KIA

by Thomas Holland

  “Sir?”

  Paul Fick laughed quietly, without any humor, and continued. “It’s hard to understand, Chief, sitting here in Waynesville, Missouri, eight thousand miles away. Thirty, forty years later. Hard even for me, anymore. Vietnam in 1970 was the dark side of the moon, you see. There was no light shining there. Everything was in shadows. We needed it that way; this country needed it that way, you understand. Or maybe you don’t. The South Vietnamese were our good allies, poor victims, innocent victims.” He paused and the flint returned to his eyes. “You’re old enough to remember Life magazine. Look magazine. The Post. Remember the photos? Do you? Especially early on. The South Vietnamese, the poor, poor South Vietnamese held in thrall by the evil North. Remember? It was all bullshit. The North was evil and the South were victims, maybe, but not innocent. They were victims of their own corrupt, spoiled, self-indulgent leaders. Morally bankrupt. But that couldn’t be seen—not here in the U.S. of A.; we couldn’t let it be seen; not by the folks here in Waynesville, or Cincinnati, or Des Moines. Our boys were dying; our sons and fathers; our brothers and husbands; all the good, young men of a generation getting chewed up in that enormous bloody maw. For what? You see, it had to be something worth dying for; they had to die for something as good and noble and worthy as they themselves were, or it’d all be a waste. So men like Ngo weren’t seen. They didn’t exist. It wasn’t seen. It didn’t happen.” He paused again. “It wasn’t stopped.”

  Deveroux sat silently watching the sugar settle out at the bottom of his tea glass. It looked like a muddy snow globe. After a moment he cleared his throat and looked up. Fick had his eyes closed. “Sir?”

  Fick’s eyes flickered under their lids but didn’t open.

  Deveroux continued. “Sir, the one killed at Campbell, and the one at Knox, now the one they found up near Whiteman Air Force Base, plus the one you mentioned, the one that didn’t make it out of Vietnam…”

  “Colonel Pham.”

  “Yes, sir, him.” Deveroux held up four fingers. “That makes four. I’m assumin’ that General Ngo is the last one. The last of the…”

  “La Fraternité de Cinq,” Fick responded, opening his eyes and engaging Deveroux’s.

  “Yes, sir,” Deveroux smiled. “Them.”

  “It doesn’t do to forget Master Sergeant Tenkiller, Chief.”

  “I’m not, but I’m not sure how he fits in. Is he part of the Five? Like the sixth of the Five Brothers.”

  “Very much so, Chief Deveroux. Not one of the Five, perhaps, but definitely one of them. Very much so, I think.”

  Deveroux nodded. “I see. Ahh, sir, if four of the…the…de Cinq…are accounted for, and the fifth—General Ngo—is here, I mean…in Rolla…then…”

  “Yes, Chief. Then he’d better get a bodyguard.”

  CHAPTER 51

  Rolla, Missouri

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 23, 2008

  Jimmy Lee Tenkiller was back.

  Parked across the tree-lined street from General Ngo’s house, as he had been off and on for almost a week, he felt his patience stretched thin and taut, like the translucent skin of a drum. The house had been continuously awash with people—too many people—and he’d been forced to wait and linger.

  But no longer.

  Tonight was the time—too many people or not. He had a plan.

  Tonight was proving to be relatively quiet. Unlike the past few nights, there had been no visitors yet this evening, and as the shadows lengthened, it was increasingly unlikely that there would be any. Jimmy Lee Tenkiller noticed the streetlight in front of Ngo’s house start to blink on, and he looked at his watch—seven-ten. Soon, he thought, very soon.

  A middle-aged couple in identical khaki shorts and colorful St. Louis Symphony T-shirts strolled by, passing the truck without a glance, talking animatedly and swinging their arms with angular enthusiasm. Tenkiller watched them pass by, as they had on Monday night and the Saturday night before that. He was struck by how singularly trusting they must be—or how appallingly self-absorbed—to pass by a strange vehicle with out-of-state plates parked on their quiet street night after night and never flicker so much as a look. He closed his eyes and smiled at the thought. He’d never planned for his mission to take this long, and he’d always assumed that someone along the way would take notice of him. He was prepared for that. He’d call Eddie as soon as it was over, and that would be the signal to report the truck as stolen. Keep his brother out of it. After that there was no more plan; just reflex.

