The questions came, but they were offhand, almost casual. They came in conversations in which the interrogators compared their experiences in the war with those of their VC counterparts. How did you survive, during those times when we were so close that you could not have had time to rest, eat, or sleep? Where did you go during the bombings? You must have been very strong to stay dedicated so long. Who were your inspirations? The political officers, you say? What were their names? Do you know where they are now? Slowly, almost imperceptibly, they found themselves talking more and more with the men they had so feared, but now found were so much like themselves.
And slowly the intelligence grew. Items gathered from one person were cross-checked with others. Bits gathered from various sources allowed the PRU to piece together a picture of operations and personalities that, while it would never be whole, was much more clear than anything theretofore available. The more they knew, the easier it was to find out more. Now they knew what questions to ask, could confront a liar with the truth, could show the one being questioned that they already knew what he knew, so why should he hide anything?
Vanh and Carmichael had agreed that they would take a break from operations until the intelligence operation was fully underway. Neither wished to work blind again, and both wanted to make sure that no disasters such as the one that had come so close to claiming their lives happened again.
Besides, it was a full-time job just staying alive.
The first attempt at Jim had come when he had been back in Hue for less than a week.
He’d intended to go and visit the Indian and had dismissed his bodyguards, much to their displeasure. He’d figured that it was safe enough; the assassination team from III Corps could not have had time enough to get there.
Still, he remained alert. There were few danger zones between the Embassy House and downtown where the Indian kept his shop, but who could tell what was really a danger zone anymore? He pulled out of the gate, satisfied to see that the guards were still doing the procedures he had taught them. One man opened the gate, the other took up position in the road to stop traffic. He pulled out, carefully looking both ways, trying to sense anything out of place. Nothing. Satisfied, he accelerated, moved in and out of the sparse traffic, turned left on the main road leading into the city. On both sides were friendly installations. He waved to the Special Branch advisor, who was in the courtyard supervising training. An over-the-hill former LA cop who loved his booze, he still brought street smarts and hard-nosed realism to his job. Jim had spent a couple of nights talking to him in the MACV bar, and had liked the man’s cynical attitude and profane manner of expressing himself. And his cop stories were great, funny, and sad all at the same time.
Just beyond the compound was the double-span suspension bridge across the Perfume River. It was jammed, as usual; military vehicles of all sizes from giant gasoline tankers to jeeps jammed cheek by jowl with bullock carts, three-wheel cyclos, motorcycles of all types, pedestrians. Beneath the bridge, which always seemed to be groaning with the weight, the broad brown river flowed, carrying its own cargo of sampans, fishing boats, trash, logs, dead fish, and the occasional body.
To Jim this was the only real danger area, and he didn’t feel good about joining the crush. But unless you intended to swim, this was the way you went downtown.
He heard the popping of the 50cc Honda coming up on his left. Nothing strange about that, the small motorcycles threaded their way in and out of the traffic all the time. It was the fastest way to travel. Except perhaps walking. Still, caution made him reach over and adjust the rearview. Two young men on it, approaching from his left rear. Nothing strange there either, few motorcycles carried only the driver. He had seen them loaded down with entire families and a pig.
He saw the one on the rear reach into his jacket just as the cycle approached the rear bumper. Shit! No way to escape by vehicle; he was thoroughly jammed in. Danger! his nerves screamed, even as he threw himself to the side across the other seat, scrabbling for his gun. It was under him, squeezed between his waist and the seat. His legs were kicking, vainly trying to push himself out the other side of the jeep.
The first round shattered the windshield, in front of where his head had just been. The second went into the seat, hitting the top brace and whining away crazily. The third was slightly lower, punching out cushion material, the heat from the round causing it to smolder. He twisted, finally got the gun free, sent the first round over the head of the driver just as they came even with the front of the seat.
The driver jerked away, spoiling the aim of the shooter. The fourth round hit the dashboard, shattering gauges and showering glass and metal all over Jim. He fired back, totally missing. The man’s face was clear over the sights of the gun, nervous, scared, concentrating and trying to hit him, registering surprise when none of the bullets scored.
Then they were by, and he was trying to get up, his body refusing to act properly. He was trembling, almost unable to reload the pistol, thinking in some recess of his mind that he could not believe that he had fired fourteen rounds of nine-millimeter and had done nothing but punch holes in the air. Finally he got his reflexes and muscles able to react in some sort of coordinated way, braced himself across the hood of the jeep, and shot again and again at their receding backs. The bullets were whanging off vehicles, ricocheting crazily, striking great showers of sparks off the bridge members. People were screaming, crawling, trying to get themselves under anything available. His hands were shaking uncontrollably, the barrel wavered, but still he fired on the off-chance one of the rounds would connect. The heavier crack of a rifle sounded over his head, scaring the driver, who veered to the side and hit the rear bumper of a truck, shooting the cycle and both riders off the side of the bridge like a rock from a slingshot. Out in a graceful arc, the driver staying with the bike as if he expected to land on the surface of the river and drive away. The rider kicked away, tucked, hit the river with somewhat less of a splash.
