The Whitehall Mandarin

by Edward Wilson

  ‘And the Katu are a very modest and gentle people. They not only believe that every living being is sacred, but the very earth itself and every rock. You must only take and use what you need to survive. Otherwise, the spirit of the tree or the river will be angry with you. I was so angry when the Americans tried to recruit the Katu as soldiers, but the colonel who sent you here put an end to that. He is a good man.’

  ‘And he knows that you have contact with Wilfrid Burchett?’

  ‘Yes, and you must keep that a secret. We call him Ong Wilfrid. Ong is Vietnamese for uncle. Wilfrid has helped us with the North Vietnamese and the Viet Cong. They will never interfere with us here and they have agreed not to use the Katu as porters or labourers – and Wilfrid, in his turn, writes good stories about the North Vietnamese.’

  Catesby nodded at the radio set. ‘How can you communicate with Uncle Wilfrid without being listened to by the Americans or the Vietnamese?’

  The Australian woman smiled. ‘Wilfrid has a young Katu assistant called Joseph. I speak to Joseph in eastern Katu dialect. There are no Vietnamese or Americans who can understand what we are saying – then Joseph, a fine linguist, translates for Wilfrid.’

  ‘What’s the situation now?’

  ‘It would be too dangerous for you to meet them. The trails between here and the NVA base areas are being heavily bombed. There is also a large number of American-led reconnaissance teams in the area.’

  ‘Is it because someone knows I’m here?’

  ‘I hope not; it could be because the Americans fear the North Vietnamese are massing for an assault on the Special Forces camp.’

  »»»»

  The next night there were rocket and mortar attacks against the camp, which appeared to confirm what the Australian woman had said. Catesby sat in a deckchair on the veranda of the villa with a tin of Fosters in his hand and watched the action. It may have been lethal, but it was also a rather pretty fireworks display. The steep mountainside near the camp sparkled with the back-blasts of rockets being launched. They reminded Catesby of flashbulbs going off from the terraces during an evening football match. Meanwhile the whole area was bathed in the greenish-white light of illumination flares slowly descending on their mini-parachutes. And at ground level there was a fierce criss-crossing of red tracer rounds from the camp with green tracer rounds from the attackers. But the best show was when the helicopter gunships turned up and bathed the mountain with streams of mini-gun fire that looked like solid lines of light. It was clearly not a good place to go rambling.

  In the morning Catesby listened as Mildred spoke eastern Katu to Joseph over the radio. There were occasional delays of a minute or two when no one spoke. Catesby assumed that Joseph was translating to someone else, presumably Ong Wilfrid, before speaking again. At one point Mildred wrote something down. Catesby could see worry etched on her face.

  He waited until she had finished the transmission then asked, ‘Things are not going well?’

  ‘Wilfrid says it’s too dangerous to send a scout to lead you to the NVA base area from here. He has, however, given me the name of someone in Da Nang who might be able to help you. But I will have to decode the name first. Joseph and I have devised a code using the book of Genesis and the Katu alphabet. It will only take a minute.’

  Catesby watched as she added a copied set of letters to a copied passage from Genesis. He could see that Mildred was using the polyalphabetic trigraph, the securest code imaginable. The Noah story was her decryption key. This was a country where even missionaries had to use spy-craft. Mildred copied something on a scrap of paper and handed it to Catesby.

  ‘This,’ she said, ‘is the name of your contact in Da Nang and where you can leave a message for her.’

  Catesby read the decryption. It was the very same name the Frenchwoman journalist had passed on to him on the road to Cu Chi.

  »»»»

  The bicycle repair shop also dealt with motorbikes and scooters. You found it by going up a dark alleyway off Hoang Dieu Street. Once again, Catesby was given a lift by the Duke of Edinburgh’s cousin.

  ‘Da Nang’s off limits to US troops,’ said the Greek American. ‘They think it’s too dangerous. We’re allowed to tool around the town because we tell the MPs that we have to liaise with our Vietnamese counterparts – which is bullshit. But you’ll be all right because you’re a nhà báo, a journalist.’

  ‘Thanks for the lift.’

  ‘By the way, the best way to get on with the Vietnamese is to trust them. If they think you don’t trust them they will mess you up. If you do trust them they will look after you. At least, it’s worked for me and I’ve survived five years here.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice.’