  With a startle, Jimmy Lee Tenkiller realized that he’d dozed off, though for how long he was uncertain. Living in the truck for a week was taking its toll on him, and he was showing the physical and mental signs of exhaustion. He blinked hard trying to work the sting out of his eyes, and that’s when he heard the voices.

  Sitting up, suddenly attuned, he looked across the street and in the glow of the blossoming streetlight saw Ngo and his wife walking out to the dark-blue Seville that sat square in the middle of the driveway, its trunk lid standing open like the enormous jaws of an alligator. Ngo was carrying a small overnight bag and walking a step in front of his wife, and a shudder of concern ran through Tenkiller as he realized that Ngo was leaving and his opportunity was about to be lost. Almost frantically Tenkiller opened the glove box, removed the .22 Ruger pistol, and chambered a round. He looked up just as Ngo was slamming the trunk closed.

  Jimmy Lee Tenkiller no longer had any plan other than not letting Ngo Van Thu leave. But as he reached for the door handle he heard other voices. Glancing up in the rearview mirror he saw the Symphony strollers returning, having made a giant loop around the block and starting on a second power lap. They still took no notice of Tenkiller, but they also made it impossible to get out of the truck carrying a gun. He watched them close the distance on the truck, and he took a hurried look again across the street. To his surprise, and relief, he saw Mrs. Ngo getting in behind the wheel while the general stood at the open driver’s side window, hands on his hips, talking to her. In a moment the car started, the back-up lights came on, and the car pulled out of the driveway. Ngo Van Thu stood illuminated in the middle of the driveway, waving and watching the car stop, turn, and drive away. He paused, then turned, and quickly returned inside the house.

  Jimmy Lee Tenkiller smiled. Once again, he had a plan.

  CHAPTER 52

  Rolla, Missouri

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 23, 2008

  They took Deveroux’s rental car—a bright-red two-door Chevy Cavalier with Texas plates and a thin white scratch that ran the length of the driver’s side—and arrived precisely on time. General Fick had a good working knowledge of Rolla’s layout and had navigated the way perfectly, the only miscue coming when they’d driven past the house after missing the number in the dark and had to turn around in a neighbor’s driveway and retrace their route. Even so, it was eight-twenty-eight when Deveroux pulled into the driveway of General Ngo’s house and killed his engine.

  Both men got out of the car and stood, stretching their backs and legs. It had been a relatively short drive, but Deveroux’s knees were throbbing and talking to him in a most disagreeable manner, still remembering the six-hour drive earlier in the day and not particularly inclined to forgive him just yet. General Fick seemed to be in some general discomfort but said nothing.

  As they walked up the brick sidewalk to the front door, Deveroux took in the street and the surroundings. Ngo’s two-story, neocolonial home was, if not the best house on the block, certainly no lower than second or third. The yard was large and professionally cared for, as were the flowerbeds that skirted the front of the house like a colorful necklace. Early season crocuses and tulips had worked their way through a thick mantle of shredded redwood bark and were visible in the dimming light.

  Deveroux pressed the lighted doorbell and stepped back, hands on hips military fashion, waiting. Fick stood a few feet farther back, off the front stoop, looking up at the dark second-story windows, surveying the architecture with the
same eyes that once had evaluated fields of fire. Across the street they heard a vehicle start up and both turned in time to see a dark-colored pickup truck pull slowly away from under a tree across the street and disappear around the corner.

  Suddenly the porch light came on, and Ngo Van Thu answered the door. He was dressed in creased blue jeans and a red-and-blue plaid shirt—the sleeves were turned back two precise rolls—and ribbed, white socks. “Yes,” he said.

  Shuck Deveroux quickly cleared his throat and answered. “Mr. Ngo? Mr. Ngo Van Thu?”

  If Ngo Van Thu found any amusement in Deveroux’s molasses-tongued pronunciation of his family name, he didn’t convey it. He had heard worse in his thirty years residing in the Ozark plateau. “Yes,” he responded again.

  “Sir, I’m Agent Deveroux of the army CID. I called you earlier this afternoon about maybe havin’ the opportunity to ask you a few questions.”

  “You have some identification, Agent Deveroux?”

