I took to Quang at once when I went to see him on the Monday evening. He was a typical Vietnamese political intellectual: a tall, thin man in glasses with an intelligent face and a gentle manner, very sharp, very knowledgeable. How practical was another matter. He received me courteously in the sitting room of his flat, on the third floor of a neat apartment block in Bankstown. The room was littered with books and papers, on the chairs, the floor, on every available surface, and the personal computer on a corner of his dining table looked like it received heavy use.
‘Jack tells me you were with your embassy in Saigon,’ he began. He spoke good English, in the staccato, sing-song rhythms of a northerner, with a noticeable French accent.
I gave him a sanitised resume of my career.
‘But you’re interested in the Vietnamese community, he says. Doing research for a client.’
‘That’s right.’ I had tried to work up a better cover story to explain the detailed probing that I would have to do from now on, but I couldn’t think of anything that sounded convincing. It was probably time to come out with the truth. But first I had some questions of my own.
‘I understand that you worked for the new government in Saigon, after 1975,’ I asked.
His eyes glinted with amusement behind the glasses.
‘And you want to know if I’m still working for them. Rest assured, Mr Quinn, I’m not. I’ve never been a communist. I worked for them because they asked me to, and I thought I could do something for Vietnam. I quit when I saw the way they were ruining the country.’
‘What were you doing for them? Please call me Paul.’
‘I worked for the Ho Chi Minh City People’s Committee, as they’ve renamed Saigon. As an economics planner. Have you heard of a man called Dang van Loc?
‘Is he the one who’s coming soon to Australia?’ That was the name Jack had mentioned.
‘That’s him. He’s now Deputy Premier in Hanoi. Then he was vice-chairman of the HCMC Committee – a kind of deputy mayor. I worked for him for about a year and a half after 1975. Before that I was with the Bank of Vietnam. He’s a good man. We could have done some good things together. But he didn’t call the shots, and he was overruled when the doctrinaires from the north took over. He’s a southerner himself, from Ben Tre. Have you ever been there, Mr Paul?’
‘No. It’s near the mouth of the Mekong, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Under communist control for most of the war, even under the French. He’s a real revolutionary, from the earliest days. And yet he helped me escape.’
‘From Vietnam?’
He nodded.
‘Surprising, isn’t it! But there are many surprises in Vietnam, even under the communists. Loc’s an intelligent man. He could see it wasn’t working. So he sent me abroad, on an official mission. To France, and then here. I came here to ask for aid, Mr Paul. I asked for asylum instead. Your government was kind enough to give it to me.’
He smiled with gentle irony, clearly enjoying himself.
‘I still keep in touch with him from time to time. Indirectly, through friends. He’s a moderate, in communist terms. If Vietnam is to get out of the mess it’s in it can only be done with people like him. Not by trying to overthrow them, as those hotheads in the Vietnamese community here keep saying.’
‘Jack mentioned you’d received some death threats.’
He gave a derisive laugh.
‘They seem to think anyone who doesn’t hate the communists is a traitor. But they’re dinosaurs, Mr Paul. They live in the past.’
He seemed to like calling me that. Maybe it was his sense of humour.
‘All they can think of is restoring the old order. As if they had any hope! No, the only way forward is through compromise, and evolution. We need to install a multi-party system in Vietnam, a genuinely democratic society, but we can only do it with the help of the communists themselves. So we have to come to terms with them. Otherwise we’ll just keep going in the same cycle of hate and conflict, and nothing will ever change …’
There was a messianic light in his eye, and I headed him off before he launched into a lecture. I’d met people like him before, in Saigon and later among the refugees, idealists who thought they could hold back the tide, somehow appeal to people’s better nature, or who wanted to play the part of conciliator, and ended up getting caught in the middle, and crushed, like Hao’s father. I wished him better luck.
But that wasn’t why I was there, and I decided to trust him. After all he had taken me on trust himself, on Jack’s recommendation.
‘I’m interested in one particular group in the Vietnamese community,’ I said. ‘But I know very little about it.’
‘May I ask the nature of your interest?’
‘Yes. But if you don’t mind I’d like to keep it between us. I didn’t tell Jack the real story.’
He gave me a searching look, then nodded. ‘Rest assured, anything you tell me will be in strict confidence. I expect the same in return.’
‘Of course.’
I gave him a brief version of the truth, keeping Hao and Eric’s names out of it. I spoke of a friend, who had a young relative who was involved in that group, and who was concerned about it. He asked if my friend was Vietnamese. I said yes, but assured him it was someone I trusted fully, and I hadn’t told my friend about our meeting. He accepted this.
‘Do you know a man called Vo Khanh?’ I asked. ‘He runs the Dai Nam restaurant in Cabramatta, and he’s a former officer in the South Vietnamese Marines.’
Quang’s eyes twinkled again.
‘Of course. He’s well known in the community. He’s one of those people I was telling you about, who want to overthrow the government in Hanoi and restore the old order. I sometimes see him at meetings. He has a reputation for violence. Lately I’ve heard that he’s trying to organise some demonstrations against Loc’s visit.’
I pulled out a sketch I had made of the tattoo on Eric’s arm. Afterwards I had remembered seeing it before, on one of the young men I had met at the house in Cabramatta. Quang smiled when I told him where I’d seen it.
‘That’s a mad buffalo,’ he said.
‘That’s what I thought. What does it mean?’
‘You haven’t heard of the Mad Buffaloes? That’s what they used to call one of the Marine battalions in Vietnam. Tiểu Đòan Trâu Điên. The Mad Buffaloes Battalion. Because of their fighting spirit. When they attacked, they kept charging like mad buffaloes until they reached their objective. That was their sign.’
‘Is that the name of this group then?’
‘Possibly. I hadn’t heard the name being used here. But it makes sense, if Vo Khanh is at the head of it. What else do you know about them?’
‘Not much. It seems they hold meetings, from time to time. And they may have a training camp out in the country, somewhere in the hills north-west of Sydney.’
I told him what I’d learnt from Eric, conscious that I was breaking my promise to him. I didn’t have much choice, if I was going to get anywhere. He took it all in, but couldn’t add any more.
‘Do you know a man called Ho Xuan Bach?’ I asked. ‘Also known as Bach Ho. He’s a prominent businessman in Cabramatta.’
‘I don’t know him personally. You’re right, he is a wealthy businessman. Is he involved in this?’
‘I don’t know. But he knows Vo Khanh.’
‘That probably doesn’t mean anything. But I can check it out.’
He smiled at my look of alarm.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Paul. I’ll be discreet. I have my own friends too in the community. If what you say is true, your young friend would be well advised to stay out of that group.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Quang. And please call me Paul.’
‘In return I’d be grateful for anything else you can find out. I am worried about what they may do during Loc’s visit.’
Quid pro quo. I’d never met a source who didn’t want something in return, if not cash then at least a favour.
‘I should have something in a couple of days.’
I made sure I took one of his newsletters when I left.