The Shadow of Arms (60 page)

“But Major Pham must have large amounts of military currency, don't you think?” Lin asked. “We have quite a bit, too.”

“We've been changing it into greenbacks each month. Of course, we were planning to change them all into checks for remittance later, but . . . Anyway, what military currency we have, we can always get Mike to handle that. The big question is, how much time can Mike give us after the deadline has passed?”

By this time Lin was wide-awake and sitting straight up in the bed. “We'll propose that we collect the military currency and split the profit with him.”

“I'll go bring him back here.”

When she came into the room, she found Mike sitting there with only his army pants on, drinking a Coke. He seemed to have recovered his composure a little. He must have had a shower, for he was wiping off his forehead with a towel draped around his neck. Hae Jong sat across from him and took out a Marlboro cigarette. Mike lit it with his lighter.

“Thanks, Mimi. They're all dead, I mean, Frank and the colonel.”

Hae Jong reached out with her hand and ruffled Mike's brown hair. “Don't be a baby. You're a soldier and this is a battlefield.”

“I have no overnight pass and I'm getting worried about getting back. It's time . . .”

Mike was looking at his bare wrist and then started searching around the bed for his watch.

“It's not even twelve yet,” said Hae Jong. “You said you needed to be back at dawn. Before daybreak, Beck will take you back in his car. By the way, what you said earlier, is that true?”

“What did I say?”

Hae Jong took a deep puff on the cigarette and, exhaling smoke in Mike's face, said in a cynical tone, “So, it's supposed to be top secret, huh? You said they'll change the military currency.”

Mike jumped up. “Did I say that? When? Who heard me? I'm in deep shit now.”

“You said it in this room to Madame Lin and me, nobody else. You don't need to be so surprised. Mike, you know you almost stayed behind in that room with Frank and Colonel Cao. We were the ones who forced you out. Maybe we should have left you there with them and let you die. That way the secret would've been kept, all right.”

Mike raised his arms, as if in surrender. “It's an order from headquarters in Saigon. From next Monday, the exchange period is one week.”

“Then after noon next Saturday, even the American soldiers won't be able to use the old military currency at the PXs, right?” Hae Jong thought back to those little commotions in the campside villages. Suddenly, all the American soldiers vanish from the bars, the brothels, and the souvenir shops. A desolate night descends quietly on the campside village, which starts to seem like one of those Gold Rush boomtowns occupied only by ghosts after the mine is shut down. The colorful signs, the gaudy red lights, the whores with their hair dyed yellow and their nails painted red, black, or silver—this rainbow spectrum loses all of its color the moment the link to America is cut off. The specious carnival suddenly reveals its true self. Chocolate drops and candy bars in fancy wrappers, smooth soaps smelling of fragrant dreams, cigarettes adorned with silvery scripts and graceful logos, all sizes and shapes of liquor bottles; these PX goods all lose their magical powers and are degraded into isolated things as soon as the people who consume them have disappeared.

Mornings in the campside villages are always desolate, like the stage in a theater where daylight has intruded. When a rumor circulates that the GIs will change their money, the bar owners, the dry cleaners, the pimps and the whores, even the shoeshine boys all go crazy. All they talk about is dollars, and they vent their indignation at the betrayal by the GIs. When the last day comes, they resolutely burn the most omnipotent little picture-bearing papers on earth. Touched by flames, those oily little sheets turn dark and shrivel before disappearing. The whores do not cry as they peer at the flames. So-and-so lost this much, so-and-so got an advance warning and bought such-and-such goods, so-and-so wallpapered her room with worthless notes, and so on and so forth, all sorts of stories make the circuit through the grapevine until the American soldiers reappear on the scene.

When they come back, all the inhabitants of the campside village soon forget about the money consumed by the flames. They feel relieved that living things have regained their livelihoods with the mediation of the American military. The posts of the US Army are firmly linked to such relief, such anesthesia. Think of a shoeshine boy who instantly can be reconciled to his wretched fate because a Salem cigarette is glowing with a bluish light at the tip of his filthy fingers. This carnival can last only as long as the Americans stay. All the goods and all the ornaments with which the festival is festooned manage incessantly to reproduce, making a solid network among themselves lest anything leak out.

Dollars tossed onto that field of blood, the realm of Caesar, make a blood-red mold from which blossoms emerge—dollars are the money-medium of the world, an instrument of control. The dollar is the leading edge in the imperialist order and the American ID is the organizer. Blood-red flowers are blossoming as part of the aid that spreads military and political power ever more widely over the entire world, aid providing rich nutrition for American capital acting through its network of multinational enterprises, aid to replenish the supply of dollars used as an important medium of international settlements, a medium of savings and of trust, and the solvent that assures prosperity for the international banks.

