“How do you see this working?” one of them asked.
Spitfire hit them with his most Clooney-esque grin. “It’s simple. Once you transfer the money to Caesar’s secure account, I’ll deliver the shipment. Then you’ll have me on call, twenty-four-seven. I’ll work with you for the next six months, here in Hanoi. Whatever you want done – whoever you want gone – I’m your man. Think of me as a one-man clean-up operation.”
He said his piece and shut up as the two hoods huddled together speaking in hushed tones. But they were animated now, he noticed. Their ominous cool was slipping. That was a good sign. He sat back and waited. The Cai Moi might have Hanoi gripped in fear, but behind the hoods and sinister facade they were kids. And what bunch of nerdy megalomaniac kids didn’t want a deadly assassin on their books.
The hoods nodded at each other and turned back. “This is a fresh development for us. But something we can move forward with. We will accept your offer once we have received the cargo. Tell your boss the money will be in his account tomorrow. Fifteen million US dollars.”
Spitfire let his shoulders drop. He hadn’t realised he was so tense. “Excellent. You’ve made the right choice. As soon as I get the all-clear from my people, I’ll bring the cargo.” He eased himself up from the beanbag and stuck out his hand to them. “Great doing business with you, gentlemen. I look forward to working with you.”
“And we you,” the hoods intoned. But Spitfire’s hand remained hovering over the table, unshaken once more. Rude bastards. He waited a few more seconds, then curled in the bottom three fingers and pointed to the hoods.
“Good talking with you, lads. And as I say: love all the special effects. They’re incredible.” He straightened himself, fastened the middle button on his suit jacket. “Don’t get up,” he told them, pre-empting the situation. “I’ll see myself out.”
He stepped off the platform and strode to the door, sensing the eyes on the back of his head. Once at the door he banged loudly with the base of his fist and it creaked open. The grim-faced guard from before stepped aside to let him through.
“Thank you, darling,” Spitfire crooned.
The door swung shut behind him and he walked over to the small table to retrieve his armaments. He took his time replacing the guns and knives in their designated holsters and then adjusted his tie.
“You know, you have a tremendous air about you,” he told the guard. “I expect people tell you that all the time. You come across so earnest and fascinating.” The man stared back at him with a blank expression. “Well, I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other in the weeks to come,” Spitfire went on, picking up his phone and slipping it into his pocket. “Perhaps we could get a beer sometime.”
With that, Spitfire turned on his expensive Italian heels and sauntered back the way he’d come, down the long zig-zagging corridors leading to the warehouse exit. Not a bad day’s work, all in all, but the Cai Moi were nothing like he’d imagined them to be. Interesting characters, sure. But not brutal thugs. Not the sort to mutilate and crucify their foes. He wondered now whether the rumours were simply that. Rumours. More smoke and mirrors. Fake news. If they were using social media to spread fear and uncertainty it was impressive, but to Spitfire it was also cheating. He harked back to the old days, when men were men and killers were killers. It was so much easier back then. More fun too.
Outside he patted the guards on the backs, told them thanks for their help. Then he strutted over to where his hire car – a silver Alfa Romeo Giulia – was parked up alongside an old storage container. As he walked, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. This time he answered it.
“Raaz? What the bloody hell are you playing at? You knew I was meeting with the Cai Moi.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Raaz’s voice was muffled on the line. “How did it go?”
Spitfire looked back to see the scrawny goon eyeballing him. He gave him a quick salute. Got nothing in return.
“I’m insulted you need to ask that,” he told Raaz. “Come on, babe, this is me you’re talking to. I sold them the offer. Was my usual charming self. And they bit my bloody hand off. We’ve got the contract. We are now the covert killing solution for the Cai Moi.”
“That’s outstanding. Caesar will be pleased.”
“I know he bloody well will be.” Spitfire beeped the fob on his keyring and opened the car door, but didn’t climb in straight away. He leaned against the frame and rested the elbow of his phone arm on the roof. “Never mind that. You haven’t answered my question. Why the hell are you calling me when I’m in an important meeting?”
“Sorry. I had your time zone mixed up with Magpie. But I do need to speak with you.”
