The Whitehall Mandarin

by Edward Wilson

  ‘What,’ asked Catesby, ‘did he say about me?’

  ‘He said you were an adventurer and a mercenary who had connections with the criminal underworld.’

  Catesby smiled at the irony.

  ‘But that you were trusted by the British upper class to do their dirty work – and that’s why you’re here trying to find Miranda.’

  ‘Did this SDECE man try to seduce you?’

  ‘A little bit. He took me to dinner and tried to get me drunk, but I pushed him away.’

  ‘And he took “no” for an answer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then what was in it for him?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Why did he give you information about me for nothing in return – unless you really did…’

  ‘No, I wasn’t interested. You don’t know about me.’

  ‘You’re not telling me the whole truth.’

  ‘About myself?’

  ‘No, about what the French intelligence bloke told you. He wants something out of this, he did a deal.’

  The Frenchwoman went silent, then said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I’m talking about my own survival. I don’t like French secret intelligence using someone like you to put a trail on me. If you want me as friend – and not as a dangerous enemy – tell me everything now.’

  The Frenchwoman took a deep breath. ‘The SDECE have agreed to help me with a Paris Match – or a Figaro or wherever it appears – story about what he calls “Mi’lady Miranda”. It’s a reaction to what happened last May. They want to make the Left look silly and immature – and there’s also the British angle. It’s the Poussin connection.’

  Catesby’s brain started to whir and click like mad.

  ‘The art historian who helped Miranda’s family obtain the Poussin studies is an ex-British intelligence officer named Sir Anthony Blunt. The SDECE man confided that he is certain that Sir Anthony was a Soviet spy. He is certain that Miranda can help uncover this fact.’

  ‘But Miranda is a woman of the Left, a Communist. Why would she want to betray a fellow comrade?’

  The Frenchwoman smiled like a card player about to lay down a winning hand. ‘Don’t you understand? Don’t you see why Miranda dismissed last May’s demonstrations and strikes as a mere “Dionysian ritual of release”? Don’t you understand why she gave her body to those young men from Africa and Asia?’

  Catesby knew the answer, but shook his head to pretend he didn’t.

  ‘Miranda is a Maoist. She hates the Soviet Union and all its works.’

  Catesby despised Savani’s ideologies, but had a grudging respect for his professionalism and flair. The Miranda story would further exacerbate the ideological rifts within the French Left – and a rich English girl playing radical politics would also be delicious. And, as a bonus, a cross-Channel exposé of Anthony Blunt to rubbish the British intelligence services. So, thought Catesby, Savani wants to play games. He smiled. He had an absolute gem about SDECE to pass on to CIA. The wonderful thing about espionage wasn’t what enemies did to each other, but the way allies stabbed each other in the back. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a propeller plane at low altitude.

  ‘Cover your mouth and don’t breathe in.’

  The plane was flying over the distant tree line of an abandoned rubber plantation and spewing out a cloud of yellowy-orange chemical.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Catesby.

  ‘Agent Orange. It kills trees – and everything else.’

  When the plane had finished its business, Catesby turned to the Frenchwoman. ‘There are still loose ends that need clearing up. You mentioned that Sir Anthony helped Miranda’s family get two Poussin studies. One was Et in Arcadia Ego. What was the other one?’

  The Frenchwoman smiled broadly. ‘Oh yes, that one. It was much larger and more ambitious – and Miranda wanted to act that one out too. But she would have needed quite a crowd.’

  ‘Can you remember what it was called?’

  ‘The something of Pan … ah, the Triumph of Pan.’

  ‘What is it like?’

  ‘A triumph of sensuality and abandon.’

  ‘What role did Miranda want you to play?’

  The Frenchwoman suddenly looked puzzled. ‘She said she wanted me to be her mother, that she needed a mother. I was a little confused, but when I found a copy of the painting I understood. There are two females next to each other, one of whom is larger and more mature.’

  ‘Have you children of your own?’

  ‘What has that to do with anything?’

