Father Mike tested the bandage on Muir’s thigh. Muir winced when the priest pushed on his wound, and then groaned, fainting. ‘If you didn’t kill him, then this man did?’ asked Father Mike.
‘No,’ said Condley, chuckling at the absurdity of that thought. ‘It was pretty messy. Look around you, Father. Look at us. There were a lot of guns.’
‘I understand,’ said Father Mike, probing Muir’s wound again. ‘But most of them seem to have been pointed at you. So, who? Who killed him?’
‘I don’t know, I really don’t. The guy came from nowhere, and he took off when he was done. I only shot one man. Because he was trying to shoot the man who saved me.’
‘Only one?’
‘Only one.’ He could not stop himself from laughing. ‘I tried to shoot the white guy but I missed. Then this deadeye dinger showed up. What a show, I’m not kidding.’
‘Brandon, Brandon,’ sighed Father Mike. ‘There’s always something, isn’t there? I think you were simply born to be shot at.’ The priest began humming softly as he worked on Muir. ‘It’s not a bad wound. And you seem fine. So what do you need?’
‘You didn’t see us here, Father.’ Father Mike watched him carefully, his soft face going stubborn in the shadows. ‘In fact, you’ve got to get us out of here before somebody else does see us.’
‘Are you asking me to lie?’
‘Actually, yes.’
‘It would be on my conscience. I will have to think about that.’ It didn’t take long. Father Mike stood, helping Condley to his feet. ‘All right. If we can wake your friend up, he will be easier to assist.’
Muir slowly awakened. Together they helped the professor to his feet. Condley strapped the knapsack containing Deville’s severed hand over his shoulder. Then the two men braced Muir between them and walked along the street, heading toward Father Mike’s mission house.
The small priest lectured Condley as they walked. ‘You must understand that I cannot allow you to stay inside my mission. There are careful lines that must be drawn here, Brandon. I can honor my vows by administering first aid to you, so I will dress your wounds. But then you must leave. If the police ask me to identify you, I will decline. I am comfortable with that. I am a priest, not an identifier of criminals. Not an agent for the police. Any police. But if I wish to remain morally and legally neutral, I cannot harbor you in my chapel either.’
‘Fine,’ said Condley through gritted teeth. ‘Then do you think God will allow you to call me a fucking cab?’
‘It would be unfair to make a cab driver a potential aider and abettor of a crime,’ said Father Mike judiciously. ‘Not to mention a witness to your escape.’ He delicately dropped a key chain into Condley’s pocket. ‘If you’re strong enough to drive, Brandon, my best recommendation is that you should steal my car.’
‘I’ll leave it at the Oriental pier,’ said Brandon.
‘No, take it back to your hotel.’
‘I didn’t commit a crime, Father. Remember that if we don’t see each other again?’
‘I believe you,’ said Father Mike, allowing himself a small grin. ‘And I assume there won’t be a problem if I pick up my car tomorrow morning?’
‘I’ll leave your key with the valet. And you don’t even need to worry about a tip.’
Inside the medical office of his mission, Father Mike carefully cleaned and dressed their wounds. Afterward, he went to a closet where he kept several boxes of clothes sent to the people of Klong Toey from parishioners in the United States, finding Condley a shirt and Hanson Muir a pair of baggy sweatpants. On the way out, he located an old cane and gave it to the professor, who was recovering nicely now that his leg was properly wrapped. And then he led them back outside.
Far down the road, the trucks were still lining up before the slaughter pens, and no police were yet in sight. They reached Father Mike’s Honda and he opened up the passenger-side door, helping Hanson Muir into the seat. ‘There’ll be a gun in the trunk when you pick up the car,’ said Condley, opening the door on the driver’s side. ‘Give it back to Ted Simolzak.’
Father Mike sighed wearily. ‘Are you saying Ted Simolzak is involved in this too?’
Condley tossed the knapsack containing Deville’s hand and now also the Glock into the backseat. ‘Not unless they take fingerprints off the casings from the bullets I shot,’ he said. And then he laughed softly, remembering. ‘But I think he’s got an airtight alibi.’
‘At the Cezanne, is he?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Condley, easing himself into the driver’s seat. ‘I made him a trade for the use of his pistol, Father. He’s probably got his hands full with that right now.’
‘I won’t ask,’ smiled Father Mike as Condley closed the door and started the Honda’s engine.
‘Don’t, Father,’ said Condley. He put his hands prayerfully together underneath his chin, everybody’s Bangkok goodbye. ‘It would only disappoint you.’
