“A little after midnight, no…let me take that back, a lot after midnight. Almost two o’clock, actually. Tomorrow morning for you, that is.”
“You’re up late, bubba…or early. Hope you don’t need bail money.”
“Nah, I’m good for that. You don’t need much in the way of money over here; it’s all in knowing whom to bribe. Speaking of which, I’ve got some intel on our man Dr. Dang and that whole Tenkiller situation. Don’t know how useful it’ll be, but it’s all yours.”
“Man, you’re fast. I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. Like we talked about earlier, your buddy Senior Colonel Dang is very much Old School, and while he still carries a lot of clout with that generation, he has royally pissed off whole echelons of his younger comrades working in the VNOSMP. The respect for the old vets here is starting to wear a bit thin in certain circles. Doesn’t take much to convince them to open their vents.”
“Oh, really? I guess I didn’t realize that.”
“Sure. Just a matter of figuring out how to get them started. After that it was like a house on fire.”
“Feedin’ time?”
“You got it, and these guys can be some serious sharks when they put their mind to it.”
“Who assisted you? Would that be Major Jack Daniels or Colonel Johnnie Walker?”
“Colonel Johnnie. Red, of course—this is a socialist republic, you know. Anyhow, he was enough to get them started, but then, like I said, after that, getting them to stop was more of a problem. Just managed to get free of them a few minutes ago. Some interesting shit.”
“Yeah? Can you believe them, though?”
“Well…that’s the real question, isn’t it? How much is fact and how much is plain trash talk. I suspect it’s mostly good, I do, I really do…though I’m sure they exaggerated some. You know, if you’re going to stab someone in the back, it’s best to use a really big knife.”
“Who’d you talk to?”
“Couple of guys in the VNO. The main one, though…well, I’m not sure you know him. Young guy—name’s Nguyen Van Loc—used to be with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Kel said. There was an echo on the line, and he heard his answer repeated faintly twice more. “I know him…or at least I’ve met him. We had some guys from the MFA visit the lab a couple of years ago. Pretty sure Nguyen Loc was with them. Real baby-faced fella, if it’s the one I recall; looks all of about fourteen or so.”
“That’s him. Pie-shaped face, hair sticking out in all directions, and you’re right, looks about as old as my son. About as tall too. Now he’s one of the up-and-comers in the Vietnamese Office for Seeking Missing Persons. And more important—at least as far as you’re concerned—one of the young Turks who thinks that old-timers like Senior Colonel Dang need to be put out to permanent stud so that the country can catch up to the twentieth century.”
“Twenty-first.”
“We’re talking Vietnam here, Kel. One century at a time.”
“Roger. My mistake. So what’s the story?”
“Well…now that’s very interesting, actually,” Baker’s voice echoed across the phone line. “And, by the way, Mr. Nguyen has probably sobered up some since our talk, and while I doubt he remembers everything he said, I am reasonably certain that he remembers enough. Enough that he’d appreciate some discretion on our part. So would I, remember, I have to live here.”
“’Course.”
“Okay, where to start? Ahhh…I don’t know how well you know your old friend Colonel Dang.”
“Not much better than you do, I’d guess. I’ve known him longer. I’ve had to deal with him durin’ Joint Forensic Reviews, but that’s about the extent of it. If it isn’t somethin’ that can be discussed over warm Coke Colas or scaldin’ hot green tea, then I probably don’t know about it.”
“I hear you. He’s an interesting man. He studied medicine in East Germany and Russia before the war, maybe even a little while in France. But during the war, he was like a battalion surgeon for the North Vietnamese Army.”
“Yeah. The NVA was organized differently; actually he was more like a division surgeon, as I understand it. In fact, he once told me that he worked out of the Cu Chi complex for several years. Amputatin’ limbs and pluggin’ up bullet holes forty feet underground by candlelight. Amazin’ stuff, really. He once told me about doin’ a damn C-section while Bob Hope and Dusty Springfield were performin’ overhead.”