  ‘Sorry, but there is one more thing that I don’t understand.’

  ‘There are many things that I don’t understand.’

  ‘You look familiar – and I think I know why.’

  ‘There are many frumpy women like me in the world.’

  ‘You’re not frumpy – you’re nice looking.’

  ‘Don’t get personal.’

  Catesby could tell she meant it. ‘Okay, this is what I don’t understand. You said that it was easier for a woman to make contact with the Viet Cong than a man.’

  ‘Sure, women seem less threatening.’

  ‘Not always. But assuming that’s true, why haven’t you made an attempt to go over to the Viet Cong yourself and try to find Miranda. Why do you need me?’

  The Frenchwoman looked at the haze of yellow-orange smoke that still hung over the tree line. ‘I hope the wind doesn’t blow it this way.’

  ‘Are you trying to avoid answering my question?’

  ‘Not at all. I know that it is easier for a woman to contact the Viet Cong because I did so myself. I faked a car breakdown on the coast road north of Hoi An just before dark – I siphoned out the petrol. It was a dark moonless night and I did not have long to wait. In any case, I had arranged the rendezvous through an intermediary.’

  Catesby realised that he had seen the Frenchwoman before. The dullest job of an intelligence officer is going through endless document files. Before leaving for Vietnam, Catesby spent three weeks – three hundred working hours – sifting through files, press cuttings and photos. His eyes ended up bleary and blood-shot, but a good intelligence officer never forgets a face. In the press photo, she was wearing a conical hat and black pyjamas. Catesby was surprised that her story had merited so little column space. Perhaps the media had grown weary of Vietnam.

  ‘But,’ said the Frenchwoman, ‘it didn’t work out as I had hoped.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘A US Marine patrol found my abandoned car the next morning. I had expected this, but I didn’t expect the huge reaction that my disappearance triggered – not being an American, only an obscure French journalist. That very same day the area was flooded with American troops – two whole battalions of US Marines.’ She smiled. ‘I never thought I would have over a thousand young men chasing me. And the sky was full of helicopters too. Not what I wanted.’

  ‘Did they find you?’

  ‘Fortunately not. It might have been a bloodbath if they had. The search went on for five days. Our hiding places were cramped, but completely undetectable. The National Liberation Front commander instructed the regional cadre and the guerrillas to lie low and not to engage the marines. You know, of course, that the NLF follows Mao’s guerrilla war doctrine. “When the enemy attacks, we retreat. When the enemy withdraws, we attack.” Their discipline was perfect: no movement and total silence. I shared a cramped bunker with six guerrilla fighters, two of whom were women. It was so small, not more than a metre in height. On two occasions, we heard marines moving through the seemingly deserted village overhead. The second time they came there was an explosion when an American tripped a booby trap. We heard the helicopter that landed to pick him up. The loss of a comrade made the marines search the village more thoroughly than they had before. We heard them thrashing around only feet away, but they didn’t find us. During that time we lived on a ball of rice and a cup of water a day
. We had to pee in bottles – and could only go out to do the other late at night.’

  ‘I bet you weren’t very popular. The search was your fault.’

  ‘They never showed any resentment. At first, they said my being there was a good thing because it relieved pressure on the 2nd NVA division in the mountains and allowed them to resupply. But at the end of the fifth day, they said I must go back. I was so disappointed. I had come so far – and done the most dangerous and difficult things. And how I wanted to find Miranda – not just for the story, but because I loved her. I pleaded, but they said that I must go. Perhaps they did not trust me. Late that night one of the guerrillas blindfolded me as they had when they took me there. They must have feared that I might lead the marines back to their hiding place.’

  Catesby knew the blindfolding had nothing to do with distrust. It was a standard procedure. The Résistance group he worked with in the Limousin had blindfolded their own mothers before they led them to a hideout. Guerrilla warfare was a ruthless vocation in which no one could be expected to withstand torture or death threats to other family members without talking.

