Koo was gone twenty minutes. He sat down on the front seat by Henry. “You’re right. Tri said a lot of officers started coming in just after our call. There was a lot of drinking, a lot of yakking. He heard every kind of rumor, heard there was a countercoup, General Minh arrested, heard Lodge had flown out of the country, heard Diem had flown north. Heard everything.
“But then I got hold of Tran Tuyen. He has one very specific piece of information. At seven forty-five last night—that would be less than a half hour before he left the palace—Diem called your friend Colonel Conein.” Than Koo’s reference was to the CIA colonel who occupied the office opposite Henry’s. “Said he wanted safe passage out of the country and who if not the CIA would provide it? Tran says apparently Conein stalled, said that to fly Diem out, CIA would need to bring in a jet transport from Guam, and that that operation would take twenty-four hours. Diem said to Conein over the phone, ‘Twenty-four hours is too long.’ ”
Koo paused. “Sounds to me like the CIA doesn’t want to get involved in an escape operation. Diem figured out they were closing in on him and decided to go to—well, to come here.” He pointed offhandedly to the yellow house they were covering.
Henry Chafee was silent. “I’ll try”—he knew he had to try—“to sleep for an hour, before it’s time to call New York. Call Phoenix, I mean.” He opened the door and moved into the back of the car. He closed his eyes, but did not sleep.
“All right. Dick?”
“Here, Harry.”
“Chafee?”
“Here, Mr. Luce.”
“What time is it there?”
“Just after seven. It was dawn a few minutes ago.”
“No movement?”
“No movement.”
“Well, I’ve talked to everybody involved. Just about everybody. Haven’t talked to the President, don’t need to. Your cables are on the mark, Chafee. Getting rid of Subject is a U.S. operation, at least getting him out of office is. But zero plans were made to provide for his safety. Oh, they think he’s still in the palace. I pitched real hard with Rusk—Subject should be taken to the embassy, I said. It’s the only way; he’d be safe there. Never mind the diplomatic fuss—hell, U.S. embassies have been used before. And anyway, the White House objective, getting Subject out of the way, would be accomplished.
“Rusk wouldn’t buy in, but he did say we’d provide sanctuary if he actually showed up. So?
“The time has come to tell the State Department that Subject has left the palace with—with his brother; that we know where he is, and they can send a car to pick them up and take them to the embassy—”
“But, Mr. Luce, if Lodge or any of his people delay or if they pass around the address, then it seems to me there’s a hell of a risk—”
Henry Luce was terse. “I have considered all of the angles. I have come to this conclusion. What is his address?”
Henry paused. Then he said, heavily, “It is 322 Phung Hung Street.”
“How you spell that?”
“P-h-u-n-g H-u-n-g.”
“Good. Stay where you are. I’d guess the embassy people will get there within the hour. Call me back in two hours.”
Henry Chafee hung up the telephone behind the bar. The bartender bowed—oriental punctilio. Henry was halfway to the door when he stopped, turned, and said, “Dong, give me a double whiskey.”
He gulped it down and walked back to the car. He told Than Koo about the conversation.
“So they have the address?”
“Not quite. I gave them number 322.”
“But it’s 342!”
“Yes. But where we are parked we can see 322. If it is Americans who show up there, we can lead them to the correct address. If it isn’t Americans, why, tough shit—ARVN got a bad lead from New York.”
“Mr. Chafee!”
Henry looked up. The car was pulling out of the drive. It did a U-turn and pulled up by number 342. Immediately the third man came out of the door, followed by his two august guests, once again with raincoats draped over their heads. They entered the rear of the car, the first man was at the wheel and the car slipped forward.
“Careful, Koo! They might be looking back. Wait another few seconds.…”
The traffic was picking up. It was early, but already it was hot. The rain of twelve hours ago was used up, and the dust rose from the wheels of the car on which their eyes trained. Than Koo followed.