“Precisely,” Baker said. “And that’s where it gets interesting. Not the Bob Hope business—I hadn’t heard that one—but with all the other stuff. I mean, when you think about it, it’s incredible that someone could do all that surgery and shit while under the damn ground.”
“I won’t argue that.”
“Well, not to take away from that at all, but it seems he had some help.”
“Really? How so?”
“That’s why I’m calling, isn’t it? Nguyen’s story is that there was a massive black market ring operating out of Saigon—everybody knew about it, okay? Our side, their side, everybody. There were several actually, but this one was like the mother of them all. I mean, loads of supplies. Most of it was the usual stuff, you know, liquor, smokes, small electronics, pretty things for expensive women. Same shit that every war has, right?”
“Right.”
“But in this case it seems that a goodly amount of material was being channeled directly into the hands of the Viet Cong and the NVA, and we’re not talking a few chocolate bars and nylons either. Nguyen says major amounts of weapons were being pumped down that pipeline as well.”
“No shit.”
“No shit,” Baker replied.
“How much of this did we know? The Americans, I mean.”
“Not much. Army CID investigated it but could never crack that nut.”
“But how is Dr. Dang involved? Make that, how was he involved? You said he was gettin’ help.”
“Right. Well, if Nguyen is telling me true, a lot of medical supplies were flowing through the pipe as well. And take a guess where to…”
“The good Dr. Dang’s underground operatin’ room.”
“And therapeutic health spa. Yup, you got it, brother. Seems Uncle Sam was a major—if unknowing—contributor to Dang’s success as a battlefield surgeon.”
“I’ll be damned. But…okay, that’s interestin’ enough…but I still don’t see the connection to the skeleton we just looked at in Hanoi.”
“I’m getting there. I’m getting to that. Hold on. Supposedly, this black market ring operated out of Dong Nai Province, which is east of Saigon.”
“And?”
“And. And. Aw, c’mon, Doc…where was your skeleton found? The one that you said Senior Colonel Dang was acting so strange about?”
“Ahhh…I think…it was Thanh Lay Hamlet.”
“Which is in…”
“Cut me some slack, Andy. You live there; I pass through occasionally.”
“How about Dong Nai Province.”
Kel was silent as the pieces settled. He was hoping that a picture would emerge. When it didn’t completely come into focus, he continued. “Help me out here, Andrew. You sayin’ that the skeleton we excavated in Thanh Lay is connected to some wartime black market?”
“I’m not saying it, but Nguyen Loc sure is. He says the VNOSMP thinks they’re connected. You see, the story he tells is that the market was run by…ahh…by what he called ‘The Brotherhood of Five,’ at least that’s what I think he called it. I have to admit that a bottle and a half of sour mash wasn’t doing much more for his English than it was for my Vietnamese.”
“Been there,” Kel answered. “You best be glad it wasn’t the local stuff; hell, you’d be strugglin’ with English if it had been. The Brotherhood of Five?”
“Yeah, pretty sure that’s what he meant. How’s your French?”
“Muy bueno. Why?”
“Because I asked him in French just to make sure. La Fraternité de Cinq.”
“Hmm. The Brotherhood of Five. So what the hell is that? Sounds like a bad nightclub act.”
“Yeah. Well, I’m figuring that it’s a group of five men—no surprise there, I guess, given the name. All were officers with our loyal and trusted ally, the army of South Vietnam. All except one, that is. You ready for this? One of La Fraternité was an American GI…one of ours.”
“Tenkiller?”
“Roger that. At least that’s the way I figure it anyhow—given what you’ve told me about the case. Mr. Nguyen didn’t know the name of the American, but he knew the names of a couple of the ARVN officers that supposedly were involved. One was a, ahhh…” Baker paused as he looked at some notes. Kel could hear pages softly crinkling. “I scribbled it down when he wasn’t looking; if I can only get my eyes to focus—which is no small accomplishment right this minute. Ummm, the big honcho was an ARVN general—General Ngo Van Thu. There were also two other officers, Linh Nhu Ngon and a Doan Minh Tuyen—something like that anyway.”
“Better spell those.”
