There was a bowl of salted peanuts on the table and they began eating them as they looked at the menu. Alongside them, on the river, a boat glided by silently.
“All right,” Mike said, leaning back in his chair and scratching his belly. “Look at this menu. Now this is more like it.”
The menu was divided into four sections: Chinese, Vietnamese, American, and French.
“May I suggest French onion soup and coq au vin?” Ernie said.
“Sure. Why the hell not?” Mike replied, laying his menu aside. “You can order for all of us. Hey,” he said. “Look at that. Look over there. Who is that?”
Mike pointed to a Vietnamese officer dressed in a black uniform with silver accouterments. He was carrying a black baton with a highly polished brass point and was wearing a chrome-plated, pearl-handled pistol on his hip. He had a closely cropped mustache and flashing dark eyes, and when he laughed he displayed a shining gold tooth.
“Ah, yes,” Ernie said. “That’s Colonel Ngyuet Cao Mot, sometimes known as the Black Knight.”
“The Black Knight?”
“His own sobriquet,” Ernie said. “He does have a flare for the dramatic.”
“Never mind him,” John said. “Who’s the woman with him? My God, that’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
The woman with Colonel Mot had high cheekbones and eyes that sparkled like set jewels framed by eyelashes as beautiful as the most delicate lace. Her skin was smooth and golden and her movements were as graceful as those of palm fronds stirred by a breeze.
“That, my friend, is Le Ngyuet Mot, the Black Knight’s wife. In case you are interested, she was recently picked by La Belle magazine in Paris as being one of the most beautiful women in the world.”
“I’ll go along with that,” Mike said.
Out on the river, something caught Ernie’s eye. He couldn’t explain why it attracted his attention; it was just a boat like the other boats, but there was something about it…something that… “Jesus! Get down!” he shouted.
Not questioning the shout, Mike and John dived to the floor of the restaurant. The Black Knight and his wife were even with their table at that moment and, without thinking, Ernie dived at them, knocking them both down.
What Ernie had seen was the ugly snout of a machine gun protruding from beneath a straw mat. He had not seen it too soon, because the instant he knocked the Mots to the floor, a staccato burst of machine gun fire erupted from the river, and bullets smashed into the restaurant, shattering crystal and whistling across the floor. Women screamed and men shouted, and a waiter, carrying a heavily laden tray, fell with a thud, the front of his white, jacket splashed red with his own blood.
Close on the heels of the machine gun fire, a deafening roar erupted and a searing flash of light burst from a bomb tossed aboard. Tables were shattered by the blast and in one corner the roof caved in, trapping several people under the debris.
Ernie pulled himself to an upright position and tried to look around the restaurant, but the smoke and dust hung heavily, obscuring his vision and burning his lungs with acrid fumes. His ears were still ringing from the sharpness of the explosion. He was only barely aware of the screams and cries of the injured and trapped.
Mike and John were uninjured. Ernie saw them rise slowly, brushing the dust and debris away from their uniforms.
“Son of a bitch,” John said. “We don’t need to come to Saigon for this kind of happy horseshit. We can get this in the field.”
“You guys all right?” Ernie called.
“Yeah,” Mike answered.
Out on the water the boat had veered away sharply and was making a run across the river as
fast as it could be propelled by the popping little engine. Colonel Mot got to his feet and, shouting in Vietnamese to the security guards, ran to the rail. He pulled his pistol and began banging away at the little boat. The guards, who were armed with M-16s, sprayed long bursts over the rail. For a full minute, the usually peaceful houseboat was turned into a full-scale battleground.
Suddenly there was a cheer from the Vietnamese on the boat.
“What the hell happened? What are they cheering about?” John asked.
Mike peered over the edge of the rail and saw two bodies floating facedown in the river while the boat, empty now, but with its engine still running, scooted toward the opposite bank.
“I think our side just scored a touchdown,” Mike said sarcastically.
