Sheep Dog and the Wolf

by Douglass, Carl;

  He trotted along the side of the hotel until he could see out onto Rue Lamarck. His trepidations were confirmed. A large black SUV sat on the street between street lights in the only dim light available. Its engine was running, and two large men sat in the front seats smoking, thereby breaking one of the spook’s or soldier’s first rules while hiding. The hard, short cropped look of the two men convinced him that these were CIA agents. A moment of panic gripped him, but he shook it off. He had to in order to get away. Once those men figured out that the assassin had been too long, they would go up the fire escape to his room. Finding it empty, they would launch a manhunt throughout Paris, and he needed a head start.

  Rue Maurice Utrillo was brilliantly lit; and Sheep Dog raced east on it then turned and ran alongside Rue Paul Albert, then Rue Feutrier putting as much distance as he could between himself and the hotel. He was now in a densely populated but sleeping residential neighborhood and was having difficulty orienting because the streets angled and turned without common sense planning. He followed Rue Feutrier until it made a sharp right turn to become Rue Muller. He found a garden that was heavy with foliage and lay down among the tall bushes to catch his breath and to think.

  He allowed himself no more than five minutes of respite, then he walked to the back of the house in whose garden he had been resting and found a car. This was a low crime area, and the Peugeot’s keys were in the ignition. He had caught a break. He drove out to the front and away from Montmartre as quickly as he could without attracting attention. He stopped only long enough to switch license plates before making a bee-line out of the capital and on towards Lyon. He traded cars twice in the 246 mile trip, and it was still quite dark when he pulled into the Gare de Saint-Exupéry TGV railway station near Lyon—which is directly attached to Lyon-Saint Exupéry Airport.

  This was old stomping ground from his Viet Nam war days. He had made at least twenty trips to France during his ten year off-an-on tours of duty. He got rid of his last car and went into the men’s room. He sorted out his passports and set aside thirty of them to keep and the other twenty-five that had come into his possession from CIA sources. They would have been a dead give away, and he knew that very soon a dragnet for him would include alerts on all of his CIA derived documents. He took the dangerous passports out the back door and onto the train waiting area. At this time of night, it was frequented by drug addicts, winos, and criminals, just the nice sort of people he was looking for.

  He passed by several particularly nefarious appearing men and pretended to drop his now useless passports. He was not at all surprised to see on his way back down through the outdoor waiting area that there was no sign of his them. Having accomplished his aim, he went inside and downstairs to catch the tram to the airport. He selected another of his French passports, compliments of Ed Salinger’s secret cache, and booked a seat on a Lufthansa to Ho Chi Minh City, Viet Nam, another of his old stomping grounds. He was confident for the moment that Stefan Danglois would be able to make himself safe from the hunt that he knew was going to be underway in a matter of minutes.

  He was able to take off, and only a scant ten minutes before one of a fleet of black SUVs pulled into the airport and disgorged four men who began their search. They were part of a large contingent of FBI, ATF, and CIA agents dispatched to check every bus, train, and plane station in the country. The French had not yet been informed because the Company wanted the manhunt to be kept in-house and in-family for as long as possible. Their efforts were made more difficult because thirty passports in the hands of thirty criminals roaming about the streets and airways gave out alerts all over France and in most of the rest of the world. All of the interceptions of Sheep Dog’s passports took valuable time and put more distance between him and the predators.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Air France flight 2012 landed at Tan Son Nhat International Airport, Terminal 2—a new international terminal funded by the Japanese ODA—at 1515 local time. Sheep Dog was thoroughly familiar with the airport from his Viet Nam War years and ever since on regular flights on business. He continued to be impressed with the progressive changes that had been occurring ever since the communists took over Saigon—now Ho Chi Minh City. He knew that the airport would soon become used only for domestic passengers, since the new Long Thanh International Airport was nearly completed.

  He bought copies of the Saigon Times Weekly—a newspaper that covered largely general business—the Saigon Times Daily and Vietnam Newsthe two dailiesand the Sai Gon Giai Phong newspaper—which is an organ of the of Communist Party of Viet Nam in Ho Chi Minh City—and hailed a taxi. Out of nostalgia, he spoke Vietnamese to the driver, although the man could speak English, and had the cabbie take him to the new Hotel Continental on Tu Do Street—number 132 to 134—new since 1989. He knew the address by memory.

