Chapter 11 — The One Who Counts Bridges

Do Quang Huy welcomed Linh An with a glass of filtered water placed in the middle of the table, no ice added, no label. The office of Cau Moc Joint Venture is on the third floor of a building under construction, the walls still smell of paint and the wires are sticking out of the ceiling. Through the glass window, they saw the crew erecting steel columns for the new bridge.

“I don't want you to think this is a negotiation,” Huy said.

“So what is it called?”

“A frank exchange.”

“Talk about what?”

“About how you can continue working without blocking all your opportunities.”

Linh An placed the notebook on the table. “I came to listen to resumes, not career advice.”

Huy pushed a stack of papers towards her. On the cover is a list of the joint venture's personnel, hundreds of names, people in charge of drilling piles, ironworkers, drivers, and site accountants.

"If the project is stopped," he said, "the bank closes the disbursement and the company cannot pay wages. Whose side do you think the worker under the bridge will be on?"

"Workers need wages. But they also need to know the project is safe."

"Safety is not a switch. Every design is a series of risk-taking."

“I agree. But accepting risk is different from hiding risk.”

Huy holds a glass of water. “You think I want to hide it?”

“I think you know the maintenance bridge exists, know the sensors are at the depot, know the engineering company receiving the equipment, and still call it a temporary item.”

“I know what the records let me know.”

"You used to be a field captain. You know more than the records."

Huy looked at her, showing fatigue for the first time. "I used to work under the bridge when your father was on the team. He measured slowly but surely. After the collapse, they needed a name to close the report. Hoa had his name on the measurement sheet. I didn't choose that."

“But he chose to take projects from people who did.”

“I choose work.”

“What about conscience?”

Huy smiled faintly. “Do you think your conscience can pay for your mother's medicine?”

Linh An did not answer. Huy knew about the restaurant under the Old Wharf. He pushed another stack of papers. Inside is a plan to adjust the premises, in which Van's restaurant is outside the recovery area, if the joint venture is allowed to resubmit the technical documents without being subject to extended investigation.

“I can make sure your mother's shop is kept,” Huy said. “The legal team will assist in correcting the area.”

“In return?”

"She joined our internal audit team. She reviewed the map layer, signed to confirm that the ramp was an unused item and the Moc-07 sensor was no longer active."

“You want me to sign something I haven't checked yet.”

“I want you to have control.”

“Not when the conclusion is already written.”

Huy leaned back. "You will be paid three times the current rate. Your cooperative can also accept long-term consulting contracts."

Linh An looked at the personnel paperwork. Hundreds of people, real names, identification numbers, people who do not know themselves are becoming the reason for a proposal. Huy did not lie that they needed work. He just used that truth as a rope to tie her.

“What if I refuse?”

"She lost her current contract. The cooperative was considered for accessing restricted areas. Her mother still had to clear it according to the old records."

“That's a threat.”

“It's a prediction.”

“A prediction signed by whom?”

Huy did not speak. Linh An took a pen and wrote on the back of the paper: "Proposal to keep the Old Ben restaurant, in exchange for technical confirmation." She put down her pen.

“I did not sign the proposal.”

“You can think.”

“I was thinking.”

“You need time.”

“No. You need it I need time.”

Huy looked at her. A moment later, he closed the stack of papers.

“You are more like your father than you think.”

“You also said that to him?”

"Are not. I was young then.”

“And what did you do?”

“I stand on the other side.”

Huy went to the door, but Linh An asked: "The burn on your wrist?"

He stopped.

“From the burning scaffolding?”

“I don't understand why you're asking.”

“I just counted the signs.”

Huy pulled down his sleeve. “There are traces that are not evidence.”

"I know."

“So don't use it as evidence.”

Linh An left the office, carrying the personnel paperwork because Huy told her she was allowed to read it and left it on the desk, but she didn't take it. The worker is not her evidence.

Downstairs, Khai is waiting. He didn't ask for a meeting. Just look at her face and know the answer.

“No,” Linh An said.

“I haven't asked.”

“Still no.”

Yen called from the radio. She said Hung had just sent a notice requesting to temporarily stop broadcasting all content about Bridge Number Seven, citing the risk of "causing panic and affecting order". At the same time, the station received an anonymous package of documents, including photos of the crew's salary slips that were owed two months.

“They want us to choose between the right to know and wages,” Yen said.

“Don't choose.”

“Easy to say.”

“We don't show paychecks without permission.”

"I know. But the sender wants everyone to see that workers are also being used.”

Khai looked at Linh An. “Maybe they want her to accept Huy's offer to save her mother's shop, then make her the confirmatory person.”

“I don't accept.”

“I didn't ask you.”

“You just looked at me like you asked.”

“I looked because you were holding my hand too tightly.”

Linh An opened her hand. There are red nail marks on the palm. She didn't realize she had been squeezing since leaving the office.

They went to Ben Cu restaurant in the afternoon. Van is selling rice to a team of road workers. Two people in blue shirts sat at a corner table, not ordering anything. A person placed a phone recorder right next to a bowl of soup.

