The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (22 page)

Chung stood by the side of the Ferrari and looked up at the house. It was three storeys tall, white-painted stone with large sash windows and a flat roof. There was a light on in one of the upstairs windows, and as he leant back against the car the curtains drew back and a figure appeared, a black silhouette against the light. The figure’s hair appeared as a golden halo, and he realised it was Anne Fielding. She was wearing a nightdress and the light streamed through it, clearly showing her figure, the swell of her breasts and her trim waist. She moved slightly and he saw her breasts ripple under the nightdress. He wondered if she knew how she was revealing herself to him, and if she cared. He couldn’t see her face but he knew that she was looking down at him as he stood in the light from the porch. Chung smiled, but he couldn’t tell if she smiled back. He gave her a small wave, but she didn’t react. He shrugged and climbed into the driver’s seat of the Ferrari. He looked up again before starting the car; the curtain was back in place and Anne Fielding had gone.

He drove back down the Peak Road, much intrigued by what he had seen.

“You my father?” asked the small boy, his hair light brown and naturally curly, his skin lighter than the Vietnamese the vets were accustomed to seeing.

Lehman ruffled the boy’s hair. “No, kid, I’m not your father,” he said.

The boy grinned, showing brilliant white teeth, perfectly even. “You know him? My father named Hans. From Holland. You come from Holland?”

Lehman shook his head. “From America,” he said. “We’re from America.”

The boy nodded thoughtfully as if considering a difficult problem. “Okay,” he said. “Me go America. You take me?”

“I can’t, kid,” said Lehman gently. He turned to the nun who was showing the group of Americans around the orphanage. Her white habit was stained at the front as if she’d spilled something down it, something brown or maybe red, and the area around the stain was grey and smudged as if she’d tried to get the stain out but had failed. “They speak such good English, Sister Marie,” Lehman said to her.

“We hope that one day they will be adopted by a family in Europe. Or perhaps even America,” she explained. “We teach them English, and we teach them as much as we can about other countries. Their future is not here, in Vietnam.”

The nun was Irish, and Lehman would have bet money that hidden under the white cowl was a head of the reddest hair that would have perfectly complemented her pale green eyes. The rest of the nuns who ran the orphanage were all Vietnamese and spoke English poorly, she had explained, so she had been sent over from Ireland to help teach the children.

The group was standing in a cobbled courtyard which had been worn smooth by countless generations of feet. Lehman heard a door slam and then the courtyard was filled with the chatter of excited children. On each of the floors was a corridor which ran around all four sides of the courtyard, off which were doors to the various rooms, and in the corners where the corridors met were steps to the floors above and below, also open to the elements. The children, as many as twenty boys and girls, filed down the stone steps and into the canteen where Sister Marie had shown the vets the wooden tables and benches where they took all their meals. On the top floor were the dormitories where the children slept and on the two other floors were the rooms where they took their lessons. The nun had taken them round the poorly equipped kitchens and the canteen and the pantry with its meagre supplies of rice and dried fish, all of them on the ground floor, and as the children continued to pour into the canteen she led the Americans across the courtyard and through another, smaller, archway to a neat kitchen garden where the nuns grew their own fruit and vegetables.

“How many kids do you have here?” asked Speed.

“Just over one hundred,” said Sister Marie.

“Are they all Amerasians?” asked Janet Cummings.

“If by Amerasians you mean children of American soldiers, then the answer is no,” said Sister Marie. “The last Americans left in 1975, so the children of the war are now at least twenty years old. There were about 25,000, of whom more than half have already gone to the US under the Amerasian Homecoming Act. In effect, America has been bribing the Vietnamese to let them go. It costs the US 137 dollars each time an Amerasian is allowed to leave. They go first to the Philippines for six months to learn English and a trade, and then they go to America, along with their mothers and any other close family. Most of the Amerasians had already left by the time I arrived here five years ago. There were many thousands, most of them dependent on charity or living on the streets of Saigon. They were treated so very badly, those children. They were half white or half black and the Vietnamese do not take kindly to the children of mixed marriages. They called them
bui doi
, the dust of life. They were denied even the most basic education and health care, they were beaten, many were even locked away in the re-education camps. In the early eighties America agreed to resettle the Amerasians in the United States under the Orderly Departure Programme and now most of those who wished to go have gone.”

“Which is as it should be,” said Judy.

“So who are these children?” asked Janet Cummings.

“They are the children of the original Amerasians,” said Sister Marie. “Many of them were abandoned in the same way that their mothers and fathers were abandoned. Those children who could be taken for Vietnamese were accepted into society, but those with non-Asian features were simply left on the streets. Many were left on the doorstep of this orphanage.”

“But can’t they go to America too?” asked Henderson, lowering his camera.

“If their parents acknowledge them, then of course. But many were abandoned before the programme was announced, and many of the mothers are already in the United States. Matching up the orphans with their mothers is next to impossible. They already have new lives in the States. Many of the Amerasian girls were working as prostitutes and the children would be reminders of the lives they left behind.”

A small boy with dark skin and curly black hair came bowling into the vegetable garden, arms flailing and legs skidding on the soil. His eyes searched the group of Americans as if he were looking for someone and when he saw Lewis he grinned and rushed over and grabbed his leg.

Lewis bent down and scooped him up in his arms and held him so that their heads were on one level. The boy put his arms around Lewis’s neck and hugged him.

“That’s Samuel,” said Sister Marie. “He’s never seen anyone like his father. Black, I mean.”

That explained his rush to the garden, thought Lehman. Some of the other children must have told Samuel that there was a black visitor. The kid’s delight at seeing an adult with skin almost like his own was heartbreaking.

