Targets: A Vietnam War Novel

by Don McQuinn

“You would sell him?”

  “I have a plan of many rooms. First, we sell your rich American the information that Winter has the woman and child. That way we profit and that bastard is destroyed. Later, if necessary, we reveal the truth about our friend and Phu Thuan. And no more talk of selling him. Has he not bought us? His wife holds your life on the tip of her tongue. Do not look so shocked. It was you who arranged the silencing of your nephew, remember. I suspect you had the girl killed because she spoke too much.”

  “Enough! I must think.”

  The silence dragged again. This time Tuyet knew it was no fault of hers and she gnawed the inside of her cheek in her impatience for Han’s answer.

  “The American has influence. Perhaps he can arrange it. I must think more. She is a strong woman. She may not tell them anything. I am not even sure how much she knows.”

  Trung laughed, a scratchy sound, as though it was forced through the boards to Tuyet’s ears. “I have been in their hands. She will tell them anything she knows.”

  There was a sound of footsteps moving away, but Tuyet couldn’t be sure if it was one man or two. She twitched in an agony of uncertainty, wanting desperately to get away. The world was being handed to her and she was trapped in a stinking toilet. She bit a knuckle and pushed her forehead against the wall. When she turned to press an ear to the wood her eyes refused to see anything but the doorknob, daring her.

  She heard nothing but the muffled sounds of the bar, and, tiptoeing to the door, pulled it back a hair and peered through the slit. The hallway was empty.

  Bursting out, she raced to the alley and continued away at a brisk walk, looking over her shoulder at every fifth or sixth step. When she felt safe again, she thought she would drown in relief and hope and happiness.

  She turned onto Nguyen Hue, the Street of Flowers, remembering how lovely it was when they filled the broad boulevard with carts full of colorful blossoms that perfumed everything. The discovery that her mind would make room for such thoughts was frightening. She forced herself to turn all her attention to the matter of using her golden information.

  The obvious person to talk to would be the American called Harker. There was a disturbing atmosphere around him, but if she was to marry an American, only another one would be able to help with their government regulations. She picked her way through a crowd in front of a sidewalk booth, not really paying attention to the jostling. The man Harker always looked like he was in pain and wished you were, too. Tho was businesslike.

  Preoccupied, she stepped off the curb and a car horn bellowed. Brakes howled. She spun, upper arms clamped to her sides and her forearms extended, the fingers splayed. The arrangement registered in her mind even as the sun reflecting from the windshield hit her eyes and blinded her. She staggered one step back and felt the hood of the car rap the ends of her fingers.

  She managed a quarter turn away, continuing on across the street, moving clumsily, nodding vacant assurances at spectators. Safely on the opposite side, she sagged against the closest wall and fought to regain her control. It took longer than it should, her brain refusing to stop combining the incident with the clear memory of herself in Tho’s chair, hands rigidly extended, lights blinding her.

  There was a restaurant a few doors up the street. She hurried there, her step firmer, and slipped into a booth where a bored waiter brought tea. The warm smells and hum of conversation relaxed her further. When the glass was empty, she had her plan in mind. She walked back to Tu Do and turned toward Kennedy Square, exulting in her continued good luck, because today was the day she was to indicate if she had a reason to meet with Dai Uy Harker.

  Truly, the world had been handed to her.

  * * *

  Harker strolled around the square, studying the towering brick cathedral. In his thoughts, the scene was appropriate. Himself, apparently aimless, camera at the ready. The church, apparently serene, undisturbed by the stresses surrounding it.

  Each was lying.

  The cathedral was symbol and reality combined for thousands of Vietnamese, a source of solace and a place to meet and indulge in the continual scheming that passed for political dialogue. The church organization was a fountain of leadership that gave purpose to attitudes. When the government became excessively repressive, the hierarchy acted as spokesmen, organized the protests. If the government appeared to be softening toward the aggressors, the black robes quietly drifted into certain ministries and homes and spoke persuasively. The church was, in fact, one of the major components in the pressurized stew that was South Vietnam.