Everyone stood up and Ernie started to help Madam Mot to her feet. He saw that the top of her yellow ao dai was spattered red with blood.
“Wait,” he said. “Perhaps you’d better lie there for a moment.”
“I’m fine, really,” Madam Mot replied. “A few little cuts from flying glass, that’s all.” Her voice was rich, cultured, and it caressed the English language in sensual tones.
“You!” Colonel Mot suddenly called from the rail. Ernie looked toward him, noticing the grim, almost evil expression on the colonel’s face. The colonel smiled. “I want to thank you for saving our lives. What is your name?”
“Chapel, Colonel,” Ernie said. “Ernie Chapel.”
“An officer?” Mot looked for Ernie’s insignia of rank.
“A newspaper reporter.”
“A newspaper reporter? Tell me, Mr. Chapel, what will you write of this? That it was a form of patriotic expression from freedom fighters? Or that it was a terrorist attack?”
“Don’t worry about Mr. Chapel, Colonel,” Mike said. “He’s all right.”
“Indeed,” Colonel Mot said. “Well, if you have the support of these young aviators, then I am convinced. I hope you can understand my concern, Mr. Chapel. I believe it is the leftist press that inflames the American protestors and prolongs this war.”
Madam Mot’s eyes suddenly began to flutter. Mike saw that she was about to pass out. As he grabbed her she put her arms around his neck. Her head fell back in a faint. He lowered her gently to the floor.
“Colonel, your wife!” Mike called.
Mot knelt beside her, opening the outer silk and blouse to look at her wounds. She was wearing a very delicate black lace half-bra. There were half a dozen little cuts on her smooth skin. Tiny shards of glass protruded from some of them. Colonel Mot used a set of chopsticks to pick out the glass.
“There,” he said. “She’ll be fine now. Again, gentlemen, you have my thanks.”
Chapter Three
Ernie leaned against the American Army ambulance and drank a cup of coffee that had been supplied by the Vietnamese Red Cross. He, Mike, and John stayed to help with the rescue work after the terrorist bomb had destroyed the My Kahn restaurant.
It was night now, and a few feet beyond the ambulance a portable generator putted noisily. A bank of floodlights sent their beams stabbing through the darkness, highlighting portions of the bombed houseboat in harsh white and stark black. The shouts of the workers drifted across the water as they climbed around the wreckage looking for more survivors.
Several hundred Vietnamese onlookers had been drawn to the scene and they stood around watching and eating pieces of fresh pineapple and dried squid. The vendors of these delicacies were enjoying a booming business as they circulated through the crowd selling their goods.
“Mr. Chapel?” a voice called, and Ernie saw one of the Vietnamese messengers from the Saigon bureau of his news agency, looking strangely out of place with his clean, crisp clothes.
“Yes?” Ernie replied, draining the rest of his coffee and stepping over to the messenger.
“The chief say you have telephone lines for one hour. You come now, please.”
“What’s that?” Mike asked.
Ernie sighed and hitched up his pants. “The time we can send our dispatches back is regulated by when we get the telephone lines,” he said. “I’ve got to go. I’m sorry about the way things turned out tonight.”
“Hell, don’t be sorry,” Mike said. He pointed to John, who was laughing with and teasing one of
the Vietnamese girls working with the Red Cross. “Looks like ole John made out all right.”
“What about you?”
“Hey, I’m on my own in Saigon. What can be bad about that?”
Ernie laughed. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “I’d like to fly with you again if you don’t mind.”
“Anytime, friend, anytime,” Mike said.
After Ernie left, Mike waved at John to indicate that he was ready to go.
“Hey, Mike, why don’t we meet at the field tomorrow?” John suggested. “I’ve got something going here.”
“Okay,” Mike agreed and, smiling, he walked out to the street to wave over one of the noisy little cyclos that was racing by.
