Servants—as quiet and unobtrusive as ghosts—entered the room and began to serve the appetizers: shrimp toast and small dishes of melon seeds and pine nuts, bowls of celestial soup, and scallions in peanut oil and soy sauce, spiced with cloves.
The appetizer dishes, bowls, and ceramic utensils were swiftly cleared away, and the servants brought in the main dishes: Five Flower Pork and Pork with Bitter Melon, Hand Pressed Duck, Drunken Chicken, Red Simmered Fish with Snow-Peas, and the pièce de résistance, Peking Duck, served with steaming cups of aromatic tea. Dessert was Almond Float and Hung Pien—Chrysanthemum tea sweetened with rock sugar. The table was cleared again and tiny porcelain glasses of amber colored Shaoshing—yellow wine—were distributed for a series of toasts to the family and for the New Year. The delicate vessels were decorated with a reverse swastika design for good luck. Strains of five tone Vietnamese music were played by the girls of the family on three stringed Chinese lutes, on kin flutes, and dan thap luc [sixteen stringed zithers].
The family separated by age and gender. Children went with nannies for sweets and games. Women retired to their section of the house for gossip, and the men all moved into a plush sitting room. Servants brought in bamboo pipes for the men who reclined on cushions. Sheep Dog elected only to watch, but noticed that Hung readily accepted his pipe. The pipes were two feet long, made of straight bamboo with brass or ivory at the ends. Two-thirds of the way down the shaft of the pipe was the bowl, darkened and polished by the long history and frequent kneading of the gum ball of opium on its convex surface.
The servants—this time, all women—dressed in brightly patterned Ao Dai and impeccably clean full white silk trousers, placed a needle into the small cavity of the bowl and released the opium then reversed the bowl to heat it over a small flame. The beads of opium bubbled and popped quietly as the men inhaled the pungent thick smoke. Conversa-ion waned as the men of the family became tranquil and sleepy. As the hour approached midnight, most of them were sound asleep from several pipes, some able to inhale a whole pipe in one breath; and the room was fragrant and dreamy with the narcotic smoke.
Before he fell asleep, Hung leaned over to Sheep Dog and said languidly, “My friend, we will talk tomorrow about your future.”
It was the Vietnamese way not to mix business talk during a meal, and it would have been considered a gross impropriety for Sheep Dog to have brought up his problems or requests during any family meal, let alone the Tet Eve feast.
He had learned patience during his war-time stays and his subsequent visits to Viet Nam, and he would undoubtedly have to learn more. He found a small bed room, undressed and fell asleep promptly on the rattan mat on the floor. His belly was full; he was safe for now; and he was at peace. The future did not seem so uncertain or terrifying as it had during the long past night and the hectic day.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
The hectic events of the Eve of Tet were over; and the first day of Tet was—as usual—going to be quiet. It was a day for families to eat picnics in the cemetery and to have simple meals at home. It was a clean-up day after the high spirits of the night before. Sheep Dog awakened before anyone else in the house, stretched and dressed, and walked out into the court yard to listen to the distant sounds of the morning. He stepped through the Judas Gate in the side yard fence and watched the city wake up.
The day was slowly getting into motion. Here and there an occasional person was warming up with Tai Chi exercises. A pig merchant was carefully laying out the parts of a hog on his sidewalk table while his son carted away the entrails of the animal on his xy clo. The blood and water used to wash it away were still collected in eddying puddles around the man’s stall. The ubiquitous rice merchants were now awake and could be heard calling out to passers by. Two shaven head bonzes in their gray-brown robes were walking slowly by with their empty rice bowls in one hand. Thus far, they were finding no givers. A wheel of a cart load of squealing and lamenting piglets was stuck in the crack between the board walk and the open sewer trench running alongside it. Carts overloaded with chickens, ducks, shop surplus, vegetables and fruits, and used clothing began to make their way out into the market day traffic.
