Authors: Mark Abernethy
Chapter 10
The lines of war-era concrete bunkers slid past the windows as the 777 taxied to the Tan Son Nhat international terminal. Passing quickly through customs and immigration, Mac wove through the swirling human traffic of Terminal 2 towards the huge glassed exit. During Mac’s first visits to this city, the terminal was a converted hangar with an old Pan-American airstair bolted to the inside of the far wall, creating a stairway to the next level. Now it was a modern, open space, like a cross between Brisbane International and Toronto’s Pearson.
Emerging into the sticky mayhem of Vietnam at 9.20 am, Mac dodged the private taxi drivers, van owners and cyclo riders that teemed on the aprons, keeping his wheelie bag close and his travel documents jammed tightly under his armpit. On his left, officials with handheld radios tried to organise a crush of humanity onto the correct buses, while a long taxi queue had formed on his right, with all of the anarchy that thrived in the world’s most overregulated territory. Saigon was proof that the human heart beat harder than the fantasies of the totalitarians – even its Marxist–Leninist name, concocted to emphasise a Communist victory in the South, was never used by the people of this city.
‘You need ride?’ came the voice of a local. Looking straight ahead, Mac saw a Vietnamese man leaning against a silver Toyota van, smoking a cigarette.
‘Maybe,’ said Mac, stepping forwards. The man wore aviator sunnies, black trop shirt and grey cotton slacks, with sandals on his feet – the city’s male uniform, from the mayor to a criminal on his first day out of prison.
‘Are you looking for a blue-sky tour?’ asked the man, cool as an ice cube and not moving from his position.
‘I’m looking for a golden sunset,’ said Mac, checking the apron for eyes as a bus sounded its horn.
Giving the bus driver a nasty smile, the man stood up, pulled the side door of the van back and gestured for Mac’s bag. Putting it in the back himself, Mac closed the sliding door and got in the passenger side.
‘I’m Tranh,’ said the man as he put the van into drive and the bus sounded its horn again.
‘Call me Richard,’ said Mac, as they pulled away from the apron. ‘Let’s go to the Grand.’
The blue VinaPhone box on the floor was still sealed. Tearing it open, Mac pulled out the cheap Nokia and, slotting in the battery and SIM card, reached for Tranh’s car-charger and plugged it in.
They dodged a cyclo rider who’d veered sideways. ‘You got a number, Tranh?’
Without slowing, Tranh recited his number as he steered them past small shops, street stalls and motorcyclists. Old women swept the pavement and yelled at children while men sat on boxes in groups, small coffee cups resting on their knees.
Entering Tranh’s number into the phone, Mac hit the green dial button. When Tranh’s phone rang, Mac hung up.
‘We’re in business,’ he said, looking at the low-hanging cloud and wondering when the monsoon was going to start. ‘I’m assuming that phone is clean?’
‘I bought it yesterday morning. Five recharge cards, in here,’ said Tranh, indicating the console between them.
‘Good,’ said Mac, grabbing the cards and noticing that Tranh had that Vietnamese quality of looking young at first meeting; up close, Mac reckoned he was in his early thirties and educated. He combined a certain coolness with a willingness to please – qualities Mac liked in a local asset.
‘Shall we start now?’ said Tranh.
‘Sure,’ said Mac, eyeing a large water bottle between the front seats.
Tranh let a brief smile go. ‘That’s yours.’
‘Keep the Uc hydrated, eh, Tranh?’ said Mac, grinning. ‘Maybe he’ll last beyond lunch?’
‘No,’ said Tranh, serious. ‘I’m not meaning that.’
Uc
was the Vietnamese word for ‘Australian’ and Mac was always amused that the locals were embarrassed about using the term. Australians didn’t particularly mind it, especially since the formal version was
Uc dai loi
, or Lucky Australia.
Mac swigged at the water. ‘So, what have we got, mate?’