The lead car went only a few blocks, coming to a halt at Hoc Lac Street, outside a church. The passengers walked out of the car into the church. It was clearly labeled, the Cha Tarn Church.
“I’ll be damned. Either they’ve gone in to mass, just to worship, or maybe they have an appointment with the priest or somebody else, to hide them. Well, we’ll find out. I wonder if there’s a door into the church that we can’t see from here?”
“Do you want me to walk up and look?”
Henry reflected. “Why not? If there’s any question, you’re just another parishioner, coming in for early service. But come back—Koo! Hold it!”
An armored personnel carrier shot past their car and, alongside the church, screeched to a halt. Six soldiers jumped to the ground, pistols in hand. They barged into the church.
Three minutes later the President of the Republic of Vietnam and his brother and chief political adviser, their hands tied behind their backs, were dragged from the church and thrust up into the back of the van. Its hatch door quickly slammed shut. The carrier roared away.
Henry nodded his head as he tapped Than’s shoulder. Than Koo slipped the car into gear. In ten minutes they had left Cholon. The carrier swung left onto a rutted side road, macadamized perhaps twenty years ago by the Japanese.
“Don’t get too close,” Henry said. “Hold it here.”
The carrier had come to a stop a quarter of a mile ahead.
They could hear six shots. A man in uniform jumped out of the back section. There was blood on his bayonet, reflected in the early sun. He walked up to the front of the carrier and spoke with the driver. Then back, and into the carrier. The driver executed a U-turn and sped past the station wagon with the bearded American and the pale young Vietnamese who sat silent, apparently asleep in the front seat.
Nineteen
AT THE BEL AIR HOTEL in Los Angeles, Florida Carmela Huerta knocked on the hotel door a few minutes after eight. She was wearing the gold-white bandana. A waterfall of Aztec silver rippled down from her neck to the cocky breasts. Her floral-patterned dress was drawn tight, and around her waist a wrought-silver belt with a large turquoise buckle hung loosely. Turquoise stones dangled from the ears, her sleek brown hair swept back over her head into a bun in back. She wore very little makeup on her bronzed skin. Her smile was at once poised and vivacious.
“It’s good to see you, Danny.” Her voice was alto in pitch, her accent urbane.
He got up, kissed her lightly on the forehead. She looked up at him and returned the kiss, on his lips. She lingered there adamantly. His response was immediate and acute.
“Now?”
“Will we be interrupted?” she whispered.
“I ordered dinner for nine-fifteen.”
“Then now.”
He bolted the front door and led her into the bedroom. She kissed him again before sliding into the bathroom. Danny unbuttoned his shirt, tossed it onto the chair, followed by his undershirt. He took off his pants and climbed into the bed. She came from the bathroom, opulently nude, lay down on the bed, and stretched out on her stomach.
“Danny, remove my necklace. I couldn’t get it.”
He turned on the lamp, found the clasp, unhooked it, slid off the massive silver, letting it drop to the floor. Then with his left hand he pinioned her neck as she lay, and with his right lifted her hips. She gave no resistance, raising her hands behind her instead, to complete an ardent linkage.
Fifteen minutes later she moved her mouth next to his ear. “Better get dressed.” She giggled. “Dinner is on its way.”
/> “Good idea. Better one: Maybe I’ll tell ’em to go away, come back at breakfast time.”
She pushed him on the shoulder and he got up. A few minutes later the doorbell rang. Danny opened the door, smiled at the waiter, and pointed his finger to a recess in the room. “Set up the table there, that’s fine.”
He sat, and then tasted the first of the three wines. “Go right ahead with the soup,” he told the waiter. “My wife is dressing, and will be here in a minute.”
He and Florry amused themselves with the banter about their “children,” done for the benefit of attending waiters. They became so enthusiastic about their imagined family they sometimes found themselves going on with their act even after the waiter had stepped out, as the waiter had just done to bring in an extra fork.
“I agree, Danny. Judy should be prepared to go away to school in the fall.”
“Have you selected the victim school?”