  He booked a room under his identity as a French citizen, using French to converse with the receptionist. He arranged for a “Superior Room” which the receptionist assured him was equipped with air-conditioner, IDD phone, satellite T.V, fire-alarm system, electric water heater, bath-tub, mini-bar, hair dryer, coffee and tea making facilities, toilet kit, complementary fresh fruits and daily newspaper, and that “all Superior Rooms have a superior garden view”.

  He sat on the bed and read the papers, looking for news about himself. The Weekly came out that morning and did not have a mention of him. The two dailies carried the story of the world wide manhunt that had been launched for him on a back page but did not include a photograph and did not have his current identity. He was described as an international terrorist and as the murderer of a large number of important diplomats and statesmen and of law enforcement officials in several countries. He also learned that the Israeli attack on Iran’s nuclear assets had not yet resulted in retaliatory military action. President Storebridge and Iranian President Sofrekheneh were described as being “in consultation”.

  At this date, Sheep Dog was used to the new Continental Hotel, but had fond memories and considerable amusement for the venerable old French hotel of his Viet Nam War experience. Gone was the ‘Continental Shelf’—so-called—which was the verandah of the Continental Palace Hotel where guests drank and dined in wicker chairs and learned everything there was worth knowing in Saigon. It was so-named—the newspapermen in the city had said—because one was likely to find so many odd fish there. Back then, it was located on Rue Catinat on the north side of the square. The Le Perroquet [Parrot] nightclub and cabaret that had been in the hotel lobby were gone, replaced by brass and glass. He had enjoyed many—probably too many—nights and too many drinks there in those days. The old hotel had been a handsome building with an attractive colonial faҫade—built in 1880 and host to dignitaries of the world—but needing a fresh coat of paint. The new hotel was more modern, cleaner, and more commodious, but less interesting.

  To clear his head and to consider his situation, he waited for a xy clo and was taken towards the Saigon River. He walked the last kilometer down the narrow Tu Do Street through the old French Colonial heart of Saigon and sat on a bench absorbing the sense and culture of the city. In days past—after the war, when he sat on the same bench—he would be beset by seedy looking businessmen, displaced diplomats, clerics, and academics who wanted to practice their English with him and were hungry for news from the outside world. Now, no one paid him any mind. The sophisticated urbanites of the new world order in Viet Nam largely knew English; and their concerns centered on business, politics, technology, and their own vibrant social lives.

  He crystallized what he had been considering during the flight into Viet Nam. He determined to remain in the country for an extended period of time and to contact his old friends for help in getting established in business, at least temporarily. Back at the Continental, he called his old friend and PRUC comrade, Yee Pang Hung.

  A maid’s voice answered in Mandarin. Sheep Dog asked if they could speak Vietnamese, and she shifted languages smoothly.

  “How may I be of se
rvice?”

  “I wish to speak to Mr. Yee, please.”

  “May I ask who is calling?”

  “Tell him it is his old American business friend from the Starbright Corporation.”

  “Would you please hold, while I fetch him?”

  “Certainly.”

  In three minutes, Yee’s familiar voice came on the line, “Hunter, is that you?”

  “In the flesh.”

  “What is going on with you? How are you holding up? I read about you in the papers this morning.”

  “I’d like to talk to you about all of that, but not on the phone. Could we get together?”

  Sheep Dog had been concerned that his Vietnamese would be rusty, but it came back sufficiently so that the two men could converse fluently in the melodic tonal language.

  “Where are my manners, my old comrade? You must come to dinner. In case you had not noticed, this is the week before Tet Nguyen Dan. You must celebrate with me and my family. We would be honored to see you again.”

  “The honor would be mine.”

  They arranged for Sheep Dog—known to them only as Hunter—to come to the Yee house in Cholon that evening at the dinner hour. Knowing that it would be a joyous but rather formal affair, Sheep Dog went shopping for some decent clothes. He got in a shower and a nap before the start of Tet Eve’s formal activities.