Putting a hand under his seat, Tranh pulled out a beige A4 envelope with a small metal press-down seal on the flap. Opening it, Mac slid out a slim file on James Quirk. The black and white eight-by-five looked like a DFAT file shot, back when the 1989 intake was brimming with confidence, having earned their degrees, passed their tests and gone through their induction courses. QUIRK, James Douglas was an open-faced, confident Anglo with a natural smile; darkish eyes, pale brown hair, fine features.
The second photo, also a black and white eight-by-five, showed a puffier James Quirk in a safari shirt and slacks, emerging into the sunlight of an Asian streetscape – Mac would have guessed South-East Asia or India. The small white sticker on the bottom of the photo identified it as
Cholon – HCMC
, Saigon’s huge Chinatown, and the date was ten days ago.
Attached to the pics were two A4 pages: the first was a standard intelligence bromide of age, height, weight, marital status and the rest of the lines that make up a man’s life.
Reading quickly, Mac saw a good CV. Quirk had captained Geelong Grammar’s First XI and played Victorian schoolboys cricket – an all-rounder averaging forty-six for batting and eighteen for bowling. He had an MA (economic history) from the University of Melbourne, was recruited at uni by ASIO, trained and received a grading. During his early ASIO stint he made the Victorian state cricket squad and was subsequently given a leave of absence to play county cricket for Sussex; came back and tried out for DFAT, passed the personal vetting no problems. Married Geraldine McHugh, a Treasury star who made director at thirty-nine. Quirk and McHugh had divorced less than a month ago – no kids.
The ASIO–AFP rider to the divorce – standard for anyone working in Australia’s foreign missions – was ‘third party/wife, no security concerns’. So poor old Jim had been lion-taming in Asia while some bloke warmed his bed.
The second page listed Quirk’s job title – deputy trade commissioner – his address in Saigon and briefly summarised the limited surveillance that he’d recently been subjected to. The main problem with Jim Quirk – aside from the gaps in his diary – was an interagency report indicating a verbal connection between Quirk and Vincent Loh Han, a Chinese nightclub and hotel proprietor, who the briefing author had flagged as:
Head of the Loh Han Tong, one of the three crime families that run Cholon; possible connection PLA intelligence
.
Jim Quirk hadn’t been seen with the wrong people, and hadn’t been doing anything shady. Interagency reports – probably from AFP or Customs, via FBI or New Scotland Yard – had picked up Vincent Loh Han, through their informants, referring to Quirk in conversation or email. And if Loh Han was a wheeler-dealer in the booming Vietnam, he’d be dropping names like a socialite at the races.
Mac remembered Jim Quirk from Manila. He’d seemed smart and friendly and was entertaining with a couple of beers in him. It was obvious that DFAT thought the bloke was shady, but Mac had an open mind.
‘So just us, right?’ said Tranh, keeping the speed up through the hundreds of motorbikes on the roads.
‘Yep, Tranh,’ said Mac. ‘No travelling circus.’
Mac was relieved that Scotty hadn’t insisted on a bigger team of the type he’d used in Singapore. He preferred working in small teams for security reasons and because it didn’t attract the attention of the local cops.
‘Also, I have message from Paragon,’ said Tranh.
‘Yep?’
‘He saying you have your fun at Singapore, now it time for Dragon.’
Mac laughed. ‘Cheeky bastard.’
‘What is that?’
‘Nothing – bloke’s taking the piss,’ said Mac.
‘Begging the pardon?’ said Tranh.
‘You know, pulling my leg,’ said Mac, playing with his new phone. ‘Anything else?’
‘No,’ said Tranh. ‘But this would be normal?’
Mac drank some water. ‘For what?’
‘If Paragon pissed on your leg?’
Opening the double French doors of his suite at the Grand, Mac cased the building across the road before walking onto his Juliet balcony and looking over the Saigon River. The Grand was at the higher end of the mid-level hotels, not obvious like the American chains and not too far from the centre of the city. The hotel was on Dong Khoi Street, a busy cafe-lined avenue that ran from the river to Notre Dame Cathedral downtown.