  “Yes, sir,” Deveroux answered. He hadn’t expected to need to flash his tin, since this was an unofficial visit, and it took him a minute to get his badge holder out of his pants pocket. While he was doing so, he noticed that Ngo was watching General Fick closely. Fick was returning the stare. “Here you go, sir,” he said as he held his gold CID badge in the light. “And this here’s my, ahh, partner…ahhh…Mr. Fick.” At the last minute he’d decided that simply calling him a partner might be easier than explaining why a retired infantry general was tagging along with him.

  Ngo never looked at the identification, and without taking his eyes off Fick, stepped back from the door and said, “You may come in, Agent Deveroux. And your partner.”

  The house was large, even larger than it had appeared to be from the outside, with glossy oak flooring, cream-colored walls, and thick, white crown molding, but it was the décor that proved the most surprising. Everything visible from the entryway—the kitchen straight on, the living room to the right, the formal dining room that opened off to the left, even the spindled stairway and upstairs balcony—was decorated with an I Love Country motif. Everywhere. Colorful braided-rag rugs, a painted milk can umbrella stand, cross-stitched homilies framed with driftwood on the walls. It was almost as if an alien from Saturn had tried to replicate the prototype American home—which, Deveroux realized as he was being led into the living room, was probably very close to the truth.

  “Sit, please,” Ngo said as he motioned the men to a sofa. It was covered in a calico print and matched the cornflower blue puffy drapes. He took a chair near the fireplace, crossed his legs, looked at his watch conspicuously, and then resumed eye contact with Fick.

  Deveroux picked up the conversation. “Ahh, sir, I…we…really do appreciate your time. I hope you and Mrs. Ngo didn’t have plans that we’re interruptin’.”

  “My wife is visiting friends in St. Louis, Agent Deveroux. But as to plans, I am a very busy man with many things that must be accomplished.” The voice had the coppery taste of one used to giving directions.

  “Yes, sir,” Deveroux responded. He bounced a quick look at Fick and found him mutually fixated on Ngo. “We won’t take long. Just a few questions that you might be able to help us out with.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, for starters, as I mentioned on the phone earlier, I’m with army CID, and I’m lookin’ into the deaths of a couple of Vietnamese gentlemen—like yourself—who died, actually they were murdered, on U.S. military installations. Fort Campbell and Fort Knox, over in Kentucky, and then, more recently, just outside Whiteman Air Force Base here in Missouri.”

  Ngo remained expressionless. He blinked several times slowly but made no other outward sign that he was even listening. He’d been staring at Fick almost without break but now looked at Deveroux. “You must have a very interesting job, Warrant Officer Deveroux. You are a warrant officer, I assume.”

  “Yes, sir. But I don’t know that I’d necessarily call it interestin’.”

  Ngo looked again at his watch. “Yes. Please, Warrant Officer Deveroux, please tell me what I can do for you.”

  “Of course. Well, sir, these Vietnamese gentlemen were friends of yours, I think. At least at one time. If not friends, at least acquaintances.” He pulled a small green notebook out of his shirt pocket and flipped through several pages. When he found what he was after he folded the top back and cleared his throat. “Forgive the pronunciations, sir. The first one was a Mr. Linh Nhu Ngon from Louisville, then came Mr. Trinh Han, and then two days ago up in Warrensburg, a Mr. Doan Minh Tuyen.” He looked up at Ngo. “Am I right about these men bein’ acquaintances of yours?”

  The Vietnamese general didn’t answer immediately but slowly removed a cigarette from a package that lay on an oak pie safe that had been converted into an end table. He lit up, blew the smoke in the direction of the fireplace, and picked at a loose fragment of tobacco on the tip of his tongue before re-engaging Deveroux’s eyes. The gesture was intended to convey disdain. “Perhaps these are strange names to you, Warrant Officer, but those are not uncommon names for Vietnamese.”

  “So you don’t know them? Or do?”

  Ngo shrugged.

