He blurted out the story of the necklace. But he did not get from her, after telling it, the collaborative enthusiasm he was looking for. In a strange way, Florry was all … middle-class. It amused Danny, the fruit of Hyde Park vineyards, to think that of someone brought up as Florry had been, reacting as she now did. Well, at least he scored on the matter of his cunning. Artistic cunning, he thought it appropriate to describe it. At least it would make him smile every time he thought of it.
Eighteen
AT THE ARVN OFFICERS CLUB at Tan Son Nhut airfield outside Saigon in the late afternoon of November 1, 1963, a dozen Vietnamese off-duty officers, including two generals, were relaxing. Four of them played cards; the bar dispensed wine and beer. The day’s newspapers, in Vietnamese and in French, lay on the wide table at one end of the large room, along with bulletins from Agence France Press. At one corner of the common room the television set was on, its sound muted so as not to interfere with those who sought other distractions. Even in November, the heat was felt, the distinctive jungle heat, in an area only twelve teasing degrees north of the Equator. The air conditioner pumped in shafts of cooler air, but fitfully. The card players arrested their game when the chief steward came in from the office next door obviously with an urgent message.
“General Nguyen, a call from the presidential palace.”
The steward led the general to the ornate carved telephone booth in the foyer, opened the door to let the general in, closed it, and walked away toward the door leading to the common room. But as soon as he was safely out of sight of the booth he circled back and, moist ear to the wooden panel of the telephone booth, listened intently to the conversation. He had no difficulty in making out the words spoken by General Nguyen Khanh.
“Yes, Mr. President. I shall most instantaneously convey your message. But, sir, exactly to which gentleman do you expect me to convey it?… Well, Mr. President, if you do not know, sir, who is in charge of the … insurrection you speak of, I can certainly report your message to the Chief of Staff, and surely he will get it to the right gentleman? To the right party?… The Chief of Staff is with the insurgents? Well, Mr. President, in that event, he surely would know to whom to convey your message?… Yes, sir. I repeat it: You agree to resign the presidency in exchange for safe conduct for yourself and your brother. Mr. President, I will telephone you within the space of one-half hour. I shall drive instantly to the headquarters with your message.”
And then, in French, his voice muted, “Adieu, Monsieur President.”
General Nguyen walked briskly from the anteroom, opened the door and slammed it shut. His voice, commanding his aide’s presence, resounded through the flimsy wall of the common room.
The steward, his face held tight against the side of the phone booth, had escaped detection. Now he ducked into the booth and, his foot tapping out his impatience, dialed the number he had dialed so often these past months. He was grateful to hear the voice of his younger brother at the other end of the line.
“The coup is on! I have overheard this end of the conversation. General Nguyen Khanh, talking with the President. Diem offers to resign in exchange for safe passage for him and the family.”
“To whom is General Nguyen reporting the President’s offer?”
“I don’t know. The best I could make out was that the President doesn’t know who is heading up the coup.”
“Surely it is General Minh?”
“I think so, and that fits with other information I have given you. But I could hear General Nguyen distinctly, and he said, ‘If you don’t know who is in charge of the coup, Mr. President, I’ll have to report your offer to the Chief of Staff.’ ”
“Then the President is still in the palace?”
“Yes. Because I took the call myself, and it came from the palace, and General Nguyen said within one-half hour he would call the President back, obviously in the palace.”
Than thanked his brother. And then, “We will use our customary signals. Do not leave the club, Tri. Stay as close to the telephone as you can.”
Than Koo put down the telephone and walked quickly across the hall. He opened the door into the sultry office, Henry’s typewriter clicking away, without knocking.
Mrs. Fuerbinger, wife of Time’s managing editor Otto, told Henry that her husband was in South Africa and was “just plain inaccessible.” Henry then dialed the home number of Chief of Correspondents Richard Clurman, his own direct boss. When no one answered the telephone—it was just after six in the morning in New York—Henry Chafee very nearly rang the home telephone number of Henry Luce (he had secreted it when, one evening in New York, he had heard it read out by Clurman to a telephone operator at the Council on Foreign Relations). But he stopped himself. Wake up Henry Robinson Luce, the most formidable publisher in America, at 4 A.M. Arizona time!