When Mac had first rotated through Saigon in the early 1990s, the Grand was called the Hotel Dong Khoi – which translated as ‘general insurrection’. In those days it featured toilets that you flushed by tipping a bucket of water into the bowl and showers that had no cubicle – the sprinkler head stuck straight out of the wall and the cold water splashed all over the black and white tiled floor. It had an ancient grille elevator that didn’t work and a staircase that climbed to the fourth floor by wrapping around the elevator shaft. It also had an open-door policy towards Hanoi’s spies and police – the Cong An – so that every time Mac left, he was logged by the desk manager and his bags were routinely searched when he was out.
Now the place had been upgraded but he demanded his usual room – a two-bedroom colonial suite in the old wing looking over the river.
Plugging his phone into the power jack, Mac took off his shoes and padded across the living area. Standing beside the doorframe of the main entry, he listened. Holding that position for two minutes, he heard the hallway creak and what he thought was a whisper. And then there was the sound of a fire door opening at the end of the hallway, and swinging shut.
Sitting back on the bed in the room nearest the river, Mac sipped at the water bottle. He’d barely slept the night before, wondering how to proceed with Liesl. Had she been abducted or just bolted? He would wait twenty-four hours and talk to Benny again. He needed time, and he didn’t want to blow the whistle on Liesl – not if Urquhart was right and there was a traitor in Aussie intel.
Mac would have to trust Benny – a person he’d met in his induction year when the accountant was teaching the youngsters about how bad guys hid behind banking domiciles and front companies. Benny had then showed the inductees how they could use the same techniques when they were in the field.
Right now, Mac needed a nap. Then he was going to have some lunch and go to work. As he dozed off he thought about his first trip to Saigon and how the night manager – Mr Skin – slept on a stretcher inside the front doors of the Hotel Dong Khoi. One night Mac had staggered back to the hotel after a big go at Apocalypse Now bar and Mr Skin had answered the door. The first thing Mac had seen was a bare-chested bloke, built like a jockey and holding a billy club at shoulder height. Right at the point when Mac thought he was going to be clobbered, Mr Skin had stopped, smiled the big Vietnam welcome, and ushered him in.
That was the enigma of Vietnam: the friendliest violent place on earth.
Chapter 11
Walking with the one-way traffic flow of Dong Khoi Street, Mac kept his pace to a relaxed tourist stroll. Wearing the Aussie traveller uniform of boardies and surf T-shirt, he could also be mistaken for an Aussie soldier on leave if the political police were being nosey.
The temperature had climbed over thirty-five degrees by Mac’s estimation as he crossed Dong Khoi Street at the riverfront lights and walked into the Hotel Majestic. Maintaining his languid pace, he crossed through the vaulted foyer and into a cafe before spilling out onto the riverside boulevard on the other side of the building.
Walking to the tourist information pillar, he grabbed a visitor’s map and positioned himself to see who or what would follow. Seven seconds later, two men on a Honda step-through accelerated around the corner with the rest of the traffic, the pillion passenger anxiously looking into the Majestic’s wide windows. When he hit the driver on the shoulder to stop and started getting off the bike, Mac walked towards them, map in hand.
‘Excuse me, fellers,’ he said, coming alongside the motorbike’s driver, a late-twenties Khmer wearing a Yankees cap and aviators. ‘Looking for the ANZ bank – it’s around here, right?’
The driver shrugged and pointed to the pillion passenger, who swaggered towards Mac, the minicam in his left palm disappearing into the pocket of his windbreaker.
‘
Xin chao
,’ said Mac with a smile and quick bow. ‘I’m from Australia, looking for the ANZ. Name’s Richard.’
