“KGB optics technicians are second to none,” he declared proudly. “But as clever as they were with the mechanism, I was afraid you’d catch on. I mean, leaving my briefcase on the table, as I had to, was pretty obvious. You must have seen plenty of similar equipment.” He picked out some more glossies out of the envelope, close-ups of me sitting across the table from him in the bar at the Majestic Hotel, and passed them over.
Excellent shots, actually—fine grained, sharply focused, with good depth of field. Hardly any “fish-eye” perspective at all. I picked up his briefcase and turned it around in my hands. The front panel had a false back, making a compartment for the camera, and the lens gathered in the world through the oversized keyhole for the lock. A microphone, a tiny one with a wire leading to the recorder at the bottom of the case, nestled in one of the accordion folds on the side, just peeping over the rim. “Well, none exactly like this,” I admitted. I’d never in my life seen anything even remotely like it. If this was the kind of thing the CIA did, nobody told me about it. “Obviously you’ve done a thorough job keeping tabs on me, Grotesqcu, very thorough. Commendably thorough. So, why go to the trouble of luring me to this hole in the wall for a meeting?”
“It may be that your side and mine have a mutual interest. I understand you’ve come to Phnom Penh seeking a former CIA operative—a Mr. Clyde Driffter, codename DRAGONFLY—not so?”
What kind of Top Secret assignment was this? Sarge, this KGB character, just about everybody in Indochina but me, knew all about it. “Dragonfly?” I asked innocently. “Driffter? Doesn’t ring a bell. What makes you think I’m looking for someone like that?”
“Where I come from there is a story about two rival merchants who meet on a train. One asks the other where he is going. He says, ‘I am going to Minsk.’ Later he leaves to answer a call of nature, and the second merchant remarks to another man: ‘He told me he is going to Minsk so that I will think he is going to Pinsk. But I happen to know that he is going to Minsk!’ So it is with you. All of your ham-handed inquiries concerning our friend DRAGONFLY were obviously intended to throw me off the track, but I happen to know that your mission is to locate him. There is reason to believe that he is alive and in Cambodia, but access to him has to date been impossible. It might serve both our purposes if we were to join forces on this.”
Team up with the KGB? Not in my job description. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me there, Grotesqcu. Anyhow, I’m not at liberty to discuss my work, as I’m sure you understand. And I sure can’t imagine any mutual interest that the KGB and the CIA would have here in Phnom Penh.”
“Your people want Driffter out of Cambodia, and so do my people. But I appreciate your position, Captain Fonko. Still, the situation might change—this wouldn’t be the first time that the KGB and the CIA have jointly pursued an objective. If it does, leave a note for me on the dresser in your hotel room—just a few words about wanting to meet again. Address it to ‘G’ and it will be delivered. Oh, and be careful. Now that your government has absconded, you could be in great danger. There’s very little affection here toward Americans, as many Cambodians blame your country for wrecking theirs. Plus, I fear that some terrible events are impending. We’ve arrived in Phnom Penh at a perilous time.”
“Thanks for the warning. Say, what’s with your errand boy? He’s an American. What’s he doing, working for you?”
“In 1970 Ken and a companion hijacked an American munitions ship, The Columbia Eagle, in the Gulf of Thailand and sailed it to the port of Sihanoukville—thought they were striking a blow for oppressed Third-World masses, I suppose. They were captured upon landing. The other fellow now languishes in an American prison, but our friend escaped and went underground. He’s been a nowhere man ever since, wanted by several governments, and shunned by all others. We are doing him a favor, employing him for odd jobs and errands. Otherwise, he’d be a slave of the drug lords, the gemstone smugglers, the brothel boys, or anybody else who could take advantage of his vulnerability. A first class fool! Asia is teeming with young Americans whose naive notions about drugs, sex or politics have foreclosed for them any chance of a productive future. He’s fortunate to be still alive and out of jail. I wouldn’t be surprised if his luck is about due to run out.”
I’d seen enough hardcases like him both here and back home to see the truth in what Grotesqcu was saying. This conversation was certainly informative, but I feared that the longer we talked, the better the chance I’d disclose things best kept to myself, whatever they might be. It bothered me that he seemed to know more than I did about my situation. But I could hardly pump him for my mission specifics, so now was a good time to call a halt. “I’m glad you made contact with me, Grotesqcu,” I told him. “It’s best to have our cards on the table.” I got off my chair and made to go.