A few children were still lighting firecrackers to ward off evil spirits and were lingering near the stalls of fireworks dealers hoping to be able to snatch up one of the displayed explosives. Before breakfast, Sheep Dog walked a short way up the street browsing at the stalls selling everything from bicycle parts, to condoms, to Vietnamese, American, and Russian cigarettes, to bottled water and packed rice balls. Sheep Dog bought a bottle of nongaseous Evian water and a few left over New Year’s cookies and ate them with chips of dried mandarin peelings and licorice root. The street was lined with kumquat trees and further beautified by the numerous collections of apricot flowers, peach blossoms, and artificial flowers of all descriptions. The twenty- four hour flower markets were beginning to pick up business after the early morning lull.
Hung came out of his room and sat down with the family at the breakfast table. He had the servants bring a fruit bowl and American corn flakes with milk for his breakfast. They ate in silence. When the dishes were removed, Hung began the conversation.
“We should come right to the point, Hunter. What can I do for you? I owe you a great deal, but I also must protect my family.”
“I do not ask for anything owed, Hung. And I will go to almost any lengths to avoid endangering you or your family. I need to hide in plain sight in Viet Nam. I have given a great deal of thought to what has to be done. My plan is to settle for a while in or around Hué. I need your help to get through the red tape; so, I can purchase a little land and a house. I will operate my part of a business largely from there. I am asking you to get in touch with the PRUCs still in Viet Nam and get them to take me on as a nonpublic partner in one or more of their businesses. I will use a false name, of course.
“I will make my presence worth any small risk anyone considers is present by investing substantial sums in the business. I will also promise to give $10 million to be distributed by your network to the PRUC wives and families left behind and abandoned by the United States. Would that be sufficient?”
“That would be more than generous. As you Americans are so fond of saying, it would be a win/win arrangement. Do you have objections to entering into a partnership with one of the tongs?”
“Tongs, no; but I would be very leery about starting up a close association with one of the major triads. I am already in a risky position, and I would hate to make it worse.”
“I cannot promise that I can find a business that is free of criminal taint, but I can assure you that I will not steer you to anything that I would not invest my family’s money in.”
“Hung, I know you had a terrible time in the re-education camps and in paying off your debts to the state. I also know that you and your family have worked hard all these years. You have done very well for yourself. I would be less than honest if I didn’t tell you that I suspect that you crossed several lines outside legal boundaries over the years. You are crafty and careful, and you appear to have covered yourself.”
“The money you gave us made all the difference, Hunter. I speak for all of the PRUCs and their families in saying that. I know that you have been of help to all of them.”
“You are my friends. I trusted you during the war, and you covered my back. I could not turn that same back on any of you.”
“And we all trust you. You gave us money and help in getting some of our people out, and you asked for nothing. I will help you, and I will get the others to help. We will ask nothing in return either. You need help. That is enough for me. I believe we can make you disappear in Viet Nam while you prosper. Today, we will make our separate ways into the Cho Binh Tay Market to meet with the head of the Chou Yen Lee Family tong. Do you know where it is?”
“Of course. What time?”
“Two hours. Keep a low profile until then and watch around the market for police or security people. When y
ou see me enter the market, follow at a distance. I will move quickly; so keep a good watch.”
“I’ll be careful.”
Sheep Dog wondered what he had gotten himself into now. It had all the earmarks of joining up with Chinese bandits, but it was late in the day to be dainty or choosy. He arrived in the market area less than fifteen minutes later—more than an hour and a half early—and slowly sauntered through Cholon. He made himself into a tourist with short trips to see the seven sacred pagodas in Cholon: Thien Hau, Nghia An Hoi Quan, Tam Son Hoi Quan, Quan Am, Phuoc An Hoi Quan, Ha Chuong Hoi Quan, Ong Bon, the Giac Lam and Giac Vien Pagodas away from the main concentration of sacred buildings, Giac Vien, and Giac Lam, the oldest pagoda. He was very familiar with all of the pagodas, having hidden out in several of them during the murderous VC rampage during Tet, 1968.
