Lost Soldiers

by Lost Soldiers (retail) (epub)

  ‘I know a good restaurant,’ she said over her shoulder as she powered into the traffic. ‘On Dong Khoi Street, near the river. Do you like fish?’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Moscow

  The aircraft made its way through what seemed like a never-ending night. The cabin lights were out. Every now and then a sleepy flight attendant passed them in the aisle, offering water or juice. And under the glow of a reading light Colonel Pham matched Condley scotch for scotch, waxing nostalgic for his ‘student’ days in Moscow a quarter century before.

  ‘The first time I went to Moscow, it took me a month to get there,’ he recalled, as always speaking in Vietnamese. ‘I left by train from Ha Noi, travelling north through China and then to Vladivostok, where I changed to a Soviet railroad line. And then west, west, forever west. It took two weeks, day and night, just to cross Siberia. No food on the train, only what my wife had packed for me before I left Ha Noi. No blankets, no bed. I have never been so cold, shivering on that train, looking out at the dark, empty tundra and wondering if this was what all of Russia except Moscow itself would look like. Or maybe even Moscow! I had seen a few pictures of the city, but I don’t need to tell you, Cong Ly, that pictures lie if governments want them to.’

  He drained the last half inch of scotch from his plastic cup, his face warm with memories. He was wearing an old gray sweater that he had saved for all those years after coming home. The sweater stank of mothballs. ‘But Moscow was so beautiful. And its people were so warm. I know that most Americans will never truly like Russians, Cong Ly, and also the other way around. To the Vietnamese you are both like jealous suitors, wishing to be understood. Both cultures are so strong, and yet so completely different. Power in Russia has always come from the top, even before communism. The people are used to it. In fact, they expect it. But my impression of power in America is that each individual feels he is powerful and believes he has the right always to resist those at the top.’

  Colonel Pham looked at Condley. ‘Your Scottish and Irish family, yes? As you say, always fighting. Sometimes in a war, but even when there is no war. Maybe fighting their own government, or when the government is calm maybe just fighting each other. Such people are impossible to rule completely from the top.’

  ‘Like the Vietnamese,’ grinned Condley, sipping on his own scotch. ‘Fighting and golf, right, Colonel?’

  The colonel nodded, as always enjoying these little exchanges that showed he understood Americans. ‘Very good, Cong Ly. Very clever. But you are right. Our present system pretends to adore the Soviet model, but it knows it must adjust. The Vietnamese do not like being ruled from the top either, so maybe we are a little bit like the Americans. Someday there will come a different style of government.’

  ‘A dangerous thing for a communist official to say.’ Condley was taken aback by the colonel’s bluntness.

  ‘We are speaking conceptually, of course,’ demurred the colonel. ‘And we are not presently inside Viet Nam, so it is easier to talk about such things.’ He hedged carefully. ‘What we cannot have in Viet Nam is a collapse of authority. You see, Cong Ly, this is where we are very different from the Americans. We cannot function with protests in the street. We do not like being ruled from the top, but we are not yet capable of that sort of democracy. We cannot function at all in those circumstances, because there is no anchor in our culture beyond our loyalty to family. We are a very competitive and sometimes a very violent people. We do not like those at the top telling us what to do, but it is important to have strong leaders at the top telling certain factions what not to do. Without that we would have total chaos.’

  ‘So you’re a little bit like the Americans,’ said Condley. ‘But every now and then you need a commissar to kick ass and take names.’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted the colonel with a small shrug. ‘I could lie to you, Cong Ly, or I could say it more nicely. But that is the way I feel.’

  The plane began losing altitude as the pilot began his descent into Moscow. Colonel Pham lifted up the window panel, looking outside. Dawn was beginning to lighten the far horizon. The colonel’s taut frame held the excitement of a child as he peered outside the window.

  ‘Why have you never been to Russia before?’ he asked Condley.

  ‘I think they called it the Cold War,’ said Condley dryly.

  ‘No spy missions to Moscow?’

  ‘Actually, this is my first.’

  Colonel Pham smiled amusedly, watching Condley’s face with the knowing, intricate scrutiny that was his trademark. ‘Your first spy mission to Moscow, with a communist colonel as your interpreter. It’s a funny time we live in, yes?’

