A Dangerous Friend

by Ward Just

  You must have nothing more to do with Rostok, she said.

  I know, he said.

  You must promise me that.

  You should have seen Smalley, Pablo said. He was pathetic.

  I saw the hill of dead, she said. That was pathetic also.

  Pablo left early the next morning in the Fiat. The sky was lowering again and rain was in the air. He thought of the many seasons he had lived in Saigon, the governments that had come and gone and the revolution that went on forever. He and his wife lived in a state of ambiguity, always knowing more than they could tell and never knowing quite enough. There were always mysteries, and boxes within boxes, all surrounded by rumor and innuendo. The level of violence was predictable and logical in its own way, and then VC practiced their black arts on Smalley and as a consequence a village disappeared. He found nothing to admire in this war, no principle worth a single human life. For years he had lived on the war's margins and knew now that an avalanche would sweep them all away. He only wanted to live normally with his wife in their bungalow in the suburbs. He had arranged a kind of disappearance for himself. On the weekends of the hottest months they traveled to her family's cottage in the mountains of Dalat. They fished. They played golf. They loved each other. Then the revolution came to Dalat; or perhaps it was always there and he hadn't noticed. After many seasons he found himself accepted, more or less; in any family there were seven circles of intimacy and he reckoned he was at the third or fourth circle. He and his brother-in-law were fast friends. Now there was a chance they would cast him out, and if that ever happened his marriage was ended. He did not know what he would do then. He could not imagine himself living in Vietnam without his wife and he could not imagine himself living in Florida under any circumstances; or anywhere in the vast and unencumbered United States. He was an expatriate, but that did not make him a colonial. He was an American who worked for Americans, but that did not make him an imperialist. He only wished to get on from day to day living normally.

  Song Nu was important to his wife's family for reasons he only dimly understood. It would have something to do with his wife's cousin; perhaps there were other ancestors buried there. He would never know the full truth of it, because the deepest part would be inexplicable even to his wife. But he could see in her eyes that part of her own soul was lost when Song Nu vanished. Then he remembered poor Smalley; part of his soul had disappeared also. Pablo wondered if in some region of his mind Smalley thought he was going home to a fine Main Street parade. But no, the captain's mind was occupied by appalling shadows; there was no room in it for marching bands and a welcome by his uncle and a speech by the mayor, his mother so proud.

  Pablo showed his pass at the gate and was escorted to the office on the third floor, the one where they double-checked ID at the locked and guarded door. His old friend the colonel was waiting for him with coffee.

  Pablo related the events of the day before, omitting no names when he gave the source of the information. The colonel did not take notes, nor did he interrupt. Pablo described the walk in and the discovery of Smalley and the walk out. He described the guides and the empty hamlets. He said he saw no VC, which did not mean that they were not there, only that he had not seen them. He believed in his heart that they had evacuated Song Nu altogether; leaving Smalley as the object lesson. If this analysis was correct it meant that the bombing killed only civilians, the very civilians who had been trying to help. They were the ones who had sent the map to Claude Armand.

  The colonel nodded, sighing. He looked out the window, then back at Pablo.

  He said, We had to do something.

  Why is that? You had Smalley.

  You saw what they did to him. We couldn't let it pass unnoticed. Song Nu was what we had. Song Nu was a target of opportunity and we took it. And no one here suggested we refuse it.

  And the mission was to destroy it.

  Totally, the colonel said.

  Once you had the information from Rostok—

  The colonel gave a little wag of his head, affirmative.

  He should have kept his mouth shut, Pablo said.

  Well, he didn't. The colonel offered a little wintry smile and said there was an aftermath, amusing if the entire matter wasn't so grisly. Rostok wanted the undersecretary to be leading the reception committee but something—some sixth sense perhaps related to conscience—told him that was a bad idea and he told Rostok he'd pass. He'd stay where he was, at the ambassador's residence. Godspeed, he said.

  Rostok can't be trusted.

