Authors: Mark Abernethy
Chapter 38
Booking into the Rex as Brandon Collier, Mac went to his second-floor suite, removed his moustache and contact lenses and took a quick shower.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, he shook his kit onto the marble bench top and selected the men’s face scrub. Squirting a palmful, he spread the N10 dye over both hands and massaged the strong-smelling goo into his wet hair for two minutes, and then picked up a wide-tooth comb and ran it through his hair to even the application. After twelve minutes, Mac had another shower to wash out the colourant.
Wandering into the living area of his suite, Mac did thirty push-ups and fifty sit-ups followed by five minutes, and then of shadow-boxing. Dressing himself in new clothes from the menswear store across the road, he returned himself to Richard Davis – textbook salesman – and checked himself in the mirror: now that his short, thin hair had returned to blond he noted a few grazes and scratches along his temples, probably caused by the bits of concrete that hadn’t found his eyes.
Dialling the Saigon number for his calling card, Mac worked his way through the prompts then keyed in the number on a tattered white card.
‘Captain Loan,’ said Mac, when a voice answered. ‘Richard Davis here.’
‘Where are you?’ said the captain.
‘In Saigon.’
‘You remember the cafe we first spoke in?’ asked Loan.
‘Sure.’
‘Meet me there in half an hour,’ said the detective, and hung up.
Walking to his window, which overlooked Nguyen Hue Boulevard, Mac sipped on his bottled water and searched for suspiciously parked vehicles or men reading tourist maps. He especially looked for phone company workers. His gut churned: he was not confident about being in this city or what was being asked of him. He’d only been a couple of years out of the field but it had dulled him slightly. He couldn’t put his finger on it exactly, but it came down to his new lack of selfishness: not so long before, Mac would have attacked Marlon without hesitation. But two days before, he’d paused as the big bloke walked in the door. In his profession a pause was as good as death, and he wondered if he had the focus to go up against Joel Dozsa. Saba’s story about the real Mossad going into northern Cambodia and being killed by Dozsa’s boys was scary. There’d always been factions inside Israel’s secret service, but ambushing and killing your former brothers? That was extreme.
The fact that his wife was in Saigon was another distraction. Whenever he looked over his shoulder, the phone taunted him. Was he going to call her, admit he was in Saigon and arrange to meet? Or was he going to revert to his professional habits, never tell anyone in a phone call where he was?
He didn’t like lying to Jenny, and not only because she usually caught him out. She’d grown up hard, the daughter of a drunken farmer in Victoria’s west who liked to beat his wife and kids. When Jenny was fifteen, she’d hit back at the old man with a crowbar; her father had picked up a rifle and shot at her as she ran through the orchard. So Jenny – as smart and as beautiful as she was – did not trust men easily, and Mac had always done his best to be an honest husband and good friend. It was part of the deal: Mac got the sweet, loving side of his wife’s quite flinty personality, and Jenny had her rock and protector.
Picking up the phone, Mac dialled the calling card then input Jenny’s mobile number. It rang
and Mac hoped that she wouldn’t pick up so he could just leave a message and not have to dodge too many questions.
The greeting came immediately. ‘Toohey.’
‘Darling, it’s me,’ said Mac, massaging his temples. ‘How’re things?’
‘Tropical, hon,’ she said, in a tone that suggested she was trying to get niceties out of the way. ‘You get my message?’
‘Yep.’
He could hear Jen cover the mouthpiece and say,
In the DFAT file – the blue pages
.
‘How long you in Auckland for, Macca?’ she said, coming back to him. ‘I don’t want to rush you but I told Frank and Pat that you were due back on the weekend.’
Looking down at his G-Shock, Mac saw the word
Wed
on the screen above the time.
‘Yeah, weekend might do it,’ he said, trying to sound convincing. ‘Could be Monday, Tuesday.’
‘Okay, can you call Pat?’ said Jen, as a commotion erupted beside her. ‘Hang on, okay?’
‘Sure,’ said Mac.
He could hear his wife spelling out the record-keeping protocol for this investigation and the fact that she wouldn’t be compromising on it today or tomorrow or anytime soon, so they might as well get it right from the start.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Jen, back on the line. ‘I’ll call Pat and tell her – but can you ring too? Sarah loves getting calls from you.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ said Mac. ‘You in Saigon?’
‘Here now,’ said Jen. ‘Shit – you remember Jim Quirk, from Manila?’
