Play the Red Queen

by Juris Jurjevics

  I asked the front desk where they’d put Robeson for the night so I could warn him, but they said he’d already gone out. I also learned that Mama-san Kha hadn’t shown up for work yesterday while we’d been up in Tay Ninh. Some day hire had serviced the room. Whoever had taken her place had primed the booby trap. The clerk blanched when I showed him why Monsieur Franchini might not want to put her on the payroll. He assured me she had not returned. But neither had Mama-san Kha.

  I had a pretty good idea I’d find Robeson at the Melody Bar on Catinat, one of his regular joints, not mine. Black enlisted men had claimed the Melody as theirs. Whites and Asians weren’t welcome, and most definitely not military cops. I got a bad vibe when I walked in but Robeson’s greeting tamped down the hostile attitude coming my way.

  On the sound system, an accordion wailed a zydeco stomp. Robeson’s doing, I assumed. He retrieved Bloody Marys for us from the bar and we took a corner table.

  “Rough night?” I asked.

  Robeson gave me the stink-eye. “The promised suite didn’t exist. I cooped in Seftas’s room. He’s escorting some admiral around Cam Ranh. Where the fuck were you?”

  “With Nadja.” I waved away the sleepy girls sashaying toward us. “Better a bad night in Sef’s room than waking up to this,” I said, placing the Russkie grenade on the table. “Found it in my shower, rigged to go.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Better check your john and all your equipment when you go back.”

  “Goddamn!” Robeson said. “Ting sure waited until the last fuckin’ minute to warn us. You think this is a South Vietnamese message or Viet Cong?”

  “Take your pick. Whose cage have we rattled more?”

  Three bloods came up on me, bristling. “Don’t get comfortable, honky,” the shortest one spat. “What the fuck you think you’re doin’ in here?”

  “I’m integrating your saloon, asshole.” The anger helped push down the fear making its home in my gut.

  Robeson held up a palm. “We’ll be gone in a minute, Ty.”

  “See to it. The cracker ain’t welcome.” But when they saw what lay on the table between us, the brothers backed off.

  Francis radioed the office. They’d spotted a tail on Ambassador Lodge going from the Cercle Sportif to the embassy after his swim and breakfast. If there’d been other trackers before now, they’d been switching off so repeated appearances wouldn’t give them away.

  “But this guy definitely showed up a second time.”

  “Is Beantown there?” I said, meaning, was Lodge at the embassy?

  “Affirmative. Heading off in half an hour.”

  “Understood. Meet you at your location in ten. Out.”

  Robeson and I hauled ass.

  Looking spiffy in a tropical suit and pale blue shirt, the ambassador was just leaving the embassy when we arrived to take over from Rider and Francis. Lodge’s car pulled out first, hood pennants flying. The Marines’ armored jeep fell in immediately behind. The jarhead riding next to the driver held his Thompson machine gun at the ready. Both were in utilities and had on steel pots, flak vests, harnesses with ammo pouches, canteens, and first-aid kits. They had to be hot as hogs.

  We kept a few vehicles between us and the ambassador. A bare-headed skinny young Vietnamese on a pale green Vespa, plaid shirt—the guy Francis had spotted—was riding the escort jeep’s fender. Early twenties, black hair, real thin, average height, looking like a thousand other Saigonese on motor scooters rounding traffic circles to peel off onto other streets. But I could see why Francis had called: the unhurried, nervy way the guy drifted through the traffic, never quite catching up with the limo, at times even casually hitching onto the back corner of the gun jeep to be towed along without effort. He was almost teasing us.

  When Lodge arrived at the gate of the Mac Dinh Chi cemetery, the Vespa rider paused to light a cigarette while the ambassador and a dozen dignitaries walked toward the sea of white headstones. A Marine guard carried the wreath Lodge would place at a point overlooking thousands of legionnaires’ graves.

  Brushing the hair from his eyes, the slight young man straddled his Vespa, revved the machine and resumed his ride, heading west. We followed at a discreet distance straight down the boulevard.