  Condley laughed. ‘Whatever it takes, Colonel. I’m just glad to have you as my tour guide.’

  ‘Then I will admit something to you,’ said Colonel Pham, a look approaching shyness coming over his weathered, aging face. ‘I have watched you so many times in Viet Nam, and I understand you, Cong Ly. No, I even appreciate you. Because I love Moscow with the same hopeless passion that you must feel for Sai Gon.’

  The pilot announced that the plane was entering its final descent. Colonel Pham folded the blanket that had been on his lap. ‘I am very anxious to see Russia again, Cong Ly, and I thank you for this invitation, whether or not we make any progress on your case. The Soviet Union was our big brother you know that, not only politically but economically. They were giving our country billions of dollars every year. To be honest with you, we were certain that someday the Soviet Union would defeat the United States and that communism would be the dominant political force in the world. We were stunned when the Soviet Union ceased to exist. Even now, I cannot imagine it. And so I am very interested to visit Moscow and see for myself what this has meant.’

  ‘The country is having hard times, Colonel.’

  ‘I know that, yes, and I feel terribly about it in my heart,’ said Pham. ‘But the people of Russia have always struggled. That is why I love them. Everything is always against them. They struggle so fiercely and yet they never stop singing.’

  ‘Or drinking.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ shrugged the colonel. ‘It is impossible, the way so many of them drink their vodka.’

  The plane made a turn and dawn revealed the city just below them. Colonel Pham’s face softened and his eyes went faraway as he surveyed the long rows of apartments and the churches with their onion roofs and the river itself, clogged with ice. ‘Nha thu Nhi’ said the colonel softly. My second home.

  * * *

  Skip Rogers waved to them as they stepped from the terminal building, immediately driving up in a black Lincoln Continental with diplomatic license plates. Stopping the car, he jumped out of the driver’s side and went to the trunk, opening it. He was a kinetic man with bright eyes and round cheeks. Looking at his tweedy plumpness, Condley had a hard time picturing the CIA agent as a former Marine.

  But Rogers’s deep baritone voice removed all doubt on that question. ‘Condley, right?’ he said, with the flat, give-a-shit cynicism that somehow recalled fierce drill sergeants and long forced marches in the heat. ‘I think we have a mutual friend in Hawaii.’

  ‘Nice guess.’

  Rogers grinned, reaching into the trunk and pulling out a thick overcoat, then throwing it to Condley. ‘Hey, I’m a spook, that’s my job.’ He reached inside the trunk again and tossed Condley a fur-covered hat. ‘Not to mention that you’re the only passenger walking out of the terminal still dressed for the tropics, with a Vietnamese sidekick who’s already wearing an overcoat.’

  ‘Colonel Pham spent many years in Russia,’ said Condley.

  ‘So I’ve heard.’ Rogers openly scrutinised the bundled, fur-hatted Colonel Pham and for a moment squinched his nose. ‘He smells like my grandmother’s attic.’

  ‘Try storing a fur hat in Sai Gon,’ chuckled Condley.

  Rogers took Pham’s suitcase and put it into the trunk of the staff car, then opened the right rear car door for the colonel, who nodded to him and
climbed inside. Shutting the car door, the CIA agent spoke indirectly to Condley. ‘Interesting file on him. I can tell you about it later.’

  ‘You can tell me in the car,’ said Condley. ‘His English is no good.’

  ‘That’s not what his file says,’ said Rogers, giving the colonel a grin and a little wave. ‘He speaks great English. At least he used to.’

  Condley had reached him. He quickly extended his hand. ‘Skip Rogers, by the way. You can call me Mister Rogers. And like they say, welcome to my neighbourhood.’

  ‘General Duncan tells me you were a Marine,’ said Condley, tossing his own bag inside the trunk.

  ‘Thirty pounds ago,’ joked Rogers, slamming the trunk closed and putting both hands over a growing belly. ‘I was in operational intelligence. First Skivvy Divvy, Camp Pendleton. Had a few, shall we say, interesting moments in the Gulf War. Got bored after that. Went to language school, signed up with a different team, and here I am.’

