Play the Red Queen

by Juris Jurjevics

  Rounding a corner, we entered a street lined with pornography shops and brothels. A huge green Heineken sign, topped by its iconic red star, gleamed inside a saloon. Unlike Vietnamese, the Chinese stared openly at us, talking and laughing as they ate curbside at counters, on balconies, and squatting beside glowing braziers.

  A wide alleyway along the backs of identical one-story buildings had us splashing through puddles and scrambling over crates. The path narrowed beneath tarps and plastic sheets that blocked out both sun and air. “The Casbah’s got nothin’ on Cholon,” Robeson muttered as we zigzagged through the labyrinth.

  We came on a small candlelit temple blackened by filth and smoke, filled with folk idols—homeless gods abandoned for bigger religions, yet still worshipped. This was deeper in Cholon than I’d ever been, nowhere near Cheap Charlie’s, or the enlisted men’s billets where we’d go to shoot pool. Oddly, I felt safer than I had in days, knowing that our path through the dense district made tailing us almost impossible.

  We followed Stephan into a building filled with neatly stacked hundred-pound bags of rice, each stenciled with a long-stemmed flower, the courtyard out back piled high with more. Our escort directed us through a crude hole in a common wall into the shop next door and then through another breach into a third building and a fourth. The last portal had an actual door monitored by two hard-faced Nung guards who ushered us into a large shuttered hall, tiled and cool.

  Sunlight from the rear courtyard illuminated a red-and-gold ancestral altar. Candles flickered in red glass cups and joss sticks burned in a gold incense holder next to votive offerings of fresh fruit and reddish banknotes printed with historical scenes and costumed figures.

  Beautiful calligraphy panels hung on either side of the altar. A lacquered wooden screen depicted an ancient mountain inn overlooking tiers of rice paddies that climbed the steep hills. From the ceiling hung a dim bare bulb and a blue flag embroidered with a folded umbrella.

  Stephan introduced us to our host, a small Chinese man with a high forehead framed by receding gray hair, stylishly dressed in an Italian linen suit and precisely knotted black tie.

  “Welcome. My name is Ma. Won’t you be seated?”

  Miniature armchairs circled a low narrow slab, more bench than table, on which rested five blue cups and a teapot glazed a deep red. Beside it sat a game board with small wedge-shaped tiles etched with Japanese characters. A beautiful orchid in a shallow bowl arched over the table, its purple blooms edged in black.

  We took seats. Mr. Ma saw Rider admiring the umbrella flag. “A family heirloom,” he said. “The ensign of brigands once headquartered near Hà Nội on the bay of Ha Long.”

  Mr. Ma poured us tea. He nodded toward the board game.

  “Do any of you play shōgi?”

  “Japanese chess?” Rider shook his head. “No.”

  “The board looks bigger than ours,” I said. “And I don’t recognize the pieces.”

  The shōgi board was square, nine rows by nine. Twenty flat pieces sat in three files on each side: nine in the first, only two in the second, nine in the last.

  “You call it Japanese,” Ma said, “but of course it was Chinese first. It is sometimes called ‘the generals’ game.’ When enemy pieces are captured they are not removed from the field. They are recruited by the generals to the rival’s side. Turned, if you will.”

  “Very Asian,” I said.

  He smiled, but his eyes were unmoved. “Yes, our attitudes are different about such matters. They say this rule of adaptation pays tribute to a mercenary who chose a change of allegiance over execution. After a point, any form of surviving is winning, is it not? One does what one must. So,” Ma said, leaning back, “you are the noted policemen giving chase to the talented Viet Cong assassin. I understand you have apprehended the medium on her team. Did he divulge her location?”

  Mr. Ma seemed keen to hear the answer. He moistened his lips, his eyes hard and serious above the rim of the teacup. I shook my head no and wondered how the hell Mr. Ma knew about the capture of Huyen.

  “A shame. The astrologer is her mentor and second in command. Having been raised among the Cao Đài, it is perhaps natural that she should seek the aid and counsel of a medium. Huyen tried to scare you off and ordered your elimination when you did not heed the warning.”