  ‘In the end, I was taken back to the road where I had left my car. The car was no longer there, but when I got it back the marines had serviced it and filled it with petrol. It was absolutely gleaming. But I never saw my clothes again. The Viet Cong had dressed me like a typical peasant woman. When day came there was a lot of traffic from the big base near Da Nang, but it was a while before an American realised that I was a round-eye woman, even though I was frantically waving them down.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘They replaced my black pyjamas and sandals with Marine Corps fatigues and boots. I was surprised they had my size. I also had a lovely hot shower and washed my hair – and they fed me an enormous breakfast with gallons of coffee and orange juice. It was very pleasant.’

  ‘And that was that.’

  ‘No, they interrogated me for two days. But because I had already concocted a story of being captured after my car broke down, I decided not to fabricate an elaborate escape adventure. I told them that the Viet Cong had released me because I was a French journalist and that the Viet Cong did not want to create bad feelings with the French government – and the last bit is true.’

  ‘How did the Americans take that?’

  ‘They continued to treat me well – and said that I wasn’t responsible for my government’s errors. By then, of course, I was pretending to be in love with everything American. And I was a bit taken – I adored those hot showers and they even gave me a basket of cosmetics. After the intelligence types had finished with me, I was handed over to a press officer. He was very disappointed that I hadn’t made a dramatic escape after being raped and beaten by sadistic guards, but I couldn’t change my story. And then, of course, the newspapers came with their pencils and cameras – I had to put on my black pyjamas again for the photographers. There were some articles about me in the international press.’

  Catesby nodded, but didn’t admit he had seen one.

  ‘So, I can’t do it again. Neither the Viet Cong nor the Americans would believe me nor treat me as well. You cannot fake being captured twice. I have – how do you say – blotted my reporter’s notebook.’

  ‘Copybook. But I prefer the American equivalent.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘He stepped on his dick.’

  ‘A dick is a … ah, yes.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And I haven’t got one … and how could one, unless one was an acrobat or it was impossibly long?’

  Catesby could see that the Frenchwoman had a very literal mind and didn’t take it further. ‘Did you ask the Viet Cong about Miranda?’

  ‘Yes, but only one of them spoke good French and he said that he would have to pass my question on to someone else.’

  ‘It sounds like he didn’t have the authority to deal with it.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘If I find Miranda, I promise that you will have your Paris Match front-page scoop.’

  ‘Don’t make my mistake. The Viet Cong guerrilla units near the coast in Quang Nam are under too much pressure and too much surveillance. They are very gallant, but haven’t the time to deal with people chasing a rich Western girl like Miranda. You must go further inland, into the mountains, where you will find the regular North Vietnamese Army divisions. That will be more difficult and dangerous because there are no civilians to help you and no passable roads.’ She hit the steering wheel of the Peugeot cabriolet. ‘At least not for a car like this one.’

  ‘You mentioned a contact. Could he help me too?’

  ‘It’s a she. Her name is Truong Thi Nhung and she lives in Da Nang. She comes from a bourgeois Catholic background and teaches languages at a convent school in Da Nang. You may find it hard to win her trust. She is a very complex woman who can be hard and ruthless.’

  »»»»

  Catesby found the infantry division’s base at Cu Chi completely bizarre and surreal. It was a town of 20,000 inhabitants sprawled over a treeless expanse of bulldozed earth. The land was so flat there were no vistas beyond the endless rows of regimented huts and footpaths lined with rocks painted white. Even though there were military trucks and jeeps and helicopters the war seemed a remote possibility. Soldiers wore baseball caps instead of helmets and no one inside the base itself carried a weapon. And there was no trace of whatever had been Vietnam. It was a null space where nothing connected with nothing. Catesby felt overcome by nausea and wanted to get out.