The police advisor ran by Jim, stationed himself at a bridge stanchion, aimed his M-16 down at the splashes, fired off a magazine. The bullets pocked the water. He reloaded, waited. By this time Jim had gotten enough control of himself to run to his side, just in time to see him grunt in satisfaction, aim carefully, and fire again. Jim looked down to see a body disappearing, blood mixing with the brown water. They waited for the other one, but he never came up. “Didn’t think he would,” said the advisor. “He rode that cycle right to the bottom.”
“Thanks, man,” Jim said. He was trying to get his pistol back into the holster, missed it twice. The advisor gently took it from him, engaged the safety, and tucked it safely in place.
“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Looked like you could use some help. Shit, don’t think I’ve run that fast since I was a rookie chasing purse snatchers. You got any idea who they were?”
Jim shook his head. He was still trembling. “No idea. Somebody who wanted to collect a pile of money, I guess.”
“Yeah. Heard you had a price on your head.”
“Let’s get the fuck out of here before somebody else gets another bright idea.” They could hear the sirens of the Quanh Canh approaching. “I’m not in the mood to answer a lot of questions right now. Think we can get the jeep out of here?”
“Jim, I don’t know much, but I do know that jeep is broke.” The bullets had shattered much of the instrument panel, punched through the transmission, hit the engine at least twice. They had hit, it seemed, everywhere except where he had been. Grease dripped on the bridge and flowed out around their boots.
“You may be right, Billy. I’ll send somebody back for it. Let’s go to your place. I feel a need for something very strong and very wet.”
“Good idea. You get the shit shot out of your jeep, you expend over twenty rounds without hitting a fucking thing, you scare the hell out of about a thousand people on the bridge. Not a bad morning. I’d better get you drunk and put you to bed. I don’t think this town can take an aftern
oon of you. What’ll you do for an encore? Blow down a building or two?”
“Fuck you, Billy. Fuck you very much.”
Chapter XIII
“You find out who they were yet?” he asked Vanh later.
“No one special,” Vanh answered. “No known VC connections. One was a deserter from the army. The other was sixteen years old. Both had criminal records; petty thievery, shakedowns. Looks like they were just two cowboys who wanted to cash in on the reward.”
“Wonderful. Damned near did, too.”
“If you’d had the bodyguards…”
“Please don’t say it. I know I screwed up. You haven’t seen me go anywhere without them lately, have you?”
Vanh smiled. “It seems that even you can learn.”
He finally got to the Indian’s place two days later. This time he let the bodyguards accompany him, telling them to stay outside while he conducted his business. They smiled at each other when he went in. The American was not so incorruptible after all. He manipulated currency just like all the rest. It made him seem more human.
Chandragar looked pained to see him. “Please,” he said, “it is not safe for you to be here. You must leave.”
“You worried about my health, or yours?”
“Both,” the Indian admitted. “Many people want you dead. On both sides.”
“Tell me all about it. And quickly! That way it’ll be safer for the both of us.” Jim laughed, frightening Chandragar even more. In his experience someone who could laugh when clearly there was so much danger was quite mad.
“You know, I’m sure, about the Communists. They are very angry, and frightened. You have been far too successful, more successful than your predecessor, and you know what happened to him. They know what you are doing with the Chieu Hois, and see it as a threat. Some of those people know everything about the structure in this province. They even know some of the deep cover people, their real names. And the Communists want to keep you from finding it out. I am told that you are one of the highest priorities for assassination, with orders being sent down directly from the North.”
“No surprises there. I’ve heard about the hit team on its way here. Makes me feel almost famous.”
“That’s only part of the problem. The Buddhists are also angry. They have told your Roger McMurdock only a part of the story. It’s not about the children. They seem to think that you know something else about them, something that would make the Saigon government come down even harder on them. They are very afraid, and have made contact with someone within your government asking them to remove you, or if they cannot, get rid of you. I do not know what it is that you are supposed to know, or with whom they are dealing on your side. But he is very powerful.”
“Neither do I. Shit, I don’t have anything on the Buddhists!”
Chandragar looked at him in such a way as to clearly indicate that he did not believe him, but did not press the subject. “And,” he continued, “there are people inside the Vietnamese government who would like to see you out of the way. I’m sure that comes as no surprise to you either. The things you found out from the late and unlamented major make them very nervous. They have not moved yet because it is rumored that you have insurance in the form of documents, which they cannot find, though they have searched many times. They are perhaps the most dangerous of all. I recommend to you, young captain, that you take care to stop angering them. Sooner or later, insurance or not, they are going to come to the conclusion that you are just too troublesome to allow to live.”
“Anybody in this province who isn’t my enemy?”
“Only your PRUs, I think. The one who betrayed you is dead. He was killed by his own people, as an example of what happens to those who fail. And of course,” he said with a smile that was a model of insincerity, “you can trust me.”
