Xuan was about to turn off the TV when the newsman announced that the FBI had joined the search for kidnapped singer Li Frye. The agent-in-charge was Albert Wiggins, a blandly handsome man of about forty, who said that finding gang leader Eddie Vo was of foremost importance. He held up a picture of Eddie: big smile, thin neck, a swirl of hair. He pleaded for community involvement. For a moment they all stood, watching in silence.
“Eddie Vo,” said Xuan, “could not do this alone. It is beyond his capacity. He could have been used — he writes her love letters, he is improper — but he takes his boys and storms the Asian Wind like a commando? Your FBI is naïve.”
“It is impossible,” said Nha.
“He is a performer,” said Xuan. “He behaves like a scene from MTV. Our young people, they are so eager to imitate the worst in your society.”
Nha turned off the set at the next commercial. “They’ll find him. Eddie Vo can’t stay invisible for very long. Not in Little Saigon. He will talk. We will be one step closer to Li.”
Frye nodded. “If Eddie didn’t set this up, who did?”
Xuan eyed him placidly. “Enemies of freedom.”
“Enemies of the shipments you make from the Lower Mojave Airstrip?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
“Why?”
Xuan looked at Frye through his thick glasses, then stood. “Please come with me to my study. Nha, help your mother.”
Frye followed Xuan down the hallway and into a small den. For the first time, Frye noticed that he walked with a slight limp. Xuan shut the door behind them. There was a desk and reading lamp, a sofa, a bookshelf, and a large map of southeast Asia on one wall.
“Some things are best discussed in private, Chuck.”
“I understand.”
Xuan smiled. “When did the war end?”
“ ‘Seventy-five.”
“Then you really don’t understand at all.”
Xuan stooped in front of a tall gray safe and dialed the combination. The door opened with a squeak. He squatted, reached in with both hands and removed a wooden board. He leaned it against the blotter on his desk. Frye looked at a second map of Southeast Asia, dotted with colored pins — blue, red, yellow.
“For many, Chuck, the war still goes on. There are freedom fighters in Vietnam, there are resistance leaders in Kampuchea, there are many refugees here in the United States, working for the day they can liberate Vietnam. The war is not over. Not until they accomplish their goal.”
Frye sat down. Xuan pointed at his map. “The yellow pins are pockets of resistance. The blue are actual locations of the Secret Army. The red show the areas in which Colonel Thach is most active. You have heard of him?”
“I saw a picture of his face.”
“He is an enforcer of state security, a brutal and clever man. He fought in the jungles during the war, and he continues. Do you know what he does to suspected resistance leaders? He decapitates them and places their heads on stakes for the local people to see. During the war, he did the same thing to those sympathetic to the West.”
Xuan, his arms crossed, looked at the map as if it might offer some new discovery. “But what are colored pins on a map? What we cannot show is that Colonel Thach’s influence reaches far into Kampuchea and Thailand — that he is feared and hated throughout Southeast Asia. When the Vietnam resistance became active in Paris, two of our leaders were murdered. In Australia, two more. Last year in San Francisco, a patriot was found slaughtered in his car. His name was Tranh Hoa, and he was a deep friend to me. We grew up together outside Saigon. He was closer to me than a brother. These are unsolved crimes, Chuck. No one was caught. They were organized by Colonel Thach. He was kind enough to remove the heads of his victims. It was the same as signing his name.”
Xuan brought an envelope from the safe, sat down beside Frye, removed his glasses, and wiped them with a handkerchief.
Then he pulled out a small collection of newspaper clippings. An article from Melbourne told of the grisly discovery in some detail; Le Monde carried a picture of one victim before his death; the San Francisco Chronicle piece was surprisingly small, considering the horror of the crime.
“Do not look for the name Colonel Thach,” said Xuan. “To connect him is beyond the authorities. His men are well-trained and financed.”
“Would he send his men to Little Saigon?”
“That is my belief.”
“To take Li and choke the supply line to Vietnam?”
Xuan nodded. “It is not terribly complicated, when one looks at it from this angle.”
“But why send his men to California when she goes into Vietnam — with the supplies?”
Xuan nodded. “Colonel Thach is out to crush the resistance, Chuck. To do that, one must crush the spirit of freedom. When terror reaches into Little Saigon, Hanoi is achieving its goal. Consider this from Colonel Thach’s perspective. Here is Li Frye, a beautiful and talented singer. A woman who has the hearts of the refugees. A woman who dresses in fine Western clothes, who wears jewels and perfume. A woman married to an influential businessman. Thach imagines them going to lavish parties together. He imagines them being written about, photographed. He sees her walking in the shoes of privilege. What greater statement of power than to tear her from her own home?” Xuan leaned forward, put out his hands, and slowly clenched his fists. “What greater power than to crush her in front of her people? And remember, Li grew up in the jungle. She is popular in the countryside and difficult to catch. One of the sad realities of your free society, Chuck, is that people are easier to kidnap or assassinate. Look to history for proof.”
Frye considered. Slowly, what Tuy Xuan was saying began to sink into him. “If it was Thach’s men — then Li will be... she’s... dead.”
“We are prepared for that possibility, but no, that is not certain. I believe Thach’s men will always sign his name. They want us to know that they will pursue us to the ends of the earth. That Li has not been heard from is, in a way, positive news. It means that they have... other plans for her.”
“Like what?”
Xuan folded the clippings back into the envelope. “I cannot guess, Chuck.”
“But why? You send supplies, medical stuff, arms and legs. Why send killers thousands of miles to stop that?”
“What we send is not the point. You don’t understand the tactics of the Hanoi government, or the methods of Colonel Thach. More important than the supplies is Li herself. Her music. Her stature and reputation. She is a symbol of freedom, Chuck. To remove her is to remove hope. Imagine the heaviness of heart, when innocence and hope are destroyed. When our leaders in Paris were murdered, the community shrank back in fear. Afraid to show their faces. What breaks the will of a people faster — to have their soldiers killed, or their towns and cities ruined?”
Frye considered. “Have you gone to the police, the FBI?”
Xuan nodded and pointed out the window to the sky. “To them, mine are the theories of an old man. They think my head is in the clouds. Besides, what evidence can I provide, except for what I’ve told you? None. They are doing what they can do to find local men who may have helped. But the true instigator is many layers, many thousands of miles away right now.”