Play the Red Queen

by Juris Jurjevics

  “No accounting?” I said.

  “None whatsoever. Totally unvouchered.”

  “We buy the laundered Viet money on the cheap,” Robeson said, trying to get his head around what we were hearing. “After which we give it away again?”

  “Takes some getting used to,” Tuttle said. “You gotta admit, though, it’s clever. The Agency gets lots of super cheap local cash to play with. Money they don’t have to buy at the bullshit official rate. Keeps the gears oiled, the machinery humming. Keeps Washington happy because there’s money flowing into the South Vietnamese economy that they didn’t have to appropriate and explain to voters who don’t like hearing about Buddhists being beaten in the streets and grade-school kids hauled off to detention camps in the countryside. Totally unappropriated cash that gives the Agency boys all the dough in the world to fund their covert schemes.”

  Robeson smiled ruefully. “Christ Almighty. You uncover the Agency’s private cash cow, this giant slush fund, and you’re hiding in a CIA billet. Man. Is it really safe for you to be here? Me, I would’ve gone elsewhere.”

  “Hey.” Tuttle held up a hand. “They’ve given me shelter and protection, which is more than my employer did when I balked at staying after Jim was killed. They’re cool. These boys are having the time of their lives training junior spooks, doing black ops. They’re living the life, man: running liquidation units, hiring mercenaries, bedding dames. They toss money around like confetti, spy on the enemy, fuck over Communists—and sometimes the South Vietnamese if they get out of line.”

  He sat quiet for a moment, smiling to himself.

  “You wouldn’t believe the silly shit they get into. They produce movies to make Diem look good, slip in subliminal messages that the eye can’t see but the brain absorbs. Put out astrology magazines that show the president’s horoscope is always rosy. Finance rumors about Communist atrocities—like that they’re amputating the arms of villagers inoculated by our medical teams—and mix ’em with real stories of the nasty executions the VC stage in the hinterlands. The other night the boys were boasting about driving the North Vietnamese crazy by parachuting ice men into North Viet Nam.”

  “Ice men?” Robeson said.

  “Seems the Agency’s program of inserting operatives into North Viet Nam is a total bust. Completely compromised. Commies grab up the agents as soon as they parachute in. Meaning we’ve got no agents in North Viet Nam. Zero. The Agency guys wanted payback. Got this ice maker in town to make half-size human figures they strap into parachutes and toss out over North Viet Nam. The ice men melt on the way down. The Commies find the chutes but can’t find the spies. Drives ’em batshit.”

  “Talk about spies melting into the local population!” Robeson hooted. “But seriously, all that currency shit—Furth’s report laid that out? No wonder there’s folks upset with y’all.”

  Tuttle leaned back on the couch, hands laced behind his head, elbows splayed. “Jim Furth was painstaking, gradually fitting the pieces together. He got so damn excited when he could see the whole picture.”

  An argument broke out in the hall in rapid Vietnamese. Tuttle sat up, clutching his gun.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  As the voices receded, Tuttle exhaled a long stream of smoke.

  Robeson said, “Did you and Major Furth ever talk about what shining the light of day on all this might bring down on y’all?”

  Tuttle laughed uncomfortably, which made him cough. “Obviously not. Uncovering the mechanics had us stoked. We didn’t think it might cause trouble for us personally.” He took a pull on his cigarette and stubbed it out. “Hell, we’re Americans. Who’s going to mess with us?” Tuttle coughed again. “Besides, I didn’t think for a second the higher-ups would ever let any of it surface.” He tried to light a new cigarette with an unsteady hand.

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “Jim sent a sample of what we’d collected over to USAID and a little way up the chain of command, sort of a test run. They’d asked for a report on CIP, after all.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nobody so much as initialed the distribution list to acknowledge they’d seen it. No one wanted any part of what we found.”

  I extended my Zippo to his Marlboro. The tip flamed. Black circles ringed his eyes. He gave me an exhausted stare.

  “Major LaValle predicted nobody would touch it. Not the can-do, ass-kissing brass in Saigon or the embassy suits. Not our supreme command enchiladas in Hawaii either, with all that gold braid on their hats. The politicians in Washington might hold some bullshit hearings. But they only want the Commie threat quashed. They don’t care about sloppiness or skimming or the crony conspiracies running this place. Their eyes are on the Big Picture. The Big Prize.”

  “Holdin’ back world Communism,” Robeson said.

  Tuttle laughed. “Fuck no. Re-election! The Congress and two presidents have carried Diem for eight years. They nip at him to change his ways but he’s intractable. They need to cut him loose, but they don’t want the kind of political blowback that followed Mao’s victory in China. Nobody wants to be seen as the ones who lost Indochina. No, sir. Damn the torpedoes and the corruption. Just keep on hammering them Commies.”

