Thai Horse

by William Diehl

  ‘Right away,’ Simmons yelled back. He looked back at Hatcher. ‘Why are they checking into this again, anyhow. It’s all over?’

  ‘There’s a chance Cody could be in an MIA camp in Cambodia,’ Hatcher lied. ‘Before we make a stink about it, I’ve got to be sure he didn’t die that day.’

  ‘It’s all in the reports. I told them all of it. They were always going down. It was a suicide outfit, everybody knew that.’

  ‘You mean Cody’s outfit?’

  ‘He was crazy, man. First thing I heard when I joined the SAR, “You’re Cody’s backup,” they’d say, “you’re gonna stay busy. Better keep your head down. . .

  The vision began flashing in Simmons’s head. He rubbed his eyes, but it persisted, as it always did. The figure limping frantically toward the river’s edge, waving futilely at him, then the explosion, the great awning of fire spreading out over the treetops. And still the pilot kept coming, waving, a specter silhouetted against fire until the image burned out in Simmons’s head.

  ‘Maybe . . .‘ Simmons said.

  ‘Maybe what, Simmons? Maybe Cody didn’t die, that what you’re saying?’ Hatcher knew he had Simmons going, could almost feel his pain. That was part of it, knowing when they were going to break, keeping the squeeze on.

  ‘I never said he died,’ Simmons cried, ‘I never said that at all. He could of got outa there without me seeing him. They were shooting at us, there was a lot of fire. . .

  ‘Bullets come close, did they?’

  ‘They were chewing the Huey up three feet from my face.’

  ‘So it was time to split, right?’

  Simmons turned away from him. Outside, the familiar whine of the chopper could be heard as the pilot cranked it up.

  ‘I gotta go.’

  ‘Then I’ll wait until you get back.’

  ‘Jesus, what the hell do you want me to tell you?’

  ‘The truth.’

  Simmons slammed the heel of his hand against the doorjamb.

  ‘Damn it! Damn it all. Damn you.

  ‘Been eating at you, has it?’

  Simmons didn’t answer.

  ‘Look at it this way, if you did see somebody running away from the plane that day, maybe we can still find him.’

  Simmons moaned, ‘I still get nightmares. Nothing’s worked for me. My wife left me. . . . It all turned to pig shit.’

  ‘Maybe this’ll help clear up these dreams,’ Hatcher suggested, but Simmons shook his head.

  ‘So you came up here to forget it?’

  Simmons nodded mutely.

  ‘And it didn’t work.’

  Tears suddenly flooded Simmons’s eyes. He tried to blink them back, but they slowly drew streaks down his face.

  ‘I keep thinking, maybe we coulda got him outa there, but they were shooting us to pieces, so I told them “Let’s get outa here, I don’t see anybody” and God damn it . . . started tearing me up before we even got back to the base and it never stops and I can’t stand to . . . can’t talk about it, see people I knew over there, I was just scared, man, that’s all.’

  ‘So Cody got out of the plane,’ Hatcher said bluntly. Simmons was weeping softly arid he was trying not to show it. He leaned against the window, watching the chopper stir snow clouds as it warmed up. Simmons took a deep breath and sighed.

  ‘One of ‘em did,’ he said finally.

  ‘They think they found some of the gunner’s remains at the site,’ Hatcher said, ‘But they never found Cody.’

  Simmons faced Hatcher, his face twisted with grief. ‘What the hell happened to him?’ he asked, his voice quivering with guilt.

  Hatcher shrugged and shook his head.

  ‘If you ever find out —, Simmons started, and the voice from the plane yelled again, ‘Simmons, what the hell’re you doin’? We got work to do.’

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ Hatcher said, ‘There’s one other thing. Does Thai Horse mean anything to you?’

  ‘You mean heroin?’

  ‘That’s all it means?’

  ‘That’s all it means to me.’

  ‘Thanks. You better get going,’ Hatcher said.

  As Simmons walked toward the office door Hatcher stood up and touched his arm. ‘Listen to me for a minute,’ he said. ‘What happened in-country, that doesn’t count over here. You forget that. That was another life. What you did? That could happen to anybody. And if you did cost Cody his life, you probably saved the lives of the pilot, copilot and you. Three for one, that’s a fair enough trade.’