Mike signaled for the driver to go down rue de Pasteur, the avenue of well-kept lawns and stately villas, occupied for the most part by the high-ranking military and government officials of Vietnam. As he passed by one of the villas he noticed a Mercedes leaving the driveway. Seated in back of the car was the Black Knight. He noted the number on the fence. So, this was where Madam Mot lived.
That’s funny, he thought. Why did he think of the house in terms of Madam Mot, instead of Colonel Mot?
When Ernie finished filing his dispatch and returned to his desk, he found Colonel Mot sitting in a chair nearby.
“Colonel Mot?”
“Ah, so you are back,” Colonel Mot said. “I didn’t thank you properly for saving our lives.”
“No thanks necessary,” Ernie said. “I was just in the right place at the right time, that’s all.”
“Nevertheless, I am most grateful,” Mot said. “So much so that I would like to invite you to come with me. I have some entertainment planned tonight. I’m sure you will enjoy it.”
“Entertainment?” Ernie asked. “What type of entertainment?”
“Oh, come, come. It’s very rude to question the plans of your host. Come with me and see for yourself. I assure you, you will find it interesting.” Ernie rode in the Mercedes with Colonel Mot down Chuoung Duong Street until they came to the mass of open marketplaces primarily frequented by the Vietnamese. The merchants here were not the black marketeers of the type prevalent on Tu Do Street. Instead, they were following the customs of hundreds of years. Jabbering little Vietnamese women sifted through the markets, here buying a fish, there a head of cabbage, as they did their shopping for the evening meal.
Colonel Mot’s driver stopped the car in a no parking zone and they walked over to the edge of the market, where they stood for a few seconds. An old woman was sitting on the sidewalk at their feet plucking fleas from the head of a little boy, who looked up at Ernie. His face was encrusted with mucus from his nose and drainage from open sores. He held his hand out, palm up, wordlessly asking for money.
Colonel Mot looked at his watch impatiently, and with that gesture, Ernie could see the wide gulf that separated Mot from his fellow countrymen who milled about him. For the average Vietnamese, there were only two times: daytime or nighttime.
“Ah, here they are,” Mot said, smiling.
A two-and-one-half-ton truck braked to a stop. Two armed men jumped down from the back and looked up at the truck, their weapons ready. A man looked out of the back of the truck, terror clearly marked on his face, then disappeared back under the canvas.
A Jeep pulled up alongside the truck, mounting a .50-caliber machine gun. There was some yelling, and four men finally emerged from the back of the truck, all of them frightened and confused.
“One of these young men threw the bomb at the My Kahn,” Mot said.
“I thought the bomb came from the boat and both of those people were killed.”
“The boat was just a diversion,” Mot explained. “The bomb was thrown from the street.”
“Which one of these men did it?”
“I’m not sure,” Colonel Mot said. “But they know which of them is guilty and that makes them all equally guilty.”
“I don’t understand,” Ernie said. “Why are they here?”
“Perhaps a public execution will discourage others from the same foolishness,” Mot suggested.
“You’re going to execute them right here, in the public square?”
“Yes,” Mot said. “And you are going to write about it.”
“Colonel Mot, the Saigon government will never win the support of the people in this way,” Ernie said.
Mot laughed a short, cryptic laugh. “We don’t need their support, Mr. Chapel,” he said, taking in the people of the market with a wave of his hand. “All we need is their fear. And for that, there is nothing better than a public execution.”
The guards moved the four men into position against the wall of one of the nearby buildings. The bolt on the Jeep-mounted machine gun was slammed home.
“My God, Mot!” Ernie gasped. “You’re not going to execute them with a .50-caliber machine gun? Those rounds are as big as a man’s fist! They’ll chop them up like ground meat.”
“But their deaths will be sure,” Mot said.
Dirty children, their skin covered with scabs and their hair full of lice, edged closer to the Jeep. They put their fingers in their ears and waited patiently to move in and strip the bodies as soon as the firing stopped.
