Play the Red Queen

by Juris Jurjevics

  When Lodge and the general parted, the frog-faced general and gnarly captain trailed after Minh. Lodge draped a towel around his neck and mopped his brow while instructing me on what he wanted for breakfast. Even sweaty, Lodge looked the distinguished statesman. Handing over his club ID, the ambassador pointed me toward the pool pavilion to order and wait while he showered. Membre actif, his card read, next to a photo of his mandarin face, stately and confident.

  Making my way to a shaded table, I slipped off the pebbly seersucker jacket and draped it over the back of my chair. At the next table, two tan young American officers in civvies and black Army dress shoes, hair crudely whitewalled, were tucking into a hearty breakfast, one devouring jambon à la moutarde on rounds of French bread, washing it down with Coke and grenadine. The other shavetail was having dinner at eight in the morning: grilled beefsteak, giant French fries and a glass of red wine with ice. They paused over their food to watch a French beauty eel into the pool. Water streamed across her bare shoulders as she swam.

  A white-jacketed waiter approached and bowed. I ordered oatmeal with fruit for the ambassador, a café filtre and madeleines for me. Along with the menu came bilingual lists of club facilities on offer. It gladdened my heart to learn that my betters were maintaining their physiques and morale with fencing runs, a bicycle track, table tennis, judo instruction, fucking lawn bowling, water polo, badminton, basketball, soccer, billiards, and swimming lessons from Monsieur Vatin.

  Lodge reappeared, natty in white shirt, lightweight beige suit and yellow silk tie. On his feet, gray suede loafers with pale lavender socks. I started to rise but he waved me back into my seat.

  “No need, Sergeant Miser. Relax. We’re off duty at the moment. Just two gents grabbing a quick bite.”

  “Yes, sir. How was your game with General Minh? I’ve heard he’s a natural athlete.”

  “So General Taylor warned me. I should have listened.” Lodge frowned. “I’m afraid the General has had far too much leisure time to work on his strokes.”

  If the coup rumors were true, Minh was planning to be more fully occupied soon. “I didn’t recognize the two-star standing by the net.”

  “Major General Xuan,” Lodge said, looking past me for the waiter. “The other fellow, with the machine gun, was Captain Nhung, Minh’s longtime bodyguard.”

  “That’s Captain Nhung?”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Yes, sir. Stone-cold assassin. Keeps score with notches on some French knife he carries. The tally is supposed to be nearing forty.”

  “Well, well,” Lodge said. “In that case, I’m going to assume I needn’t worry about General Minh’s safety.”

  His oatmeal arrived, topped with the thinnest slices of banana. Pineapple bits filled a tiny bowl on the side. My madeleines came with perfect coffee. An almost invisible gesture instantly summoned a waiter to Lodge’s side. He ordered mineral water and took the oatmeal on board.

  “This VC woman,” he said, “you think she’s after my scalp?”

  “Seems highly likely.”

  Our waiter appeared with ice-cold mineral water and poured two glasses.

  “God, she’ll have to get in line. Plots against my life are all I’ve heard since the day we arrived. And you require something urgently from our Vietnamese friends to help you locate her, is that right?” Lodge lifted the chilly glass to his lips.

  I told him we needed to know whatever information Vietnamese interrogators had obtained about the female assassin from a recent Communist defector. “And any intel on the Viet Cong cell she leads,” I added. “If Nhu’s operators will part with it.”

  “I take it the local authorities haven’t been of any help?”

  “Less than zero.”

  “Why am I not surprised? My staff can’t get so much as an updated chart of the Viet Cong’s Order of Battle from their Central Intelligence Organization, even though our CIA has been instrumental in setting it up and supporting it.”

  “There’s not much the slopes want us knowing.”

  “We mustn’t denigrate our hosts, Sergeant,” he said, spooning pineapple on his oatmeal.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Who should be approached on your behalf?”

  “I suppose Counselor Nhu’s office.”

  “Because he commands the gendarmerie,” Lodge said, spoon poised.