  ‘Still doing operational intelligence,’ joked Condley.

  ‘Different targets, different rules,’ said the peripatetic Rogers, pointing to the passenger-side front door to indicate where he wanted Condley to sit. ‘Interesting targets. And my rules. I like that.’

  Rogers climbed in and started the car. The tires barked as he put the car into gear and headed away from the terminal. His clipped, frenetic style created an aura of control. He was, decided Condley, the kind of man who did things and who could be relied upon.

  As they drove toward the heart of the city, Rogers pushed a folder across the front seat, giving it to Condley. He purposely gave the colonel a knowing look in his rearview mirror as he spoke. ‘Everything you need is in this folder. No problem, it’s sanitised. Colonel Pham should obviously expect that I would provide you with this information, so don’t worry about sharing it with him. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised at all if he decides to go for a long walk this afternoon all by himself. You know, a nostalgic little tour to reacquaint himself with the city. And with certain of his… friends, shall we say, who are still residing here. That’s fine too. Just don’t show him these materials until he’s back from his walk and you’re ready to go after your target. Otherwise, your target might somehow disappear.’

  ‘An excellent point,’ said Condley dryly. ‘One that I have already shared with the colonel.’

  ‘Obviously you’re not new to this,’ said Rogers, his eyes constantly in motion as he drove. ‘So you also know I can’t go with you. I don’t want to cause an international incident if the guy decides to claim that some American intelligence agent is trying to mark him. Could get me thrown out of the country, and I’m having too much fun right now to leave. If you want to make him on your own, as a citizen searching for historical information, that’s fine. There’s no blow-back if he refuses to co-operate. But you’re really on your own. This is your show, not mine. No noise, Mr. Condley. Please. The last thing either of us wants is for our favorite Marine Corps general to be standing with his heels locked in front of some bow-tied White House weenie.’

  ‘That would be General Delivery?’ grinned Condley, flicking his eyes toward Pham.

  ‘No, General Background,’ laughed Rogers. He tapped the folder as he drove. ‘But everything you need is in there. Everything. Whoever put this together’ – he looked in the mirror at Colonel Pham, having issued a disclaimer in case their conversation was indeed passed on to Russian intelligence – ‘has got the guy down to what time he goes to the bathroom, and how many times he farts.’

  ‘You’re a good man,’ said Condley.

  ‘The general passed on your story after he read the back brief about my little shopping trip to the Arabat,’ said Rogers. His eyes never stopped moving, flitting from the road in front of them to the occupants of nearby cars and then to the colonel’s face in the rearview mirror. ‘I’m doing this out of respect, Mister Condley. For you and your Marines.’

  * * *

  Near Red Square the car slowed in front of a glorious old hotel. Watching the uniformed doormen and the glowing chandeliers inside, Condley’s eyes lit up.

  ‘You can’t afford it,’ laughed Rogers as the car turned a corner and stopped in front of a clearly seedy, second-rate establishment. He halted the car in front of a worn walkway that led up a wide set of stairs to the entrance of the Kamchatka Hotel.

  Rogers jumped out, meeting them at the car’s trunk, where they unloaded the luggage. Colonel Pham had said nothing since leaving the airport terminal. He picked up his bag, watching Rogers with his ever-discerning eyes, and finally reached out and shook the agent’s hand.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said in heavily accented English.

  ‘See?’ said Rogers as he shook the colonel’s hand. ‘I told you he spoke English.’

  ‘Only a little,’ admitted the colonel with a small, embarrassed grin. ‘Too long ago I learned.’

  Condley lingered at the car with Rogers as Pham headed into the hotel. He tapped the folder, then shook Rogers’s hand.

  ‘Thanks for the ride.’

  ‘I’ll bet “only a little,”’ said Rogers cynically, giving the colonel a quick look.

  ‘He’s all right,’ said Condley. ‘No matter what I say inside Viet Nam I assume somebody’s listening anyway.’

  ‘Ask him about Sasha,’ said Rogers.

  ‘Who’s Sasha?’

  Rogers grinned, nodding toward the colonel. ‘Ask him.’

  ‘You’re pretty good,’ Condley grinned back. ‘In fact, I would hate to have you on my ass in Sai Gon.’

