Assignment - Cong Hai Kill by Edward S. Aarons

cabinet, and a
washbasin with a flowered bowl and pitcher, although running water existed,
too.
    Durell’s search was
swift and efficient. His first discovery was the straw suitcase that Doko Dagan
had tried so hard to keep with him this morning, at the cost of his life.
Durell found it on the floor of the wardrobe. He lifted it to the bed,
surprised by its weight, and in a few moments opened the simple lock. Major Muong had
not offered the results of his search, but Durell was not too surprised.
    The cheap suitcase was
crammed to the top with poorly printed leaflets on cheap pulp paper. The
messages printed thereon were in English and Chinese. It was poisonous, an
incantation of hate against “American imperialists” and a demand for a
“people‘s revolution” and the establishment of a “Democratic People’s Republic
of Thailand,” under the guidance of the Cong Hai. Ho Chi Minh’s hand was
evident in every word and crude cartoon in the bundled leaflets.
    Durell closed the
suitcase with a frown. At first glance, it seemed hardly worth the effort Doko had
made to keep the suitcase, even when fleeing for his life.
    He searched further,
examining Muong’s uniforms, the bath, and glanced under the bed and
pillow and into a small portable filing cabinet that had been wheeled into one
corner. As he searched, he kept one ear tuned to the noises from the  klongs  below.
Thinking of the leaflets, he reflected that there must be millions upon
millions of similar printings all over the world, in dozens of languages and
dialects, pouring from the presses of Hanoi and Peiping.
    There were two other
items of interest in Muong’s room. On a bed table, as if to show his
impartiality, Muong had a collection of recent Chinese Communist
newspapers. He had underlined in blue pencil a long article in  Jenmin   Jih Pao ,
the organ of the Chinese Communist party, assailing “Moscow revisionists who
conspire with American imperialism for peace talks in Vietnam.” There was also
a copy of  Hoc Tap , the journal of the Lao Dong Communist party in
North Vietnam. In it, the First Secretary, Le Duan, complained that not
enough sacrifices were being made to help their “brothers in the Viet Cong.”
This article had also been underlined in Muong’s careful blue pencil.
Then there was an old edition of  The New York Times  dealing
with the movement of Cambodians across the ill-defined borders into Thailand
and Vietnam, and the capture of some of them by the Vietnamese Ninth Infantry
Division.
    Durell replaced the news
articles with a deepening frown. It was no crime to read enemy propaganda. You
had to know the enemy’s face before you could fight him successfully. Yet he
had questions about Muong that these articles only deepened.
    The last item was a
simple baggage tag attached to the straw suitcase. It was wired to the handle
and read, D.S. Dagan, Hoi Surisa, 22.
    There was a street by
that name. Durell straightened, looked at his watch, rubbed his jaw, mid
decided there was time enough.
    The police clerk jumped
up and bowed as he left. He took the stairs down to the lobby that, since
French occupancy, had acquired that universal scent of urine, sweat, and terror
that marked police stations everywhere in the world. The heat outdoors
oppressed the heart and lungs, and a quiet had come over the stagnant port. Sun
shutters were closed, shops were locked, and the shoals of bicycles had
thinned. Hummingbirds flashed in hibiscus shrubs as scarlet as blood. A
few  samlors  were lined up near the river-bank, and Durell
chose the second one, operated by a thin, middle-aged coolie, and gave the
address. It seemed to mean nothing special to the peddleman, who nodded
and started off.
    Hoi Surisa turned
out to be a narrow alley of older houses standing on stilts along a small
lagoon at the junction of several canals. The thatched roofs, traced with
waterfalls of blue convolvulus flowers and festoons of bougainvillea,