  “That he does, sir. Runs the municipal police, the National Police, the military security service, and half a dozen secret police forces. Whichever police group is holding the deserter, they all work for Nhu.”

  Lodge looked amused. “You’re refreshingly candid. Let me be candid in kind. I understand it would be logical to go to Counselor Nhu, given all the law enforcement agencies he runs. And yet . . . I might prefer not to.”

  “You mean, because Nhu hates you like poison and wishes you dead?”

  Lodge cocked his head. “You’re referring to the vehemence of his feelings because I’ve made it clear to Diem that Washington’s continued support is contingent on Nhu’s removal?”

  “No, sir. I meant that Nhu’s been making noises about assassinating you.”

  Lodge dabbed at his dish a few times before he glanced up. “How is it you’re so well-informed?”

  “I tune in to Radio Catinat. The only way to keep abreast.”

  “Radio Catinat? An English language broadcast?”

  “No, sir. It’s a string of rumor mills—bars, cafés—up and down rue Catinat.”

  “Radio Catinat seems to be right on the money.” Lodge pinched the bridge of his nose. “Last week, CIA informed me that before she left the country for her tour of the US, Madame Nhu urged her husband to invade the embassy. The plan is to incite university students against Americans, and me in particular. Then student ‘demonstrators’—most likely Special Forces in disguise and armed youths from the Republican Guards—will storm the embassy, seize the Buddhist dissidents I’m harboring, and kill me on their way out. Some of my staff think Nhu sent his wife out of the country so she’d be far from the event when it happens—and any repercussions. Which, of course, makes it awkward to approach Counselor Nhu for help in finding this Communist femme fatale.”

  “I can see that, sir.”

  Lodge drew a long breath. “I already have the First Lady of Viet Nam and her husband plotting my demise. Now the Communists have put their lovely sharpshooter on the job. General Harkins advises me not to take any of it personally.” He smiled grimly. “We’d better get you the information you need.”

  The springboard sounded as a diver knifed into the water. Lodge consulted his watch.

  “I’ve got a security briefing at the embassy in thirty minutes. I’d like you to sit in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lodge wiped his lips and fingertips on his napkin. “I assume I can take you into my confidence.” He clapped me on the shoulder as we rose.

  “Never a good idea in Saigon, Ambassador.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The little American flags fluttering on the hood signaled the ambassador was aboard. Two Marines in khakis rode up front, and we sat in the padded interior behind a glass partition. The air-conditioning chilled me to the bone. The steel Checker limo had no visible armor but had bulletproof windows and rode heavy. It must have weighed several tons.

  Security sucked everywhere in-country. Reinforced limousine aside, the ambassador’s personal protection was more ceremonial than real. I didn’t doubt the Marines’ assault training but they weren’t professional bodyguards and only carried .45 pistols.

  Our Marine driver was steering an erratic course to the embassy, turning off the broad boulevard into a narrow street festooned with yellow and orange propaganda banners strung from building to building overhead. Normally a roundabout route would be a wise move, but it made me antsy that we couldn’t maneuver on the tight one-way s
treet. I’d have stayed with the wide avenue.

  Traffic slowed. Two boys bore a rectangular table across the road in front of us, a tall teenager in front, his much shorter kid brother in back. The skirt board hid the head of the younger boy, making it look as though the table’s back end had grown human legs.

  The Checker came to a dead halt, stuck behind a water truck. A lady squatting by the curb picked at her bare feet and stared up at a woman in toreador pants standing alongside, her toenails painted a glistening red.

  An iceman pedaled by, the glacier on the back of his bicycle covered in burlap. A nun, wearing black glasses and the full black habit of the Sisters of Mercy, abandoned her taxi and marched away on foot, an ancient leather briefcase under her arm. A regal elderly woman in a gray ao dai and darker gray pants glided past us, holding an English umbrella to protect her ivory skin from the intense light.

  Someone on the sidewalk recognized Lodge and loudly announced his presence. People gathered, applauding, excited by the sight of him. Lodge waved, smiling. The door on his side clicked open.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” the Marine driver exclaimed. “He’s getting out.”