Hae Jong thought of her first night with Jerry, the American master sergeant back home. The filthy pink curtains, the cheap wallpaper, the 60-watt bulb, the fly shit, the neon light blinking all night through the dirt-smudged window, the odor of Jerry's chest like that of a rain-soaked dog—she had laid her cheek on that pillow smeared with hair oil facing the wall and tears had streamed down over her face. Jerry stuck his dollars on Hae Jong's pillow the same way he put paper in his typewriter at the office. The sound of his boots as he trudged away, the long honk of the car, the pop song by Mun Ju-Ran, the aroma of a salty croaker roasted on the fire, the Korean men in pajamas with toothbrushes in their mouths—through the narrow window up by the ceiling, Hae Jong had gazed over the fence of the American army base. The morning sunlight shone through the chain-link fence, casting shadows in ever-repeating shapes. Dollars—greenbacks with an image of ivy vines in a blue rainbow pattern, drawn as though powerfully and insidiously alive—that crisp, lofty paper money used to stare up imposingly at Hae Jong's naked figure from that filthy satin pillow.

“Why are they changing it?”

“What do you mean why?” the captain echoed her question.

“It'll only bring great confusion. And that won't be good for the American army, either.”

“The problem is embezzlement. We've been losing five hundred million dollars annually, and that's only the official figure. Just recently in Saigon we lost an entire container holding several tons of military currency with a face value in the tens of millions of dollars. The truth is, civilian businessmen and US soldiers are dumping the currency and then claiming theft to make arbitrary adjustments in freight receipts and invoices and to evade tax. We have intelligence suggesting that the amount of military currency circulating in the black market is close to a billion dollars. Now the war is reaching a new phase.”

“Then, the war will be ending?”

“I guess . . . when negotiations are concluded we may pull out of here.”

“That means packing up and leaving!”

“I can understand you, Mimi,” Mike said. “But you'd better not think about settling down in Vietnam. It's unfortunate for your major, though.”

“I can always go to a third country.”

“With the major? Do you love him?”

“Shut up.”

Hae Jong stubbed out her cigarette and got up.

“Madame Lin said she's got something for the three of us to discuss.”

“Us?”

“That's right. You, me, and Madame Lin.”

Lin already had taken off her gown and changed into silk pants and a T-shirt. She had prepared a table for drinking.

“Care for some cognac?”

“Not for me. I barely managed to sober up.” Mike hesitantly took a seat.

“The Viet Cong won't be back,” said Lin. “Without a drink, you'll be awake all night.”

“What the hell.”

The three clinked their glasses together.

“To our business,” said Madame Lin.

“What business?”

“Don't be coy,” said Hae Jong. “You're a finance officer, right? We'll gather up the old military currency and you can exchange it for us.”

“There's no rush,” added Madame Lin. “There's still plenty of time before daybreak.”

 

 

34

A crane was lifting crashed and burned vehicles and loading them onto a huge trailer. Even the unburned cars that had escaped direct grenade hits had broken glass and were perforated with holes from bullets and shrapnel. The whole parking lot had become a junkyard. All the windows of the Grand Hotel, not to mention the front doors, had been completely smashed, and the anti-tank mine had collapsed a great portion of the wall, leaving iron reinforcing bars protruding from hunks of cement like bones jutting from the carcass of a dead animal. The portions of the structure in danger of collapse had been propped up with iron pipes, but the hotel was clearly in need of full-scale repairs. The American administrative agents had been forced to vacate the building, each section moving to its own unit facilities elsewhere in the city.

The joint investigation headquarters decided to relocate for the
time
being at the MAC compound across from the White Elephant. This involved
the inconvenience of having to cross the river draining into Da Nang Bay in a navy ferry, or taking a lengthy detour over the smokestack
bridge.
The new makeshift HQ was a set of aluminum Quonsets, but at least they
were all air-conditioned and much safer since inside a military compound. The American soldiers grumbled about having to eat at the military mess instead of enjoying the buffet-style meals served at the Grand Hotel. They expected some disruption and disorganization in their duties for a while, as it seemed likely the repairs at the hotel would not be done for at least a month.

The American officers also planned to rent a safe house near the investigation office on Puohung Street, so that the staff on external assignment would have a place to stay downtown. The Korean detachment decided to find a place to downtown as well. The chief sergeant, off-duty as was usual for someone with only about ten days left before shipping back home, went out to look for a house and called the hotel to report he had found a suitable place. Ahn Yong Kyu instructed the other soldiers to pack for the move and then went out to the Dragon Palace Restaurant. The sergeant was alone in one of the inner rooms drinking beer.

“The captain said he'd be coming?”

“Yes, I just reported to him.”

“You're lucky to have found a house.”

“Hey, who do you think you're talking to? But this close to going home—how come I have to go out and do the legwork, searching for a place?”

The sergeant cast Yong Kyu a dirty look. “Knock it off, I know you've been out on a leisurely tour of the PXs. Where's the house, anyway?”