  And it was in mortal agony.

  The very fabric of the organization was torn. When America turned its sun from Ngo Dinh Diem, few Vietnamese and fewer Americans troubled to ask how it had come to pass. It was unnecessary in either case. The Americans were told Diem was out of touch with the people and his removal from office by any means not only afforded no affront to democratic process but his entire family was unlikable and they all deserved whatever they got. As for the Vietnamese, they were familiar with leaders suddenly stripped of the mandate of heaven. Still, this was an especially difficult morass to fathom.

  Thousands of years of recorded experience found the Vietnamese unprepared to deal with a society that sent men to die for ideals while the same ideals were being prostituted by mob leaders preaching of higher commitments that absolved them of all moral restraint. The Vietnamese, proud of survival in the face of a history of virtually uninterrupted internal and external conflict, were not equipped to comprehend a mentality that could organize mass rallies to publicly mourn men killed in combat and later telephone the widows to taunt them.

  The ultimately stunning American failure was the inability to grasp success. Only the press openly exulted in Diem’s overthrow, and even they immediately turned accusing eyes in all directions save their own. Their attempt at national breast beating struck the Vietnamese as bad taste and worse theater, but what truly galled was the other aspect, the humiliation of seeing their leadership destroyed and the matter treated with the sly evasion of a silent flatulence in a crowded room.

  Simple courtesy demanded that the people responsible accept the fruits of their labors with dignity. The honorable next step was to supply the correct leadership implied by the liquidation of the former leader. The people felt they had a right to expect a forthright power grab by someone. Unless, of course, there really was something shameful involved.

  The Catholics were hardest hit by the entire performance. Diem was one of theirs, symbolizing a link between east and west and, in himself, the Vietnamese north and south. When he was found wanting and cast down, the Catholics asked themselves what more they could have done. Without a decent answer, thousands began to consider survival as an individual—or family—prospect.

  The non-Catholic Vietnamese saw a western power, ostensibly an ally, publicly scourge and destroy its staunchest western-oriented partners and he thought very hard about his own position. For the most part he continued to exist amicably with his Catholic neighbors, increasing the distance between himself and them only so much as prudence dictated. On the other hand, he looked for other supportive alliances. And he began to wonder if it was worthwhile to depend on anyone except himself—or his family, naturally.

  Harker paused in his rambling to steady the camera against one of the trees fronting the cathedral. At about knee level, he saw the pinhead, a green one, the kind used to mark maps. His stomach cinched down to a tight ball.

  Once a week he walked the square framing the cathedral. His lie was to appear to be doing nothing else. In truth he inspected this same tree on each occasion, hoping to find the green pin and afraid he might. It was Tuyet’s signal. Normally, she would wait for him to contact her. Now, however, something had come up, something short of an emergency, but a matter of urgent need.

  He would make an appearance at the Ben Thanh market, facing the statue in Dien Hong Square between five and five-thirty that evening. He would remain no longer than three minut
es. It was her responsibility to see him. They would not communicate. Ideally, they would never be within a hundred yards of each other. Having seen him, she would know he was agreeing to meet her and would send her instructions.

  Snapping the shutter, he stepped away from the tree and cocked the camera again, scanning the area. He saw nothing out of the ordinary and continued his walk, angling toward Thong Nhai Boulevard.

  It was a nice day for a walk and if he timed himself carefully, he’d arrive at the market right on time.

  He turned left at the corner, drawn to look at the church one last time and was struck by an insane desire to touch it and wish it well.