He saw Hung enter Cho Binh Tay Market without looking back, and he moved double time to keep up. They passed several dozen small to tiny stalls hawking everything from hats to ladies dresses, to medicines, spices, bolts of gorgeous brilliantly colored silk, men’s pants, cooking utensils, and hapless ducks, and chickens tied in piles infested with flies. Hung paused at the largest fruit-vendor’s stall in the middle of the market and spoke briefly to a fat Han Chinese man in a fruit-smeared white apron. The main attraction of his stall was apparently rambutan—the unattractive but delicious so-called hairy lychee fruit. An oddity of that stall was that it also sold ladies’ shoes and hand-made steel screen colanders as well. The Chinese vendor turned and walked away from Hung. He looked back at Sheep Dog and made a small sideways nod to follow. They followed in a circuitous route to avoid suspicion and walked into the front of a three story building that appeared to be an office building. The three met at the doors of the elevator. A sign over the doors stated that no person weighing over 146 pounds could enter, and a weight of 800 pounds was the total acceptable limit. The elevator was only six feet high. It would hardly have served in America.
None of the men spoke or acknowledged each other’s presence. They rode the elevator to the third floor with Sheep Dog stooping and glad that there were no more than three floors. They followed the vendor to a door over which—in Unicode rendering of Vietnamese characters—read: “Chou Yen Lee Family Tong”. They entered into a spacious, well-appointed office and sat in red and gold brocade easy chairs as they were directed. The three men sat quietly for a few minutes until an office side door opened, and two large Chinese men in suits preceded a thin, wiry Caucasian into the room. He was dressed in cotton cargo pants, a Philippine barong, and scuffed open-toed sandals. Sheep Dog was aware from the outset by the demeanor of the new man and all of those in the room, that he was in charge, an incongruous situation given that they were in the heart of the largest Chinatown in the world.
“Are you Hunter Caulfield, formerly seconded to the CIA’s Phoenix Program?” the newcomer asked without preamble or greeting.
“Yes.”
Sheep Dog felt uncomfortable and began to tense. He watched the eyes and hands of all of the men in the room constantly.
“You’ve aged some. Not as much as me, but I have led a dissolute life here in-country. I take it you don’t recognize me. Tsk, tsk, I’m hurt.”
Sheep Dog strained but could not put a name to the face and body. He was looking at a man of probably sixty-five, but who looked to be in his early eighties. He shook his head.
The newcomer laughed, revealing a mouthful of yellowed and carious teeth and periodontal disease.
“I’m Roger Ward. That ring a bell?”
“You can’t be. You’re dead!” Sheep Dog exclaimed.
Roger laughed heartily, “As Mark Twain said, ‘the news of my death is premature’. I am very much alive, a fact that disturbs more than a few people. However—and I stress the importance of the fact—the United States government considers me to be dead; and that is the best thing about my being alive.”
“So, you stayed on here, is that it?”
“You got it. I deserted to Cholon in late ’74 and ignored the amnesty offered by the State Department when the U.S. occupation ended in ’75 along with a couple of hundred guys. I had too cushy of a life to leave here. Admittedly—it was a life of crime—but who is it that can be a judge? the Bible asks. Smuggling, gun, and drug running provided wealth, women, and influence; and I developed a loyal group of friends here in Cholon and throughout Asia. Our business interests webbed out to most of the developed world. We have done well enough to have gone legit almost entirely in the last ten years.
“So, you’re the head of the Chou Yen Lee Family tong, I take it.”
“In all humility, yes. It is what business law in the U.S. refers to as a ‘fictitious name’.” He smiled. “As a result of our efforts in several directions, we do maintain some valuable connections outside the strictly kosher world however. Hung tells me that you might have need of some help that would involve such connections.”
“Apparently, I do.”
“Well, Hunter, we read the papers. You seem to be standing in it up to your lower lip at the moment. That about right?”
“Yeah, I suppose so.”