“Sure. First is N-G-O, Van Thu. Next is L-I-N-H, Nhu Ngon, NG-O-N. Last one is Doan, D-O-A-N, Doan Minh Tuyen. T-U-Y-E-N. At least that’s my best guess at how they’re spelled, but if I’m off, I’m not too far off.”
Kel wrote down the names as he listened. “Got it. But you say our buddy Nguyen Loc didn’t know the name of the American.”
“Right. But he indicated that the VNOSMP was fairly confident that that body your guys dug up was one of the Brotherhood, and they figured it was the American, and the only American you have missing in that area is Tenkiller—isn’t that right?”
“Right. But I’m still not clear on why Dr. Dang would give a shit one way or the other. Tenkiller or no Tenkiller.”
“Well, who knows, but he’s pretty old-fashioned. Whoever you dug up, they were helping him obtain his supplies. Maybe he doesn’t want that whole episode exposed. Maybe he’s being loyal…hell, I don’t know. And I’m not too likely to figure it out in the condition I’m in right now. I’m doing good to feel my toes.”
Kel sighed. “Hmmm. Yeah, maybe so. I doubt we’ll ever find out from him, though—Dr. Dang, that is.”
“You want me to try and locate this General Ngo Van Thu—if he’s still alive? And those other two? Colonel Linh and…”
“Sure, my wife would love to see you.”
“I’m not tracking.”
“Well, if you’re goin’ to track ’em down then I assume you’re plannin’ on flyin’ back to the States?”
“How so?”
“You said they were ARVN officers, and high-rankin’ ones at that. You honestly reckon that they stayed on in the workers’ paradise of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam after the war? The current government isn’t too fond of former ARVN officers, from what I gather.”
“True. You think they’re in the United States now?”
“If they’re alive, I do,” Kel said. “If they’re alive.”
CHAPTER 20
Fort Campbell, Kentucky
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 9, 2008
It had taken a couple of days to connect the varied dots, but even then the picture wasn’t all that clear. Dave Pagano had been correct in his recollection; there had been a similar killing at Fort Knox the previous October, and he’d been able to run down the information on it without too much difficulty. A couple of phone calls, a couple of faxes, a couple of emails. It was pretty much as Pagano had told Deveroux the first day: local Louisville native, owner of a string of Vietnamese grocery stores, enters the post early in the morning; by midmorning he’s minus the top of his head. No fingerprints of any use, no witnesses, no readily apparent trace evidence. Nothing but a dead, middle-aged Asian man curled up behind an old Russian tank, awash with blood. Gruesome, messy, frightening. Not at all what the post commander wanted to wake up to. Other than that, nothing.
Pagano had also been correct when he said that the Fort Knox authorities had been willing to let the local police run the leads to ground. As much as the Knox Command wanted to clean its laundry in private, it soon became clear that this case wasn’t going to be solved any time too soon or too easily. All the better to let someone else spin his wheels.
Not so Fort Campbell.
The installation commander at Campbell was a take-charge, no-shit, grab-your-balls-and-hold-on-for-the-ride type of guy; what the military called high-speed, low-drag, and Teflon-coated. Real Hooah-type. From the beginning he’d indicated that he wanted a daily “hot wash” of the investigation’s results. He wanted it handled in-house, and he also made it clear that he didn’t expect the investigation to stretch much past the next forty-eight hours.
It had. And it was still stretching.
At first, Deveroux’s immediate boss, Lieutenant Colonel Riggins, had made the daily trip to the CG’s office. It was a good opportunity for spending face time with the general—though he made an extremely good show of sighing and cussing and otherwise loudly protesting his having to do it. Protesting much too much, however, which was a good indicator that he wasn’t about to let anyone else do it. But that was in the beginning. It hadn’t taken someone as politically savvy as Riggins long to have a blinding flash of the obvious. When the answer to every one of the general’s questions is either “No, sir” or “I don’t know, sir,” it’s best to not have it be your face that’s getting the time.
The realization that there were now two murders didn’t help smooth matters. One murder, any murder, is bad, especially when it is so violent, but two murders—two murders is a recipe for someone’s early retirement, and Lieutenant Colonel Riggins had two kids in private school and a wife who wasn’t about to have him retire.