Besides, there was only one thing for an enterprising journalist to do, and he would do it, with or without the explicit sanction of New York. He must follow President Diem, wherever he went.
The only way to peer into the presidential compound was from Han Thuyen Street. The large house on the corner, directly opposite the palace, was the property of Ngo Viet Thu. He knew of Henry Chafee as the author of a Time profile on American architects, and early in the summer had asked Henry to introduce him to architect Philip Johnson at a convention he would be attending in New York City. Ngo Thu could now return the favor.
But on November 1, he was out of town.
Than Koo moved dramatically and convincingly, and persuaded the housekeeper to let them in and give them access to the study on the third floor.
Henry Chafee took his station there, binoculars in hand. Than Koo returned to the car, put on a chauffeur’s cap, and waited at the wheel, his walkie-talkie in hand. The sun had just now set and the relief in temperature was immediate.
“There’s a car coming out of the palace”—Than heard Henry’s voice crackle—“no flags or anything. But that doesn’t surprise. Let’s see what the guards do.… They’re checking an I.D. Obviously not the car we’re looking for.”
At eight, Henry thought it time to check in with Koo’s brother at the Officers Club. “Any way you can patch in from your phone to your brother?”
No, Than Koo said. But he would take the radio with him and duck into the café at the opposite corner and use the phone there. Meanwhile, if Mr. Henry spotted the presidential car he should alert him through the radio and Than would immediately make chase. Okay?
“Okay. Go ahead.”
Moments later, back at the wheel of the car, Than Koo signaled. “My brother says the Officers Club is practically empty. Wherever General Nguyen went to call back the President, it was not there—”
“Hang on, Koo.” Henry trained his glasses on the car making its way to the entrance gate. It was very far from a presidential limousine, a simple sedan. The two guards leaned down to peer through the windows. But then they snapped to attention and saluted.
“Go! Go! Go! Koo. Quick! Quick!” Henry looked down from the window and saw his own car speeding off in chase of the suspect car that had just passed through the gates of the presidential palace.
He stood by the radio. In a few moments Koo was on.
“I’ve got them. They turned off Hoc Lac Street, onto Tran Hung Dao. They are heading toward Cholon. Driving quite slowly. They are stopped at a light right now. I’m leaving two cars between them and me …”
Than did not release the channel. He described the route he was following. “We are still on Tran Hung Dao. Driving about forty kilometers per hour. Traffic is easing up. Suspect car stops to let a pedestrian go by. Taking left onto Phung Hung.”
A few minutes later, “They’re pulling up. Don’t know what it is, the house on the side. A house on Tran Hung. They’re getting out! First two men have raincoats over their heads. The third man has rushed past them. He is opening the door to—I cannot read the number of the house. The two men have disappeared inside.… Mr. Henry, I think that was P
resident Diem and his brother Nhu. No. I do not doubt it is them. I feel it.”
“What happened to the car?”
“Someone has just come out of the house. He is getting into the car.… It is driving down the road. Turning right. It looks like a small driveway. It is covered by trees. I can no longer see the car. I do not want to risk turning in to that road.”
“No, no. Now listen, Koo. Seems to me obvious they’re going to stay where they are for a while—if not, why did they go there in the first place. Now I’ve got to get back to my office, cable New York. Figure a half hour. I’ll approach to within a half block of where you are after I spot your car. I’ll bring food and something to drink. I’ll charge up my radio in the office, but will keep it on. Turn on the car radio low and keep listening in case there’s an announcement. You won’t hear from me for thirty minutes unless it’s an emergency. I have eight twenty-three. I will signal you at eight fifty-five.” Henry opened the door at the moment the tropical shower hit. He took off his seersucker jacket and improvised a hat, charging off toward the street where he could hope to flag a taxi, or even persuade a Vietnamese with a motorbike.
Than Koo would do as instructed.