  * * *

  The next afternoon he walked down an alley and let himself through a gate in a board fence a good two feet taller than his own height. He locked it behind him. Rows of tall plants in containers between the rest of the nursery and the fence provided a concealing tunnel and he wasted no time on the sights or scents, going directly into the potting shed off to his right. Inside, he moved quickly to the door at the opposite end and checked to see if it was locked from the inside. Satisfied with the lock, he peered between two of the boards to see how many legitimate customers were on the property. There was only one and the proprietor had her under control. Using the shed made Harker nervous for that very reason. Even though the clear signal was in the window, there was the time delay in getting from the street and up the alley to the place. It was an added element of chance he accepted with ill grace.

  He pulled the single chair to the door and fastened an eye to the crack.

  Exactly on time, decorous in print blouse and plain skirt, Tuyet entered the grounds and began to work her way to their meeting.

  She was a natural for the business, he mused, and it was not a pleasant thought. Acting of any kind seemed instinctive with her. She examined plants and smiled prettily for the proprietor, all the while insuring she wasn’t followed. Her course to the back of the nursery was as erratic and innocent as bird flight. He opened the door for her and resumed his seat.

  “I sorry I ask meet you.” Facing him, her quietude evaporated and she twisted her fingers together. Harker wondered if it was more acting. “I have see you,” she went on. “Got important talk.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  She frowned and shook her head. “Need you help. Big favor.”

  “You’re being paid.” He moved forward on the chair. “Don’t try to hold me up. It’s not smart.”

  “Not hold up! Not smartass!” She shook her head again, growing more defiant. She pointed at herself, jabbing as if to inflict a wound. “I know something much important. I want tell. I got trouble, need help. You promise help, I tell everything.”

  “First you talk. Then you ask whatever you want. Then we’ll see if I can help you.”

  “Bullshit! I tell you, you give me fuck-all. I not trust you.”

  “What?” He came up in one move, sending the chair tumbling backwards. Tuyet flinched and held her ground.

  “I not care you hit me! I all time hit. One more, ten more—same-same me.” She glared and then suddenly she was wheedling. “You help me, please? I tell you important news, make you important. You get Bronze Star, no fucking problem. You promise?”

  He busied himself with the chair and sat back down. “I can’t promise anything. I’m just a Captain. But you tell me what you’ve got and I’ll see if I can help you.”

  She turned away, unhappy with the arrangement. After a bit she shrugged and faced him.

  “OK. I tell.” She took a deep breath before starting, and Harker was dumbfounded to see how much she resembled a frightened child beginning a recitation.

  “My boss, Trung, he have talk with other man, I not know him. Trung talk loud, loud.” She threw out her chest and postured. “Say he ver’ big man, how he going hurt Americans. He say he tell bao chi—what you call? American news people—you got the woman and child.”

  The small shed grew very quiet and Tuyet took an involuntary half-step away from Harker, her hand seeking the surface of the potting table, unmindful of the loam that clung to her soft skin.

  Virtually whispering, Harker said, “What woman and child?”

  “I not know! They say woman and child. Very important, I think. Trung, he sound off much, much.”

  Harker looked away. The silence returned, less threatening than before, and Tuyet glanced down at her hand and brushed at the dirt irritably. When Harker got to his feet, she remained firm.

  “This is worthless information,” he said, and her face fell. “However, you did right to come to me. I am pleased, so tell me what it is you want. I think Trung lies to his friend. You believed him. OK. You tell me, and that is important. I hope I can help you.”

  “I am sorry.” She hung her head. “He make such noise. I think I learn big secret. Make afraid. I think big fucking deal, you know? I make trouble, be horse’ ass, I think.”

  “It’s OK,” Harker said.

  “I want help with American Embassy,” she said, looking at the floor. “I want marry. Hard for Vietnamese girl marry American, much argument, fight, bullshit. If somebody big speak, make everything easy, OK?”

  “You want go stateside?” Harker bantered.

  She made a face. “No, want stay Vietnam, but if marry man, go with him. Be good wife.” Only an unbidden flash in her eye spoke the challenge, daring him to cut at her effort to grab this first rung of respectability.

