Sacred Plunder

Jane Wade had spent three years chasing the truth in Vietnam, but she thought that this story about artifacts and CIA connections could be a home run.

She settled into the back row of the JUSPAO briefing room, where cigarette smoke hung beneath fluorescent lights. The “Five O’Clock Follies”—the press corps’ nickname for the daily military briefings—had become a theater of absurd optimism.

Military officers stood beside maps dotted with “pacified” villages. Network correspondents occupied the front row, newspaper veterans the middle, while independents and wire reporters like Jane positioned themselves for quick exits.

Jane shifted in her seat, scribbling notes as Colonel Wilson took the podium. She’d nicknamed him Colonel Marbles for the peculiar way he rolled a glass marble between his fingers during briefings—a nervous tic contradicting his confident delivery.

“Gentlemen—and ladies,” he nodded toward Jane and the other woman present. “Today, I’m pleased to report significant progress in the Mekong Delta.”

The projector displayed charts of enemy casualties alongside minimal American losses. Jane caught Sam Harrison’s eye across the room, their shared skepticism requiring no words.

“Two hundred Viet Cong killed in Cao Lanh district alone,” Marbles announced.

Jane scribbled: 200 VC, only 20 weapons recovered. The math doesn’t add up.

When questions opened, Jane raised her hand. “Colonel, can you explain the discrepancy between two hundred casualties reported and only twenty weapons recovered?”

Jane watched as the colonel’s jaw tightened at her question. His fingers closed around the marble, knuckles whitening. “Miss Wade, as I’ve explained, enemy combatants often retrieve weapons from their fallen before retreating.”

Before Jane could press further, Peter Arnett from AP cleared his throat from the second row. “I’d like to follow up on Miss Wade’s question, if I may.”

Jane turned slightly, catching Arnett’s eye.

“The colonel’s explanation would account for some missing weapons,” Arnett continued, his New Zealand accent cutting through the room’s tension, “but certainly not a nine-to-one ratio. I’ve seen the same pattern in three separate operation reports this month.”

Colonel Wilson removed his glasses, polishing them with deliberate slowness. “Gentlemen, we report the numbers as they come in from the field. If you have specific concerns about methodology…”

“I think that’s precisely what we’re asking about, Colonel,” Arnett interrupted, his tone remaining professional but unyielding. “The methodology.”

Jane caught Sam Harrison suppressing a smile from across the aisle. The room’s dynamic had shifted—what might have been dismissed as Jane being difficult was now a legitimate line of questioning pursued by one of the most respected journalists in Vietnam.

“Next question,”

Jane closed her notebook and slipped out. She had what she needed—not from what was said but what wasn’t.

The heat hit her as she stepped outside. Saigon’s chaos engulfed her—cyclos weaving through traffic, vendors calling their wares, motorbikes droning. Jane adjusted her bag, feeling the weight of her camera and recorder. Her antiquities trafficking story needed more—documents, photographs, something concrete.

The Continental Hotel rose before her, its faded colonial grandeur a testament to a bygone era. The rooftop bar had become the press corps’ unofficial headquarters, where information and rumors flowed as freely as the gin.

* * *

The worn marble stairs to the Continental’s rooftop felt familiar beneath Jane’s feet. Unlike sterile hotel bars favored by military brass, the Continental’s terrace remained open to Saigon’s elements—heat, noise, and the undiluted reality of the war.

Jane nodded to Binh, the ancient Vietnamese bartender who began preparing her gin and tonic without being asked. After two years in Saigon, such small recognitions felt like victory.

Journalists observed Saigon’s daily theater: ARVN officers strutting in pressed uniforms, black market vendors hustling American goods, and embassy staff rushing between meetings.

“Your drink, Miss Wade,” Binh said, placing her glass on a napkin with the hotel’s faded crest.

“Cảm ơn,” she replied in Vietnamese, noting the flicker of appreciation in his eyes.

Jane sat at a large round table occupied by journalists. Tom Fletcher from The New York Times held court, surrounded by newer correspondents hanging on his world-weary observations.

Sam Harrison from Reuters slid into the seat beside her, his notebook conspicuously absent. “That refugee camp piece was damn good reporting,” said Donovan from AP, eyes glassy from scotch. “Don’t know how you got those interviews.”

After two years of proving herself to men who’d first dismissed her as a secretary with a press pass, she’d earned their grudging respect.

“Maybe they just liked her legs better than yours, Don,” someone called, triggering laughter.

Jane forced a smile. Sam caught her expression and frowned.

“It’s because I don’t show up with armed Marines and military interpreters,” Jane replied. “People open up when they’re not terrified.”

Sam leaned closer. “Heard your piece on antiquities trafficking got spiked.”