  Mr. Ma’s confidence eased my mind about consigning Huyen to Flippi. But it also made me wonder again if anything the medium had divulged could be trusted.

  Chapter Forty

  Mr. Ma sipped his tea. “I hope I can be of some help to you.”

  “But you don’t know her whereabouts?” I said.

  “No doubt she’s here, somewhere among Chợ Lớn’s million souls. Our labyrinthine hive cloaks her activities, as it does those of our own organizations and cartels. We all avoid Sài Gòn’s official scrutiny.”

  “Nhu’s secret police must be looking for her here,” I said.

  “Of course, but security services do not function well in Chợ Lớn. It’s what makes our quarter attractive to libertines and lovers of privacy.”

  “I can’t help wondering why you’d want to help us catch her,” I said. “These days most people are mortified by President Diem. They want to see the back of him, not protect him.”

  “And he certainly hasn’t dealt with you Chinese any better than with the Buddhists,” Rider added.

  “True. Diệm thinks we Cholonese are a threat. We control eighty percent of trade in this country, not at all to his liking. The Vietnamese resent our business acumen. They never object when he issues us ultimatums.”

  “Ultimatums?” Robeson said.

  “To assume Vietnamese names, not display Chinese characters on our signs, to assimilate. Those who refused were no longer permitted to deal in textiles. Or mill rice, sell meat or fish, charcoal or petroleum, or so much as own a modest grocery. But still we resisted. For a time, at least.”

  “How did you resist?” I said.

  “We withdrew our funds, closed our accounts. The currency tumbled. Everyone quickly saw how precarious the country’s economy was without our participation. They backed off. Yet Diệm kept insisting: conform or else. When we didn’t follow his precepts, he imposed fines, arrested and harassed us until we were worn thin.”

  “So in the end you complied,” Rider said.

  “Cosmetically. We chose to survive. I suppose our sympathies generally lie with our brothers in China, regardless of their unfortunate political enthusiasms of the moment. Peking wishes independence for all of Việt Nam, and to have Diệm ousted. Recent indications are that your government desires the same fate for him.”

  “You don’t share that wish?” I said.

  “Actually, no, Agent Miser.” Mr. Ma refilled our cups. “Diệm is a curious person, quite unlike most Vietnamese. He trusts only his Catholicism, thinks God wants him where he is. Like Mao, he insists on the superiority of his beliefs to the exclusion of all others. Yet, these foreign attitudes notwithstanding, he is our only viable option in the present circumstances. If he is removed, our enterprises will cease.”

  He took up his cup.

  “Mr. Ma,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I don’t completely follow.”

  “I just mean trade is our raison d’être. Chợ Lớn means ‘big market,’ aptly enough. It has endured Vietnamese royalists, Japanese fascists, French colonialists . . .” He held up his hands in mock alarm. “Marxists, even tourists. Despite our reluctance about Diệm and his government, it’s important to us that he remain in power.”

  “Why?”

  “Simplicity itself. If he manages to stay at the helm, USAID and American military aid will continue, the commodity imports will inevitably resume and business will proceed apace. If he is ousted, and in the ensuing chaos Communism prevails, all American aid will cease and our many investments will be no more. Our enterprises will be a
ppropriated by the state. Regrettably, many signs indicate we are slipping toward that eventuality.”

  “What signs?” Robeson interjected.

  “The generals and colonels are dangerously close to reaching consensus on their plot.” Mr. Ma crossed his arms. “Meaning the end is approaching. Yesterday, in Nha Trang, General Đôn met with Diệm’s beloved young General Đính. Even as we speak, they are closeted again at a private club not far from here.”

  I said, “You think General Dinh would turn against Diem, the man he considers his second father, who put general’s stars on his shoulders and made him military governor of Saigon?”

  Mr. Ma offered around a bowl of small oranges, taking one for himself at the end.