Then he waved and pulled out from the narrow driveway, turning onto the road.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The Bangkok Post
Shoot-out in Klong Toey Kills Five
Rival Drug Gangs Clash
In a scene reminiscent of the infamous gunfight at the OK Corral, five men were shot dead last night in a shoot-out that took place in full view of residents and workers in the slaughterhouse section of Klong Toey. The five victims included two Vietnamese, two Burmese, and a Caucasian man who has yet to be identified. Th
ey were apparently members of a drug gang believed to be responsible for the death yesterday morning of Salvatore Marino, an American expatriate who had just returned from serving a sentence in Japan for running drugs in that country.
Witnesses say that the gunfight broke out when the five men, as well as several other members of their operation, were waiting for a cargo of hogs to be slaughtered and returned to their trucks. Mr. Marino had been found dead earlier in the day, with his left hand forcibly amputated, and the killers last night cut off the hand of one of the victims in seeming retaliation.
Witnesses claim that there were at least three attackers, all of whom escaped, although one may have been wounded. Local hospitals are being asked to report visits by anyone with suspicious gunshot wounds. Although the killings took place near the slaughterhouse pens of Klong Toey, police investigators claim that the killings were ‘almost definitely’ drug related, due to the obvious connection with Mr. Marino’s murder. ‘It is a puzzle to us, but this was the work of professional hit men, and they certainly wouldn’t be killing each other over pigs,’ said one police spokesman, who asked to remain nameless. The investigation will continue, he said, ‘until we have brought all sides to justice.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Honolulu Advertiser
Deserter’s Remains Recovered
Bangkok Shoot-out Yields Odd Results
One of the victims in a recent gang-related shooting in the slums of Bangkok was identified today as Theodore Deville, a U.S. Army deserter from the Viet Nam War.
Dr. Hanson Muir of the Central Identification Labs, Hawaii (CILHI), which is responsible for the identification of remains of U.S. servicemen, issued a formal statement this morning indicating that the lab has ‘positively identified’ the remains based on fingerprints obtained from the crime scene. Deville, who disappeared from an Army base near Sai Gon in late 1967, had been charged with murder as well as several drug-related offenses at the time he deserted from the Army. ‘Apparently, this individual made his way to Thailand in the massive confusion that attended the war itself,’ speculated Dr. Muir. ‘And from the indications we have received from Thai authorities, he must have continued his earlier endeavors in the drug trade.’
Dr. Muir further indicated that a preliminary check shows there are no known family members who could be contacted regarding the recovery of Deville’s remains. ‘It is truly an odd ending to a tragic war,’ said Muir. ‘And we are happy to return to our business of identifying the remains of American heroes who were lost on the battlefield.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Sai Gon
‘Cong Ly! Cong Ly!’
He could hear them calling even as he left the packed shops and the sidewalk vendors of Le Thanh Ton Street and turned in to the park. He had been lost in thought, celebrating as he always did the fading memories in this special heart of old Sai Gon. He loved the old landmarks, and as he walked toward them he had been worrying that they might soon disappear. In front of him was the ornate, yellow and white government building erected empires ago by the French, and over its shoulder he could barely see the red spires of the Duc Ba Chapel. The moon-like old Opera House was far off to his left. Tall hotels and office buildings were shooting up all over Sai Gon, many of them ugly and egregious, and soon these relics would be lost among them, like quaint houseboats in a modern shipyard.
But as long as the landmarks remained, there would be memories. And it was important that they remain, he thought again, for Sai Gon would be nothing but a broiling, rain-swept city without the haunting reminders of its past.
‘Cong Ly! Over here!’
He walked across the grassy little park toward the Rex Hotel, just as he had done so many hundred times before. He waved gladly to them as they left their cyclos to greet him, passing under the garish statue of Ho Chi Minh, pushing his way through the sea of vendors, hustlers, and gawkers, ignoring the oddly dressed foreign tourists, until he was standing in their midst on the street corner across from the front doors of the Rex. And it was as if he was truly coming home.
‘Lau qua, Cong Ly, lau qua! Maybe one month already! Where have you been for so long?’
‘Da, bi thuong, phai di nha thuong My,’ he said cockily, for in this world wounds were to be bragged about. Wounded. American hospital. It might have been the war itself as he pulled up his shirt and flashed his newest scar. ‘A gunfight in Bangkok.’
‘A gunfight!’ They laughed and pointed and gawked, no strangers to wounds and scars. ‘Rat tiec! But you look strong now, so that is good!’