  You were outstanding, Pablo. Just outstanding. If you hadn't volunteered to go in, that boy would be there now, most likely dead.

  Do you agree you owe me a favor?

  I agree I owe you a favor, Pablo. The army does, too.

  Pablo walked the colonel through the conversation he had had with his brother-in-law. He gave the precise location of the warehouse and the contraband inside. Then he identified the owner the enterprising Madame Vinh, whose husband was so prominent in the Ministry of Defense. Pablo suggested that a platoon of sappers could do to the warehouse what a wing of Phantoms had done to Song Nu.

  The colonel said, Shit.

  Too tough for you?

  Tough enough. The general is an untouchable. That makes his wife an untouchable. Two untouchables and you want me to blow up her warehouse.

  Good luck to you then, Pablo said, rising.

  Pablo Gutterman resigned from Llewellyn Group the next week and went to work for one of the Texas construction companies surveying the port at Cam Ranh Bay. They needed translators and someone who knew the region and could talk convincingly to the Vietnamese military. Soon, however, everyone understood that Pablo was persona non grata at the Ministry of Defense, and in certain sections of the American command as well. He was let go after a month and went to work for one of the charter airlines, but that ended badly, too.

  Six months after the bombing of Song Nu he found something with a Swiss agency involved with refugees. The Swiss complained constantly of the heat and the food, the corruption and bloody-mindedness of the Vietnamese, and the indifference and arrogance of the Americans. But they were serious about their work and allowed Pablo free rein in the countryside, where he spent most of his time. Eventually he dropped from sight.

  Rostok hated to see him go.

  Pablo got things done, Ros said. He was an asset. I don't mind admitting that I was hurt that he never even said goodbye. I wanted to give him a party, he and the frau. I know he held me responsible for the bombing. He never understood that things get complicated in wartime. Logic doesn't rule. It's a sort of whirl, Syd.

  Sydney did not reply. He was watching a Taiwanese vessel motor slowly upriver in the direction of the main wharf, mindful of the German hospital ship tied up at the long quay in front of the Majestic Hotel. The river was not wide and on its far side the shacks amid the plain of reeds that went to the water's edge were clearly visible. A few months before a sniper had wounded a water-skier who had ventured too close to the reeds. Nurses leaned over the rail of the hospital ship, laughing and drinking Coca-Cola in the brutal heat of midday. The nurses were blonde and looked as if they belonged in dirndls. One of them waved at an officer on the deck of the Taiwanese freighter. He nodded and turned his back before he made the obscene gesture.

  I walked in to work that Monday and he was gone, Rostok went on. His desk was cleaned out. He never said goodbye, never left a note. After that mess with the charter airline I heard he went to work for the Swiss, and that's just as well. He can't get into trouble with the Swiss. Pablo never had the heart for dirty work.

  They were standing under the awning of the Majestic, having finished lunch at the rooftop restaurant. Sydney said, Let's walk to the wharf.

  Now you, Rostok said. Just when you're learning the ropes, you're leaving. That's the trouble with the effort; the minute a man learns what's what, his tour's up and he heads home. And the joke is, what you learn here isn't transferable. It's specific
to this time and this place. Our hard-won knowledge ain't fungible, Syd.

  Sydney waved at one of the nurses and she waved back.

  So now I'll be holding down the fort with George Whyte. That's not much firepower. Still, he's a pretty good man with the accounts. Not as good as Dicey Dacy but good enough. Wonder what the hell ever happened to Dacy, don't you?

  I'm sorry about your dad, Rostok said after a moment. They were walking along the crowded street that bordered the river a warren of warehouses and rundown cafés, and here and there a tailor's. Rostok's Nungs followed at a respectful distance. Prostitutes in miniskirts loitered in the doorways but paid no attention to the American civilians, so obviously officials of one command or another out for an after-lunch stroll. The Taiwanese freighter moving upriver was searching for an anchorage out of sniper range of the shacks on the opposite shore. There were two other boats maneuvering in the channel and another tied up at the main wharf, the offloading about to begin.