“I'm sure you know the place. It's where the lieutenant colonel and his family used to live . . .”

“Huh, I thought that was a special case. That haunted-looking house where the Hong Kong boys used to live, is that where you mean?”

“Heh, heh, it's the only place available where we can move in right away, and Pointer keeps on growling at me. Even a house like that is not easy to find around downtown. And the rent is cheap, too.”

“Have those bastards left Da Nang?”

“They're probably itching to grind you and the captain up and eat you. I heard they moved down to Saigon.”

The captain, wearing his uniform, stuck his head into the room. Standing astride the threshold, he said, “Why don't you come on out? Too much trouble to take off these boots. No customers outside here, anyway.”

The three men moved to a table by a window overlooking the street.

“So you've found a house?” the captain asked.

“He said it's the place where the Hong Kong gang used to live,” Yong Kyu said.

“But it's cheap, sir,” the sergeant quickly added. “Monthly rent is only two hundred dollars. How many of us all together? Six team members counting this kid and then you, Chief, and me, so eight total. Two big rooms and two small rooms, it's what we need, at least.”

“Hey,
I
know what's on your mind. Want to get ready to head home, don't you? Well, that house has a big enough storage space, so go ahead and fill it up.”

“You're killing me. You pounced on me when
I just
tried to sell a little beer. How much can I make by taking back
a few
lousy appliances and a couple of cartons of cigarettes, sir?”

“Enough of your whining. I'm glad you found a place. Last time I saw Lieutenant Colonel Pak, he and I drank a toast to peace and to send him off.”

“Did he really go to Saigon?” Yong Kyu asked.

“Pak went back home, but his brother-in-law and the Pig from Tsushima headed to Saigon. Da Nang is too small, and therefore inconvenient, that's what they said. Those bastards must've gulped down a fair amount.”

“I wonder how much they made . . .”

At this from Yong Kyu, the sergeant wanted to show off his inside knowledge and said, “At least fifty thousand each, easy.”

The captain took a notebook out of his pocket. “So much for that. We had a meeting today. Sergeant Ahn, when are you headed home?”

“Well, I don't know exactly, but my hitch here expires in the first part of September.”

“After you two leave, I'll have to spend a few months on my own here. I'm afraid you'll have to get separate lodgings until you head back. So much the better for you; that way you can work independently. One more thing, we've got no budget left. We're supposed to get our food from the rec center, but there's no time for that. Our living expenses are bound to go up with the rent for the house, wages for hiring contract workers, and so on. We'll pick up some Korean beer and sell it in the market, just enough to cover our detachment expenses. When the new chief sergeant arrives, turn the work over to him. And since they killed that police superintendent, Colonel Cao, our channel to the Vietnamese, has been cut off. That's something you, Sergeant, have to brief the replacement on. Lukas keeps trying indirectly to pick a fight with me. He mentioned Turen, saying they knew all about Sergeant Ahn and Toi's activities in Le Loi market.”

“Don't worry, sir. We know plenty about their dealings, too.”

“Krapensky was upset because he got another report from counterintelligence about NLF business transactions. You see, the black market is an area that can attract the attention of the top brass in the investigation headquarters. As soon as possible we have to submit a report feeding them some information about the NLF dealings in Da Nang, or at least something on their related movements. They're telling me the combat capability of the local guerrillas in the Da Nang-Hoi An area is double or triple what it was. The Americans are going to restructure all their information channels and tighten up their network. Don't get caught off guard.”

“Now that their support detachment has been separated and put on the MAC compound,” Yong Kyu quietly asked, “do we have to pass any of our own information to them? They don't give us any information at all.”

The captain nodded. “That's why you need a bit of military know-how.”

“I'm not quite sure yet, sir, but it's possible they may change the military currency, sir.”

The sergeant grabbed Yong Kyu's arm. “What? Are you sure? That'll ruin everything.”

“Wait a minute. Yes, I think they dropped a vague hint about that at the meeting today. That was it; the PX inventorying starts next week. Even though they said it'll just be a period of closure to do a thorough check of stocks . . .”

“There's no doubt they'll do it. I don't know the exact date yet, but it's in the air.”

“I'm in big trouble, now. Tomorrow I'll have to run around buying stuff.”

“Don't worry. If you don't mind losing a little, I can bring you dollars for your military currency.”

“Sergeant Ahn, you and Toi need to bring me just one case. I'll have to finger an NLF dealer or scare up a channel into their organization.”

“I'm returning home soon. If I interfere with their internal operations, they won't leave me alone.”

“But you can do it in late August or at the beginning of September, and then take off.”

“Why?”

“I'm afraid they may change the chief of the investigation team. Krapensky's term is almost finished. When the commander changes, I guess they'll do a review and evaluate our performances. Besides, we've got to get them to think of our territory as a fait accompli. That'll make it much easier for us to work.”

