Sacred Plunder

The Mercedes glided through Saigon’s crowded streets. The car radio announced Nixon’s first troop withdrawals while outside, Vietnamese teenagers listened to Creedence Clearwater Revival from a nearby café.

Mike watched a girl in a yellow áo dài glide through the crowd on a bicycle before disappearing around a corner. A man squatted beside a small charcoal brazier. The distinctive aroma of nước mắm simmering with lemongrass and chili—simultaneously sweet, salty, and funky—was unmistakably Saigon, its particular intensity amplified by the city’s humidity.

“Beautiful city, isn’t it?” Kane gestured at the passing architecture. “The colonials knew how to live. All that history, just waiting to be... preserved.”

The Mercedes turned onto a tree-lined avenue where high walls protected sprawling villas. Mike studied each compound they passed, automatically cataloging security measures—surveillance cameras disguised as decorative fixtures, guard positions, entry points. Kane’s operation demanded this vigilance, though Mike wondered how much longer he could maintain it. Every artifact passing through these walls represented another compromise, another step away from who he’d been.

Kane’s compound emerged behind wrought-iron gates. The colonial villa rose before them, its yellow walls glowing in the afternoon sun.

“We’re entertaining a client for a private viewing,” Kane said, arranging photos on polished teak. “Kovak’s picking him up at the airport. I want you to handle security inside.”

“This client from the States?”

“No, Europe. Swiss. Anton Richter. He’s already acquired some of my pieces at auction.” Kane handed Mike several snapshots.

Kane vanished into the villa, his loafers clicking against marble. “Wait for Richter. Bring him straight to the viewing room. No detours.”

Birds called from the garden. The villa existed in isolated quiet, shielded from Saigon’s noise by walls and wealth. Mike checked his watch. Kovak and Richter should arrive soon.

The black Mercedes sedan rolled up the driveway, tires crunching on the crushed stone. Mike tensed instinctively, scanning for threats as he positioned himself near the villa’s entrance. The sleek vehicle came to a stop.

Bernie Kovak unfolded his bulk from the driver’s seat, his crooked nose and broad shoulders unmistakable even from a distance. He adjusted his tie before circling to the rear passenger door.

The rear door swung open, and an elderly man emerged, tall and dignified despite his years. His silver hair caught the afternoon light. This had to be Anton Richter, wearing a bespoke suit that whispered European wealth. His blue eyes coldly scanned the area, missing nothing.

A younger man stepped out of the limousine carrying a leather attaché case. Kovak walked two steps behind them, maintaining a respectful distance while staying close enough to intervene if needed.

“Herr Richter,” Kane said. “Welcome back to Saigon.”

Mike stood at the villa’s entryway, scanning the perimeter. The atmosphere shifted as Richter and his companion followed Kane deeper into the house. Bernie Kovak lingered, his massive frame blocking the doorway. The enforcer’s eyes analyzed Mike with cold calculation.

“So you’re Kane’s new golden boy,” Kovak said, voice like gravel. His eyes flicked over Mike’s stance, assessing weak points with the calculation of someone who’d broken his share of bones.

“Navy,” Mike corrected, keeping his tone neutral while maintaining eye contact.

Kovak snorted. “Kane thinks you’re something special. I don’t see it.”

Mike held his ground, neither advancing nor retreating. “Not looking for your approval, Kovak.”

“These fancy clients come and go,” Kovak said, gesturing toward the villa. “I’m the one who handles problems.” He tapped Mike’s chest with a thick finger. “And I decide what constitutes a problem.”

Mike moved Kovak’s hand away with deliberate slowness. “Touch me again, and you’ll have a problem of your own.”

A dangerous smile spread across Kovak’s face. “We’ll have our moment, McCall. Count on it.”

Mike entered the foyer, closing the door behind him. He stood in the gallery doorway, observing the exchange between Kane and Richter. The old man’s posture revealed military training—how he held himself, shoulders squared, chin slightly raised. Mike had seen it countless times in career officers.

“Can I offer you gentlemen something to drink?” Kane gestured toward a lacquered bar cart. “I have an excellent scotch, or perhaps something cooler in this heat?”

Richter’s blue eyes narrowed slightly. “Thank you. However, I prefer to examine the merchandise without delay.” His Germanic accent was softened by decades elsewhere. “Time is valuable, as are the pieces I’ve traveled to see.”

Kane’s smile tightened momentarily. Mike recognized the subtle shift. Kane was accustomed to controlling the pace of these transactions.

“Of course, Herr Richter. Direct as always.” Kane nodded toward Mike. “This is McCall, my security specialist. He’ll be with us during the viewing.”