“Still working on it,” she said. “Need more than rumors before we print.”

“Smart,” Sam nodded. “When you get something solid, I’d like to see it. Might have something to add.”

“You seem to know something about this,” Jane probed.

“Museum pieces disappearing, temples stripped overnight.” He glanced around. “Talk to Nguyen Lon Cao at Customs. He might have shipping manifests.”

“Why are you helping me with this?” Jane asked quietly, turning her glass slowly.

Sam’s eyes darted around the terrace before he leaned closer. “Before Reuters, I covered the art world in London. Specialized in tracking looted Nazi art being ‘rediscovered’ in private collections.” His British accent became more pronounced when he spoke of home. “Same patterns here—cultural heritage vanishing during chaos, only to reappear in wealthy collectors’ homes years later.”

The personal connection explained Sam’s interest, but Jane sensed there was more.

“I’ve been investigating for months,” Sam admitted. “But Reuters won’t touch the antiquities story without concrete evidence linking it to official channels. Too politically sensitive.”

“And you think I might get that evidence?” Jane asked.

“You’ve got the contacts I don’t. Vietnamese trust you more than most of us.” He nodded toward her notebook. “And you’re stubborn enough to follow through when others would back off.”

Jane couldn’t argue with that assessment.

“I’ll let Cao know you’ll be contacting him,” Sam said

Jane scribbled Cao’s number. “I owe you a drink.”

“Just credit me when you break the story.” He hesitated. “Be careful with this one.”

Tom Fletcher approached, three hours into drinking, professional detachment slipping. “Let me get you another drink. Your career’s finally taking off.”

His flushed cheeks and unfocused gaze revealed the war’s toll—visible in his perpetual tension and nicotine-stained fingers.

“I read your refugee piece,” Tom said. It reminds me of why I got into this business before.” He gestured vaguely at the city below.

“Before what?” Jane prompted.

“Before I realized we’re just stenographers for the official narrative.” He emptied his glass. “Three years ago, I would’ve chased that antiquities story. Now I wonder why I bother.”

As dusk settled, Jane moved to the terrace edge, watching military jeeps push through evening traffic. Somewhere in those streets, ancient treasures were being smuggled. Kane’s operation was out there.

She sensed Tom’s approach before he spoke.

“Let me walk you home,” he slurred. “Streets aren’t safe for a woman alone.”

“I’ve navigated war zones for three years, Tom.”

His hand closed around her wrist. “Everyone knows how women get their stories in this town.”

Jane twisted free. “Let go of me. Now.”

Their eyes met—hers steady, his clouded with alcohol and desperation.

Tom retreated with a dismissive wave. “Your loss,” he muttered.

Jane watched him go. Tomorrow, they would nod professionally across the briefing room, the moment buried beneath the daily business of documenting a war.

She gathered her notebook and camera. The antiquities lead felt promising. Tomorrow, she would follow it, regardless of obstacles.

* * *

Jane woke to sunlight piercing through thin curtains, her head throbbing. “Damn gin,” she muttered, recalling fragments from yesterday—Sam’s tip about the customs officer, Tom’s advances, the promise of a breakthrough.

The clock read 9:17. Her interview with Triet, the museum curator, was at 10:30.

In the bathroom mirror, Jane saw exhaustion—dark circles beneath her eyes, skin sallow in harsh light. She’d been pushing too hard, chasing leads that evaporated. But this antiquities story felt different. If she could document Vietnam’s cultural heritage being looted through official channels using American military resources, that was a story no editor could ignore.

She wore her journalism uniform: navy skirt, white blouse, sensible shoes. Jane gathered her equipment—recorder, notebook, camera, press credentials—and drank black coffee while reviewing her notes. Triet had evidence of systematic artifact theft from national collections, which could be the concrete proof she needed if his information was solid.

Something about this meeting felt consequential. Jane remembered Sam’s warning and tucked her small tear gas canister into her handbag alongside her notebook.

The marketplace stretched across several blocks. Jane paid her cyclo driver and moved through the crowd, instinctively scanning for threats. As she passed a fruit stand, Jane noticed a black sedan crawling along the street parallel to her path. The same vehicle she’d spotted outside her apartment building that morning. Coincidence, perhaps, but her instincts prickled. She ducked down a narrow alley between two shops, emerging on a different street.

The tea stand sat wedged between vendors, nearly invisible. Jane spotted Triet—thin shoulders curved inward, angular face lined with worry, fingers adjusting his glasses. His white shirt and dark pants showed signs of careful mending.

“Mr. Triet?” she asked quietly, sliding onto the stool beside him.

“Miss Wade. I thought it better to meet somewhere... public.” His eyes darted nervously.

“Do you have what we discussed?”