  “The impetuous general already has. You may not know that Đính recently proposed himself for a third star and a bigger job—minister of the interior. Diệm rebuffed these ambitions, laughed in the arrogant young man’s face. General Đính ran off to Dalat to nurse his bruised ego. It seems a prominent astrologer had been hired to put him up to making that silly proposal, convincing Đính the time for his promotion was propitious. The generals knew Diệm’s refusal was inevitable, and thereby delivered the rambunctious egotist securely into the arms of the rebels.”

  “They played him,” I said.

  “Most expertly. His vanity is notorious. He already fancies himself a national hero, and travels with his own personal photographer to document his every exploit. Now instead of rushing to Diệm’s aid, Đính’s forces will prevent aid from reaching him. Yet Nhu still believes young Đình is busily preparing the false coup that Nhu devised: a sham Viet Cong ‘uprising’ here in Sài Gòn that would need to be mercilessly crushed by Đình’s forces to save the nation, returning Diệm to power as the only one who can provide law and order. Regrettably, in the melee, American homes would be pillaged, and many lives would be lost, your ambassador’s among them.”

  “You’re certain Dinh has defected? That this pretend uprising isn’t about to happen?” Robeson said nervously.

  “I am. The coup, when it comes, will not be the charade Nhu expects. It will be real.” Mr. Ma offered a dish of lychee nuts. “We in Chợ Lớn can only hope this latest coup will fail like all its predecessors. Meanwhile, the Red Queen poses an even more imminent threat to the president. Unlike the generals, she does not vacillate.”

  “The planets aren’t lining up well for Diem,” I said.

  “No.” Ma’s expression grew serious. “Which does not bode well for us either. We Chinese have been here for many generations. We do not wish to have to uproot, to reestablish ourselves somewhere else. Our elders find the prospect of beginning again especially discomfiting.”

  “So Cholon is for Diem,” Robeson said, “not for Ho Chi Minh.”

  “Neither, actually. President Diệm and Uncle Hồ are purists; one chosen by God, the other by history. They have intolerance and certainty in common, convinced as they are of their own worth and goals. Both men are heliocentric believers in the One True Way. To achieve their ends, they are ready to sacrifice themselves—and us—as needed. Neither has much interest in the well-being of our mercantile colony, except to the extent that we temporarily provision their followers, equip their armies, and replenish their treasuries.”

  “You want to be neutral,” Robeson suggested. “Like Switzerland.”

  Mr. Ma smiled slightly. “We want to trade. We are traders.”

  “I can see that the Communists would kick Westerners out pronto, but you . . . don’t they need you?”

  “We too would be shown the door, I assure you. Chinese conquered Việt Nam a century before Christ was born and stayed as unwelcome overlords for a thousand years. Vietnamese do not forget. In their eyes we are nearly as foreign as you. Meanwhile, we play for time. Which is how I hope you will help us.”

  Mr. Ma stood up and unrolled an architectural drawing of a large building. He spread the schematic across the ancient bench, anchoring the corners with smooth black stones he took from around the orchid’s base.

  “I may not know where the Red Queen is now. But I have a good idea where she will be soon. You recognize the structure?”

  “Gia Long Palace. Diem’s office and residence are there”—I pointed—“on the second floor.”

  “Exactly so. And here”—he tapped the opposite wing—“are the Nhu family quarters.”

  “Huyen told us Mai planned to attack Diem at the palace,” I said. “But unless the entire palace guard is infiltrated, how the hell would she get in? Or out?”

  Ma smiled. “You will be particularly interested in this addition, built last year.”

  Mr. Ma’s manicured fingers touched the main floor on the palace schematic, then traced two lines from the building’s wings to the middle of the palace garden.

  “What is that?” I tilted my head to try to make it out.

  He rotated the blueprint carefully so we could see it better. “Six rooms, two point two meters high, made of reinforced concrete with steel doors ten centimeters thick. Twelve feet underground.”

  “A bunker.”