  ‘And next time you see Prince Philip, tell him that cousin Theo sends his best wishes.’ The American ground the jeep into gear and disappeared in a cloud of petrol fumes.

  As Catesby walked up the alleyway to the bike repair shop he kept repeating ‘trust them’ as a mantra. Not much else he could do. He was alone in a war-torn country where he hardly spoke a word of the language. The door to the bike shop was open so Catesby walked in. There didn’t seem to be anyone around. The shop was dark and smelled of grease and cooking spices. Most of the pushbikes were French, but practically all of the motorbikes were .50cc Hondas. There was, however, a looming presence in the shop. It was under a tarpaulin spotted with grease stains. Catesby could only see the bottom few inches of the motorcycle wheels so he couldn’t be sure what it was. But somehow it beckoned like a lost lover from the dark shadows. Catesby knew that whatever lay beneath that tarpaulin was part of him, part of his heritage. It seemed to pulse: home, home, I’ve been waiting for you. Catesby needed to see her, to touch her. He lifted the tarpaulin and there she was – a gleaming hunk of England, a perfect BSA 441 Victor motorcycle.

  Catesby would have caressed the bike if he hadn’t felt a hand touch his shoulder. It wasn’t a harsh touch, but it wasn’t a gentle one either. And whoever was there had entered the shop in complete silence. Catesby turned slowly to face a Vietnamese man dressed in a T-shirt and black shorts. He greeted him with ‘Chào, anh’, a phrase he had picked up which meant ‘Hello, older brother.’

  The Vietnamese, a lot younger than Catesby, answered, ‘Chào, ông.’ Hello uncle.

  Catesby pointed to the bike and then to himself. He wanted to show that he was British like the BSA Victor, but the Vietnamese word for British was anh, the same as older brother, and trying to actually say it would just make things more confusing.

  The Vietnamese stared at Catesby without blinking. It was time to come clean, to explain why he was there. Catesby had practised the name of the Vietnamese woman with Mildred and knew he had it right: ‘Truong Thi Nhung.’

  There was a brief flicker in the eyes of the Vietnamese, but otherwise his face remained blank.

  Catesby pointed to the motorcycle again and said, ‘Tôi nguòi Anh.’ I am English people.

  There was a flicker of understanding in the eyes of the Vietnamese.

  Catesby then pretended he was kicking a football and said, ‘Manchester United.’

  The Vietnamese beamed a broad smile and said, ‘Your Bess.’

  Catesby nodded and repeated, ‘George Best.’

  The Vietnamese held up his thumb and said, ‘Numbah one.’

  Catesby wanted to get on the case again. He pointed to himself: ‘Nhà báo.’ Journalist.

  A look of recognition crossed the face of the Vietnamese. He pointed to the motorcycle and said, ‘Nhà báo Anh.’ He then made a gesture with his hands of someone taking photos with a camera.

  The BSA Victor had been explained. The bike had belonged to a British photojournalist. Catesby strung together a question with his limited Vietnamese. He wanted to know how to find his fellow Brit to ask about the BSA Victor. ‘O dao nhà báo Anh?’ Where is the English journalist?

  The Vietnamese said something that sounded like ‘my buy’ and made helicopter noises to show w
hat the word meant. He gracefully gestured with his hands to show a helicopter flying along, shouted ‘Bang!’, then made sad hand gestures as the helicopter fluttered to earth.

  Catesby now understood how the big British bike had ended up reigning over the bicycles and tiny Hondas. He also understood that in Vietnam motorcycles were safer than helicopters. He wanted to get back on track and asked about the woman contact, ‘O dao Truong Thi Nhung?’

  The face of the Vietnamese turned serious. He pointed to a chair near a simple wooden table in a dark corner. Catesby realised he was being asked to sit down and wait. A second later the Vietnamese had disappeared as silently as he had appeared, despite his having a pronounced and obviously painful limp.