‘I
think
so,’ said Mac. ‘Trade Commission, sportsman of some sort?’
‘Cricket,’ said Jen. ‘He was murdered up here, three days ago.’
Mac hated doing this to her. ‘I read about it. At a nightclub?’
‘Place called the Mekong Saloon, in Saigon’s Chinatown.’
‘You investigating?’ said Mac.
‘Yeah – the AFP teams from Honkers and Manila were held back for some reason.’
‘Any leads?’
‘Apparently there was a vehicle chase through Cholon after the murder, and the staff at the club say an Australian soldier was acting strangely during the incident.’
‘No wonder they called you guys,’ said Mac, his heart sinking.
Jen yawned. ‘We’re only observing – no investigation – but Saigon police are linking the Quirk murder with the disappearance of an Australian woman called Geraldine McHugh.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, Macca – and she’s Jim’s wife.’
‘Shit,’ said Mac, with no conviction.
‘So, I was going to call you anyway,’ said Jen, as if he was ninth on her to-do list. ‘Remember that creepy friend of yours from Nudgee? Urquhart?’
‘Davo,’ said Mac. ‘Sure.’
‘Chester brought him along to our breakfast meeting this morning,’ said Jen.
‘Did he elaborate on how you could aid his career?’
‘He did better than that. He warned me off the McHugh line of inquiry.’
‘What did he say?’ said Mac.
‘National interest, blah blah, regional security, wank wank – said the government would thank me to oversee the murder inquiry and then go home.’
‘And you said?’
‘I said, “Dave, there is no McHugh line of inquiry, but thanks for the tip-off.”’
‘Don’t stir him, Jen,’ said Mac, laughing reluctantly. ‘He may look like a wax dummy, but he can hurt you.’
Mac could hear more talking behind Jen. ‘I have to go, Macca. And call Sarah, okay?’
‘Sure,’ said Mac, knowing that he wouldn’t.
Chapter 39
Standing in the cool of a fruit shop on Dong Du Street, Mac inspected the oranges while watching the sedan pull up in front of the cafe where he’d first spoken with Captain Loan. She got out of the passenger seat of the car, grabbed her phone and day book and walked to the cafe, flicking back her long black ponytail with a shake of her head.
One man remained in the sedan. Walking towards the car from the rear, Mac blindsided the cop, who was looking up and down the footpath. At the last minute, Mac banged his hand on the bonnet of the car as he walked around it, startling the driver.
Inside the cafe, Mac saw the captain at a table, talking into her cell phone. As he sat down she smiled and quickly finished her conversation.
‘Well, Mr Richard,’ she said, reaching out for a businesslike handshake. ‘Nice to have you back.’
‘Back?’ said Mac, wondering where this was going.
‘You crossed into Cambodia three days ago,’ said Loan with a kind smile. ‘You crossed back into Vietnam about sixteen hours ago.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Mac, as green tea arrived.
‘Had a chance to think about Miss Geraldine?’ asked Loan, preparing the tea.
‘From what the Aussies are saying, I gather she works for Australian Treasury and she was divorcing Jim Quirk,’ said Mac.
‘What else are they saying?’
‘That whoever warned Anglos about Cholon, they weren’t kidding.’
‘You go down to Cholon, Mr Richard?’
‘Sure,’ said Mac. ‘Some great nightclubs down there.’
‘You don’t look like a book salesman,’ said Loan.
‘You don’t look like a detective,’ said Mac.
‘I showed the Mekong barman this picture,’ she said, pulling a colour print from her day book. It showed Mac emerging from the Grand Hotel, his face partially obscured by a baseball cap. ‘He said this was the Aussie soldier he served the night James Quirk died.’
‘I’m not a soldier,’ said Mac.
‘To Vietnamese people, you look like an Aussie soldier.’
‘We all look the same, right?’ said Mac.
‘I think you were in the Mekong Saloon the night Quirk was murdered.’
‘Really?’ said Mac, his heart thumping. ‘I was pretty hammered that night.’
‘What is it, the hammered? You mean you were drunk?’
‘Yes,’ said Mac. ‘I might have been in there for one drink – I couldn’t swear to it either way.’
‘So it might have been you?’
Mac shrugged. ‘I went to five or six bars in Cholon that night, and I could only name one of them. But I think I’d remember if I killed someone.’
‘I didn’t say you killed Quirk. I think you were there, at the Mekong Saloon.’