The pillion guy waved away the hand Mac offered. ‘You want bank – go down to round ’bout, then
left
,’ he said carefully, like someone who didn’t want to miss the ‘ft’ sound that so many Asians couldn’t quite reach. ‘Bank there, okay?’
‘Thanks, champion,’ said Mac, turning and crossing Dong Khoi Street again.
Casing the Black Stork tailor shop in a small side street off Dong Khoi, Mac took his time. It was a little after two pm when he entered the shop. Moving into the cool darkness, he walked towards the stooped old man behind the huge cutting desk but caught sight of Tranh peering through the fitting-room curtains.
Mac followed Tranh into the hall of mirrors of the fitting room.
‘Get eyes?’ said Mac, looking around the musty old space. ‘On Apricot?’
‘I did what you say,’ said Tranh, keeping his shades on.
‘Stayed back?’
‘Yes, Mr Richard,’ said Tranh. ‘He left the consulate at eight past twelve, I followed him along Ton Duc and he got cyclo.’
‘Return?’
‘Yes, mister – he come back one-forty.’
‘Same cyclo?
‘No – he change.’
Mac wanted a local’s view of Quirk. ‘How’s he looking?’
‘He not so young no more,’ said Tranh with a shrug. ‘Maybe too much the coffee or the wine?’
‘Okay, let’s have a chat,’ said Mac.
He followed Tranh up a flight of stairs and through an old door into a reminder of French-colonial Saigon. The twelve-foot ceilings and the slow fan created an eerie theatre for the tailor’s dummies and old bolts of cloth. Pushing open large wooden French doors, Mac eased into the heat of the day beneath a veranda and glanced up and down the street.
‘Show me the back,’ said Mac, and they moved through the storage area and onto the rear patio where a table and chair were set up on the tiled slab, overlooked by several new skyscrapers.
‘Good,’ said Mac, walking back into the room. ‘From now on, you don’t come here, okay, Tranh?’
‘Sure, boss.’
‘We change the meet each day – we’ll rotate four venues. But you don’t come to this one, got it? This is the fallback meet.’
‘Okay,’ said Tranh.
Leaving the Black Stork, Mac eyed a white Toyota Camry he recognised from before he went into the tailor’s. It was parked on the other side of the road. It wouldn’t have been odd that it was still there, except this time it had two people sitting in it.
Raising his hand, he stopped the first cyclo rider and got on.
‘Ben Thanh market,
cam on
,’ said Mac, putting on his sunnies as he pulled the sunshade over his head. Mac liked cyclos for counter-surveillance because the cyclo rider sitting at the rear of the vehicle gave him an excuse to turn in his seat and talk, allowing him a view of the tail.
‘Nice day for it,’ said Mac with a smile. ‘Rain held off.’
As they turned right and headed for Le Loi, Mac looked past the rider’s legs and saw the white Camry pull out of its parking space and follow slowly.
Sitting back, he let the middle-aged rider work up a sweat as they pedalled along Le Loi and up to the sprawling market building with the clock tower.
At the rear of the market, Mac hopped out and made his way into the building as the white Camry stopped a hundred metres back. He had no idea who was in that car, but in South-East Asia a Camry pulling out five seconds after you left was usually the wrong kind of attention. Maintaining a brisk pace through the crowd, he navigated the tiny aisles, heading for one of the far corners where men’s shirts hung thirty feet in the air. The noise was deafening – Ben Thanh was the biggest and most central market in Saigon, and it was so chaotic that he could barely hear himself think.
Pushing diagonally across the teeming space, Mac finally got to the men’s section. Catching the eye of the bloke with the black money-belt and the thirty-foot pole with the hook on the end, Mac pulled out a small wad of US dollars.
‘I need a red shirt, for dance club,’ said Mac. ‘Black pants – nice pants. A belt, black shoes, and . . .’ He turned and searched across the sea of Vietnamese faces until he saw the hat store. ‘A hat,’ he said. ‘Big white hat, okay?’