  The gyrene pulled on the handbrake. His partner leapt out after the ambassador. Lodge pressed ahead. The Marine and I struggled to follow. The closer we got to Lodge the thicker the throng grew until he was entirely hemmed in, smiling and leaning down to listen respectfully to Vietnamese elders speaking French. The man definitely had the touch. If Vietnamese could vote in an American election, he’d win, hands down. But if a Viet Cong happened to be in this knot of Saigonese . . .

  “We gotta go, sir,” the Marine escort said real loud.

  “Of course we do.”

  Lodge bid the assembly goodbye, extricated himself and returned to the Checker. Traffic restarted, only to stop again half a block later. The Marine guard in the front passenger seat mopped his brow. Lodge shifted against the gray upholstery, impatient.

  Ignoring the heat, spiffy young men with bushy haircuts hustled cameras and showed off the watches on both their wrists. Children stepped into the street bearing trays of cakes, hawking them to drivers and passengers trapped in vehicles going nowhere. Vendors selling sugarcane, noodle soup, and rice cakes signaled their wares by clapping bamboo sticks, snapping scissors, or banging on small drums. A lady selling soda pop shook a necklace of bottle caps at us. A boy tapped on our window, startling the jumpy Marines. The grinning youngster held up the loose cigarettes he was selling and vanished in a cloud.

  The explosion yanked the oxygen away hard before punching my eardrums and chest as the air rushed back with a thunderclap. A dense column of asphalt and shards geysered skyward. A small truck crashed to earth, its tires and driver on fire. Debris and spent shrapnel rained down on the limo, drumming the roof. The bulletproof windshield had cracked but held. The tiny flagpoles on the hood were twisted and bare. Our Marine driver cranked the ignition. Nothing. The steel-framed Checker had saved us but wasn’t going anywhere.

  “We need to get out of here,” I shouted, pushing open my door. The punctured steel panel bled sand. Dust and smoke filled the air, soured by nitrates and vaporized aluminum powder. The smell of oil mixed with hot metal and ruined flesh.

  Lodge and I tumbled out into the haze, coughing. The blown truck belched thick dark smoke, the orange flames driving it upward. Patriotic banners and tree branches burned. All was silent. Dazed, our driver leaned against the car, gun drawn, blood trickling from his ear. A mist of white particles swirled around us as in a snow globe. Casualties lay limp in the gutter, their clothes smoldering. The concussed staggered in circles, shirts and pants ripped, gums bleeding. The second Marine flopped out from the shotgun seat and dropped to his knees. A lamppost toppled into the road, bringing wires down onto a tree that immediately burst into flame.

  Deafened by the blast, the lance corporal yelled, “Get back in the car. We gotta protect the ambassador until help arrives.”

  “Bad idea,” I shouted back, leading Lodge forward by his elbow. “The first explosion’s usually a diversion.” I leaned close to his ear, not sure whether he could hear me or how loud I was yelling. “We’ve got to move in case there’s another.”

  Lodge nodded, breathing through his mouth.

  I could see no sign of a CIA tail or anyone else. Lodge’s shadows remained in the shadows or were down themselves. I yelled at the corporal, “We gotta get the ambassador the fuck outta here.”

  “Our orders—”

  “Screw orders.”

  “Aye, sir,” he yelled.

  Our driver slumped back into the limo. The gyrene and I flanked the ambassador and the three of us set off at a trot down a perpendicular street, passing an Indian fabric store, its dazed proprietor still holding out a sample of his wares. Shots popped somewhere nearby. Midway down the block we found a pedal-powered trishaw. I pushed Lodge onto its bench in front of the driver and jumped in beside the ambassador. Ambulance klaxons howled. A second explosion went off behind us. Maybe a car’s gas tank, more likely a second dose of explosives.

  “Ham Nghi thirty-nine,” Lodge called up to the driver seated behind us, who was wearing the telltale fatigues of an ARVN veteran. Lodge calmly repeated the address in French, using the older name of the street, Boulevard de la Somme.

