Red drummed his fingers on his saxophone case but couldn’t open it. Dave’s face flashed through his mind—alive and vibrant from that night at the refugee camp six months ago. They’d walked between the stilted shacks, Red carrying medical supplies while Dave lugged a box of food staples. Rain drummed on the tin roofs, creating a din that nearly drowned their conversation.

“You know what kills me, Red?” Dave had paused, setting down his box to wipe sweat from his face. “These people lost everything because we’re burning their villages to save them. Then we stick them here.”

Red grabbed his jacket and wallet. “I’ll be back later,” he told Mai.

Saigon’s humidity hit him immediately. During the taxi ride to Police Headquarters, he checked the small notebook in his pocket. Since Dave’s death, he’d documented dates, names, and distribution points. The damp pages held their ink.

The National Police Headquarters building was imposing, symbolizing authority amidst the city’s chaos. Red approached the main entrance, framed by tall, white columns. Two flags, the South Vietnamese and the U.S., fluttered side by side in the late afternoon breeze.

One of the guards found Red’s name on his clipboard and motioned him inside. A cool draft swept over him as he entered, bringing welcome relief.

Major Thanh looked up from his paperwork, his features distinguishing him with brown hair and rounder eyes than most Vietnamese—evidence of his mixed heritage. The son of a Vietnamese father and a French mother, he was a rarity in a country where most mixed-race children had French fathers.

“Hello, my bastard friend,” Thanh greeted Red in French-accented English. The slur transformed into affection between two men who shared the same marginalized status.

“You look like hell,” Thanh said, gesturing for Red to sit.

“Been a rough week. Lost a friend.” Red sank into the chair across Thanh’s desk.

Thanh’s expression softened. He pulled out a bottle of cognac and two small glasses, pouring a finger in each.

“Remember that night in Cholon?” Thanh asked, a small smile playing at his lips. “When those MPs tried to arrest us both?”

Red chuckled despite himself. “How could I forget? You flashed your badge while I was busy explaining that I wasn’t AWOL.”

“And then that sergeant called us both half-breeds,” Thanh added, his smile fading slightly.

“So I punched him,” Red said.

“And I pretended I didn’t see it,” Thanh finished. “We ended up drinking all night at that little place by the canal.”

They clinked glasses and drank. The cognac burned pleasantly, warming Red’s chest.

“I heard about your friend Dave. The overdose. I’m sorry.”

Red’s voice cracked before hardening. “Third overdose this month in my neighborhood alone. I’m tired of watching good men die.”

Thanh offered Red a cigarette before lighting his own. “What brings you here today?”

Red reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded paper. He spread it across Thanh’s desk, a detailed Saigon map with red and blue lines, circles around specific locations, and handwritten notes in the margins.

“I’ve been working on this for a while,” Red said. “Heroin entry points, distribution hubs, some major players.”

Thanh leaned forward, eyes scanning the web Red had created. “This is... remarkable. How did you connect the…comment dit-on?”

“Dots. My old CID and MP contacts confirmed most of it.” Red tapped a section near the docks. “Most of the refined heroin comes in through military shipments. Clean manifests, no inspections. From there, it moves to these warehouses before hitting the streets.”

Thanh’s finger traced a line from the port to a building marked with a star. “That’s a South Vietnam Air Force storage facility.”

“Exactly.” Red pointed to several other locations. “And these are properties owned by shell companies that all trace back to the same handful of generals.”

Thanh pulled out a folder with photographs showing military vehicles unloading at odd hours.

“The product that’s killing people is too pure,” Red said. “Nearly 80%. Someone new is dumping it on the market.”

Thanh’s gaze shifted from the photographs back to Red. “My godson… Huy. He was fifteen.” The name weighed in the air.

“Fifteen?” Red echoed.

“Yes.” Thanh’s jaw tightened. “He had everything—dreams of becoming a doctor like his father. He got caught up with friends using. He thought he could handle it—just a little fun.”