“Yes. Six missed calls. I gathered. What’s going on?” The line went silent. He looked at the screen, checking she hadn’t been cut off. “Raaz?”
When she spoke, her voice was icy and clipped. “She’s there. She’s in Hanoi.”
A bolt of energy shot up his spine. Adrenaline, he told himself.
“You sure it’s her?”
“I’m sure.”
“And I take it she’s here for me?”
“No other reason as far as I can tell.”
He nodded. Useless on a telephone conversation, but it helped him think. He narrowed his eyes, feeling his body tense.
“Do you want me to send backup?” Raaz asked. “Magpie finished her job yesterday. I can get her to—”
“No,” he spat. “I can handle her.”
“You sure? Because—”
“I can handle her.”
Shitting piss.
He hung up and threw his head back, staring at the swirling blackness above. He always knew this moment would arrive, he just hadn't counted on it being so soon. Well so bleeding what? Who she was, what they'd shared, it didn't matter to him one bit. He felt nothing but contempt for her. She was a pest. That was all.
He jumped in the car and started the engine.
If Acid Vanilla was coming, he'd be ready for her.
Twenty-One
Vinh woke early and despite a dry mouth and a head full of sharp needles jumped straight out of bed. Straight into his new morning routine, devised yesterday as he walked home from Erol’s Bar. Fifty push-ups. Two sets of twenty-five with a minute rest between each set. Then two planks of two minutes each, again with a minute rest in between. Once complete, he moved over to the small low bench he had set up at the end of the bed and sat. There he meditated for ten minutes. Using the clock in his head, the one he’d fine-tuned over many years.
After this he went downstairs and straight to the cupboard under the sink. He lifted out seven bottles of liquor, all in various stages of fullness, and poured them down the sink. It made him feel powerful, watching the poisonous orange and brown liquid drain away. This was a new start for him. A new improved version of Vinh Phan. And this Vinh would get the job done, no matter what. No more bullshit excuses. No more letting fear and shame hold him back. He picked up the last bottle. Wall Street Whisky. Blended. He held it over the sink, but then stopped himself. No. This would be his reward. For when he found Huy. He returned it to the cupboard before throwing the rest of the bottles in the trash.
Next he made himself a modest breakfast. A bowl of congee, sprinkled with fish meal. He sat at the kitchen table to eat. In the same spot as always, facing the room with his back to the oven, at the head of the table. Although, could he say he was at the head of the table when no one else was there to give context?
As Vinh ate, his mind wandered to last night. The strange English woman had certainly made her presence known. But now, in the cold light of day, he had concerns. Not that he doubted her abilities. She was a strong woman. You could see it in her eyes. Intelligent. Mean. Determined. And she could handle herself physically, he’d seen that already. But regardless, taking on the Cai Moi, it was a dangerous game.
Vinh had never had a problem with strong women. In fact, he’d always had a soft spot for them, truth be told. His
mother was a firm but kind matriarch. His wife too was a fiercely strong and independent woman. Or at least she had been before the accident. Tam as well was strong. She’d had to be. Vinh shook his head, as if to shake away those thoughts.
Once breakfast was done with, he placed his empty bowl in the sink and went upstairs. After washing and dressing, he grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and locked up the house. He’d arranged to meet Acid at Tam’s bistro, but not for a couple of hours. He decided to take a walk, clear his head. Though easier said than done when every inch of the city reminded him of his past. Of what he’d done. As he walked through the streets, each shop window reflected grim memories of pain and guilt back at him.
He’d gotten all the way to Hoan Kiem Lake before he fell out of the morbid swirling thoughts in his head and back into the moment. The day was still in its infancy, the blazing summer sun not yet high in the sky, but the area here was already a sea of eager tourists, all waiting to visit the famous Ngoc Son Temple.