The outcome could be forecast. By Day Three, Chief Warrant Officer Shuck Deveroux was getting the face time with the general, and Lieutenant Colonel Riggins was playing afternoon golf and asking Deveroux if he knew what “BOHICA” meant. “Can you say, ‘BOW-Hee-Kah’?” he’d ask slowly. Bend Over, Here It Comes Again. Every time he said it, Riggins would double over in laughter.
Should have never answered my phone, Deveroux was thinking. Should have just driven to Louisville to watch the game.
“All set, Chief? The commander’s ready,” the aide repeated. Deveroux was sufficiently lost in thought and hadn’t heard the first summons. Now he looked up. The efficient young major didn’t even rise from his desk; instead he simply pointed with his precisely sharpened pencil at the CG’s door. He flicked his head once as if to convey that Deveroux had better hop to, and then he sniffed, as if to punctuate the instruction.
Deveroux remained lost in some cavernous part of his mind, walking in endless circles without the aid of a flashlight. He’d never had a case like this. There was nothing. No witnesses, no usable physical evidence, just a gruesome murder that had everyone in garrison feeling edgy. Where now? What next? Hop to. Make it happen.
BOHICA.
“Mr. Deveroux,” the major was now tapping his pencil on his desk calendar and applying his most authoritative face to the matter. He flared his nostrils and formed his mouth precisely. “I suggest that you move out smartly and draw fire. The general is quite busy. Please keep it brief.”
Deveroux caught the sound but not the words. He looked up and saw the pencil tapping and guessed the content of the message. He had developed a firm conviction over his years in the military that young field-grade officers like this major could be greatly improved with a good ass-whuppin’. It was tempting, but wholly against his upbringing. Instead, he stood, ran his thumbs around the inside of his waistband to smooth the tuck of his shirt, and walked directly to the commander’s door, not giving the major the satisfaction of even an acknowledging look. He knocked twice on the doorframe and waited.
“Come.” General Anderson stood up from his desk and smiled broadly. He was older than his face suggested, and people often focused on his smooth, almost poreless, skin at the expense of noticing his eyes. His eyes were old, and they were mottled with dark f
lecks of will and character and hard-purchased history. He liked Deveroux, and Deveroux sensed it, though neither man could have explained why if he’d been pressed for a reason. They’d only met a few times. “Come on in here, Chief. Have a seat. Sit down, sit down.” He directed Deveroux to a pair of padded chairs in front of his desk. He looked up and caught his aide hovering in the doorway. With an almost imperceptible nod, he dismissed him.
Deveroux took up a position next to the one farthest from the door and waited for the general to begin setting down before he did so himself.
General Anderson smiled again before he spoke. He leaned back and crossed his legs. He was wearing camouflage BDUs—the new digital pattern that worked best if you were trying to hide amid enlarged computer images—and the older Vietnam-era green jungle boots. The leather was cracked and had been puttied with years of black polish. He crossed his arms across his chest and arched his back until something popped—either the chair frame or a segment of spine. “Let me take a guess, Chief. You have nothing to report on your investigation. That about sum it up?”
“Yes, sir,” Deveroux said. “That’d be…that’d be pretty much correct, sir. Finally got confirmed names on both of the victims—a Mr. Ngon and a Mr. Trinh—both Vietnamese, but other than that, nothin’ to report.”
General Anderson watched Deveroux’s face closely, narrowing his eyes to snake slits as if to improve the focus. “I don’t have to tell you, Chief Deveroux, that the troops in this garrison are very uneasy with the prospect of a Jack the Ripper stalking the goddamn place. You read me? I need some answers and all this business of ‘Nothing to Report’ isn’t doing much to help me out here. You understand that, don’t you, Chief? You understand that we need some resolution, and we need it now? The PA folks are holding off the local press the best they can, but with twenty thousand troops coming and going daily, it’s a pretty leaky sieve. We need answers. Are we on the same page of music here?”
“Yes, sir. I think so, sir.”
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