  “Damn.” Robeson slapped the wheel. “This good idea ain’t gonna be so good in a minute,” he said, seeing the stalled traffic ahead. “We need to get ourselves some hogs.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m sure Captain Deckle will be happy to requisition us some Harleys.”

  The Vespa rider turned and studied us. After a minute, he dropped his cigarette and calmly threaded the lane between the flanks of standing vehicles, working his way forward until he disappeared in the crush.

  “We finally found one of her scouts,” I said.

  “More lost than found,” said Robeson, glumly.

  Robeson drove back to the Majestic to sweep his room for surprises. I took the jeep and headed for the embassy. At the chancery, Mrs. Lacey greeted me with her usual smile and good spirits. I asked for a few minutes with the ambassador.

  “He’s just gone in with Mike Dunn and Colonel Conein,” she said, motioning toward the shut door, “but he’s been wanting to get hold of you as well. Can you come back in twenty minutes?”

  I went down to the windowless CIA reading room to see if they had any files on a Mai Nguyen, and, while I was at it, asked for a look-see at their eyes-only file on General Don, the passenger in Nhu’s Mercedes whose presence had saved Nhu from assassination. The Georgia peach apologized that they had nothing on Mai, but promptly delivered the dossier on the general.

  Born in France to Vietnamese parents, raised in Rome, the intel read. Highly respected French army officer. His Vietnamese wasn’t the best, it said, but he spoke good English and perfect French and Italian. CIA was unsure of his loyalties. The report called him an “opportunist” close to both Nhu and Nhu’s biggest critics.

  During the war, General Don wound up in a Japanese prison with another young Vietnamese officer—Big Minh. Lodge’s tennis buddy and General Don were the best trained field commanders the South had, but at the moment all they commanded were their aides. The two were plotting a coup, using someone codenamed “Lulu” as their go-between with the US Embassy, just as Seftas had said.

  The geniuses in Washington were regretting that choice. They’d grown uncomfortable with Lulu’s freelancing. They wanted a new liaison, someone who’d just listen in on the plotters and report back, not take an active hand—a conduit, not a co-conspirator. But the skittish generals would only deal through Lulu. And Lulu wasn’t the madam of the namesake brothel in Laos, or even female.

  During the Second World War, Don had befriended a French-born American with a Kansas City twang who’d served in the French army until France surrendered, then escaped to the US, returning with the OSS to help the Resistance. He’d parachuted into China and joined with French-trained Vietnamese like Don to drive the Japanese from their homeland. His underground codename: Lulu. The same Colonel Lucien Conein huddled with Lodge in the ambassador’s office, the lone CIA operator Lodge appeared to trust.

  I wondered if Lodge and Conein ever met at Lodge’s residence. I hoped not. I now knew for certain it was infiltrated with VC, and likely with Counselor Nhu’s snitches as well. If Nhu had learned how close Lodge was to the coup-plotters, he’d be only too happy to have the Red Queen take her best shot at our esteemed ambassador. The Saigon regime’s hands would be clean, American wrath would pour down on the Communists, and undoubtedly the bounty of the Commodity Import Program would resume flowing into Saigon.

  Twenty minutes were up. I returned to the ambassador’s floor and Mrs. Lacey showed me right in.

  In the middle of the gloom sat Lodge in his crisp blue shirt with a rose-colored tie, hair parted perfectly above his furrowed brow. His cuffs were rolled a little above his elbows the way
WASPs liked to wear them to show they were laboring as manfully as their Pilgrim ancestors. The .38 and the big Magnum had migrated closer to his reach. He looked happy as hell.

  “What did you need to see me about?” he said.

  “We’ve seen the Red Queen’s scout tailing you, sir. Confirmation you’re being prepped.”

  Lodge frowned uncomfortably. “How would you rate my chances of surviving if she gets a clear shot?” he asked.

  “Nil to lousy.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Mix up your routine. Stop swimming the same ten laps of breaststroke at the Cerc at exactly the same time every day. When you do swim, have them clear the pool for you.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Hardly. Stop walking in the street. You’re a head taller than everyone in Saigon. You can be seen for blocks.”