“And then?” Red pressed.

“He didn’t wake up,” Thanh replied. “I buried him last week.”

Red nodded, understanding that this investigation was also personal for Thanh. “Any idea where it’s coming from?”

“Laos, near Vientiane.” Thanh tapped ash into a bronze tray. “Brand new facility, state of the art.”

Red’s fingers stopped drumming. “The Chinese syndicate?”

“How did you know?”

“The purity levels match their Hong Kong product,” Red replied. “Plus, no local outfit has the chemical expertise to produce something this pure.”

Thanh nodded. “They sent their best chemists from Hong Kong. Not some jungle operation—this is pharmaceutical grade.”

“The Chinese never pushed heroin here.”

“They still don’t. They move it through Hong Kong to the U.S. market,” Thanh said. “Their partners are the Corsican Mafia. Most of their supply goes to Europe.”

“Ah, yes. Henri Rossi.” Red remembered Henri from previous investigations—elegant, cultured, and ruthless.

“I believe Rossi is behind the heroin that’s hitting Saigon.”

“How are they moving it across the border?”

“The border patrols seem to look the other way at very specific times.”

“Someone’s being paid off.”

“Many someones… We’re talking about officials with direct access to the President’s office,” Thanh added, his voice just above a whisper. “The same men who control military supply routes. Two customs officials who raised concerns have disappeared in the last month alone.”

Thanh locked the folder away with a key he wore around his neck. The documents could prove fatal if found by the wrong people.

Red leaned back in his chair as the connections crystallized in his mind. The heroin trade, the artifacts, Kane’s operation—they were pieces of the same puzzle. He remembered his conversation with Mike at Le Mistral. Mike had connected those dots too.

“The artifacts and drugs move through the same channels,” Red said, the realization solidifying. “Same protection, same officials looking the other way. It’s not just parallel operations—it’s the same damn operation.”

Thanh nodded slowly. “A perfect system. The artifacts provide cover for the drugs. Cultural preservation justifies the special handling.”

Red thought of Mike and Jane, working separate angles of the same corrupt machine. Mike’s cover and handlers constrained him. Jane had her press credentials but lacked protection. Neither had the full picture.

“My boss, General Nguyen, has a new villa on Con Son Island,” Thanh said. “Five bedrooms with a pool overlooking the South China Sea.”

“Impressive on a government salary,” Red said.

“Meanwhile, my officers haven’t had a raise in years.” Thanh moved to the window, positioning himself away from potential surveillance. “Last month, I submitted trafficking evidence implicating a general. The files vanished overnight. The clerk who logged them was transferred to Ca Mau the next morning.”

“The southernmost point of Vietnam,” Red noted. “Banishment.”

“Two days later, General Nguyen discussed my ‘career trajectory,’ mentioning how my French heritage might become problematic during these ‘patriotic times.’”

“My father taught me that a uniform means something,” Thanh whispered. “These men wear it but serve only their bank accounts. I sit in meetings discussing crime with men who profit from its continuation.”

Thanh returned to his desk. “I’ll help you because someone must still stand for something in this city,” he said. “Just be careful. If my suspicions about Rossi are correct, you’re walking into something with tentacles throughout the government. The last journalist who asked questions about the Corsican connection was found floating in the Saigon River.”

Red nodded, “I’ll watch my back. Check on your informants in Cholon tonight. They may already be compromised.”

As Red descended the steps of police headquarters, the setting sun cast long shadows across the plaza. He had names now and connections to follow. For Dave, Thanh’s godson, and all the others whose lives had been consumed by this poison, he would pull this operation apart.

* * *

Two days after meeting Thanh, Red drove Mai to the Buu Long Pagoda, about 15 miles northeast of Saigon. Nestled on a small hill surrounded by jungle, it exuded a serene atmosphere.

Red moved carefully over fallen masonry, his musician’s fingers brushing across the shattered stone with unexpected tenderness. The temple’s destruction felt personal.