  ‘From you, sir, that is the ultimate compliment,’ said Rogers. ‘So don’t get lost on the subway.’

  ‘I’ve got a perfectly trained guide,’ said Condley.

  ‘Better trained than you even know.’ Rogers waved goodbye. ‘You’re on your own, Mister Condley. It’s not a good idea for you to call me again while you’re here. Whatever you find, just pass it on through General Duncan.’

  Condley called to Rogers as the CIA agent climbed into his car. ‘Hey, Rogers!’ As Rogers turned toward him, Condley gave him a crisp Marine Corps salute. ‘Semper fi, Mac.’

  Rogers smiled, obviously moved by Condley’s gesture. ‘Marines never salute when they’re in the field, Lieutenant. You know that.’ He waved again, then shut the car door. And in a moment he was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The Kamchatka Hotel was a dump by any standards. Cluttered and dusty, the old hotel was run by haggard employees who looked as though they never changed their clothes or even slept. Its lobby was filled with dozens of oddly clothed foreigners of all stripes, as if this were the official gathering place for visitors to Moscow from Africa, southern Asia, and the Middle East. So far as Condley could tell, he was the only American at the hotel. Thinking about that, he decided that Skip Rogers had probably put him and Pham there deliberately, to reinforce the notion that they were not diplomatic guests of the American Embassy in case their little adventure somehow went sour.

  After a thin breakfast of weak tea, hard-boiled eggs, processed meat, and toast, Condley napped for several hours in his heavy-curtained, dust-filled little room. As he slept on a narrow bed against a wood-paneled wall, he was awakened periodically by a rhythmic pounding on the wall from the adjoining room, accompanied by strange, guttural noises. Finally he realised that a hooker was entertaining a series of clients only inches from where he lay.

  He gave up on sleep, moving to the small desk in the room and pulling out the folder Rogers had left him. The folder included not only a thorough analysis of Anatolie Petrushinsky’s military career, current living habits, and personal history, but also a detailed script regarding where, when, and how best to approach the former Soviet soldier. Rogers was good, he thought again. Very, very good.

  He had arranged to meet Colonel Pham in the lobby for lunch. Walking downstairs into the huge, expansive lobby, he was surprised to see the colonel walking into the hotel on the arm of a young Eurasian woman. She was smiling ha
ppily, pointing here and there as she walked with the colonel, clearly enthralled by his presence. Her physical make-up was a wild, almost slapdash mix of Russian and Vietnamese – reddish hair over Asian eyes on a pale face that was wide and heavy-cheeked, a small, squat body that nonetheless carried itself on powerful Slavic legs.

  Finally the colonel noticed Condley. He nudged the young woman, pointing excitedly, and walked quickly to Condley, all the while chattering to her in Russian. His face was beaming with pride.

  ‘My youngest daughter,’ he said. ‘This is Sasha.’

  ‘I thought Van was your youngest daughter,’ said Condley.

  ‘Van is my youngest Vietnamese daughter,’ answered Pham, looking oddly at Condley, as if the distinction should have been self-evident. ‘Sasha is the youngest of all my daughters.’

  The young woman giggled delightedly, taking a step forward and offering her hand to Condley. She held his hand for a long moment, staring deeply into his eyes. Then she spoke a seductive, teasing sentence in Russian that caused the usually stoic colonel to burst into uncontrolled laughter.

  ‘She says, you must marry her sister Van. Then maybe we can all come to America and live together with family-reunification green cards.’

  ‘Let me check out the regulations on that for you,’ teased a stunned but recovering Condley. ‘When we get back I’ll call Maria.’

  ‘Who is Maria?’ asked the colonel.

  ‘My immigration expert.’

  Condley looked at the girl with an almost morbid fascination. The colonel piercingly read his expression and grew serious again. ‘Her mother is dead now,’ he said. ‘But while I was in Russia she was my… vo be’ he said, using the Vietnamese expression that meant a ‘lesser wife,’ a title honored and accepted in the Vietnamese culture. ‘I was here by myself and so it was proper that I have another wife. Sasha’s mother accepted this reality. So did Van’s mother. There is no shame. No problem.’