  Deveroux could feel a heat rising from Fick and guessed that Ngo’s smugness was sandpapering his partner’s patience raw. He bunched up his brow in serious thought and then continued. “Ahh, well sir, Mr. Ngo, those may be common names and all, but the INS says that thirty-seven, thirty-eight years ago you entered this country with three Vietnamese nationals with those same, common names. All Vietnamese military officers. Common names or not, I suspect you’ll agree that it seems to be more than a coincidence. Are you sure you didn’t know them?” He paused and waited for Ngo to respond before preempting him. “And sir, here’s the reason I ask, these three Vietnamese men, these…possible former acquaintances of yours, they didn’t just die by accident. They were murdered, sir, and we don’t have any idea of who dunnit or why. And to be quite honest, sir, I mean, I don’t pretend to know your business and all, but if I were you, these…coincidences…well, sir, wouldn’t do much for my normal sleep patterns.”

  “Warrant Officer Deveroux, perhaps these are the same men that I knew, but as you say, that was almost forty years ago. The men that I knew by those names were…I am trying to be generous…they were weak…stupid…greedy. Little men. They were, perhaps, the type that men like you and I do not associate with freely.” His eyes were on Fick as he spoke.

  “So you haven’t had any contact with them recently?”

  Ngo smiled. “No.” He broke eye contact with Fick long enough to arch his neck back and drag on his cigarette. He exhaled toward the ceiling before resuming his stare.

  “Any idea of what might be the connectin’ link here? Who might have a reason to kill these folks?” Deveroux asked.

  “Links? You mean aside from never aspiring to be more than petty businessmen dependent on arrogant GIs to make their living?” Ngo replied, turning to look at Deveroux. “Aside from being zipperheads, you mean? Slant-eyes? Gooks? Yellow bastards? Fish-heads? Cat-eaters? Aside from talkie-funny? Aside from gum-chewing warrant officers’ mispronouncing their names and thinking it is acceptable? No, I am not aware of any connecting links—are you?”

  Deveroux sat wondering what kind of hornet’s nest he’d just whacked. He blinked and shook his head slowly, planning his next sentence carefully. Fick preempted him.

  “General Ngo, I don’t believe I heard an answer to Chief Deveroux’s question. Do you know who might be executing these…businessmen?”

  Ngo looked directly at Fick, clearly disdaining Deveroux’s presence. “Yes, General Fick, I do. Perhaps someone with a past that cannot be forgotten. Someone with much to lose.”

  “Who? General Ngo. I still haven’t heard who.”

  Ngo Van Thu smiled, but his grin was that of a carnivore demonstrating his teeth and betrayed no humor. “A most dangerous man, General Fick, a most dangerous man.”

  CHAPTER 53

  Waynesv
ille, Missouri

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 23, 2008

  “Do me a favor, General, next time remind me to punch that sawed-off little sonofabuck’s lights out.” Shuck Deveroux had been fuming all the drive back to the DeVille Motel in Waynesville, and like a sore tooth, he kept returning over and over to the same weeping source of irritation.

  For his part, Paul Fick had been mostly quiet, absorbed in watching the darkened landscape flow by the speeding window, but now as they approached the interstate off-ramp to the DeVille, he spoke. “There were two kinds of Vietnamese generals during the war. Those who accepted their shortcomings, who knew that they’d bought their ranks with money or marriage or some kind of political coinage, and were awed by any U.S. officer, even butter-bar second lieutenants—or, for that matter, chief warrant officers—and then there were those—no less incompetent—who assumed an air of status and superiority over everyone. Those so connected politically that they were untouchable. Spoiled children, really; dangerous spoiled children. You just met one of those.”

  “Still,” Deveroux countered, “Zipperhead? I don’t even know what a Zipperhead is.”

  “I’m sure Ngo had a sober awakening when he arrived in this country. His family and rank meant nothing around here. The sting seems to have gone deep.”

  “I guess. He obviously recognized you, though. He called you General Fick—did you catch that? I introduced you as Mister. I never said General. Had you met him before?”

  “No.”

  “No? Never?”

  “No. About the time I had connected the dots that included him and his associates, the powers in Washington pulled the plug on my investigation. I got close to him a few times, but never talked to him. After Tenkiller disappeared, the problem disappeared.”

  Deveroux was shaking his head. “Well, I’ll tell you what I know. What I know is that that meetin’ was about the biggest waste of my time that I’ve experienced in a long while.” He was still shaking his head as he pulled into the parking lot at the DeVille Motel. “The little piece of…”