  You were close, Rostok said.

  Yes, we were. We tried to stay in touch, but.

  Isn't it awful, the way the time flies?

  He was no better on his end. Difference was, I knew what he was up to and he had no idea what I was up to because I never explained. Too difficult. I'd write him a letter and the sentences fell apart. I was happier writing fairy tales to my daughter.

  I'm sorry about the screw-up with the cable. They sent it to the consulate by mistake and it took them a while to locate you.

  By the time I got word he was already in the ground. His wife didn't want to wait, and I can't say I blame her but I wish to hell she'd held off for a few days so I could have been with him. He didn't even know he was sick. They gave him a death warrant one day and he was dead three days later. Sydney opened his mouth to continue, then didn't. This was not Rostok's business. When he called his stepmother the next day she told him what she had omitted in the cable. Fred killed himself, she said in a voice filled with contempt. He went to his workshop, took one of his Brownings from the closet, and placed the barrels on his heart. He leaned into the barrels and just managed to trip the trigger with his thumb. That was his answer to the doctor's death sentence. I found the body, she went on, as he expected I would. I believe he wanted me to. He had a record on the phonograph and a square of walnut in his vise, and there was no note, so I have no idea what was going through his mind, except that he was determined that I find the body, which I did minutes after the explosion. Not a pretty sight, as you might imagine. Missy came for the funeral. Karla couldn't make it. I didn't know where you were. So we went ahead with our plans because there seemed no reason for delay. I will be selling the house, by the way, and moving to Florida. If there's anything of your father's that you want, you better make a list. The police have the shotgun.

  I think he gave up, Sydney said suddenly. I think he didn't see the point to massive resistance. He just said the hell with it and—passed away. That was the difference between him and us. He said the hell with it and we haven't.

  We're not terminal, Syd.

  Yes, we are. We just can't believe it. Sydney had a vision of a handsome corpse, The Effort rouged and barbered, well tailored, lifelike in its repose. Why, he looks just like he's asleep!

  Rostok stared across the eddying surface of the river. A sampan was making its way upriver, hugging the opposite shore. He said, Mine died when I was a kid. Damn fool stepped in front of a train.

  Sydney nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  We're taking casualties, Syd. Pablo off in the boondocks with the Swiss, your dad dead, our wives God knows where. And now you're leaving. Give my regards to Broadway. Sydney did not reply, remembering the letter from Otto Kis that had arrived on Monday. He had not opened it owing to the press of business, a file that had been lost or stolen. He had slipped the letter into his desk drawer intending to read it later. And he had forgotten it entirely. It was a certified letter, heavier than usual, four pages at least. The envelope was marked Urgent and bristled with importance. The hell with you, Kis.

  I'll miss you, Syd, Rostok went on, filling the awkward silence. We've had good times along with the bad. God, you were green. Remember that first dinner in the café at Tay Thanh? I thought, Jesus, I've got one who's younger than springtime. But I knew you well enough to know you'd catch on. You're a quick study. You'd learn about Cao and the advantages of a bum leg. You'd get used to it. You'd learn the ropes because you've got ambition same as I do, only not quite so obvious. You've made a mistake leaving now because things are going to get interesting. We're in it for keeps. We're in it the way the French were in it, but we're not French so we have an advantage. We have no territorial ambitions, none whatever. So it's not anywhere near terminal, Syd. I'd call the odds even-up.

  Rostok continued to handicap the odds. One of the prostitutes raised her leg to inspect something on her calf. She was smooth as suede, small-boned, probably no more than fifteen years old though it was hard to assess the ages of Vietnamese women. They all wanted to look fifteen; anyway, the ones on the street did. Sydney had wanted to go with a prostitute but never did and now never would. He had slept with one of the network reporters and one of the academics on tour, the academic on a government grant administered by Sydney's old foundation; the director had told her to look him up. He and the academic had gone to Guillaume Tell for dinner and drank Scotch after Scotch, disclosing their life stories, then trading anecdotes of the war, leaning across the table, their fingers just touching. We're into it now, she said as they were leaving the restaurant. The director feels we must do what we can for the effort, and you wouldn't believe the money that's available.