“Yes, I thought so too.” He rose from his chair and made a slight bow. “What a pleasure it has been finally to meet you mano a mano, Captain Fonko, after such a long time observing you from behind a veil. You know how to reach me—by the way, don’t bother looking for me here again. I’ll have no trouble finding you if the need arises, you can count on that. And take my warnings seriously. But, who am I to be proffering advice to Jake Fonko? You could teach me a thing or two, I’m sure. Until we meet again, best luck,” he said.
Does the KGB put their agents through charm school, or what? I wished him likewise and weaved my way out through the heaps of crates, bags and boxes, squinting hard as the brutal tropical sun slugged my gloom-adapted eyeballs.
Sra Sar waited out front, squatting in the shade of his cyclo. I climbed aboard, and we headed back to Hotel Phnom. My temples throbbed as my brain swam, I don’t know whether from the heavy 100 degree heat or the meeting just concluded. Too much to think about all of a sudden. So Mickey Mouse was a KGB agent? No surprise there, in fact that explained his eagerness to meet with me for after-work bull flinging. Sniffing noses and tails, you might say. But specifically assigned to shadowme? I’ve never had problems with self-esteem—if anything, I tend in the opposite direction. But no way could I or my work carry enough importance to justify a KGB agent dogging my steps to Saigon and then to Phnom Penh. Grotesqcu was plainly no hack. There had to be solid reason for the KGB to set a man of his caliber on me.
He’d mentioned a CIA dossier. What could be in it? How could he have seen it? All those fool’s errands Sonarr sent me on had been meant to fake out the KGB, I now realized… but why? The maid at my place in Saigon worked for the Russkies, likewise somebody inside the Phnom. Who else? Sra Sar? The Chinaman in the food stall? Those bartenders and pimps I talked to? Mousey Gracie? Somebody in the Saigon CIA station? Grotesqcu had claimed that Jack Philco and Jake Fonko were the same man. The stamps in my phony passport matched my tour of intelligence installations, that’s true… but did someone named Jack Philco actually exist?
I felt like a duck in some sort of spook shooting gallery. I was beginning to wonder if someone named Jake Fonko actually existed. If my schmardt didn’t improve pronto, getting oldt might be a dim possibility.
Back at the hotel, I went straightaway to the phone to report to Todd Sonarr. Running into Mickey Mouse, if not necessarily an emergency, certainly qualified as newsworthy. It might even be the contact Sonarr had in mind—it made as much sense as anything else that had happened lately. Ringing him up sounded fine in theory, but the telephone system had once again crashed and burned. Diligent repairs, the hotel operator assured me, would commence immediately. I took a seat in the bar to cool down and think things over. Too bad the beer supply had run out—a cold one would have been just the ticket. The crowd was thinner, in more ways than one, since the choppers flew off with everybody and the air lift stopped. Few Americans remained now—Shanberg and a half dozen others. I continued to steer clear of him, just to make sure neither my name nor my picture showed up in the New York Times. I doubt he ever even realized I was a fellow U.S. citizen.
Gett
ing out of the mid-day sun and heat relaxed both body and mind. But as my head cleared I started picking up on that feeling Sarge described just before the assault on Ban Me Thout. Morale in Phnom Penh had reached rock-bottom weeks ago. Few in the city weren’t hurting from hunger, thirst, disease and shell-fire. Fear and confusion had been the normal state of mind since February. But that was only background noise now. Combine all the tension-creating gimmicks from the classic horror movies: the shower scene from Psycho, Sigourney Weaver stalking the monster in Alien, Nightmare on Elm Street, Friday the 13th, and The Haunting of Hill House…crank them up to max intensity, and you’d have an inkling of the vibes I started sensing. I’d never felt anything like it before. But then, I’d never been around anything to match the horror of what was about to happen.