Yong Kyu thought for a while before responding. “I'll talk it over with Toi, sir.”

The captain ordered a special Korean dinner. Then, almost in passing, he said to Yong Kyu, “Wait, I almost forgot. What's her name, that woman they call Mimi, telephoned you. She wanted you to call her right away.”

“Who's this Mimi?” the sergeant interrupted.

“You know, Miss Oh Hae Jong, the one I got to know because of the C-ration case.”

“Oh, you mean that bitch who's shacked up with that Vietnamese bastard from the governor's office?” the sergeant said. “Why don't you coax her away?”

“I need her for business. She's no ordinary woman.”

“She's not ordinary at all,” the captain agreed. “There's
not a man
of power in Da Nang she doesn't know. I've given some thought to Major Pham's dealings over at the provincial office, and I'm planning to hand over some information on him to the US investigation team.”

“That'll cause a lot of trouble,” Yong Kyu said.

“Not for us, though. We've got to let them know we're not all scarecrows.”

Yong Kyu neither confirmed nor refuted the captain's remark, but merely said, sarcastically, “You have that memo thanks to me, so I suppose it should be used in some way. But don't use it at too cheap a price, sir. We don't know who'll be coming in to replace Krapensky, but it's not unlikely he'll push and pull too hard at first. But then, scared at the roots that become barer and barer, he might try to cover them up. By that time, it'll already have made a huge commotion.”

The captain shut his notebook and put it back in his pocket. Then he patted his pocket a couple of times.

“Neither the US Army nor the ARVN can ignore us now.”

Meanwhile, at the house in Son Tinh, Hae Jong was having lunch with Major Pham. He had been out with Nguyen Cuong to supervise the transport of the cinnamon collected between Ha Thanh and An Hoa. They were about to conclude some negotiations with a number of merchants in Da Nang. The price was not bad at all. Cinnamon from the jungle forests had always been a scarce commodity, and now that the highlands had been the site of fierce fighting for some five years, it was almost impossible to lay hands on any quantity of cinnamon. There were eager buyers from as far away as Taiwan, not to mention India and Singapore, and as many as you could wish for. They would stream into Da Nang with suitcases full of dollars.

That morning Pham Quyen had gone straight to the provincial office from the heliport and made a brief report to General Liam, adding that due to the business he would not be able to accompany the general on his trip to Saigon. The governor had told him there had been a change in schedule in any case, and that he should remain focused on the cinnamon operation. Pham Quyen was in a rather uplifted mood, partly at being back home after an extended absence, but mostly because the business was shaping up so profitably.

“How long are you planning to stay in Da Nang?” Hae Jong asked.

“I'll be here through the end of this week,” answered Pham Quyen, all smiles.

“You know something? I have good news. The Americans are changing their military currency.”

“Is that a fact? Whether they do or don't, it's of no concern to us. The payment for cinnamon will be made in good old greenbacks, or in gold, at international rates—that's the deal. Mr. Nguyen Cuong is the one with the exporter's license, and he'll execute all the business for us.

“Then you're a mere laborer out in that mosquito-infested jungle?”

“It's sort of a joint venture. The governor is the chairman, General Van Toan and I are executive directors, and Nguyen Cuong is, how shall I put it, the managing director?”

“Watch out for public opinion. I'm telling you, everybody knows what's going on.”

“Everybody? Who are they? There's nobody who dares to interfere with our work.”

Pham Quyen had a deep suntan and there was a growth of stubble on his chin, and he looked to be in better physical shape than when he had been on office duty. Instead of summoning the maid, Hae Jong went out herself to retrieve a bottle of wine she had put in the refrigerator to cool.

“Is there a moneychanger you know well?”

“It doesn't matter whether I know them or not. If I need to, I can make them listen to me.”

“I'm getting started with gathering up military currency. And in the last few days before the exchange deadline . . .”

Quyen immediately understood. “Has someone promised you help?”

“Yes.”

“An American?”

“Naturally. In the finance office.”

“Not bad.”

“It's better than that. If I handle it properly, we'll make a huge sum. Military currency that can't be officially exchanged is worse than wastepaper. You can exchange it at one-tenth—no, one-hundredth of the face value after the expiration date. Ten dollars go from being a thousand piasters to worth only ten piasters. Isn't that something? What's the rate now, honey?”

“One hundred twenty piasters to a dollar, maybe. But the black market rate demanded by moneychangers may be as high as five hundred piasters for a dollar—for greenbacks, that is. That's why the moneychangers from all over Southeast Asia are swarming this battle zone.”

Hae Jong's eyes sparkled. “Even with greenbacks, they're making no more than fivefold profits, and we'll be doing business that pays a hundredfold profits. Half of the gains will go to the American, but it'll still be a lot, won't it?”