Vinh hadn’t visited the temple in many years. In fact, he couldn’t remember the time when he was last here. Although not large, and often busy with tourists, it had always been a pleasant and peaceful place, away from the clamour and pace of the city. He had visited the temple often in his youth, mostly when he was feeling confused or troubled. Maybe that’s what had brought him here today. Inside the ancient pagoda was the perfect setting for contemplation and reflection – two qualities missing from his life these last few years. He crossed over the bright scarlet Rising Sun Bridge and gazed up at the tall Pen Tower. It was an ancient symbol of literature and study, and he paused a moment to give thanks for his profession. Training to be a teacher of English had been the first new start. It had kept him alive. Allowed him something to focus on, away from the pull of the darkness and the bottle.
Vinh made his way through into the main space and sat on the steps outside the Tran Ba Pavilion. He closed his eyes, gave thanks here, too. For his health. His wisdom. He wasn’t a religious man, but being in such a holy place it felt apt to follow this up with a request for clemency.
Forgive me for all I have done.
Give me strength for what I must do next.
He remained here a while, his mind empty of thought, focused on nothing but his breathing. In with the good. Out with the bad. His mind drifted to General Tran Hung Dao, the great military commander of the Tran Dynasty, to whom the temple was dedicated. Vinh had read about him in his youth. In the thirteenth century, Hung Dao’s bravery and cunning meant the Vietnamese army defeated 300,000 Mongolian soldiers led by the Emperor Kublai Khan.
Vinh opened his eyes, smiled to himself. Maybe it was no accident he’d wandered here this morning. It was like a dose of strong vitamins to be this close to the memory of such a great man. A humble man too - he had eschewed the offer of a royal mausoleum on his death, preferring to have his ashes scattered underneath his favourite tree. Vinh took another deep breath and got to his feet. Something had shifted inside of him. It wasn’t so much that the trepidation had left him, but he felt lighter, clearer. Ready for action.
When he arrived at Tam's bistro a while later, it was still too early to meet Acid. He was about to walk past and buy another bottle of water from a nearby shop when Tam saw him through the window and beckoned him inside. His first instinct was to wave her away, let her know he was busy. But he wasn’t, not yet. He opened the door and entered.
“How are you feeling today?” he asked, noticing the dark bruise under Tam’s left eye. “Those dirty street rats.”
“Ah, it looks bad, but it isn’t,” she told him. “Would you like something to drink? To eat?”
Vinh halted and looked at the clock over the counter. 10.35 a.m. "I'm meeting the English woman from yesterday in an hour."
Tam looked down her nose. “So? You want a drink or not?”
He held his hands up. “It’s not like that. I said I’d help her find someone. Provide local knowledge.”
She shook her head. “I don’t care. Do you want a drink?”
“Coffee, then. Thanks.”
Vinh sat at a table down the far side of the room beneath the large shelving unit. Behind him Tam’s ancient coffee machine whistled and rattled into life. A small wicker bowl sat in the centre of the table, full of brightly coloured sachets of sugar and sweetener. He reached over and took out one of the sachets. He was holding it in his hand and absent-mindedly shaking the contents when Tam placed a steaming mug of dark black coffee in front of him.
“Still not taking milk?”
Vinh glanced up at her. “No. Thanks.” His heart sank as she sat across from him and smiled, looking like she wanted to say something. “You okay?”
“I am,” she said. “It gets hard, you know. I try and stay upbeat.”
He returned her smile, but it felt weird. “That was the first visit you’d had from those punks?”
Tam adjusted herself on the chair. “Yes. First and last, hopefully. I would not have given them anything. They’d have had to beat me to death first.”
“Don’t talk like that.” Vinh ripped the corner off the sugar sachet and poured the whole lot into the dark liquid. “I asked them about Huy, if they knew anything, but I got nothing of worth.”
She curled her lip. “I wanted to ask, but I clammed up. Them with their stupid threats. Pay up or else.”
He selected a spoon from a small pot and slowly stirred his coffee. It was too hot to drink. “I will find him,” he said resolutely, to the coffee. “I promise.”
She reached over and touched his hand. “You’re a good man, Vinh Phan. But that’s a big promise.”
“The woman from last night. I’m going to persuade her to help me. She’s someone who can help. I know it.”
“You talked long after you left here?”
“A few hours. Over a drink or two.”
Tam frowned. “Did you tell her?”