Thursday morning the city awoke to a quieter day. Explosions from shelling, whose tempo had increased throughout the week, now boomed only sporadically. Reports reached us at the Hotel Phnom that massed Khmer Rouge forces had converged on the city, and the cadres now were marching in from all sides. A man dressed in black strode down Monivong Boulevard to the Hotel and talked to some people out front, whereupon several of the tanks positioned there started their motors and moved further into town. Those remaining in place ran up white flags. Then we heard that the KRs had taken positions at crossroads all over town and were ordering everybody to leave—right now! Occasional bursts of small arms fire audible from every direction suggested they showed no patience with backtalk or excuses. Whatever initial, end-of-war relief people might have felt quickly dissolved toward terror.
During the past few days several thousand refugees had gathered in and around the Phnom. The International Red Cross had set up a makeshift hospital and hoped to establish a neutral shelter zone there. They canvassed the hotel that morning, pleading with those still remaining to surrender any items that might seem military. I’d seen enough of local Commies to doubt that the Khmer Rouge had much truck with neutrality. Leave doing good to the Red Cross, that’s their job. My job was U.S. Army Ranger, and I was still on mission. I figured I’d be better off going it on my own than putting myself at the mercy of the Khmer Rouge. I went up to my room to check out my gear and work out a plan.
My immediate objectives were to stay clear of the Khmer Rouge guerillas and keep my stuff out of their hands—without it I’d be helpless. I quick-changed into clothing suitable for speed and action, saving out some items that would be handy if it came to combat, God forbid. I packed everything else, filled my Sarge-provided water bottle and quietly snuck off toward the basement. I’d scouted the layout earlier and figured the hotel laundry room was my best chance. It was heaped with days-old dirty linen and towels (service fell apart once the Americans pulled out) and stunk to high heaven. I wrapped my duffel in a sheet somebody had barfed on and stowed it at the bottom of the pile. Laundry was the last thing anybody would be worrying about just then. As long as they didn’t torch the building, my stuff was safe there for a day or two, anyway.
While securing my pack I heard nearby gunshots. Moving as inconspicuously as possible, I crept up to a window in the lobby for a look. Cadres had arrived at the Phnom, a troop of teen-age boys, and a smattering of girls, dressed in ragged black pajamas, black Chinese caps, checked scarves and Ho Chi Minh tire-sandals, toting AK-47s or Czech RPG launchers, and decked out with bandoliers and hand grenades. They were small and thin, as starved and exhausted as the refugees that filled the town. None was smiling.
Sra Sar lay in a heap beside his cyclo, bleeding into the gutter. Poor bastard must have insisted on waiting for me. Nothing I could do for him now, not that I’d have been much help if I’d been there when they gunned him. A party of diplomats and Red Cross representatives, westerners, stood there in the street protesting to a couple of blank-faced cadres. Their buddies were prodding every Cambodian in sight to join the procession heading down the boulevard, a slowly shuffling mass of walkers, cyclists, mothers and fathers humping small children, families pushing carts laden with household belongings and elderly relations, and even automobiles being rolled along by hand. Stragglers got their kidneys goosed with gun barrels to inspire speed. Occasional bursts of gunfire into the air helped to energize the crowd.
The cadres were oddly polite, considering that they were ordering a million people to get lost. Nobody seemed to be in charge of their activities—they just did them. A Brit photographer burst in from the street, breathless and wild-eyed. He announced to no one in particular that the Khmer Rouge claimed the Americans were about to bomb the city, and that after the Khmer Rouge purified the town everybody could come back, probably in two or three days. Sure!
A clutch of cadres swaggered toward the lobby doors, rifles at ready. From the way they wide-eyeballed the place up, down and all around, they’d clearly never been within 100 miles of anything like it before in their lives. It would have been interesting to stay and watch events unfold, no doubt, but things had already gone way beyond my worst-case scenario. I’d have to catch it on next season’s re-runs. I scooted back to the laundry room and burrowed in deep with my duffel at the bottom of the pile.
I recalled those tense times out in the jungle when we’d spent hours hunkered down in the brush hiding from prowling Cong patrols. We’d be sweat-soaked and rain-drenched, with leeches and ill-tempered bugs creeping over our bodies, terrified that somebody was going to sneeze, cough, fart or even blink too loudly. The laundry room in the Phnom was worse—fewer places to hide, nowhere to pull back to, no buddies to back me up, no Hueys standing by to extract me, and the jungle never stank like that. I heard people hustling around upstairs. More gunfire. Voices both anguished and angry. Hurried footsteps. Doors slamming. Glass breaking. A clutch of cadres checked out the laundry room, then scurried off to find more amazing sights in the first luxury hotel they’d ever seen. Screams, shouts, more gunfire. It was a long, hot, ugly day.