The telephone rang insistently at the winter house of Henry Luce at Scottsdale, a suburb of Phoenix. It was 6:30 in the morning. The housekeeper shook herself awake and finally agreed to knock on the bedroom door of Mr. Luce.
“What time is it?” he bellowed through the door.
“Six-thirty, Mr. Luce.”
He grabbed the telephone from the bedside table. “Yes,” he grunted. “Luce here.”
“Harry!” His Chief of Correspondents explained to a sleepy tycoon what was going on. In a matter of seconds, Luce was transformed into an excited journalist. He took in the story and then issued instructions.
“We’ve got one important decision to make. Whether to tell the White House. Can you get through to Chafee without any trouble?”
“Yeah, for”—Clurman looked at his watch—“exactly ten minutes. After that he plans to stake out the house where they’re hiding out. Only his interpreter is there now.”
“That’s no good. Tell Chafee to put off going back to his station until he has somebody standing by the phone in the office. Somebody with a radio who can relay my instructions. I’m not sure I can decide on this—decide what to do—in less than an hour or two. I assume President Diem will stay wherever he is overnight, with Nhu. I assume that, but of course we can’t be sure. But the interpreter is there, you say?”
“Yes, Harry.”
“Probably they’ll stay put. Now what I need is a telephone operator. Damnit, it’s only what, eight o’clock your time? Can you get through to the home number of one of the office operators? Tell somebody to get the hell over to the switchboard to handle my calls?”
“Harry, we’ve got six operators, and they’re probably all having a cup of coffee and getting ready to get into the bus or subway to go to the office. There’s no way I can make them get in any faster than they’d get there anyway.”
Henry Luce was not patient in such situations.
“All right. All right, Dick. Get the switchboard to stand by for me at exactly nine your time. Now I want you to read all the cables from Chafee and from everybody else you can get your hands on who’s up on the Vietnam situation. Do our people know about the coup? If so, when did they find out? And if so, who is conducting the coup? Has there in fact been a coup, or is Diem just going into hiding?
“And what are our people in Saigon going to do about it? Are they prepared to look after the physical safety of the President?—of course, you won’t let on we know he isn’t in the palace any longer. Can we assume that some of the military will stay loyal to him? If so, do they anticipate an armed struggle? Are there any indications that the enemy might move if there is disorder?”
When Henry Luce’s curiosity was stirred he wanted to know everything there was to know. “What time will you be at the office, Dick, eight forty-five? Where in the hell were you at six when Chafee tried to get you. Duck hunting? Hmm. Don’t suppose you know how to work a switchboard.… Here’s an assignment for you. Round me up the home telephone numbers of McGeorge Bundy, Bob McNamara, Averell Harriman, Ted Sorensen—What? Slow down?” Henry Luce puffed at his cigarette. “Yes, okay. McNamara … Harriman … Sorensen—Bobby? No. If it comes to that I will talk to the President myself. And yes, the home telephone number in Saigon of Cabot Lodge. I’ll talk to you at eight forty-five. The White House number, that’s 456–1212, right? Yes. Goodbye.”
The housekeeper brought in coffee. Henry Luce called the White House. “This is Henry Luce. I’m calling from my number in Phoenix. You have it. I want to talk to Secretary Rusk. I know how these things are, I know, I know. Just you call him, tell him I need to speak to him on an emergency matter, give him my number. Thank you.”
He put down the telephone. Five minutes later it rang. “Mr. Luce?”
“Yup.”
“This is Virginia Rusk. Dean spent the night in Atlanta and should be on the way to his plane now, because he’s due here before lunch. The White House can probably put you through to SAM-118 as soon as he gets to the airport.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll take it from here. Thank you very much, Mrs. Rusk. I’m sorry to disturb you.”
He swigged down his coffee. Might as well take a shower. Can’t call Clurman back for—twenty-three minutes.
At noon Eastern Standard time, the conference call was in place. Henry Luce in Phoenix, Richard Clurman in New York, Henry Chafee in Saigon.
Luce took the floor.
“All right. Chafee?”
“Yes, Mr. Luce.”