“Now, don’t talk that way about our eldest child.”
“What other way is there to talk about that monster?”
“She’ll grow out of it. Pour me some more wine.”
“If she doesn’t, she’ll end up in Sing Sing.”
“You never really understood Judy.”
“Dr. Spock wouldn’t understand Judy.”
The dessert was served; the waiter left and was told not to bother to return for the dishes. They sat on the couch, their cordials on the coffee table in front of them.
“How’s it going at school?” he asked.
“If I thought you cared, I’d tell you.—That’s not fair. After all, you care enough to pay my bills. Anyhow, it’s good. Even though I’m an undergraduate, I sit for my orals in the advanced class next month, Professor Bergin examining. A tough hombre. If you forget when Dante had his first communion, he’ll flunk you.”
“When did Dante have his first communion? If you forget, call my wife. She’d know.”
“I like it when you take an objective view of … your marriage. Speaking of our ‘Judy,’ how is your brood? Your real brood?”
“My brood is, among other things, expensive. Actually, the youngest, Suzy, can talk now. Come to think of it, that’s the bad news. Tommy, the oldest, will be eleven, I think, the day I get back.”
“Does Caroline pay a lot of attention to the kids?”
“Caroline is either taking the kids to school, coaching them in their homework, doing their homework, or driving them to the skating rink or to church. Sometimes she gets a free minute. That is when she knits.”
“Doesn’t sound like the most fun in the world.”
Danny didn’t answer. Instead he asked, “You going to be able to pull away for the weekend in Acapulco?”
Florry lit a cigarette and let the smoke out of her mouth wispily. “I’d like to. I can work on my thesis pretty much anywhere.”
“I didn’t have in mind a weekend in Acapulco to explore The Divine Comedy—”
“I’m not doing my term paper on the Comedy.”
“I know. I know.”
Danny stood up and began to pace the room. Absentmindedly he flicked on the television set. He heard the voice of Henry Cabot Lodge. He was expressing official regret at the violent end of President Ngo Dinh Diem. “He was my friend, and a great patriot and leader.”
He turned to Florida. “Did I tell you Caroline’s brother is there? He’s a correspondent for Time magazine.” Must drop him a note, he reminded himself.
“Is he—”
“His name is Henry.”
“Is Henry like—Caroline?”
“Henry’s a nice guy. Sort of a plodder. We … fought together in the last days of the war. Landed in Italy straight after basic training in the fucking infantry.”
“Were you in action?”
“Yes. Henry wasn’t quite ready for it.”
“What do you mean?”
“He froze. I had to go on my own, then come back to pull him out of his funk.”
“Henry a fag?”
“I don’t think so. He isn’t married, but I don’t know that he’s ever had a boyfriend.”
“Close to Caroline?”
“He idolizes Caroline, and vice versa. They glow when they’re in each other’s presence. I used to think it was nice. Now I find it disgusting.”
“But it sounds very romantic.”
“In a way, it is. No, I guess not. Brother-sister love is in its own category.”
The telephone rang. Danny was surprised. Only Jiménez knew where he was. He picked it up.
“Real sorry to do this”—it was Jiménez—“but Cutter Malone said to track you down wherever you were. I told him you had gone to the football game. He didn’t tell me what it was, but he’s waiting at this number.”
Danny put down the telephone. “Florry, excuse this. Watch the TV for a few minutes; I’ll go into the bedroom and use the phone there.”
He recognized Cutter’s home telephone number, and rang it.
“This is Danny.”
“Danny, Giuseppe Martino has had a stroke. He’s in the hospital. He can’t talk well, but the doctors can make out that he’s asking to see you.”
“Is it—the end?”
“They’re not saying that, obviously. But I called Dr. Jerry Cash, gave him all the details I could get from the doctor at the hospital, and Jerry says from strokes like that, people eighty-four years old don’t usually recover. How soon can you get here?”