  “Precisely, Agent Miser. Twenty meters in length—sixty-five feet, built at a cost of two hundred thousand dollars. Ventilated and air-conditioned. Bombproof living quarters with amenities, a full pantry, water, a well-stocked Frigidaire made in Ohio. Telephones and shortwave radios to keep in touch with commanders in the field. Teletype machines, a map room with charts showing where government units are deployed. All of it safely four meters below the flower beds.”

  “Is this shelter secret?” I said.

  “Sadly, no. It took the architect half a year to excavate and build. Entrances from either wing of the palace descend to the passageway to the shelter. Two tunnel entrances lead down to it from blockhouses on the palace grounds. All that construction couldn’t be hidden. This construction, however, was.”

  He unrolled a large thin sheet of translucent paper and positioned it on top of the plan. A structure on the overlay intersected the tunnel from the western corner of the bunker, snaked underneath the grounds of Gia Long Palace, its wall and encircling security fences, and continued for several blocks, past the modern building being erected in place of the bombed-out palace, the vestige of last year’s failed coup, finally curving into the parkland across from the building site, where it stopped.

  “A hidden extension,” Ma said. “In a corner, where the corridor makes a turn of ninety degrees, is an entryway disguised as a blank wall. The secret addition ends in the park underneath what looks like a groundskeeper’s shed, not far from the Cercle Sportif. Diệm and Nhu have not shared the fact of its existence. But I’m afraid that in spite of their efforts, the extension is no longer secret.”

  “Mai has these plans? You’re certain?”

  “I am. Her copy of the overlay came from a Communist sympathizer on the construction crew. I bought this one from the architect’s assistant. One million piasters for the plans and his silence.”

  “Seven grand,” Robeson said.

  “A small enough price. The plan and its overlay offer Miss Nguyễn Mai a clear path to the palace itself, or the shelter they’ll retreat to in the event of a bombardment like the one that destroyed the old palace.” He rolled the map and its overlay together and slid them into a tube. “I pass the baton to you,” he said. “The next leg of the race is yours.”

  “Why give this to us and not to Nhu’s secret police?”

  “Because these days it is most uncertain who is interested in Diệm’s well-being, other than you gentlemen. Including Counselor Nhu.”

  We started toward the door, but he raised a hand to stop us. “Before I forget, I should give you a word of warning. You may wish to consider a change of quarters once this is done. Mathieu Franchini, the owner of your hotel, is Bảy Viễn’s financial advisor in Paris. Mr. Franchini and Mai’s father are close fri
ends.”

  “God damn it,” Robeson and I muttered, almost in unison.

  Ma smiled. “A price will be exacted from us all before this is over. Please do call again.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Stephan dropped us at the yacht club wharf as swiftly as he had swept us up. The junk pushed out into the Saigon River and raised its masts, the sails bright red.

  The three of us walked to the Majestic and unrolled the plans across Robeson’s bed, passing a bottle of Jack Daniel’s back and forth.

  “This is the first time we actually know where she’ll stage before she strikes,” I said. “The water is in the well.”

  “So she sneaks into the tunnel extension from the park entrance—in the shed,” Rider said.

  I said, “How is she gonna get through all the rings of protection in that freakin’ castle to get at the Old Fox?”

  “Maybe she doesn’t have to,” Rider said. “The palace might be impossible to breach, but that bunker’s not big enough to hold a lot of guards. Once Diem’s hunkered down, waiting for the mutiny to be over, she just needs someone to open the bunker door.”

  Robeson held out the bottle to me. “The VC are like ticks. Every Vietnamese unit in the country is infiltrated. The palace guards must be, too. When the time is right, the bunker doors open, and she and her cadre slip in and cap his ass.”

  We cooped together in Robeson’s room. In the morning, we carried the plans to Captain Deckle’s windowless office at CID and spread them across his desk.

  “We’re going to need eyes on the shed around the clock to spring this trap,” I said.

  He didn’t argue. “You can have Sergeants Moehlenkamp and Francis. Mr. Rider too. Assign them and Sergeant Crouch to whatever you and Robeson need done.”