  The city had come alive in the past twenty-four hours, although the plans and preparations had been underway for at least the past two weeks for this most important of all Vietnamese holidays. Tet Nguyen Dan [Feast of the First Morning] is the Vietnamese celebration of the Chinese lunar New Year. The exact solar calendar date varies from year to year, but it occurs in late January or early February on the day of the full moon between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. Each year is named for an auspicious animal in the Chinese Zodiac in a repetitive series of twelve. This was the year of the monkey. Sheep Dog would never forget that 1968—the year of the incredible Tet Offensive—had also been the year of the monkey. The festivities of the week before Tet last seven days preceded by a week long flower festival. Saigon and Cholon were still resplendent with fresh blooms. Partly from memory of previous Tets, and partly from what he was seeing in this modern era that was not so different from the war days, it was the most beautiful and vibrant city Sheep Dog had ever seen.

  Every drab little corner was festooned with a kumquat tree—which symbolize the coming of money into the household—a bouquet of flowers, or a small colorful ancestral shrine. This was the Eve of Tet, a spontaneous outburst of exuberance and an intense celebration of commitment to family. Fireworks exploded in the square and along the river—enough firecrackers to thwart the devils and make the already nervous Sheep Dog flinch a little. Fireworks of all descriptions were being sold in shops and by vendors throughout the city. By the time Sheep Dog reached the corner of Phung Hung and Nguyen Trai streets in Cholon, the noise was deafening.

  Rapid-fire explosions were drowned out be even louder ones. Fire tops whirled off the balconies of houses along the streets, whirling and spinning into the sky in a myriad of colors. Rockets and shooting stars were fired off the balconies at hapless pedestrians, creating a thick, enveloping haze, a situation that pleased the Sheep Dog in search of anonymity. Xy clos, motos, cars, trucks, pedestrians, even little children playing their games in the streets, weaved in an out of traffic avoiding the larger pots of gun powder that were being fired off at random. Joss sticks were available in bales. The large red sticks—written in Chinese—promised good luck and wealth for the New Year.

  Regular business, bowing to the inevitable, had ground to a virtual halt two weeks ago. Shops that had existed to sell clothing, electronics, or vegetables now operated twenty-four hours a day to make the favorite lotus seed candy or bean curd cakes, to dispense colored paper, or to provide noise makers—clackers—not unlike those the PRUCs used to use when they were in the field to signal one another. Occasionally, Tet dragons weaved through the narrow streets.

  In a matter of seconds after he boarded his taxi, the air around them exploded with the noise of ten thousand drums beating and a hundred thousand fireworks bursting to bring in the Year of the Monkey. It was deafening and joyous—French Mardi Gras, Hindu Deevali, and American Fourth of July all put together. The city erupted into a great party ushering in seven days of colorful, fragrant, boisterous, noisy, and exhausting activities.

  The week prior to Tet, Vietnamese perform the first and one of most important ceremonies of the year. It is necessary for each family to send its own household Hearth God up to heaven to make its yearly report to the Jade Emperor. In order to ensure a good report and therefore the benevolence of the Jade Emperor for the upcoming year, it is necessary to please the Hearth God; so, it can depart with a happy report. The whole family joins in to clean the entire house from top to bottom, inside and outside. The octagonal mirrors located in strategic places to reflect away bad spirits are polished until they sparkle and gleam. Walls are scrubbed and white washed; rugs are taken up and cleaned; and most important of all, the family altar is meticulously cared for. The graves of the ancestors are scrupulously swept, washed, and painted if necessary. The Cay Neu—New Year’s Pole, or Signal Tree—with its attached clay bells, is set up in the yard or in the house. Lime powdered bow and arrow replicas are mounted in strategic places to frighten away the evil spirits. The people—especially the older ones—don their traditional conical hats and chew betel nuts, something they may not do otherwise all year long.