  ‘I’ve thought of that,’ Simmons said. ‘It doesn’t help.’

  ‘Conscience can be a terrible companion,’ Hatcher whispered.

  ‘That doesn’t help either,’ Simmons said bitterly. He pulled his cap down tight over his head and left the room. Hatcher watched through the window as Simmons ran through the snow toward the chopper. He thought to himself, Okay, so Cody could have gotten out. And if he could’ve gotten out, he could still be alive and that means he’s not dead for sure.

  So where’s he been for fifteen years?

  ‘You lost him? You lost him,’ Sloan said softly but firmly. ‘How can you lose anybody in — What was the name of that place again?’

  ‘Shelby,’ Zabriski answered. ‘He didn’t come back to Billings, Colonel. He took a feeder into Spokane and from there to Seattle, then he caught a flight into L.A.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘L.A. International. He’s going out in the morning.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘San Diego.’

  ‘San Diego! What the —, Sloan hesitated for a moment, then: ‘Wait a minute. I’m putting you on hold, just hang on.,

  Sloan punched the hold button, and turned to one of four computer operators who worked in his tiny headquarters.

  ‘Holloway, I need a current location on two Navy men.

  Lieutenant Commander Ralph Schwartz and Commander

  Hugh Fraser. And I got a man holding on long distance’

  Sloan spelled the two names.

  ‘Gimme a minute, sir,’ Holloway said. Sloan drummed his desk nervously and leafed through the copy of the Murphy file while Holloway typed questions into his computer. Sloan’s operational headquarters was three rooms in. a small office building four blocks from the White House. There was a small waiting room manned by his secretary, the main terminal room, which had four computer terminals connected to a network of phones and satellites, and Sloan’s private office, which did not contain a single personal item of any kind.

  It took less than two minutes for the sergeant to get the answers.

  ‘Coming up now, sir,’ the sergeant said. ‘Fraser retired eighteen months ago, Colonel. He’s VP of a small charter airline in Seattle. No current civilian address on tap. On the other one . . . uh, here we go Ralph Schwartz: he’s full commander now, sir, director of flight instruction at NAS San Diego.’

  ‘That’ll do it, Sergeant, thanks,’ Sloan said and switched back to Zabriski in L.A. ‘Okay, I got it worked out. Cancel the surveillance and come back in.’

  ‘Cancel the surveillance?’ the agent asked, surprised.

  ‘Cancel it,’ Sloan said and hung up. He started to laugh. That son of a bitch, he thought, he’s playing games with me, showing me he still has the stuff. The whisper man had made no attempt to cover his tracks, he just wanted to see how long it would take to catch up with him. Sloan looked at his watch. It was 7 P.M., 4 P.M. on the coast. Hatcher had covered a lot of ground in twenty-four hours.

  Another computer operator interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘We have a computer call coming in, Colonel.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘M base.’

  The caller was using a computer modem to make the call. It was a method for securing the telephone line on risk calls. The computer screen in front of the operator scrolled out several questions requiring responses.

  Code number:

  Daily code:

  Operation code:

>   Level clearance:

  Call target code name:

  Your code name:

  Your clearance number:

  Voice check:

  An incorrect response anywhere along the line would result in an instant disconnect and a freeze on the calling number so it could be traced. Numbers and names appeared across the screen as the caller answered the questions.

  ‘He’s cleared the voice check,’ the operator said.

  ‘Put the call on the green box,’ Sloan ordered and went into his office. He closed the door and unlocked a drawer in his desk. It contained a phone with a device that scrambled transmission both ways and then unscrambled them on a one-to-one line. There were two small lights on top of the box. A green light assured Sloan that the line remained clear. If the other light, which was red, lit up, the call was immediately terminated.

  Sloan answered the phone.

  ‘This is Moon Racer,’ he said.

  ‘This is Hound Dog, sir. We’re having problems.’

  ‘It’s all right, Hedritch, we’ve got a virgin line.’

  ‘Our boy is giving us fits, Colonel.’