It struck him at that moment that he had now known these striving, uncomplaining men for more than five years. How could that be? he thought. Where had those years gone, and what had they gained him other than a bone over here and a friend over there? And then he smiled, secretly satisfied with that summation. Bones that were dug up and given an honored burial, bringing solace to forever-grieving relatives. Friends who had given him a strange but powerful sense of peace, so that he might finally bury the furious anger that had sent him out of orbit, into his own space journey for so long.
Or maybe he was just happy to be back.
They surrounded him in their worn clothes and old baseball caps, smiling through wrinkling faces, piercing eyes, and broken teeth, teasing and chattering as they touched his newest scar and celebrated his return. Dzung was not among them at that moment, but Condley was not surprised. It was not yet noon, and Dzung often worked late into the night.
It was as if all of them were shouting to him at once, elbowing each other and smiling with their peculiarly Vietnamese mix of flattery and shrewd ambition. ‘Hey, you take me, Cong Ly, this time you take me!’
‘Maybe someday,’ he laughed. ‘Each one of you, someday!’ He spoke to all of them, as a group. It was the same message and he had no need to single out one driver. ‘You tell Dzung I’m back in Sai Gon, OK? Tell him to come to the Vien Dong Hotel.’
Luong, the driver who had taken Hanson Muir to District Four, stepped forward, hiding secret thoughts behind a wickedly careful smile. ‘Oh, Cong Ly. Dzung, he don’t work here anymore. So you take me now?’
‘Where is he?’
Luong ceased his pidgin English, switching to Vietnamese. ‘They took him off the street one day and brought him to Xuan Loc Prison,’ said Luong as the others nodded. ‘They interrogated him for many days. He was afraid to tell us everything, because if he speaks too much they will come and put him back in jail. But much of the questioning was about you, Cong Ly. They wanted to know everything about you. Where you go, what you think, who you see. But Dzung, he is your good friend. And he convinced them that you are not a dangerous man, I think.’
‘Why do you think that?’ asked Condley, his insides roiling at the thought of his friend being back in prison.
‘OK, I show you.’
Luong looked at the others, as if they now could reveal their little secret. He took a business card from his pocket and handed it to Condley:
World’s best limo driver
Sai Gon 887-4135
Luong smiled slyly, again looking at the others as Condley read the card. ‘So, Cong Ly, you don’t like the limo, I know that! Cong Ly, you never take the limo! Dzung, he gone! So now you let me be your cyclo driver. I will do very good job for you. No problem, anything you want. And maybe in five years you can sponsor me for limo business too?’
‘Give me that card,’ laughed Condley, taking it from Luong’s falsely protesting hand and walking back toward the hotel.
* * *
Two hours later, Dzung pulled up in front of the Vien Dong Hotel in his new Toyota four-door limo. He smiled proudly as Condley exited the hotel and walked toward him. Dzung’s hair was cut and neatly combed. He was wearing a clean white shirt, pressed gray trousers, and black leather shoes. He stood just a bit awkwardly, his arms dangling as his American friend met him at the curb, still in the habit of presenting himself humbly for inspection. And then he gestured toward the ca
r.
‘So, where we go today, Cong Ly?’
Seeing Dzung in front of the new car with his clean clothes and scrubbed face, Condley was overcome with a sudden rush of emotion. He put an arm around Dzung’s shoulders and hugged him to his chest.
‘Very good car, yes?’ laughed a faintly embarrassed Dzung.
‘A very good car. How did this happen?’
‘You,’ said Dzung simply. ‘They asked me many questions, Cong Ly, about why you pick me for your business. Why did you want a business in Sai Gon, and why did you want to work with me? I was a soldier from the wrong side. I have no family connections. I have no money. But I think you passed their test. They decided that they trust you. I do not know why.’
Condley thought about that possibility. While in Hawaii he had argued strongly in support of Colonel Pham’s request that Deville’s wartime activities be omitted from the official statement announcing the identification of the turncoat’s remains. He had at first resisted the idea but then decided that he owed that much to the former Viet Cong colonel. Without Pham he never would have been able to find Pepper’s remains in the Que Son Mountains or to question Anatolie Petrushinsky in Moscow. The colonel’s only request was that the story of Theodore Deville die with him. And what good would it have done to tell it now?
And perhaps, he thought, Dzung’s limo business was his reward. ‘Maybe I know why,’ he answered, opening the right front car door.
‘Maybe,’ said Dzung judiciously, suppressing his memories as he climbed into the driver’s side and started the car’s engine. ‘So, where we go, Cong Ly?’
Condley thought for a moment, looking out at the busy street, and then decided. ‘You know Sai Gon University?’
Lost Soldiers Page 40