  The opportunity came in the form of a helicopter ride to a ‘sweep and destroy’ operation. Catesby spent a day with an infantry company. Not a shot was fired except by American troops into tree lines and bamboo thickets. It was called ‘reconnaissance by fire’. The idea was that enemy troops would reveal their presence by shooting back – if, presumably, they were really stupid. But they can’t have been stupid – or there at all – for no one fired back. Nothing happened until late afternoon when a rifleman managed to step on a mine and get his foot blown off. Catesby managed to hitch a lift back on the medevac helicopter and was in Saigon the next day.

  »»»»

  The CIA man wasn’t in a better mood, but he seemed saner and more sober. At least this time he wasn’t playing loud music and waving a pistol in Catesby’s face.

  The American began first: ‘You spiked that article, didn’t you?’

  ‘You know I did. If I hadn’t spiked it, I’d be floating face down in the Mekong River.’

  The American nodded.

  ‘And it doesn’t matter what I write now because you’ve covered up your tracks and wiped off the fingerprints.’

  ‘Once again, you’re talking through your ass.’

  ‘I lost a lot of money by spiking that story – so where’s my 15,000 dollars?’

  ‘Tell me again why you’re worth it.’

  ‘As I said before, I’m going to help you nail Lopez, your rogue Green Beret, and maybe you can get Burchett, the Australian commie, at the same time.’ Catesby paused. ‘But I’m feeling generous, so I’m going to give you a bonus prize.’

  ‘It better be a good one.’

  ‘How well do you know your counterpart at the French Embassy?’ Catesby was going to enjoy this. It was payback time.

  ‘Not very. I’ve met him once or twice. His name is Guerini or something like that. He’s a sleazy greaseball, looks like a wop.’

  ‘His name isn’t Guerini.’ Catesby smiled. It was interesting to learn the SDECE man had taken the alias of a Marseilles gangster he had collaborated with. ‘It’s a good story, but I’m not going to tell you more until you hand over the money that you already owe me. I got you out of a lot of trouble.’

  The American went over to a grey iron box bolted to the floor. He came back with a thick brown envelope and pushed it at Catesby. ‘Do you want to count it?’

  ‘Don’t need to. I trust you.’ Catesby put the envelope inside the pocket of his
safari jacket without looking inside. He would later drop the cash off at the British Embassy and get a signed receipt. Times were tough and the dollars would be a welcome stash for SIS to pay off agents. ‘Guerini can’t use his real name because of something that happened here in Saigon in 1955. Does the name Antoine Savani ring a bell?’

  ‘A tiny tinkle.’

  ‘You obviously weren’t here in ’55 because if you had been, that bell would have rung so loud your ears would be bleeding.’

  ‘That was before my time.’

  ‘Antoine Savani was French chief of station then, just as he is now under his new name. It was quite a daring move sending him here considering his history. It suggests that SDECE hasn’t completely given up the business.’

  ‘What business?’

  ‘Your business, heroin.’

  The CIA man’s face turned pale and hard. ‘I think we’ve had enough of that shit.’

  ‘Sure, but maybe Savani hasn’t. 1955 was a bad year for the French intelligence service. They fucked up at Dien Bien Phu and lost the war and all of Indochina – and quite rightly their funding was slashed. The only way they could survive in the lavish style to which the SDECE was accustomed was Operation X.’ Catesby looked closely at the American. ‘You guys might want to learn a lesson from their book – but I think you already have.’

  The American remained unblinking and expressionless.

  ‘In any case, despite French losses elsewhere, Antoine Savani still maintained a fiefdom in Saigon and the Delta. It was the best gangster empire in Southeast Asia. Savani controlled the Hall of Mirrors, the world’s biggest brothel, and the Chinese Triads in Cholon – no mean feat. But the jewel in the SDECE’s tarnished crown was the heroin trade. The opium still poured down from the Golden Triangle via the hill tribes of Laos.’ Catesby smiled. ‘But then you guys messed it up for Savani. Your new puppets, Ngo Dinh Diem and his gang, wanted to take over. A bit funny considering that Diem was a devout Catholic who only wanted to be a priest, but the rest of the family were more practical. You know about the gun battle, don’t you? It’s part of secret CIA legend – not something you tell the new guys.’