  Catesby tried to restrain his spy instincts to have a look around, but they were too strong. He was soon up and snooping. Catesby could see it wasn’t just a workshop, but the mechanic’s home. On a shelf near the table was a plastic washing-up basin with china bowls, chopsticks and cups – and neatly rolled up on the floor beneath was a sleeping mat. The shop was very well equipped with tools – including a power lathe. During his snoop, Catesby discovered that the tools had a dual purpose. The mechanic did a good job of clearing up, but not a perfect job. Catesby found the spiral-shaped valve spring underneath the workshop table. It was worn and probably had needed replacing. The mechanic, with his limp, probably found it difficult looking for tiny dropped parts under the table. Catesby wondered what had happened to the soldier who had carried the AK-47 rifle that had once housed that valve spring. Catesby put the spring in his pocket as a talisman – just as he became aware that he was no longer alone.

  In her yellow silk áo dài and white trousers she looked out of place among the tools and detritus. Catesby’s first impulse was to tell her to be careful not to get grease on her clothes, but she was practised at keeping an áo dài clean and wove gracefully through the shop. She spoke in French that was fluent, but had the slight rising and falling lilt characteristic of the Vietnamese. It gave the totally false impression of a birdlike fragility.

  ‘I had,’ she said, ‘been expecting you, but didn’t realise everything about you. Cuc said that you used to play football for Manchester United. You are an extraordinary person.’

  Catesby smiled. Cuc must be the name of the Vietnamese in the bike shop. ‘That was a complete misunderstanding. I have never been a professional football player.’

  ‘Oh, Cuc will be so disappointed.’

  Catesby made a mental note for a request. He was sure that George Best would sign a photo. SIS had done far more for less deserving agents. ‘But trust me to make up for it.’

  Nhung looked at Catesby. ‘I have been told that you are a journalist who is sympathetic to our cause.’

  Catesby nodded.

  ‘I have also been told to help you make safe passage to the Vietnamese People’s Army base areas near the Truong Son Strategic Supply Route. I cannot personally take you there, but I know someone who can help. It will be a very dangerous journey for you, but it will be worth the risk.’

  Catesby looked at Nhung. At first, he had thought she was barely out of her teens, but now he realised she was a mature woman. When she frowned there were lines around her face and eyes – and a look of pain too.

  ‘The first part of your journey will begin here and Cuc will help you. You will eventually meet Huynh, who speaks fluent French and very good English. He will guide you the rest of the way.’

  The name rang a bell. ‘Did Huynh used to live in Paris?’

  ‘Yes, until very recently. Huynh is a new fighter.’

  »»»»

  The BSA 441 Victor was well suited to Vietnam. It had lots of ground clearance and was just as good off the road as on. Catesby could see why the dead photographer had chosen it. But the ‘Beezer’ Victor is a temperamental beast too. If you don’t treat her right, she shows her contempt with a shudder, a cough and a stall. And she needs lots of skilful foreplay to get in the mood. All 441cc are in one big thrusting cylinder. So you need to be strong as well as graceful. The trick is to gently flood the carburettor with not a drop too much petrol or a drop too little. Then you have to make sure her piston is exactly dead centre, engage the valve lifter and finally jump down on the kickstarter with a long, smooth and firm motion that would test the butchest male dancers of the Bolshoi Ballet. By now, of course, you’ve released the valve lifter and are expertly twisting the throttle to her needs; otherwise she will stall. But if she doesn’t, the engine roar is glorious and throaty and you are in for one hell of a ride.

  The road south of Da Nang was flat and straight. The only elevation was Marble Mountain, which stuck out of the coastal plain like a rotten tooth. There was a lot of traffic, both Vietnamese and American. What Catesby enjoyed most was accelerating past lumbering convoys of US Marine armoured personnel carriers. Compared to the lumpy marines in flak jackets, Catesby felt like a creature of freedom – he wasn’t even wearing a crash helmet. He was far too old to be a rocker or a mod, but the rockers were more his style. Catesby also preferred The Rolling Stones to The Beatles, but it wasn’t the sort of thing he often discussed among the pinstripes at senior SIS meetings in Century House. His colleagues would have told him to act his age. There was a clear stretch of road ahead. The only traffic was conical-hatted Vietnamese on foot or on bikes, but Catesby restrained himself from going full throttle to get the Victor up to 80: ‘Act your age, William, act your age.’