  ‘Same old problem?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s okay as long as we keep him on the lake, security’s a breeze. But he’s determined to hit the night spots. I told him it was impossible and I won’t repeat what he told me.’

  Sloan chuckled. ‘I can imagine, I brought the man out, remember. Those tropical types are all alike. Hot blood and all that.’

  ‘His hot blood is going to be all over the floor if he’s not careful. Do I have the authority to stop him?’

  ‘Negative. He’s a guest of the United States, not a prisoner. Our job is to protect him, tough as that may be.’

  ‘He wants to go to a disco called split Personality, to a costume party. We couldn’t secure the place if we had the whole Israeli Army helping us.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Day after tomorrow.’

  Sloan thought for a moment.

  ‘All right, we’ll just have to take our chances. Don’t let anybody know you’re coming. Get there about eleven o’clock, tell the manager who you are. Locate in a spot that’s inconspicuous. That’s the best you can do.’

  ‘It’s gonna be hairy, sir.’

  ‘It always is, Hedritch.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Sloan hung up. He took a long Havana cigar from his desk drawer, took it out of its protective tube and drew it back and forth under his nose several times, smelling its rich tobacco. Then he lit it and picked up the green phone again. He punched out a number.

  ‘Yes?’ a voice answered after the first ring.

  ‘This is Moon Racer. Is the man available?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  A moment later a voice asked, ‘Moon Racer?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sloan replied.

  ‘Are you smoking, Moon Racer?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know what I’m smoking?’

  ‘La Fiera.’

  ‘Good. I’ve got the mark for you.’

  ‘Is it the troublesome one we have discussed?’

  ‘Yes. Campon will be at a place called the Split Personality in Atlanta, Georgia, eleven P.M. day after tomorrow.’

  ‘That would be Wednesday.’

  ‘Right. Is there a problem?’

  ‘No problem. Enjoy your smoke.’

  ‘I intend to.’

  Sloan hung up, closed the drawer and locked it. Then he picked up his regular phone.

  ‘Get mc on the next flight to San Diego,’ he said.

  WATER BABIES

  Windy Porter sat at his customary table in the corner of Queen’s Pub watching a dozen Thais trying to launch a chula. The enormous kite was at least six feet long and the team was having a problem getting it aloft. On the other end of Sanam Luang Park, several pakpao kite fighters already had their small one-man kites in the air and were yelling good-natured insults at the team.

  When the big dragon kite finally caught the wind and spiraled up into the air, one of the pakpao charged, zigzagging toward the big kite, trying to pass it and get to the chula’s end of the field and win the match. The chula was difficult to maneuver, but its team was expert and they cut across the path of the pakpao, snared its string with their line, and brought the smaller kite auguring to the ground. There was a great deal of cheering and now it was the chula’s turn for insults, and the young man with the pakpao gathered up his wounded flyer and went back to his end of the field in humiliation. Another pakpao, whose kite was purple with a blazing red tail, reeled his bird in tight and got ready for the run.

  ‘A red on the pakpao,’ Porter said to Gus, the bartender, and slapped a red hundred-baht note on the table.

  ‘Yer covered,’ the Cockney bartender replied, accepting the five-dollar bet.

  The new fellow, who was short and muscular, started running toward the chula team, then let the kite run its string, up, up, almost a hundred feet, and began his drive toward the imaginary goal, moving like a good quarterback breaking field, pulling the purple diamond down, maneuvering it away from the long chula string, then letting it out as he dodged under the threatening dragon kite. He was very good, outsmarting the team players and dipping his kite under the big dragon just as they were about to collide, hauling it in for a second and then letting it glide back up so that it brushed the larger kite for a moment before he ran on to win the match.

  ‘Way to go, sport,’ Porter yelled gleefully. He turned to the bartender and added, with smug satisfaction, ‘Just take it off my tab, Gus.’