The air hung heavy with ghosts of incense and the musty smell of rainwater in stone depressions.

Mai’s movements were fluid and purposeful. She stopped before an empty alcove, her hand reaching out to touch nothing but absence.

“They took the Avalokiteshvara statue,” Mai said, her eyes tearing.

Red watched Mai’s face as she stood before the empty alcove. The temple’s destruction had affected him, but for Mai, this was more than just vandalism—a desecration of her heritage.

Her fingers trembled as they reached to touch the vacant space where the Avalokiteshvara statue had stood for generations. The muscles in her jaw tightened, and Red recognized the expression—a fierce struggle to maintain composure in the face of profound loss.

“My grandmother brought me here when I was seven,” Mai whispered, her voice barely audible above the distant jungle sounds. “She told me the Bodhisattva of Compassion would always watch over our people, even in the darkest times.”

Red remained silent, knowing better than to interrupt her memories.

Mai traced the outline of dust where the statue had rested. “She would save for months to buy incense and offerings. Even during the French occupation, when there was barely enough to eat, she never missed a visit.” Her voice cracked slightly. “What would she think now?”

Tears spilled down Mai’s cheeks, but she made no move to wipe them away. This wasn’t the controlled, pragmatic Mai that others saw in Saigon—this was a woman mourning something fundamental to her identity.

“These temples,” she said, gesturing at the damaged walls, “they’re not just buildings or tourist attractions. They’re our story. Every carving, every statue holds the prayers of generations.” She knelt and picked up a fragment of stone with a lotus pattern. “When they take these pieces, they take our ancestors with them.”

Red had never seen her this raw, this vulnerable. Mai’s usual composure had given way to something deeper—a grief mingled with righteous anger.

“The American collectors who buy these pieces,” she said, her voice growing stronger, “they hang our gods on their walls like trophies, never understanding what they’ve stolen.”

Red crouched beside the wall where stone figures had been partially destroyed. “Same method as before?”

“Yes. Night raids with trucks. By dawn, all portable items vanished.” Mai’s voice harbored no surprise, only a weary resignation that cut deeper than anger would have.

“What infuriates me isn’t just them selling our history to collectors,” Mai said, her voice steady despite the emotion in her eyes. “It’s their careless destruction.”

Mai nodded, her fingers brushing across the faded paint. “This panel showed the story of the Buddha’s past lives—how he learned compassion and wisdom through many reincarnations.”

Red followed her inside, stepping over fallen stones. The incense-thick air contrasted with Saigon’s chaos, and centuries of prayers filled the silence.

“This temple has been here for over eight hundred years,” Mai whispered. My grandmother’s grandmother prayed here as a child.”It took three days to reach here.”

Red observed its precise geometry—even in ruin, it revealed cosmic alignment. Light streaked through ceiling gaps, forming patterns that tracked solstices and equinoxes. It was a calendar, observatory, and spiritual center combined.

“The village elder said men in uniforms came first. Then the others arrived with tools and lists.” The subtle tightening around her eyes betrayed her anger.

“They’re getting bolder,” Red said.

Mai paused beside a small altar where a single stick of incense burned—someone’s desperate offering. She bowed slightly before it, respecting what remained.

Red ran his hand along a wall where a relief had been chiseled out. “Did the police come?”

“Yes. They filled out a report to file away with the others,” Mai said.

Outside, a group of women had arrived with brooms and cleaning cloths. They began sweeping up broken glass and righting furniture without being asked. An old man carried fresh incense while children delivered food for the monks.

“This is how we survive,” Mai said. “We rebuild.”

“It’s like jazz,” Red murmured, almost to himself.

Mai glanced at him questioningly.

“The way everyone works together. In jazz, we call it ‘comping’—accompanying and complementing. Each player supports the others, making space, filling gaps. Nobody leads, everybody leads.” He gestured toward the villagers. “They’re comping for each other. Creating something whole from broken pieces.”