Richter barely glanced at Mike. The younger man, Dietmar, clutched his attaché case tighter, his eyes darting nervously around the room.

“Then let us proceed,” Richter said, checking his watch.

Kane led them toward the back of the villa. Mike followed, keeping a few paces behind. He noted how Kovak positioned himself—always maintaining sight lines to both entrances while staying close to Richter.

The viewing room awaited at the end of a long hallway, its heavy wooden door ajar. Mike could see display cases inside, illuminated by carefully positioned lights that made gold and gemstones gleam against black velvet.

“Your collection continues to impress, Joseph,” Richter said. His gaze evaluated and dismissed Mike in seconds.

Mike knew the type. The man’s bearing, his assessing glance—someone who had wielded authority and expected deference. Something in Richter reminded Mike of officers he’d known—men accustomed to unquestioned obedience.

Richter approached a stone Buddha, examining it with the careful attention of a connoisseur. His manicured fingers hovered just above the surface without touching.

“This artifact contains the devotion of its creators,” Richter said, his voice reverent yet clinical. “Their essence remains untouched by our... transaction.”

“Early thirteenth,” Kane said. “From a temple near the Laotian border.”

Mike watched Richter nod appreciatively, wondering what dark history lay behind those glacier-cold eyes. The man’s sophisticated veneer was flawless, but Mike sensed something calculated and dangerous underneath.

Mike stood near the entrance, watching Richter examine a bronze scepter with jeweler-like precision. The collector’s hands trembled over it, contrasting with his sharp, alert eyes.

“Exquisite Khmer varja,” Richter said. “Like a thunderbolt, it captures the elegance of destruction, a duality not lost on those who’ve studied its history.”

“You have a remarkable eye, Anton. Most would miss the distinctive Khmer influence.”

Mike shifted position near the window, maintaining sight lines of both the entrance and Richter’s inspection. While the collector examined a jade Buddha, Mike got his opening. His fingers brushed the Minox camera, no larger than a cigarette lighter.

He raised the camera, disguising the motion as scratching his neck. The near-silent click captured the first shot, inaudible over Richter’s murmurs. The film advanced automatically. A bronze ceremonial vessel. Click. Ancient scrolls on velvet. Click. The golden Buddha that mirrored his own. Click.

The AC unit sputtered into silence. Mike’s shirt clung to his back as the temperature rose. Kane’s study had transformed from a refined gallery to a pressure cooker, the artifacts watching like silent witnesses.

Kane gestured Richter and Dietmar closer to an ornate piece. Mike’s pulse quickened. The three men clustered together—the perfect shot. He raised the camera again.

Their profiles were clear against the backdrop of stolen history. Click. Richter leaned in, his glasses catching the light. Click. Each shutter press captured evidence of their operation.

Mike’s breath caught as Kane turned unexpectedly, gesturing toward the gallery entrance. He slid the Minox back into his pocket.

“McCall, would you adjust that ceiling fan? It’s blowing the document around.”

Mike nodded and moved toward the brass fan. The tiny camera slipped from his pocket as he reached and fell toward the floor. His hand darted out, catching it just before impact.

Richter glanced over. “Quick reflexes.”

Mike pocketed the camera and pulled the fan’s chain. “Force of habit. I drop my lighter at least once a day.”

Richter laughed, easing the tension. “Now, Joseph, tell me more about this ceremonial mask.”

Kane hesitated, then returned to his client. “Fourteenth century, from a temple near the Cambodian border...”

Mike took his position by the window, struggling to steady his breathing. The camera felt like a live grenade in his pocket, his cover and life hanging in the balance.

“Art is, after all, a commodity,” Richter said, straightening with military precision. “The more exquisite the piece, the more it fetches—a lesson learned from the ashes of history.”

As Richter and Dietmar engaged in German conversation about the artifacts, Dietmar scribbled figures in a leatherbound notebook.

Mike watched the exchange, maintaining an impassive expression despite the unfolding duplicity, his military training serving him well.

“Documentation is crucial,” Richter said, tracing a ceremonial bowl. “Essential to protect my interests. Even respectable collectors face scrutiny.”

Kane retrieved a leather portfolio. “Each piece has written provenance, tracing ownership through legitimate channels.”

Their shared smile made Mike’s stomach turn. He recognized that look—the quiet understanding between conspirators. These forged papers would transform looted treasures into legitimate acquisitions, allowing cross-border movement.

Dietmar removed customs forms from his attaché case, his hands trembling as he arranged them. Richter and Kane continued their deceptive performance, examining papers with exaggerated thoroughness.

“Everything appears in order,” Richter said, cold eyes crinkling with satisfaction. “The documentation will satisfy even the most thorough inspection.”

Kane nodded, his expression calculating. “I take pride in providing comprehensive service.”