  He had taken the reporter to one of the private upstairs rooms at Les Affreux. He had worn his ice cream suit and he remembered the hush in the restaurant as he and the reporter mounted the stairs to the second floor, closing the door of the private cabinet behind them. They found a bottle of wine on ice and hors d'oeuvres on red plates. No sound reached them. They sat side by side and toasted each other under an impressionist landscape, Ajaccio at dusk.

  Where did you find this place? she asked. She was blushing.

  Do you know Pablo Gutterman? he said in reply.

  It was too dangerous to drive back to Tay Thanh, so he had returned with them to their rooms, the academic in the Caravelle and the journalist in the Continental Palace. Sydney had an idea that neither woman was accustomed to alcohol and that he was in the category of a reckless adventure, something that was expected of them in the war zone and could be forgotten for that reason; forgiven, too. Each was married and had children. They had paid for dinner; since they were on expense accounts and he wasn't. And you're a bona fide source, Sydney. Tell me again about nation-building, where it goes from here. He believed they wanted a souvenir for their scrapbooks, something to remember beyond the briefings. Still, they were pleasant enough evenings with no harm done and no regrets, at least on his part. He wasn't sure about them.

  Pretty girls, he said absently.

  Remember that night? You said they carried fifty-seven varieties of clap.

  They didn't then. Probably they do now.

  More propaganda, Rostok said.

  Is this the voice of experience I'm hearing?

  God damn right, Rostok said. Young girls and their flutter. Young girls and their happy smiles. They know tricks you wouldn't believe, they're naturals at bedtime. I think their mamas were French taught.

  Sydney watched the stevedores scramble up the gangway to begin the offloading. They were carrying cartons by hand and he moved closer now to see what the cargo was. The ship was too small to carry heavy munitions. The first consignment was whiskey, the Cutty Sark label unmistakable. The stevedores brought the whiskey cartons down the gangway and laid them neatly on the dock where other stevedores transferred them to the quayside warehouse. He noted that the two prostitutes had disappeared, and he guessed they were inside with the whiskey.

  Reminds me, Rostok said. What'
s happened to Armand?

  No idea, Sydney said.

  You haven't seen him?

  Not lately, Sydney said.

  Damn shame. You try to cross every t and dot every i and sometimes you can't. I tried to keep him out of it, you know.

  You did?

  Yes, for Christ sakes. After they saw that big dumb blond—

  Captain Smalley, Sydney said. Let's use his name. At least he had one, Sydney thought. The villagers at Song Nu did not, so far as the Americans were concerned. The men, women, and children of Song Nu were as anonymous as farm animals. His head began to spin and for a moment he thought he would be sick.

  Yes, Smalley. They demanded to know where our information came from. And why it came to us and why we acted as we did. They were grateful to Pablo and to you, too, Syd.

  Me? They were grateful to me? So they could incinerate a village?

  They needed to know for their after-action report, you see. It was important to them, in the event there were inquiries. They were relentless. So I told them on an absolutely confidential eyes-only basis. Pablo didn't fool anyone with his cock-and-bull story. The map was Claude Armand's, you were the messenger, and Pablo the retriever. And the army promised there wouldn't be any reprisals, and why should there be? Armand helped us out. Of course they were miffed because civilians were involved. They lost a man and failed to find him and needed us, and that wounds their pride. So the army said they'd try to be a little more careful with the bombing runs in Armand's neighborhood, maybe try to look out for him in other ways. They sent a team to interview him, but no one was home, no Armands, no workers. They wanted to know if he had any other useful bits of information that he might want to share in return for—whatever he needed.

  Sydney's head was still. He wondered which was worse, provider, messenger, or retriever.