Triet studied her face, then slid a folded paper across the table. “This is the inventory—artifacts taken from three temples in the last month. Dates, locations, values.”

Jane scanned the inventory list, spotting the methodical organization that only a dedicated curator would maintain. Each item was meticulously cataloged with its dynasty period, estimated age, and cultural significance. The paper trembled as she realized the scale of what she was looking at.

“This Vishnu statue—tenth century, from Preah Vihear—” Jane whispered, tapping her finger on the entry. It was removed three weeks ago for ‘restoration work’ but never reached the conservation facility.”

Triet nodded grimly. “One of our most significant pieces. Pure sandstone, nearly intact despite its age. The carving showed Vishnu mounted on Garuda—very rare.”

Jane continued reading, her stomach tightening. “And this collection of bronze ritual vessels from the Khmer period—twenty-seven pieces, all disappeared on the same night?” She looked up at Triet. “How is this possible without anyone noticing?”

“Official papers. Military trucks.” Triet’s voice dropped lower. “The guards are told it is for safekeeping, to protect from Viet Cong. But I track where these items go. They do not arrive at government warehouses.”

Jane noticed a pattern in the dates. The largest removals coincided with American military operations in the area—perfect cover for moving large objects without scrutiny. The estimated values in the right column made her breath catch: millions of dollars walking out the door disguised as routine transfers.

“Who signs these removal orders?” Jane asked.

Jane sensed the motorcycles before seeing them. Two riders cut purposefully through the crowd, faces covered with handkerchiefs.

“Get down!” she shouted, pulling Triet behind hanging fabrics.

The first rider passed, reaching for Triet’s satchel—they wanted the documents.

“The evidence!” Triet clutched his bag tighter.

Jane pulled him deeper into the stalls. “This way!”

The motorcycles converged. The first rider slammed into Triet. His thin body crumpled, and the satchel flew from his grasp. The second rider snatched it.

“No!” Jane lunged, her fingertips grazing leather before it vanished. She pushed herself up, ignoring her scraped elbow and torn skirt.

“Triet!” She rushed to his side, pressing her handkerchief against the wound on his head. “Someone get help!”

His eyes fluttered open briefly. “They knew,” he whispered, blood bubbling at his mouth.

Before she could ask more, his eyes closed as police whistles pierced the commotion.

* * *

Jane sat in the hospital’s hard plastic chair, her notebook untouched. The antiseptic smell contrasted sharply with the market’s spices and fruit. After the attack’s chaos, the institutional quiet felt surreal.

Three hours had passed since they’d brought Triet in. His blood had dried brown on her skirt where she’d knelt beside him. Through the treatment room window, she could see his face, ashen against white sheets, a bandage wrapped around his head, tubes connecting him to beeping machines.

The satchel with his documentation was gone. Jane clutched her notebook, where the single inventory page she’d saved was now their only evidence.

They knew. The attack’s precision, the satchel’s targeting—someone knew exactly what Triet was sharing.

The timing was too perfect. Yesterday, she’d called Kane’s office requesting an interview. Today, Triet was attacked before he could share detailed documentation about missing artifacts.

She remembered how Kane casually mentioned knowing which stories she was working on. At the time, she attributed it to Saigon’s rumor mill, but now it felt like surveillance.

Jane glanced toward Triet’s room, where he lay unconscious. The attack wasn’t random. Kane had somehow learned about their meeting and sent those men to retrieve the evidence before it reached her hands.

A doctor emerged from Triet’s room. “Miss Wade? Mr. Triet is stabilized, but the head trauma is severe. We’ve induced a coma to reduce brain swelling.”

Just hours ago, Triet had been passionate about his country’s stolen heritage. Now, he lies silent, the truths he carries fading away.

“When will he wake up?” she asked.

“If he wakes up,” the doctor corrected, “it could be days or weeks.”

“There’s nothing more you can do here tonight,” the doctor said.

As Jane stepped outside into the gathering dusk, something hardened within her. The attack confirmed she was onto something significant. Someone had gone to considerable lengths to silence Triet and destroy his evidence.

Someone powerful didn’t want this story told.

Which means I’m telling it, Jane thought with renewed determination. She still had Triet’s inventory page and Sam’s lead at customs. It wasn’t much, but she’d built stories from less.

The Saigon sunset painted the city gold as Jane descended the hospital steps. Tomorrow would bring more dangers, but tonight, she had a story to piece together—not just for her career but also for Triet and the culture fighting to preserve its soul.

Her destination was forming—Le Mistral, where Red’s saxophone would play and Mike might be waiting with his steady presence. She needed allies now. Kane’s operation was finally taking shape, and Jane was determined to bring it into the light, no matter the cost.