“Dietmar and I will review the possibilities at our hotel. Can we meet again tomorrow?”

“Of course. Mike will drive you to your hotel.”

Dietmar gathered his papers into the leather portfolio.

“Danke.” Richter nodded to Kane. “Until tomorrow then.”

Mike led them to the waiting Mercedes. He saw the portfolio’s contents—columns of numbers and sketches of artifacts.

The streets were clogged with traffic. Scooters wove between cars while cyclos carried tourists past colonial buildings. Mike navigated through the chaos, watching his passengers in the rearview mirror as they continued their German conversation.

The Continental Palace came into view, its yellow facade and wrought-iron balconies a reminder of French influence. Mike pulled under the covered entrance, where a doorman stepped forward.

* * *

After dropping off Richter and Dietmar at the Continental, Mike drove down Tu Do Street and parked near the market. He walked through the afternoon bustle, past stalls overflowing with fresh produce. His khakis and button-down helped him blend with businessmen and government workers heading home.

“Hey GI, you buy something?” A vendor thrust mangoes toward him.

Mike shook his head and kept walking. The scent of grilled pork and fish sauce drifted from food carts, mixing with motorcycle exhaust fumes.

He cut through a narrow alley, emerging onto Le Loi Boulevard. A group of schoolgirls in white ao dais crossed his path. Mike waited for them to pass before continuing toward the river.

The closer he got to the waterfront, the more the architecture changed. Modern concrete structures gave way to weathered wooden buildings. Dock workers hauled cargo while sampans bobbed at their moorings.

Mike reached the river’s edge. Below, muddy waters churned past, carrying debris and palm fronds. He bought yesterday’s Stars and Stripes at a newspaper stand.

A sampan drifted by, the woman’s cone hat bobbing as she guided her craft. Mike folded the paper under his arm and continued walking, passing food vendors whose charcoal fires sent fragrant smoke into the air.

Mike approached the lamppost, cigarette between his lips. Twenty yards ahead, a black sedan slowed to a crawl, its tinted windows revealing nothing. He paused, pretending to struggle with his lighter while tracking the car from his peripheral vision. Kane had connections throughout Saigon—police, military, and intelligence networks. The wrong eyes at the wrong moment could mean a bullet or a prison cell.

The sedan accelerated and turned at the next corner. Mike exhaled, smoke curling around his face. His fingers found the film canister inside his crumpled Lucky Strike pack. A cyclo driver pedaled past, his passenger hidden beneath a parasol.

Mike dropped his cigarette, crushing it beneath his shoe. In the same motion, he slipped the film canister into a crack at the base of the lamppost.

He walked to a corner where old women sold fresh baguettes. Mike bought one, breaking off pieces as he strolled back the way he came.

The film was gone when he passed the lamppost fifteen minutes later. Only a fresh cigarette butt remained—Dunhill, not his Lucky Strike—signaling successful retrieval.

Mike tossed the remaining baguette to street children and turned toward the market. He needed to report to Kane before suspicion grew. The film was safely on its way to Dani, but the same black sedan cruised by as he stepped into the street. A passenger watched him through mirrored sunglasses.

Mike knew he was being watched when the black sedan made its third pass. The first could have been coincidence, the second suspicious, but the third confirmed it. The car moved with purpose through the crowded street, maintaining perfect position.

He entered a café without hurrying, ordering tea he didn’t want. Through the window, he spotted the sedan parked opposite, engine running. A Vietnamese man in a light suit emerged—average height, close-cropped hair, military bearing. He adjusted his mirrored sunglasses and leaned against the car, lighting a cigarette—the same brand left at the drop site.

Mike stirred his tea, his movements casual and unhurried. The man never looked directly at the café but positioned himself to view both exits. Mike recognized the technique from his training—maintaining visual contact without appearing to observe.

When Mike left through the side door, the man spoke into what appeared to be a concealed radio. Within moments, a second man appeared, pretending to read a newspaper while tracking Mike’s movements.

These weren’t random thugs. They moved with the economy of trained operatives, maintaining precise distances and using subtle signals. They had military training, possibly South Vietnamese intelligence or the National Police.

Most troubling was the timing. They’d appeared right after his drop. Either they’d followed him all day—suggesting he’d slipped somewhere—or someone knew about the lamppost. Both possibilities meant danger.

The suited man no longer hid his presence. When their eyes met, he nodded slightly—an acknowledgment between professionals. He wanted Mike to know he was watching.

Mike resisted reaching for his concealed pistol. Drawing attention would only confirm suspicions. He nodded casually and hailed a taxi, fighting to stay calm. The game had turned deadlier, with roles of hunter and prey uncertain.