“For security, we will refer to ‘Subject.’ You’re telling us—I’ve read your cable—that Subject is asking for a guarantee for his physical security and his brother’s. Does Lodge know that?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t told him. I don’t know whether General Nguyen passed out the information, or maybe one of the people who heard about it from him.”
“Does anybody at our embassy know that Subject has left the palace?”
“Again, I don’t know. I don’t think General Nguyen knew Subject was skipping out, because our man heard the general promising to call him back at the palace. Now maybe he did, and maybe Diem—Subject—is following the general’s instructions. Maybe the guy who drove him to the safe house is acting on military orders, maybe acting for the general who pulled off the coup—if it has been pulled off.”
“Your cables tell us it’s been all over Saigon for weeks that the White House is encouraging a coup. They don’t tell us whether Kennedy-Rusk-Lodge have done anything about the physical security of—of Subject. Know anything about that?”
“No. No, sir, I do not.”
“Dick?”
“Yes, Harry.”
“This is a hell of a situation. If we let Lodge know where he is, does that a) increase Subject’s chances of getting away? or b) diminish those chances? If Lodge fingers him, somebody has to go rescue Subject. I can’t believe Lodge wants to shelter him and … brother … in the U.S. Embassy. So if Lodge gets into the act, he’d have to protect him without offering diplomatic sanctuary. But that may be a lot harder to do if he knows where Subject is than if he does not know. What you think?”
“I think, Harry, we’ve got to tell the White House—”
“Tell the White House what? That Subject is out of power? Or tell the White House that he’s out of power and hiding in a house known only to Time magazine’s Saigon correspondent?”
“Begin by telling the White House that in case they haven’t heard, President Diem has been overthrown.”
“How does that advance U.S. interests?”
“Harry, the White House will want to have it both ways. They’ll want to say they had nothing to do with it. And then they’ll want to wave to the new Administration—Big Minh, you agree?—and to the Buddhists and to the hate-Diem crowd, which is much of the world,
and say, Look how smoothly we Americans can handle the situation when it gets out of hand! Look what we did to Lumumba! Look what we did to Trujillo! Henry—Henry Chafee—is it your impression that the Lodge crowd want Diem killed?”
“That is my impression. It would be simply more convenient. With Diem still alive, his whole establishment in South Vietnam is still alive, and potential avengers of the government in power. Yes, he’d prefer Diem dead, but Lodge isn’t going to line up a firing squad.”
“Where exactly are you now?”
“It’s near one-thirty. I’m at a bar a couple of blocks from House X. We’ve taken over the bar, made a deal. The bar owner is a lot richer. I’m wearing out, but my man and I are taking watches, one of us snoozing in the back of the car, the other at the wheel.”
“What happens when your bar closes?”
“Mr. Luce, the bar won’t close to your Saigon correspondent. I’ve made all-night arrangements with him.”
“Good. Call this number, my number—602-555-8738—at, er, call it two hours from now. Got that?”
“Yes, Mr. Luce.”
“But, obviously, if Subject goes somewhere else, call in as soon as that happens.” Henry closed his eyes, committing the telephone number to memory. He had lost all desire for sleep. He could not imagine that he’d sleep again.
But Than Koo had dozed for an hour. Now he got out of the car and opened the door to the driver’s seat. “Your turn, Mr. Henry.”
“Get in the other side, Koo. I’ve been thinking.”
The nearest street lamp was on the left. The house they were watching was opposite it, thirty or forty meters down the street, its dull yellow paint all but covered by the leaves and ivy that shrouded it. The traffic was very light, one car every fifteen or twenty minutes. There was no sign of police or military.
“Koo,” Henry said, “you should go to the telephone in the bar—I’ll bring you in, give an okay to the bartender to let you stay, use the phone, etc. Call your brother. If he’s not on duty, call him at home. It’s been six hours since we’ve been in touch with him. I can’t believe there hasn’t been military traffic in the club during the last few hours. After that, call Tran Tuyen. He’s been pretty valuable to us in the past. See if he has anything. Okay?” Henry knew that Koo did not relish talking to Tran, whom he considered as something of a rival informant. But he would of course do so.
William F. Buckley Jr. Page 16