While Ernie watched in disbelief and horror, the gun opened up, not popping like a small gun, but exploding in earthshaking, stomach-jarring blasts.
The little men began to fly apart. Arms and legs were literally shredded. One of them was completely cut in half. The top of his body toppled over backward, and the bottom half stood for a moment gushing blood, then fell forward.
Suddenly the gun stopped and the relative silence of the bickering Vietnamese again filled the air. Only the children watched; the vendors and the buyers seemed oblivious to the killings.
Ernie stood there for several seconds fighting the nausea. Mot pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands vigorously. His eyes had a demonic glow.
“I thought that since you were directly involved with the bombing, you would be pleased to see that justice was done,” he said.
Ernie couldn’t speak. He was unable to force the words through the grim sense of shock he felt.
“Well,” Mot said, seeing how Ernie was reacting, “perhaps I misjudged your threshold of sensitivity. We’ll go now. I have arranged something that I’m sure you will enjoy.”
Ernie followed Mot but it was almost by reflex. He was anxious to get away from the scene of horror, where the children were now fighting with one another for possession of the clothes the prisoners had been wearing. He looked away as the car drove off, and he breathed deeply to fight the nausea.
“I’m sorry you weren’t entertained,” Mot said, as if apologizing for recommending a bad movie to a friend. “I suppose I tend to forget that not everyone shares my lust for blood. There is something very exciting about the sudden death of an enemy.”
“You aren’t saying that just to shock me, are you?” Ernie asked. “You really mean it.”
“Yes, yes, of course I mean it.” Mot laughed. “It even gets me sexually excited. Explain that to me, if you can.”
“I’m afraid I can’t.” Ernie replied.
A few minutes later, Mot’s driver stopped the car in front of a building in Cholon. There was a large wall around the building and a private guard stood by the gate.
“What is this place?” Ernie asked.
“I promised you some entertainment and now I’m going to deliver. You didn’t like the other, but I know you’ll like this,” Mot replied. “Come, we’ll go inside.”
The grounds inside the wall were laid out in a beautiful garden with box hedges, tiny, beautifully trimmed trees, and a red-and-gold bridge arching gracefully over a quiet pool. An old woman handed them each a dressing gown and a towel and directed them toward a room where they were met by two beautiful women who indicated that they were there to bathe them.
“I thought you might enjoy this,” Mot said as he settled down into his bathtub.
There was a bamboo screen separating his bathtub from the one used by Ernie, so that they couldn’t see each other, but they could talk.
“This is more to my liking,” Ernie agreed. The bath was sensual and relaxing. The girl assigned to him was beautiful. She was wearing only panties and a brassiere, but Ernie intuitively knew that she was not a prostitute...and he was glad.
After the bath, Ernie wrapped himself in a large towel and went into a small room that opened just off the big bathroom. There was a bed in the room, and a small electric fan played a cool breeze across the bed.
Ernie put on the comfortable dressing gown and then lay down on the bed. He closed his eyes to luxuriate in the total comfort and had almost gone to sleep when he was roused by a gentle voice.
“Colonel Mot has sent me to you. I hope I am worthy.”
Ernie opened his eyes in surprise and looked at the girl standing by his bed. She was totally nude, and her skin was beautiful and without blemish. She was nearly without curves as well, having only tiny suggestions of breasts. The girl couldn’t have been more than twelve years old.
“What?” Ernie asked.
“I am here to make love to you,” the girl said with a shy smile. “I hope you find me pleasing.”
“No!” Ernie protested.
Tears sprang to the young girl’s eyes. “You find me ugly?”
“Em,” Ernie said, using the Vietnamese term of affection, “Colonel Mot has played a trick on you. 1 think you are very pretty ... but I cannot do it.”
“It won’t work?” the girl asked, pointing toward Ernie’s groin, her face registering sympathy for him.
Dateline: Viet Nam: A Military Thriller Double Page 3