“Other children here are the unwanted children of Vietnamese prostitutes and their customers. Some American, some European, and a lot of Russians. The more tourists who come, the more illegitimate children there will be and the more they will be left in our care. We have been trying to educate the prostitutes about using contraceptives, but it is not easy. They are expensive, and not readily available.”

A young Eurasian girl called Sister Marie’s name and ran over to speak to her in Vietnamese. The nun answered, also in Vietnamese, and then she told the group that the tour of the orphanage had come to an end. Another nun, Sister Agnes, would show them around the hospital part of the building. She pointed to the stairs at the far side of the courtyard and told the Americans that Sister Agnes would meet them on the second floor. The Americans thanked the nun and then followed Judy across the courtyard, leaving the children behind.

Lehman and Lewis lingered until last and Lewis handed the nun a fifty dollar bill. “I know it’s not much, Sister Marie, but please take this,” he said.

He was rewarded with a wide smile and her green eyes sparkled.

“Why, thank you,” she said, surprised by his generosity. “Money is always a problem here. The government has little time for those who are not pure Vietnamese. I did not wish to say more while your guide was listening. You know of course that she is a cadre from North Vietnam? She wields a great deal of power in the South. Many are afraid of her.”

“Yeah, we guessed as much,” said Lehman.

“So the government doesn’t help you at all?” asked Lewis.

Sister Marie smiled sadly. “You know, shortly before I came here, the Vietnamese were actually bribing Amerasians to say that they were related to them.”

“Say what?” said Lewis.

“Unbelievable, isn’t it? For years they treated the Amerasians as if they didn’t exist. Treated them worse than animals. Mothers of Amerasian children used to dye their hair black with boot polish, cut off their eyelashes, and rub soot into their white skin. Then the Americans announced that they would allow all Amerasians into the United States and that they could take their Vietnamese families with them. Suddenly the Amerasians found themselves wanted by everyone. Rich Vietnamese would pay thousands of dollars to Amerasians – to adopt them, in effect – so that they could also go to America. That’s what happened to many of the orphans who were brought up here. Most were in their late teens or early twenties. Some were strong enough to resist the temptation, but many took the money.” She shook her head sadly. “As soon as they got to the States they were abandoned once more by their new-found families. I have letters from some of them. You have no idea how hurt they are. How unloved, even now.”

“But don’t they go to stay with their fathers in the States?” asked Lehman.

“Rarely,” said the nun. “Almost all were disowned by the fathers. There have been some cases where former soldiers have come back to search for their former Vietnamese girlfriends and wives, and taken them and their children back to the States. But for every one who wants to find his past there are a thousand who want to forget. It was a long time ago.”

“If I knew I had a child in Vietnam, I’d move heaven and earth to find it.”

“When did you leave Vietnam?” Sister Marie asked Lewis.

“Nineteen seventy,” answered Lewis.

“And what makes you think you didn’t leave a child behind?” she said. “Did you tell all the girls you knew that you were leaving? Did you say goodbye to the girls you met in the bars while you were on R&R?”

“No. No, I didn’t,” said Lewis thoughtfully.

“Then you don’t know,” said the nun.

Lewis looked at Lehman and both felt uneasy under the nun’s scrutiny. She was absolutely right, of course, Lehman realised. Any of them could have children they didn’t know about. And, as Lewis had said earlier, any of the vets could be the grandparents of the children now playing in the orphanage.

“Sobering thought, isn’t it?” asked Sister Marie. She looked at them sternly, and then in a swish of material she was gone, floating across the courtyard with three small children in tow, like a mother swan being followed by her cygnets.

“Wow,” said Lewis.

“Yeah,” agreed Lehman. “She’s a tough cookie, all right.”

“For a nun.”

“Yeah. For a nun.”

They rejoined the rest of the group who were being addressed by a small Vietnamese nun in halting English in the corridor on the second floor. She told them that the hospital was for children only, but that they were not necessarily orphans. She led them into the first ward, which was little more than a large room with eight beds up against the walls and a lacklustre fan grating rustily overhead. Paint was peeling off the damp walls.

The beds were occupied by children with broken bones, several were in traction, but all were smiling and curious about their visitors. From several came the same questions that they’d been asked so many times before. “You my father? You take me home?” Again and again the Americans said no.

Sister Agnes gathered the Americans together before speaking to them in a low, measured voice. “The next ward is for children who are dying, and there are men and women there too. They are patients for whom nothing can be done in other hospitals. They come here to die. I tell you this so that you will not be shocked. You are welcome to visit, but please be quiet.”

“What’s wrong with them?” asked Stebbings.

Sister Agnes frowned and spoke to Judy in rapid Vietnamese. Judy replied, and listened while the nun spoke again. Judy nodded, and then addressed the group.

“Agent Orange,” she said. “They are women and children who are dying from Agent Orange. The defoliant. Some have cancer. Some of the children were born sick. All will die.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Lewis, followed by a sigh as he allowed the air to escape.

“Where are they from?” asked Speed.

This time Judy spoke without waiting for the nun to reply. “Mostly from what used to be the Demilitarised Zone. That is where America used most of the defoliants. But some of those affected have not lived there for many, many years. Some moved south in the seventies, but still they get sick.”

“Can’t anything be done?” asked Stebbings.

Judy shook her head. “Those for whom there is a cure are sent abroad for treatment, but for these people there is no hope. It depends on the cancer. Sometimes it is not cancer. Sometimes babies are born defective. Sometimes the defects are small and can be cured by surgery. Sometimes their brains are outside their skulls, or organs are missing. Many die at birth. The abnormalities we see are similar in many ways to those which were seen in Japan after America dropped the atomic bombs there. It will be a long time before the effects of the American poison disappear.”