“Do you know who they are?” Linh An asked.

“They said they were guests.”

“Do guests pay?”

"Not yet."

Khai walked over, picked up the bill and placed it in front of them. "The restaurant is crowded. If you don't want to eat, please give up your table."

The man in blue said he was on inspection duty. Khai requested a work permit. The other person took out a card with the Infrastructure Department logo, but the name on the card was covered by his finger.

“Mom, what are they testing?” Linh An asked.

Van looked at the two people, then looked at her daughter. “Check to see if there is anyone in your family making the project difficult.”

A man in a blue shirt stood up and said he would make a report because the shop was obstructing the inspection. Van did not back down. She took out the income and expenditure book and placed it on the table.

“If you want to check, clearly state the time, person, and purpose. The shop is small but the papers are still there.”

The other person looked at her, not expecting a rice seller to know how to request a record. They left without taking anything but photos of the facade.

“Where did Mom study?” Linh An asked.

“My father taught me.”

“He taught me more than you thought.”

“He teaches because mom doesn't have time to study.”

In the drawer, Van took out a small piece of paper with the name of a bank employee: Nguyen Hoai Nam, Dong Ha branch. “This statement received money through a bank account. The person delivering the money is named Nam."

“Do you know if he still does it?”

"Are not. I asked Yen."

Yen found Nam who was a credit controller. She did not call him directly but sent a letter asking for an interview about the resettlement support disbursement process. Nam replied after two hours, agreeing to meet there a tea shop, with the condition of not recording.

The meeting took place under the awning of a bookstore. Nam wears a gray shirt and holds a small briefcase. He said that year the bank only transferred money according to the list sent by the Infrastructure Department and was not responsible for the content of the testimony.

“Who gave the list?” Linh An asked.

“An officer named Vu Thanh.”

“Is it signed by Minh?”

“Signed by many people.”

“Do you remember Mr. Hoa?”

"I remember the name. He refused to accept the first grant."

"Why?"

“He said the money came with conditions that no one made clear.”

“So the money my mother received?”

“We disburse funds after receiving additional signatures.”

Nam opened his briefcase and took out a copy of the money transfer book that had hidden other people's information. Van's line has the code "HT-09/17".

“Hour code?” Yen asked.

“No. Support batch code.”

“How many recipients?”

“Seventeen households.”

“Is it related to the bridge?”

"I do not know."

Nam paused, then added: "But in the file I once saw a design insurance transfer to Do Lan's company. The bank marked it because the beneficiary's name was the same as the one on the support list."

Linh An recorded it, but did not ask for a copy. Nam asked if she planned to sue.

"I don't know yet."

“Suing a person is easier than suing the process.”

“I don't want to sue for ease.”

Nam looked at her, seemingly relieved by the answer. “Then it will be harder for you.”

On the way home, Yen said: "Can I use code HT-09/17 to connect support and equipment?"

"No. We just have the same code and the same time."

“But enough to ask for a check.”

“Enough to ask, not enough to condemn.”

Khai asked: "Do you think Huy directly edited the map?"

"Don't know."

“Do you think Minh knows?”

“Know part of it.”

“Do you think your mother said it all?”

Linh An looked out at the traffic. "Are not."

“So does anyone have anything to say?”

“Maybe someone cut the bandage.”

That night, Diem discovered that an unencrypted copy of data had left the cooperative server during the connection loss. The person who took it did not delete the file, just copied the old map layer. The log only records unnamed USB devices.

“Do you want to lock everything?” Diem asked.

"No. If it's all locked up, the field team can't do it."

“I'm being followed.”

“I know.”

“Still leave the door open?”

"The door was open and someone walked through. The door was locked and someone was standing outside."

Diem looked at her. “I don't know if it's principle or stubbornness.”

“Neither do I.”

Linh An took the map and reconstructed the three layers of data by hand. She marked the names of the people who knew each way: Mrs. Tham, Mr. Bay, Hao, Phuc, Nam, her mother. Under each name is a question, not an accusation.

At 9:17, a text message from Huy arrived:

"I heard you refuse. But your mother's shop is no longer in my power to decide."

Right after that, Van called. She said there is a new clearance notice posted on the door, with a period of 24 hours instead of 48.

Linh An ran back to the Old Wharf. The new piece of paper covered the rice price list. Her mother stood below, holding the patch, not crying.

“Don't blame Huy,” Van said. “He was just telling the truth.”

“Are you scared, Mom?”

"Have."

“Then you stay.”

"Where?"

"Here."

Van looked at the suitcase that was no longer in the shop, then looked at her daughter. “I have already chosen.”

Linh An removed the notice from the door and did not tear it. She folded it the same way and put it in the folder.

“I haven't chosen anyone right,” she said. “I just choose not to sign something I haven't measured.”

On the other side of the river, an excavator started up. The construction site lights turn on At the same time, shine on the fence and the reflective poles. A pile bearing number 4 was pulled out of the mud.

No one knows when it was plucked. But at the foot of the pile there was a wet piece of paper, on which it was written: "The sensor is still running."