“Look, Hunter, you’re among friends here. You and I gave it all we had in the Phoenix Program and were rewarded by being branded as something just short of criminals when the effort to democratize Viet Nam went south. You and I both know that it would have been imprudent of us—or of any of the PRUCs—to make our pasts known. I know you kept a low profile in that regard. I also know that you gave a lot of help to our comrades all over the place. We have a pretty tight organization, and we try to help each other when we can. We can give you a hand.”
“Thanks, Roger.”
Sheep Dog thanked his lucky stars that he and Roger had covered each others’ backs several times during the tumultuous Viet Nam War era, and that they had been cordial if not actually friends. He was also glad that the man was still alive. He looked like he had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, however.
Roger walked over to where Hunter was sitting and extended his hand. Sheep Dog stood, and the two men shook hands warmly.
“You look like you’re still hale and hearty, Hunter. Must eat right and stay away from demon rum and nasty habits.”
“I’ve tried. You look like maybe you’ve been having a little trouble in the health department.”
“Liver cancer. My own fault. I got into meth. It was stupid—cost me my teeth, my strength, and is going to cost me my life in a year or two. I’m glad I was still around to help set you up.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Roger. Thanks for thinking of me.”
Roger shrugged, an admission of his own culpability.
With that, the men began to discuss a plan for Sheep Dog. It was obvious that Hung and Roger had put considerable thought into the matter. Sheep Dog was to become a planter outside the ancient Vietnamese capital of Hué under a new French nom de guerre. His connections with the triads in Hong Kong would provide Roger with the means to get new and authentic documents for Sheep Dog. He and Hung had already contacted their legitimate associates in Hué and Hanoi to set in progress the purchase of land and of a partnership in the business.
“It’ll take a bit of money, I’m afraid,” Roger said. “the communist government here likes a bit of a bribe to hasten the process. Otherwise you would be an old decrepit man before all of their red tape was satisfied.”
“I have a bit,” Sheep Dog told him, “how much do you think?”
“All told, to keep everybody happy, and happy means quiet, about ten mil U.S.”
He said it without a flinch as if he were estimating the cost of today’s groceries.
“I can do that and better. I promised Hung a similar sum to be spread out among the families the PRUCs had to leave behind. I assume you and your people can make that happen. I’ve come into some money—the source of which I don’t want to share with the public or any of several governments—and I want to use some of it to help the cause
.”
“We’ll be glad to help. You’ll have to trust us. There won’t be much in the way of accounting.”
“I trust you.”
Sheep Dog did, although that trust was not entirely complete.
He would hedge his bets with Hung and Roger until he had collected evidence that his trust was justified. He retained the powerful self-protective feeling that he was not quite out of the woods yet.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Two Days after the Israeli attack on Iran’s WMD Facilities Interagency Fugitive Operations Office, Brooklyn Court Street Federal Building.
U.S. Marshals, Frank Jefferys and Linc Goodworth fidgeted with their reports, with their uniforms, with lunch, with anything to cut the boredom. They had not had a takedown assignment for three days, and the idleness was wearing on the two action-junky law enforcement specialists. Frank watched the fax and teletype hoping for the tell-tale sounds of an incoming message. Linc stated that he could not, would not touch another drop of the crude oil that passed for coffee in the cluttered IFO office. He thought about cleaning up the clutter; but it seemed pointless; so, he let it go. It was a sign of desperation that he even thought about it.
Except for the clutter—the room was drab and dull—almost sterile. There were mandatory large photographs adorning the west wall of President Storebridge, Attorney General Gertrude Heimel, and USMS Director Colin McPherson. Haphazardly placed on the drab, but spotlessly clean brick walls, were New York City maps, most-wanted posters of federal fugitives from FBI, ATF, DEA, and United States Marshals’ Service sources, computer printouts of crime statistics and current statuses of some the truly most wanted, large print copies of federal regulations, and two No Smoking signs. There was no graffiti, no jokes of any kind, no personal memorabilia, and no photographs other than those of the most senior U.S. government officials and service directors.
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