  Porter loved the kite fights. He left his post every day at four-thirty, walking a mile across Bangkok’s crowded streets rather than fight the noisy traffic jams, to Queen’s, where he sat in the same corner table with a clear view of Sanam Luang Park and the gleaming spire of the Golden Mount atop Wat Sakhet. Porter had been stationed in Bangkok since the end of the Vietnam war, and he loved the ancient beauty of the city and particularly the Thai people, whose prevailing attitude was Mai pen rai, ‘Never mind.’ He had been a close friend of Buffalo Bill Cody’s for many years, a once proper Bostonian who had, on a summer day in 1968, suddenly chucked his executive job in one of the city’s larger banks, accepted Cody’s offer of a commission and a spot on Buffalo Bill’s Nam staff and gone off to find a purpose for his life in a place most men feared and wanted to avoid.

  It was an amazing turnabout, for Porter not only quit but burned his bridges, telling the president of the bank what to do with his job and where to take it once he did it, and giving his wife who was equally appalled by his sudden decision, a variation of the same message. After ten years in the stultifying atmosphere of Back Bay and his debasing daily bank chores, which consisted mostly of disapproving loans and foreclosing on unfortunates, Saigon had been a breath of spring air to Porter. The general had even arranged an assignment for him as intelligence adviser in the embassy at Bangkok when the war fizzled out. Porter’s last visit to the States bad been ten years ago.

  Although he was pushing fifty, Porter kept trim on the squash courts, had grown a monumental mustache, which he waxed every day, and had learned the language and customs of Thailand. He had become, for all practical purposes, a native. He also adored the Old Man and considered his assignment — to keep a loose tag on Wol Pot — a privileged responsibility.

  Porter was not trained in intelligence work and surveillance, but he had managed to keep up with the Thai informant, although he was getting nervous. Wol Pot had moved twice since he had first discussed the Murphy Cody affair with him. He was obviously jumpy and afraid of something. Could the Thai be stinging them? If so, how did he know about Murph Cody? Why pick him? And why had Wol Pot refused Porter’s offer of protective custody in the embassy? It was obvious the man trusted no one.

  He watched the fights until the shimmering fireball of the sun sank slowly behind the Golden Mount, first silhouetting the gleaming gold spire, then etching it against the scarlet sky, and finally surrendering the bell- shaped
landmark to darkness. Night began to settle over Bangkok, the lights blazed on, the tourists trekked out of their hotels in pursuit of evening joys, and Windy Porter left Queen’s and hurried another few blocks across town to a park called Bho Fhat across from the Sakhet temple, there to begin his nightly vigil on his customary bench, a bench well hidden by jasmine bushes.

  There was no question in Porter’s mind that Wol Pot was terrified of something. After the initial contact, he had turned rabbit. At first, he had followed a loose routine. Porter had followed him once to a junk on the river, to his nightly forays along the klongs, and the strip joints on Patpong Road and particularly to Yawaraj, the Chinese section. The little bastard was addicted to hot Chinese food. Then two days earlier Pot left his rooms and disappeared. Porter had panicked. The little weasel was the only person he knew who might lead them to Murph Cody, if Cody was alive. He had put out the word — all over Thailand — to his informants, his contacts, his friends, and had run down a few leads, which had fizzled out.

  Then Porter had lucked out. A priest, a friend of Porter’s for many years, heard that Porter was looking for this man, Wol Pot.

  ‘It is probably nothing,’ he said, but a man, no longer a youth, has joined the Wat Sakhet, and has been seen to leave the grounds every night.’

  Strange behavior, since the discipline at the monastery was quite rigid though purely voluntary.

  ‘When did he enter the monastery?’ Porter asked.

  ‘Only two days ago. That is why his conduct seems strange,’ the priest answered.

  ‘Khob khun krap,’ Porter said, thanking the priest. ‘May I ask you not to discipline him until I check him out?’

  The priest agreed. It was a long shot, Porter thought, but certainly a clever deception if it was Wol Pot. Porter was familiar with the demands made upon neophyte monks of Theravada Buddhism. One of the most familiar sights in Thailand was the hundreds of saffron-robed Naen with their shaven heads wandering the streets and meditating in the city’s hundreds of wats, the monasteries or temples that were the most common structures in the country. When he first came to Bangkok, Porter had found the monks an annoyance; they reminded him of the Hare Krishnas who had turned most of the airports in the United States into a bizarre distortion of the wats. But while he did not pretend to understand the mysteries of Eastern religion, he had gradually come to accept and respect these dedicated men.