  A man ran up to us shouting, arms flailing, frightened out of his wits. My .38 froze him. I waved him away as the coolie pumped the pedals for all he was worth. The lance corporal jogged alongside, his tailored khakis streaked with grime and sweat, pistol swinging like a baton. As we picked up speed, he fell behind.

  “A first for me, a getaway tricycle,” Lodge said, smiling, as he slapped dust from his shoulder with a trembling hand. “Think that was our girl taking a crack at me?”

  “Not her style.” I pinched a bit of my sleeve to wipe the grit from my eyes. “Too sloppy.” I squeezed my nostrils shut and tried to clear my ringing ears. “She wouldn’t have missed.”

  “My security’s certainly a bit primitive,” Lodge said, brushing powdery debris from his hair.

  “That it is. Yes, sir.”

  He turned toward the passing traffic. “If I followed my instinct for self-preservation, I’d put you in charge of my security on the spot. But . . . that would hamper your investigation. I need you to find this woman before she brings down her next target, whether or not it’s me.” He looked back at the smoky air behind us. “But whenever you feel it’s warranted, I want you to speak up. I’d like to make it home to my wife in one piece.”

  “Yes, sir.” My bones ached. My lungs felt thick. “You’re aware CIA could give you a damn sight better protection than what you’ve got,” I said.

  “Everything I do would be easier if I could trust our CIA agents. They’ve grown too close to their Vietnamese counterparts and have their own ideas about what our stance toward the regime should be. I can’t have CIA operatives working at cross-purposes from mine. When their station chief was recalled, they got a clear warning to step back from their local contacts, or else. Yet they still maintain their old private channels.”

  “Can’t say I blame them.”

  Lodge stiffened. “How not?”

  “They’ve spent years cozying up to Vietnamese officials and generals—exactly like they were told. Of course they got close. They aren’t about to flush those relationships because this month the suits in Washington want to dump Diem’s brother in the crapper, maybe Diem too. They don’t want to see all their risks and hard work go for nothing. And they want to shield old friends who are afraid for their lives, afraid for their families.” He had to know all this, but he’d asked me to speak up, so I told him.

  “Fair enough. But it means I can’t trust them. Nor they me.”

  “Too bad,” I said. “They’re the ones with the manpower, the resources, the hidden assets it would take to protect you.”

  His eyes narrow
ed. “Hidden agendas too. You don’t, Sergeant. There’s nothing opaque about you. You didn’t study Machiavelli at Harvard. Your father wasn’t in the Skull and Bones at Yale, or an OSS recruit.”

  “Got an uncle who’s a Mason.”

  He laughed. “Splendid. Just like George Washington.” Lodge dabbed his neck with a handkerchief. “We have a good deal in common, Sergeant. I’m not much of a team player either. I can’t imagine that frank attitude of yours makes life in the military easy.”

  We hit a pothole and the trishaw lurched. My stomach, too. Lodge went pale. I felt pale.

  “By the way, Sergeant, my wife isn’t aware of the threats on my life. I’d appreciate you not mentioning any of this if you meet.”

  “Course, sir.”

  “Or this tremor in my hand.”

  “Probably just adrenaline.”

  “It’s visited off and on since Africa. Embarrassing. Maybe just age. You’ll keep my secret, I trust, even if—as you’ve pointed out—no one in Saigon is to be trusted.”

  “Not if you have future plans, Ambassador.”

  We turned onto the broad, tree-lined boulevard and rolled toward the seedy six-story office building that passed for the US Embassy. The route was too direct. I had the trishaw driver go around the block. We hung a right and a left, followed by another left at the British Embassy, approaching our destination at the rounded corner, where white mice lounged in the open back of a parked armored personnel carrier.

  I threw our driver a handful of piasters and helped Lodge out of the trishaw. We wobbled unsteadily past the white concrete-filled barrels into the skimpy barbed-wire funnel. Several Marine guards rushed out to escort us the last twelve feet to the front entrance. We’d made it.

  Lodge quietly ordered their sergeant to see to the two Marines we’d left behind. Turning to me, he said, “Sergeant Miser.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Your seersucker. It’s smoldering.”