  We could hear people passing in the hall. Gun in hand, Tuttle went to peer out the peephole before turning back to us. He slipped his piece in the waistband of his trousers and paced, hands tucked in his armpits.

  “Me, I told Jim I didn’t think anything would splash back on us because all the clever scams we’d documented would never be made public. The report was going to get buried. No way our superiors would ever admit knowing about the regime’s duplicity, much less admit they’d been cooperating with it for years.” Tuttle reached for the bottle and drained the last of the scotch. “This so-called economy is a balloon, a bubble. Nothing’s being produced in Viet Nam except rich Vietnamese and dead Vietnamese. We’re bucketing guns and goods over here to keep up pretenses and buy loyalty.” He lit up and sent a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “What a waste. The four of us were gagged by non-disclosures we’d signed long ago. All they had to do was quarantine the report, classify it Top Secret, Eyes Only and toss some wordy commendations into our files.”

  “What about Lodge?” I said. “He needs sweeping reforms from Diem. Your report would be a hell of a big stick.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. Lodge is a loyal politician. He wouldn’t do anything that would make our government look incompetent or complicit in propping up a criminal syndicate. He’s not about to expose our South Vietnamese allies as venal war profiteers. No way he’d get caught holding the short end of that stick.”

  Robeson fixed Tuttle with a stare. “You said Major Furth felt differently about the report?”

  “Jim was optimistic somebody would read the report and announce that there is no such thing as Vietnamese productivity, just products bought with the money we pump in here in every conceivable way. Plus our humanitarian supplies and free military equipment expropriated and sold.” Tuttle fell silent for a moment. “Jim toyed with the idea of sneaking the full report to the Comptroller General at the General Accounting Office, even though that would have meant the end of his reserve career.”

  Furth and the others had had no idea what kind of trouble this report could bring them. While they debated the possible reactions of our government and military command, they never saw the Red Queen coming. I wouldn’t have either.

  I asked Tuttle straight out. “Why would the VC want to squash a report that lays out such damning stuff about their enemy? Exposing what you found could topple the regime without them having to fire a shot. You’d think they’d want your report on billboards ten feet high.”

  “I can see why Nhu would want the report buried and to shut the four of you up,” Robeson agreed. “But why would the VC go after MAAG whistleblowers?”

  Tuttle scanned our faces, pushed his
ashtray aside and leaned closer. “Because like it or not, USAID and the ever-lovin’ Commodity Import Program are completely enmeshed with Viet Cong needs. They rely on it. Our aid brings materiel into the country the VC wants for their own forces. Medicine, rice, gasoline, guns, explosives. As much as the South, the North needs our goods flowing in, markets operating full blast. Sure, the South Vietnamese want their fancy shampoo and air conditioners. But CIP also puts cash in the VC war chest from the black-market profit they’re making on our stolen goods.” Tuttle waited for this to sink in. “If you ask me, the ambassador should be watching his own ass. With CIP shut off, nothing’s in the pipeline. That’s bad news for both sides. If there’s even a chance disposing of Lodge might impress Washington with the shaky state of things in Saigon and un-dam the aid dollars—turn the tap back on—I can think of a number of parties who wouldn’t hesitate.”

  A soft knock at the door had Tuttle on his feet, gun in hand. An American voice announced that he would be changing rooms in twenty minutes.

  “Guys,” he said, “we’re done.”

  We left the Hotel Duc, our heads reeling. Our jeep was boxed in by a pair of the high-powered Mitsubishi Colts the CIA favored, so we climbed over the open back and walked across the seats. Robeson dropped behind the wheel, put his hand to the ignition and looked relieved as the engine revved without blowing us up.

  “You’re antsy,” I said.

  “Hell yeah, I’m antsy.” He backed us out. “Look what happened to the first three guys who knew about this shit. Tuttle makes four, but he’s locked up tight in Fort Knox. We’re out here in an open jeep.”

  “Keep your shirt on and tell me how we piece this fucker together into something that makes sense.”

  “We don’t,” Robeson said. “We keep our damn noses out of the regime’s commodity scams and the VC’s black market. We forget about this CIP report. We go after the lady assassin,” he said. “And try to keep her from bumping off the ambassador.”

  “Or President Diem.”

  Robeson shook his head. “Forget Diem. Lodge cutting off CIP sent the signal that Diem’s gang wasn’t our gang anymore. That move right there was the big green light for his generals to take over.” He gave me a hard look. “You hearin’ me?”