  Just north of Hoi An, Catesby had to turn off Route One, which had been good and fast moving. The road inland was unpaved and insecure even in hours of daylight. Most of the traffic was US Marine supply convoys heading to their big base at An Hoa. The marines called the area ‘the Arizona territory’. Maybe, thought Catesby, it was because there were a lot of Indians in Arizona. In any case, the marines looked far more alert and vigilant. Each truck was armed with an M60 machine-gun. No one sat idly. The machine-gun crews, as well as the marine riflemen with M16s, peered into the bleak and blasted countryside. But no one paid attention to Catesby as he bounced along on the BSA Victor.

  It wasn’t until Catesby reached Liberty Bridge on the Song Thu Bon that anyone noticed him at all. The bridge was heavily guarded because it kept getting blown up. The guards looked very tired and nervous. Two of them approached Catesby in a queue of vehicles waiting to cross the river. Their uniforms were so bleached by the sun that they had lost their camouflage. One of the marines had used a black marker pen to draw a peace symbol on his helmet liner and below the symbol it read: ‘I’m not a tourist, I live here.’ The message on the other marine’s helmet liner was less serene: ‘These people aren’t people.’

  The peace symbol marine spoke first as he stroked the Victor’s petrol tank. ‘Where’d you get this? Wow, you’re really groovy. Cool.’

  ‘I borrowed it from a friend in Da Nang.’

  ‘Has he got any Triumphs? I’d love a Triumph Bonneville.’

  ‘No, just this one.’

  The other marine spoke. ‘British bikes are shit. You ought to get a Harley.’

  The traffic was moving again. Catesby revved up the Victor. ‘See you guys later.’

  The peace symbol marine smiled. ‘Is that bike a Victor Charlie?’

  Catesby smiled bleakly at the joke alluding to the Viet Cong as he crossed the bridge to the south bank of the Song Thu Bon. The marines on the trucks and armoured personnel carriers seemed even more tense and alert. There was evidence of heavy fighting on both sides of the road, including burnt-out tanks and torched villages. It was slow and dusty. After ten more miles, there were guard towers visible in the distance and the marines became less tense. A few took off their helmets and lit up cigarettes. They had run the gauntlet without any losses.

  After the marine base at An Hoa, there were no more Americans and little traffic of any sort on the road. It was a rural and deceptively peaceful Vietnam. Peasants in black pyjamas and conical hats trudged along the road with baskets of produce, including liv
e squawking chickens, cantilevered on shoulder poles. Catesby ran the motorbike at slow speed and low revs so as not to disturb the tranquillity or announce his presence.

  The road finally ended at a river landing where three boats were pulled up on the bank. There was also a squad of South Vietnamese soldiers lolling about under a canopy. Their weapons were not at the ready. Catesby had sussed enough of the order of battle to realise these were RFs, Regional Forces. They were not the fiercest of Saigon’s warriors. The Americans called them ‘ruff puffs’. The sergeant in charge greeted Catesby in English: ‘Hello, good morning’ – even though it wasn’t morning.

  ‘Is it far to the coal mine?’

  The sergeant smiled warmly and broadly, but didn’t understand a word.

  Catesby tried again in French and added Nong Son to coal mine.

  The sergeant nodded, ‘Oui, oui, oui.’ But didn’t give a distance.

  Catesby looked at the boats. None of them seemed sturdy enough to carry the Victor. There was a broad, well-trodden footpath along the riverbank, which continued where the road ended. Catesby pointed to the path and asked, ‘Nong Son?’

  The sergeant smiled and nodded.

  ‘Beaucoup VC?’

  The sergeant tilted his head and looked thoughtful, then said, ‘Pas beaucoup.’

  Catesby decided to risk it and got back on the Victor. It wasn’t easy to start because dust was clogging up the air filter. But after the fourth try the motorbike roared into life and echoed up the river valley – which was no longer coastal plain but lush green mountains. The Vietnamese onlookers cheered and applauded.

  The riverbank path was an easy one for the Victor. The area was largely under the control of the Viet Cong, but Catesby felt no sense of menace – only rural tranquillity. He knew the tranquillity was deceptive and that at any moment a squad of hard-looking men carrying AK-47s could appear from nowhere. And, if they did, Catesby had no idea how he was going to explain why he was there. Nhung had warned that it was impossible to give him a laissez-passer that would be recognised by every guerrilla in Quang Nam province. They were rightfully paranoid and suspicious of strangers. They had been bombed too much.