‘And I’m open to the suggestion that I was,’ said Mac, ‘but I couldn’t identify it by name or show you on a map.’
Captain Loan stared at him for twenty seconds before Mac looked down at his tea.
‘Same night, there was an altercation about ten blocks north-east of the Mekong Saloon,’ said Loan. ‘A fight between men, some shots fired. When we arrived, there was an unconscious man on the street – and he won’t talk. A woman saw it all, says a local man and an Aussie soldier were travelling on a motorbike.’
‘I see,’ said Mac, cold sweat on his brow. ‘She get the rego plates on the bike?’
‘No.’
‘I wish I could help,’ said Mac.
‘You can,’ said the captain. ‘I think Tranh was riding that bike – tell me where Tranh is hiding.’
Mac snapped out of his dissembling autopilot. ‘I don’t know.’
‘He didn’t cross back into Vietnam with you,’ said Loan. ‘So where is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ Mac repeated.
She leaned towards him slightly, adding a threat with her body language. ‘Where did you last see him?’
‘Phnom Penh,’ said Mac.
‘That’s a big city, Mr Richard.’
‘At an apartment building, on the west side – over by the InterContinental.’
‘What happened?’
‘Look,’ said Mac, gulping at the tea and trying to keep down the anxiety. ‘What’s this got to do with Jim –’
‘I asked you a question,’ said Captain Loan, abandoning the charm offensive. ‘What happened?’
‘We were ambushed in the lobby, lots of gunfire,’ said Mac, searching her eyes. Was the other cop about to fly in? Was the conversation being taped? ‘I was blinded by a burst of concrete dust, and when I recovered, Tranh was gone.’
He wondered how fast his red consular passport could be pouched into Saigon and whether Tobin would allow its use if Loan threw him in the basement. If he pushed Tobin to invoke the passport it would mark the first time in his eighteen-year intelligence career that he’d reverted to ‘declared’ while in the field and asked for consular protection.
Loan held his gaze. ‘I thought we were going to cooperate, Mr Richard. That was my impression.’
‘I am cooperating,’ said Mac, his voice croaking slightly.
Her face changed. ‘You know Alphonse Morales?’
‘No,’ said Mac, too fast.
‘Really? I saw a photograph of you two together. Our intelligence people showed me a file on Morales, and there was a photo of you and him in – where was it? Dili?’
‘Oh, you mean Bongo?’ said Mac, forcing a laugh. ‘I got confused. Yes, I have hired Mr Morales on occasions, for protection. Dili was not a safe place for an Australian salesman in the late 1990s, as I’m sure you can appreciate.’
‘Yes, I can,’ she said. ‘You know Morales is in Saigon? Asking questions about Geraldine McHugh?’
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Mac, his throat rasping like sandpaper.
‘Why didn’t you file a missing-persons report in Phnom Penh? And why not inform police in Saigon that your Vietnamese driver is missing?’
‘I was scared,’ said Mac. ‘I thought he might have been mixed up in things I couldn’t understand.’
‘I think you know what he’s mixed up in,’ she said. ‘Should we go down to the station?’
Mac didn’t answer, toying with the idea of declaring himself consular and making a call to Scotty or Tobin; he also toyed with the idea of hitting her and running.
‘I don’t want you in the cells, I don’t even want you in the criminal system,’ said Loan, leaning back as she looked around the cafe. ‘I can help you with McHugh, but I want Tranh.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mac, his heart fluttering with adrenaline. ‘I don’t even know his last name – I should have filed a report. I apologise.’
‘His last name is Loh,’ said the captain. ‘But if he were being formally introduced, it would be Loh Han Tranh.’
Breathing deeply through his nose, Mac tried to process the information. Tranh was a Loh Han? The most powerful tong in Cholon? At what level had this gig been compromised?
‘Loh Han?’ said Mac, very carefully. ‘As in Vincent Loh Han – the gangster?’
‘Tranh is Vincent’s nephew,’ said the captain, in a tone that had lost its hardness. ‘I want him back.’
‘You?’
‘I took the Vietnamese version of my name when I went to university in Melbourne,’ she said. ‘I was born Loh Han.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Mac, his heart rate hitting one-seventy.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘I know who you are, Mr
Richard
, but I don’t want you in the cells and I don’t want you claiming consular protections. I will help you find Geraldine McHugh, but –’
‘But what?’
‘Mr Richard,’ she said, eyes full of fear and violence, ‘Tranh is my brother.’