  On Tet Eve, every effort is expended to ingratiate the ancestors and to make them feel at home with the family. Tat nien, the ceremonial dinner in honor of departed ancestors, is prepared with the finest New Year’s foods. The entire family, nuclear and extended, gathers for one great feast and wishes each other “Chuc Mung Nam Moi”; “song lau tram tuoi” [live up to 100 years]—the traditional New Year wish for longevity from children to grandparents. Everyone is one year older on Tet. Other wishes are “an khang thinh vuong” [security, good health, and prosperity], “van su nhu y” [may a myriad of things go according to your will], “suc hoe doi dao” [plenty of health], and “cung hi phat tai” [happy New Year] in Mandarin or “gung hay fat choy” in Cantonese, and “tien vo nhu nuac” [may money flow like water].

  Fathers read their children’s horoscopes—their tu vi—and tell the story of the Jade Emperor and the legend of Tao Quan. A guest is greatly honored to be invited to one of these exclusive and festive family occasions, and it was a mark of the affection the family had for Hunter Caulfield for all of his kindnesses through the difficult years after the war that made him a guest of honor—one of the family.

  It took more than an hour for Sheep Dog and his cab driver to weave their way through teeming Cholon [Vietnamese-Cho Lan, or “big market”] the name of the Chinese districts 5 and 6 of Ho Chi Minh City—the former Saigon. It lies on the west bank of the Saigon River and dominates the western part of the city. On an ordinary day, Cholon is a thickly settled district rife with teahouses, pagodas, small businesses, winding narrow streets, and narrow houses. It is an industrial center with many rice mills and factories and a bustling commercial center, Cholon is a fascinating maze of temples, restaurants, jade ornaments, and medicine shops. Gone—however—are the brothels and opium dens of earlier days when Sheep Dog first came to Viet Nam—the land of rice baskets balancing on a central pole—an allusion to the geographical shape of the country. On this Tet Eve, Cholon had the greatest and densest concentration of human beings on the planet.

  The astute and experienced cabbie found Yee’s house located on an obscure and unnamed side alley off Hung Phú Street. Like most houses in Saigon, and especially in Cholon, it was very narrow—the reason for the narrowness being the fact that Vietnam taxes homes primarily based on the size of the footprint, not the total square feet. The telephone poles along the street sported wires of all sizes and directions of connection, most to adjacent homes. At first glance, the arran
gement appeared only happenstance; but in truth, the pattern was a tribute to the resolute frugality of the people of Cholon in dealing with their need for electricity and with their government.

  Like their neighbors, the Yees had put their hearts and souls into decorating with red and gold, peach branches, kumquats, and a large Cay Neu, which reminded Sheep Dog of a totem pole. Theirs was a tall bamboo shaft flying the family’s emblem on a piece of cloth to prevent the demons from coming in to disturb the family during Tet Eve dinner. The driveway was lit with Chinese New Year’s paper lanterns that cast a softening golden light on the surrounding trees and flowers.

  The cabbie parked; and Sheep Dog paid him, thanked him profusely for the safe ride, and gave him a large tip. A tiny Chinese maid welcomed him; he was expected. The house was an attractive Chinese home on the outside, but elegant and dramatic on the inside. The floors, walls, and ceiling were of teak—the floor polished to a mirror finish as were the walls and ceiling intricately carved panels. There were ornamental lacquer-ware screens, duck and chicken egg shell paintings, photographs of ancestors with incense and small offerings of oranges and bananas in front of them. There was an ancestral shrine covered with gold name inscriptions. The maid showed him into the main sitting room to await the arrival of Yee Pang Hung, his wife, Noi, and their three grown children and fifteen grandchildren. Around the periphery of the room were arranged Ming porcelain stools and vases in the shape of elephants holding potted palms. The walls held elegant Chinese calligraphy scroll paintings. Jade figurines sat in wall niches.

  The family greeted Sheep Dog effusively.

  “Hung,” Sheep Dog said, “it is so good of you to have me tonight of all nights. You are most kind.”

  “It is our great pleasure. Come, it is time for the feast to begin.”

  Sheep Dog and the family, including a large extended family that he did not know, took their seats at the elegant oriental hardwood communal table. There was one empty place at the table symbolic of the missing ancestors, and each member of the family gave a small respectful nod to the special place of honor as they walked past. The table was bare except for a large centerpiece of fresh cut tropical flowers. It was made of Chinese teak and was inlaid with a mother of pearl avian design. The chairs were of matching material and design. There was an antique hand knotted Chinese rug on the cherry wood parquet floor.