  “There’s not much I can do about my height.”

  “No, but you can stop going into crowds, shaking hands, accepting gifts from strangers.” I gave him my sternest stare. “You’re predictable and vulnerable—a perfect target.”

  “Direct as always, Agent Miser.” He looked sheepish. “But I’m afraid I can’t avoid any of those activities at the moment. We need public opinion with us.” He turned his gaze toward the window. “I hope you realize how much I’m trusting you, Sergeant.”

  “We all make mistakes.”

  Lodge flat-out guffawed. “You have some brass.”

  “You wanted it straight, you said.”

  “I do. It suits my purposes.” Lodge massaged his shaking hand.

  “The Red Queen may already be closer to you than we thought. Your staff in the embassy residence is infiltrated.”

  “By Viet Cong? You’re sure?”

  I nodded. “Odds were always good your house staff was compromised, but now I have confirmation.”

  “How do I go about culling them?”

  “I need you to do exactly like I say.”

  “Go on.”

  “Those eight-sided mirrors around your residence . . .”

  “You told Emily they ward off spirits.”

  “They do. And all Vietnamese fear unhappy ghosts.”

  “Sergeant, you urged her to leave the mirrors where they were or risk upsetting the staff.”

  “Correct. Which is why you need to have your Marine sentries take them down right away.”

  “Remove the mirrors?” Lodge’s eyebrows shot up. “Wouldn’t that be rash?”

  “Yes. Do it right away, today. And make sure the maids and cooks and gardeners all see it happening.”

  “You want them upset.”

  “Yep. Panicked if possible. Most will bolt. Have ’em stopped at the gate.”

  “Okay. We create an incident. Then what?”

  “A few won’t take off. They’ll be rattled but they’ll tough it out, make like they’re too loyal to run. Pay those off and have Marines immediately escort them from the compound. Don’t let any of them back, not for anything.”

  “The ones willing to stay, they’ll be the plants?”

  “Mostly, yeah. This may not flush ’em all out, but for sure it’ll improve your security.”

  “And then?”

  “Have Buddhist priests standing by. Right after you clean out the ranks, have the priests reposition the mirrors and conduct their rituals. The staff has to see the ceremony for themselves or they won’t come back.”

  “And what after that?”

  “Double the guard.”

  Lodge stood up to convey the instructions to Mrs. Lacey for Emily, and then turned to me.

  “Sergeant Miser, on Saturday President Diem will take the salute of his armed forces at the Vietnamese Independence Day celebration. I have to attend. Given the excessive security precautions, I’m not too concerned for him—or myself. But on Sunday, Emily and I will be with him in the mountains, dedicating a nuclear reactor.”

  “A what, sir?”

  “I know, who would put a nuclear anything in the middle of a guerilla war?” Lodge sighed. “We would, of course. I’m assured the reactor’s applications are all very peaceful, none of its byproducts useable in an atomic weapon. In any case, South Viet Nam’s world-famous physicist is flying in from Paris to inaugurate it. Emily and I have to attend. And Nhu is pressing hard for me to accompany Diem immediately afterward on an inspection tour of the Strategic Hamlets program in the Delta. After which I’m expected in Washington for consultations at the White House.”

  “You don’t want to do that, Ambassador.”

  “Go back to Washington?”

  “Go into the Delta.”

  “I may have to.”

  “The lower Delta is Communist, the middle portion almost as solidly red.”

  “You mean it’s theirs at night?”

  “Night, day—doesn’t matter. It’s theirs.”

  “But the Delta . . . it’s vital. The country’s rice basket.”

  “Yes, sir. And all of it Viet Cong.”

  “Really?” Lodge didn’t sound convinced. “Surely Saigon wouldn’t concede all that population, all that harvest land.”

  “The Delta’s been in the red column since the forties. It’s not worth risking your life to visit a place the South Vietnamese haven’t held in decades. Tell ’em you’ve got a fever.”