“Dumb question, Cutter. You know as much as I do about coast-to-coast airline schedules. There’s an eight A.M. Unless you hear from me, send the car to meet that flight.… Have we forgotten anything?”
“No. The … document with the correct Hyde Park … address is the one that will turn up.”
“Good. See you, Cutter.”
Danny emerged from the bedroom with a wide smile. He poured himself another glass of wine.
“Good news?” Florry said.
“Yes.” He walked over to the light switch and the room was suddenly in shadows.
“The news … is so good … I need to … communicate it to you … joyfully.” All his clothes came off and, on the couch, in the dark, he began to undress her. “Florry. Do I mean more to you than Dante?”
“How much do I mean to you, Danny?” She was helping him pull up her skirt.
“More than anybody, Florry. More than anything. As you can tell.… There, see what I mean? And—control yourself, Florry, sweet Florry, though with you, I’m not much good at—control.…”
Twenty
THE FLIGHT was very long. The U.S. military was obliging to U.S. newsmen, who regularly hitched rides to Guam, connecting with the commercial carrier there for Honolulu. But the transports designed for the military were not to be confused with luxury carriers. Henry slept—slept in the sense that he lost consciousness, or thought he did. He had long since learned that the kind of sleep one falls into from undeniable biological need somehow does not provide rest. So that when he woke up, as the plane landed in Guam, which still showed signs of the face-lift required after the war with Japan, he felt wretchedly tired.
The Pan Am plane for Honolulu would leave two hours later. He put down his typewriter and heavy briefcase and stretched his arms. It was midmorning and the military airport was thrumming with activity. What seemed like an endless row of trucks loaded with supplies squatted edgily, each waiting its turn to load up the C-124 Globemaster cargo planes. Henry’s instinct was to search out someplace to shower, then he remembered he had showered an hour before boarding the airplane, nine hours ago. He walked into the large hangar, signed the registry, confirmed the departure time of the flight, then wandered into the PX. He picked up a copy of Stars & Stripes, At the cafeteria he took coffee and leafed through the paper. It featured the release by the Soviets of Professor Barghoorn of Yale.
Henry had followed the story eagerly, in part because the behavior of Communists had become a professional concern, in part because he remembered well the self-effacing, s
cholarly professor of Russian studies with whom he had studied only ten years before. Barghoorn had been picked up by Soviet policemen in Moscow, charged with conducting espionage activity against the Soviet Union. Offhand, Henry could think of no unlikelier person to conduct espionage. Fred Barghoorn could not have hidden a piece of cheese from a mouse. The result had been a great furor in the academic-literary world, and it had had the desired effect: President Kennedy denounced the detention of Mr. Barghoorn. “He was not on an intelligence mission of any kind,” the President insisted. Two weeks after the U.S.-sponsored assassination of Diem, Henry was not in the right frame of mind automatically to accept the word of President Kennedy, but in this case, what the President said Henry knew to be plausible.
He smiled as he read on. There was something so … reassuringly, doggedly predictable about Soviet polemical warfare. After putting the professor on a London-bound flight, a Soviet spokesman “confirmed” that Barghoorn had “committed espionage” and “could have been made to stand trial,” but that since President Kennedy felt so strongly on the subject, the professor was released. Nice, Henry said to himself, that the Soviet authorities go to such lengths to avoid hurting Mr. Kennedy’s feelings.
He went on to read the feature profile on Mr. Barghoorn, written by his sometime colleague in Saigon, David Abshire. Barghoorn, the report read, had made six trips to the Soviet Union since the war. He had “always been very careful, while in the U.S.S.R., to avoid any actions that could be construed as espionage, even refraining from carrying a camera or engaging in overlong conversation with Soviet citizens.” The purpose of his recent visit was “to gather evidence for a book … on the Soviet political system … and on political instruction and indoctrination.” Henry’s smile broadened as he read that Barghoorn “had informed Soviet authorities of this before his trip.” He wondered whether old Fred had stipulated the maximum length of any conversation he would have while in Moscow.
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