He stared into his coffee. Shook his head. “No. I thought about telling her. But I couldn’t.”
“None of it? About your past? Who you are?”
He brought the hot coffee up to his mouth and took a sip. Still far too hot. Too bitter as well. He placed it back on the table and picked up a second sugar sachet.
“I will do. Maybe. If I can convince her to help me.”
Tam tutted softly but said no more. They sat together in silence. Vinh stirred his coffee. Attempted another drink. Still too hot.
Tam placed both hands flat on the table and got to her feet. “You’d best be going to meet her,” she said. “I’ve got some preparation to do in the back. I’ll see you later.”
“Tam,” Vinh called after her. “Wait.”
At the counter she turned to look at him.
“I swear to you. I will find him.”
She bowed her head and did something with her mouth that was close to a smile but not fully. “Be careful,” she told him. Then she went into the kitchen, leaving him alone with his coffee and his thoughts.
Twenty-Two
A few blocks away, Acid Vanilla woke up in her hotel room and sat bolt upright. Memories of the previous evening swam into her consciousness. Along with a blinding headache that had her reaching for her overnight bag. She dry-swallowed two painkillers. Not easy with a mouth like a bar-room floor.
“Bloody Vietnamese whisky.”
They’d had six more rounds in total in Erol’s. Maybe more, she’d lost count. She did remember, however, arranging to meet Vinh at Tam’s bistro at 11.30 a.m. From there he’d take her to the Red River. She found her phone on the nightstand and peered, bleary-eyed, at the display: 11.07 a.m.
Shit
Her phone display also informed her she had four texts. All from Spook. Each one asking her to call back in increasing levels of eagerness and despair. Acid rolled her eyes, then rolled off the bed, straight into the bathroom. She slipped off her pants and stepped into the shower unit. Today she went for cold water and stuck her head under. Her skin bristled with shock
as the icy shards numbed her to the soul. But as before, it helped. Woke her up in both body and mind.
Once clean and revitalised, she wrapped a towel around herself and strolled back into the bedroom, then through to the lounge area where she found an electric coffee machine. A selection of coloured pods sat on a wire frame attached to the side. She picked what looked to be the strongest one and stuffed it in the machine, before placing a cup under the nozzle and switching it on. Whilst the machine hummed and popped, she went back into the bedroom and dried herself off.
Dry, she opened her case and pulled out a zip-lock bag containing two thick wads of Vietnamese currency. She counted out a gigantic pile of ridiculously zeroed notes onto the bed. A hundred and eighty million dong, to be exact, around five and a half grand in GBP. She dressed in fresh underwear and yesterday’s jeans, but a new top. Today she opted for a dark-charcoal ribbed-cotton vest. Then she stuffed the money and her phone into a small leather money bag and swung it over her shoulder.
The oppressive sticky heat of the season was already apparent as Acid stepped out onto the main street. She was pleased she'd mistrusted her air-conditioned room enough to leave her jacket behind. Once away from the hotel she carried on around the building to join Tran Phu – train street – from the north side. The bars and shops here were already bustling with bodies and noise. Pungent aromatic smells and excited chatter filled the air, while locals and tourists alike perused stalls and the wares offered by the street vendors, exchanging money for tasty-looking morsels and exotic trinkets. Acid took her time walking down the narrow strip, nodding politely at shopkeepers, picking up the odd knick-knack here and there to examine. She was hoping a train might appear, but by the time she got to the point where the street intersected with Tong Duy Tan, the track was still quiet. No sign of any trains. Maybe later. She waited another few minutes, then took a right towards Tam’s bistro.
She saw Vinh before he saw her. He was wearing a similar outfit as yesterday, crumpled shirt and chinos, but today’s shirt was a coppery-mustard colour. He looked older in the daylight. Smaller too. Acid glanced at herself in a shop window as she walked past. The hangover was still nibbling at the edges of her sanity, but her large sunglasses and the fact she’d tied her hair up hid a multitude of sins. She cricked her neck and turned her attention back to Vinh. He spotted her, held his hand up and waved.
The Acid Vanilla Series Page 35