“Only because you know that if I go, you go,” replied Jim. “And that’s the best possible kind of trust. But I think that it would be best if we did not see each other again. We’ll go back to clandestine communications. I’m sure you won’t mind that. Only one thing, I’m going to leave you this radio.” He handed the Indian a small Motorola. “I need to know, just as soon as you know, even if it blows things, when you get word about the team from the south. Put all your people on it; drop everything else. You may think the province people are my greatest danger; I don’t. I want to know about that team, do you understand!” His face was very close to Chandragar’s, his eyes held a haunted look. He did not bother to explain why it was so important. His look convinced the man that it was.
So you are finally afraid, Chandragar mused after he had gone. Good! Now you can begin to understand what we have lived with for so many years. Every man’s hand turned against you, living only because you were useful, and because you became adept at deflecting the threat to someone else. Now you will know what it is like to wake in the night to the slightest noise, knowing that it could be the last sound you ever hear. Know the agonies of the imagination, neck tingling, feeling the garotte. It was in many ways worse than dying. If you were dead these things could not bother you, and you would at last find peace. Perhaps that was why so many did not survive; they found it easier to perish than to live with the fear.
Do I feel sympathy with him? Yes. The arrogance of the Westerner was gone. He was a man. A young and frightened man. I will do as he says. It would be easier to let him perish, and yet I will not. Would he be grateful if he knew? Probably not. He would just say it was being done to save my own hide. No matter. He chuckled softly. I must be getting old, and soft.
Jim wasn’t satisfied with the new jeep. It hadn’t been modified to his specifications. His old one had a locking gas cap, so no one could plant incendiary devices in it, or hand grenades with the pins removed and a rubber band holding down the spoon. The gas ate away the rubber band and boom! The tank was directly under the seat, a detail he’d always felt must have been designed by saboteurs. He’d also had bolts inserted through the muffler so no one could put a device up his tailpipe. The hood had been fitted with a hasp and a Yale lock. Copely had assigned his own jeep to him until the old one was repaired, and it had none of these precautions. Which was perhaps why he took more than his usual care to inspect it before he got into it and started it up. Which was also undoubtedly why he spotted the small piece of colored insulation from twenty-four-gauge wire lying on the ground beneath the engine.
“Sonofabitch!” he cursed, scrambling to his feet and backing away from the vehicle. He looked vainly around, hoping that someone was not sitting within range with a radio transmitter on the correct frequency. He was shaking again.
“Trung Si,” he yelled to the nearest guard, “keep everyone away from this jeep. You stay away too. There’s a bomb in it.”
The Vietnamese immediately retreated behind the nearest sandbagged bunker, peering out from around it. Not a bad idea, thought Jim. I think I’d better get the hell away from it too. He went back into the Embassy House, where his old friend Alfred Fitzwilliam was again duty officer.
“How about calling up an EOD team,” Jim requested, marveling that he could keep the quaver out of his voice. “There’s a bomb in my jeep.”
The young Agency man looked at him in surprise and disbelief, then saw Jim was not joking. He thought the PRU advisor remarkably cool, finding a bomb in his jeep and standing there as if he didn’t have a care in the world. I’d be shitting my pants, he thought.
Jim’s guts were churning. What the hell is wrong with me? Shit, I’ve been through worse than this and it never affected me this badly before. First the attempt with the cowboys, and I was shaking so bad I couldn’t shoot, and now it’s all I can do to keep from throwing up. Am I losing my nerve? Is it like the guys from World War II used to say, that you can only go to the well so many times? Am I going to crap out?
“They’ll be here in fifteen minutes,” Fitzwilliam said, hanging up the phone. “I told them to put a rush on.”
“Good. I’ve got a guard on i
t in the meantime. No use hanging around. I’ll go get some paperwork done in my room. How about letting me know when they’ve finished.”
He left without another word, leaving the CIA man to wonder again about his lack of emotion. But he no sooner got through the door to his room than he was frantically unbuttoning his pants, making it to the stool just in time. His bowels evacuated in a flood, fouling the air with a stench that was as fetid as the fear washing through his mind. He cleaned himself, pulled up his trousers, and staggered to the bed. In his mind he saw himself getting into the jeep, inserting the key, turning it. Then the split second realization that something was very, very wrong, as the electricity rushed down the thin wires, sending a spark across a gap in the blasting cap, detonating the cap and sending the shock wave into the explosive charge, causing it to deflagrate at blinding speed, quicker than the mind could imagine. But it would go on obstinately imagining, seeing the fireball expand, forcing pieces of metal in all directions at a speed exceeding that of a bullet. Pieces that would rip through him, stomach and pelvis first, cutting and slashing like tiny jagged saws. The shock wave would tear parts from his body. The flames would reduce what was left to a vaguely human-shaped cinder, hands curled up, body trying to assume the fetal position as heat-shortened tendons pulled it together. As we begin, so shall we end.
The knock at his door startled him, mercifully chased the images of his own death to the back of his brain where they would patiently wait in ambush. He tried to compose himself, ran a hand over his hair, looked to see if the hand was shaking.
“You had a real good one there,” said the short, squat man who had knocked. “Sergeant Snyder, EOD. You wanna see it? Damn lucky you spotted it. How’d you do it, anyway?”
Jim explained about the insulation, the sergeant shaking his head in wonder at his good fortune and acumen.
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