  “I will see what I can do. Remember, even for me, it will take a long time.”

  She touched his arm and pulled the hand back, an almost fearful gesture. “You will try?”

  Unsmiling now, he said, “Yes. And now you go. I will contact you.”

  She smiled even as she inspected the nursery to be sure she could leave safely, turning at the last moment to wave. She moved casually through the plants, touching a leaf here, turning a flower to catch a ray of sunshine at another point.

  No one paid any attention to her.

  Walking down the street, she happened to notice the last flecks of soil still clinging to a finger. She rubbed it against her thumb and watched the spot come clean and allowed her satisfaction with the meeting to flow unchecked. Her ribs strained at the pressure of the huge inhalation and she let it out carefully, wishing she could use the air to shout.

  The Dai Uy was a strange man. Looking into his eyes was like seeing several people at once and it was confusing. Perhaps that was why he seemed untrustworthy. But he was no fool and she had seen his reaction to the information about the woman and her child. And he still didn’t know Han was involved and he still didn’t know someone was hiding near a place called Phu Thuan. Now the game would start in earnest.

  If Harker was no help at the embassy she could always go to Han’s American boss before Trung did and sell the information about the village and the man hiding there. Influence was more important than money to her now, but money was a very comforting second place.

  If the Dai Uy didn’t help, she would find someone who would.

  She checked again to make sure the dirt was gone, but it was a cursory inspection because she was thinking how wonderful a thing the truth could be, especially when it was managed properly.

  Chapter 46

  The unreality of stepping through the apartment door and into Ly’s arms continually swung at the edges of his consciousness and this was one of the evenings when his credulity balked even as he reached for the handle. She stuck her head out of the tiny kitchen, waved, and disappeared to pop back out with a martini in hand. Taylor exploded into laughter and she looked at him quizzically.

  He answered the unspoken question. “It’s a crazy world. Crazy, crazy.” He flung out one arm and reached for the drink with the other. “For this I get combat pay. Jesus!”

  She stepped closer and he kissed her, home from the office. He wore civilian clothes. Nothing in the room remotely suggested military life until he took the .38 from the belt holster under his shirt and put it on t
he coffee table.

  He slouched on the sofa and pulled her down with him, kissing her more fully. When they parted, she examined him with mock seriousness.

  “That’s better. When you come in our house, I want you to think only of me, not your crazy world, not even your combat pay.”

  He kissed her again. “I’ve spent a couple of very strange hours this evening. Harker’s spooky as a cat. Came in with steam coming out his ears. Winter’s out of town and won’t be back until later and Harker’s screaming at the world to find him and tell him to hurry home. He won’t tell anyone anything, just keeps saying it’s an emergency. I think he’s flipped.”

  “I don’t want to hear about it.” She tossed her head and rose, moving off toward the kitchen. “I have made cha gio tonight. I’m experimenting with a shrimp filling and I want your opinion. And then we’re having thit kho nuoc dua, the pork in coconut milk, the way you like it. Unless you would rather talk about Harker.”

  She gave him an arch look over a shoulder and he drained his glass and followed. The cha gio was his favorite, paper thin rice flour dough wrapped around mushrooms, onions, beaten egg, bean threads and a meat. Normally Ly used chicken or pork. The spices were the real secret, and the precise deep frying technique. The result was always a succulent finger-length object about the size of a hot dog and sometimes Taylor thought he could eat them until he collapsed. Tonight he was rationed to a mere four, which he dipped in the clear nuoc mam before savoring them. The salad was greens with pieces of fruit, apparently Ly’s own concoction, and then the pork, steaming on its bed of ever-present rice, redolent of coconuts and herbs.

  They discussed the things Ly had seen and done at the market that day and, with the dishes cleared, moved into the living room to watch television. All went well until he declared his boredom and announced he was going to bed to read.

  She looked at him sideways and sniffed. “Poor old man and his books.”

  He stopped in his tracks and turned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”