After nightfall things quieted down. I eased out of the laundry pile, slipped into something darker for night patrol, and blacked my face and hands. Thank goodness Sarge supplied me with lurp meals, not C-rations. Charlie Rats are bulky, require preparation and produced garbage to disposed of. Lurp meals are one-meal-a-day compact, and though dehydrated, in a pinch you can choke them down without adding water. I ate part of one dry and chased it with a pull on my water bottle. Okay for now, but I’d have to forage if I intended to keep going more than a few days.
I needed a better fix on my situation. The hotel lights were off. I took a long listen and heard no one around the service areas. I cautiously searched out a door open to the outside, stole into the shadows and worked my way through the garden to the street side of the building. The street was stark empty. No lights. No people. Fortunately, little moonlight. The noises of the conquering army seemed strangely subdued. Sporadic gunshots, occasional explosions, but no shouting, drunken singing or noisy vandalism. Well-disciplined, or just plain exhausted? In the same situation, any other army would be gleefully tearing the town apart.
So far, so good, but I had a problem. Fort Benning Ranger School trained me in Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape, and I’d graduated with honors; but that was for out in the field—jungles, swamps, deserts and mountains. They taught us nothing about operating in a deserted city held by hostiles, probably because nobody dreamed we’d ever face that situation. What the Khmer Rouge had done today—herd everybody in Phnom Penh straightaway out into the countryside—had no precedent in modern warfare.
I had to assume the Khmer Rouge knew jungle fighting at least as well as I did—they’d been at it non-stop for years, and more to the point, they’d won. On the other hand, few of them had ever seen a city before, so I’d have at least that edge on them. Phnom Penh was big—no shortage of places to hole up. In my roamings over the past three weeks, I’d gathered some idea what was where. Though had I foreseen the situation I’d be facing, I’d have scouted it with different eyes.
I
’d have to lay low in the daytime and move around at night. It’s easier in the jungle to stay hidden than it is in a city, where you eventually have to cross streets. City blocks afford little enough cover, and daylight movement from one to another across the broad avenues of Phnom Penh without being seen would be impossible. I now better appreciated why anti-Nazi resistance fighters in European cities hung out in sewers during World War II. Just my luck to be stuck in a town whose drainage system would have me crawling at street level through knee-deep toilet flushings.
Night movement in a city was difficult and dangerous enough, even for an ex-LRRP. I worked my way around the international district, slowly and silently, keeping to cover and shadows, and avoiding tripping over the bodies and other debris littering the street. I picked up lights and noise coming from the French embassy grounds, the only sign of life in the area. I slipped across to the other side of Monivong Boulevard where a group of abandoned cars afforded some concealment. From there I made it to the park behind the compound, where I could lurk among the trees. The compound, a rectangle about 200 yards on a side, looked overbooked. The KRs must have rounded up all the foreigners in the city and herded them in there. No point trying to get a closer look, as they’d have a heavy guard around the place. It was risky just being in the vicinity, so I carefully retreated to safer ground.
Such desolation in the middle of a city unnerved me. You can drive though most Los Angeles suburbs at night without seeing anybody on the street, but at least you sense that people live there. Save for a couple foot patrols, occasional military vehicles careering through, and random groans, sobs and cries in the darkness, Phnom Penh was a cemetery. I couldn’t hole up at Hotel Phnom, I concluded; some unit would commandeer it for an HQ. And if not that, it would be stripped by looters at first opportunity. I needed more discreet digs. Reconnoitering in the Chinese district on the river side of Norodom Boulevard turned up a stationery and art goods shop with family quarters above. Sketching pictures would be the last thing on the minds of a conquering army of peasant jungle fighters. Three provision stores on the same block held out a chance of extra food. It would have to do. I made my way back to the Phnom, retrieved my gear, moved into my new digs and hit the rack, a hard straw mat designed for people a foot shorter than I.
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 1 - 3 Page 9