Eyeing the money, the trader handed his hook to a sidekick and started yelling orders at his people, pushing, jostling and cajoling. In Australia it would be called harassing an employee; in Saigon it was called service.
Mr Hook pushed forwards the young fellow who’d arrived back with a couple of red shirts and a selection of black pants. Taking the combo that made him look least like a pimp, Mac slipped into the makeshift changing room that sat between the racks of knock-off polo shirts and the shelves of counterfeit Billabong boardies.
Emerging, Mac let Mr Hook manhandle him, turning him around, pulling at the seams of the shirt, running his tape across Mac’s shoulders and all the time yelling at his cohorts. One got on his knees and started fiddling with Mac’s pants, but they didn’t need fixing. Whoever Mr Hook was, he’d nailed Mac’s fitting card with one look.
‘You are like movie star, mister,’ said Mr Hook, his smile glinting with gold. ‘I give you best, sir, and you can be in movie. My guarantee for this.’
Another youngster arrived with three hats and two shoe boxes under his arm. Snatching them, Mr Hook snapped his fingers and a pair of black socks was placed in his hand. The first pair of shoes fitted well, and Mac took the hat that gave him a Miami trumpet-player look.
As Mr Hook looped a belt through his pants, Mac peered between the racks of the clothing section to see if he was still being followed.
‘What’s the damage?’ said Mac from the side of his mouth.
‘For you, sir, eighty dollar,’ said Mr Hook.
‘
Ma qua
,’ said Mac, as a sidekick handed him a paper bag with his old clothes and shoes in it.
‘What?’ asked Mr Hook, his face confused. ‘
Ma qua?
’
Mr Hook started laughing and grabbing his employees, telling them what Mac had said, all of them doubling over. In Saigon,
ma qua
was old haggling slang that basically translated as ‘too much’. If you had the guts to try
ma qua
on a market trader, and do the whole shrugging and eye-rolling song and dance, they’d reward you for it.
‘Uc, okay,’ said Mr Hook.
‘Saigon, okay,’ said Mac, giving him the thumbs-up.
‘Okay, forty dollar,’ said Mr Hook, smile suddenly gone.
Giving him fifty, Mac grabbed his bag and moved along the menswear aisle, trying to sense where the tail was now. Adjusting his sight line, he glimpsed a person in aviator shades moving down one of the main aisles towards him. The tail hadn’t shifted his aviator sunnies since Mac had first met him on the back of the surveillance motorbike.
Moving in the opposite direction, towards the south exit, Mac tried to make time through the mass of haggling women without attracting attention and without breaking into a sprint. He was slightly claustro at the best of times, but the tide of locals in such a confined space was messing with his breathing.
Bursting into the heat of the early afternoon, he almost walked straight into the side of the white Camry.
Skirting the car’s left headlight and keeping his head down, Mac averted his eyes as the person in the front seat turned to look at him. His heart thumping like a steam engine, Mac kept a steady course through the shadow of the market building as he prayed that his change of clothes had created a sufficient diversion and that no one was going to yell for him to stop. He’d have to make a decision about that: would he run, or stay and fake it out?
The choice was clear: he wouldn’t be running – they already knew where he was staying and he had a gig to manage. That meant he’d be faking it if the cop in the car called him back. Under normal circumstances, Mac would talk a load of turkey for as long as it took. He was comfortable with his cover of Richard Davis from Southern Scholastic Books, and he’d keep it simple: he was on holiday between Singapore and Honkers, with three go-see appointments with officials in Saigon’s education board and the University of Medicine and Pharmacy in Cholon – appointments that the political police could see for themselves in his diary when they searched his room.
But as Mac walked around the rear of the market building and hailed a cyclo, he realised that things had just become more complex. The government seemed to have a team on him, never a good sign; and this wasn’t going to be about confusing some dumb-arse cop. He knew that because the cop in that car wasn’t a he – it was a she, and that was never good news for a man who lied for a living.