  “I’m not happy to hear it.” He pinched his bottom lip, thinking. “The first day I was here I was warned the Ngo family had a plan to bump me off during a faked VC attack at a strategic hamlet. I’ll do my best to beg off. In any event, while I have you here . . . President Diem has advised me that the inn where we had planned to stay in Dalat is too remote to be safe. He insists we stay with him at one of his villas. Emily would consider it a personal favor if you’d accompany us Sunday as part of our protective detail. And after what you’ve just told me, I concur. We would all return late afternoon Monday.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Excellent,” he said, and looked pleased.

  I didn’t mention that I wouldn’t consider myself much of a rabbit’s foot anymore, not after this morning’s shower surprise.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Missy hustled us over to her olive-drab typing desk where a plastic map case held the torn paper fragment of the astrograph I’d found by Major Furth’s café chair. She pointed to the colored impression in the corner containing a few broken Chinese characters.

  “Chop of fortune-teller,” she said.

  “Chop?” Moehlenkamp looked bewildered.

  “Stamp,” Robeson said, getting excited. “Missy means part of the astrologer’s signature block.”

  “A rubber stamp?”

  “Stone,” he said, “but same idea, yeah.”

  The chop on the torn paper was incomplete, but when Missy Blue slipped a whole unsoiled chart under the scrap, the Chinese characters lined up fucking perfect. God bless her, Blue had tasked her informants across the city to gather every astrologer’s chart they could and tried them all until one aligned. She had found the fortune-teller. The Red Queen’s scout had easily slipped through our net, but Blue had found her spotter. If it wasn’t for the pounds Robeson had on me, I would’ve kissed her right there.

  Blue held out foolscap with an address and a name: Huyen.

  “Fortune-teller is a . . . sourcier,” she said in French.

  I looked to Robeson for help. “Sorcerer?”

  “Diviner.”

  “Huyen is a đồng cốt,” she continued, “a medium.”

  “So he talks to the dead, like your Gran,” I teased Robeson, who glared at me.

  Predicting people’s futures was officially banned, but Missy Blue said Huyen still received petitioners privately twice a week and held a séance around ten in the morning on those days.

  “Which days?” Robes
on said.

  “Each Tuesday and Friday,” Missy answered. “Séance happening today.”

  The séance was on the second floor above a tinsmith’s shop in Cholon. Our arrival seemed to disturb the many handsome male assistants who fluttered about the room. Seeing us, they immediately went blank and stupid and tried to back us out the door. But it was too late: they had already accepted money from Blue, so we joined the others who had come to consult the spirit intermediary.

  A quartet of musicians seated on the floor played Asian violas and drums. Two others sounded gongs, while a young man sang to warm up the crowd clapping in rhythm and singing along.

  Huyen, the medium, was in his late thirties, dressed in a mandarin’s white tunic covered with intricate dragonflies embroidered in silver thread, and draped with necklaces. An elaborate white headpiece was wound tight around his head like a turban. Huyen’s face was powdered white, his lips artificially red, eyelashes and eyebrows blackened. Sashes and gold-link belts hung from his waist and clinked when he moved. Long silver earrings brushed his shoulders. He shimmered as he did little dance steps to the music.

  Behind Huyen a giant breakfront glowed with candles set among porcelain figurines, small statues of elephants, carved dragons, live flowers, ornate boxes, and tiny orange and yellow electric lights. A shelf held sepia photographs surrounded by offerings of fruit and bouquets and more candles. Panels of Chinese calligraphy, some wooden, some silk, flanked the altar, covered the side walls and even decorated the ceiling. Blue-and-white jars crowded together, filled with boughs of peach blossoms. Robeson and I were the only Westerners other than a young Nordic type sporting a bald spot encircled by pale brown hair that made him look like a friar. Friar Boy was bickering with two of Huyen’s assistants, who seemed to object to his camera. With hand signals and rapid Vietnamese, they made it clear that photos were not allowed. He tried to pretend he didn’t understand but finally stopped shooting when they covered the lens with their hands. He pulled the camera toward him and snapped its leather case shut.