  “Loud and clear,” I said. “We concentrate on the broad.”

  Robeson wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “Light me a cig, will ya?” he said, shifting from second into third. “All that high finance. My head’s swimming.”

  I leaned below the dash to light two cigarettes. Something lay on the floorboard by my feet. I strained to pick it up.

  Robeson saw the card in my hand, spanking new, the skull’s teeth bared. He hunched over the wheel. “This your idea of a joke? Tell me you’re putting me on. That one of the cards from Crouch’s lockbox?”

  I shook my head, then scanned the traffic. No sign of her, but any of the riders behind us could be one of her scouts.

  “Fuckin’ A, Ellie,” Robeson said. “CID was supposed to be easy duty, not make us marked men. I wish we were back in the boonies advising again.” He snuck another look at the death card as he drove. “I don’t wanna know what I know.”

  “Too late to unknow it. She’s already got eyes on us.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Robeson was too rattled to leave his room, but my brain was spinning. I went up to the rooftop bar and ordered a beer. I took a pull, closed my eyes and imagined floating in a tub full of bills the color of the jungle. Oh, man. I was so ever-lovin’ tired of the short end of the stick, risking my butt for a lousy fourteen bucks a day, made lousier by the make-believe conversion rate. I had investments I wanted to make, opportunities that needed financing.

  I had kept to the Pacific Rim, hoping this swell little war would stay that way. I was gambling the glowing volcano wouldn’t blow just yet, despite the sweaty nightmares I still had about Korea and human-wave attacks. There wasn’t enough ammo in all the ammo dumps in the world to take them all down, even in my dreams. Asia had put more than dengue into me. Indochina was its own fever, infecting with equal measures of love and hate.

  The Viet bosses and the Cholon Chinese were buying exit visas for their kids to go to school in Paris and the States, while the parents were busy building up their own getaway stash. And everybody collecting green gratitude but me. They weren’t the only ones who needed a flush future to relocate to when this show tanked. And tank it would. Just a question of when. The French had long ago screwed the pooch in Indochina, and no one was going to outlast or unseat Uncle Ho. We weren’t going to unfuck the future for these people. I could only look to unfuck mine. Bangkok, Vientiane . . . somewhere.

  The sunset colors bled into the river and the tropical twilight turned quickly to night.

  My brain was buzzing with the fortunes being made all around me, zips buying dollars for next to nothing and tripling their investments, bushels of cash being hauled out of Saigon, while I walked around with chump change, owning nothing but pieces of roadside greasy spoons, some nasty bars, and a steam-and-cream operation where vehicles got washed while dicks got stroked.

  We were risking our necks out here, sucking hind tit while the Vietnamese elite were parlaying American tax money into sweet import deals that made them fortunes. We meant no more to them than the underpaid Buddhist bumpkins in the ranks of their army. We got to flirt with the Red Reaper and play tag with comrades in the woods so they could enjoy their overseas villas and mountain chalets in the hotter months. Fuck. What was it the VC called us—the war dogs of capitalism?

  All that fucking dough. A generous hunk of which was getting paid to the enemy to buy safe passage for goods so that everyone involved could harvest more money: buy more, steal more. No such perks were coming my way. No Vietnamese was buying me immunity from Viet Cong mines or ambushes. They happily paid to keep the roads safe for their imported and looted American booty, but I didn’t see anyone offering to pay the VC to make sure the Red Queen didn’t plug me next. Us? We were useful dog soldiers, cheap and interchangeable, sent to far-flung shores to protect the empire.

  The situation was ridiculous. The safe passage our allies bought for their worldly goods was helping finance the war being made on them and me. I was nothing but an X marked on a map overlay, a smudge easily rubbed out, another one just as easily penciled in.

  I didn’t have a life waiting for me stateside like Robeson, but I could make plans too. I just had to be able to afford them. I called Sergeant Flippi from the Majestic. “Flip” was a Georgia boy, a crazy fuck who’d come by his frayed nerves honestly in Korea, where we’d met. Loyal to a fault, but a sinister dude when he wanted to be. No one was better than Flip at getting over on somebody with just a whisper. When I raised him at his billet he said my timing was great: he had something he wanted to show me. Thirty minutes later he called me down to the lobby.

  “Aloha, motherfucker.” He flashed his dentures. Whatever he had to show me was making him jolly and red-faced. Right away he asked if I wanted a piece of the action.

  “What kind of action we talking?” I said.

  “You ain’t gonna believe it. Come ’n’ look fo’ yo’self,” he drawled. “Got it right there ’cross the street in pieces. But you’ll suss it out quick. Come on, come on.”

  Flippi’s prize lay under a tarp in the back of a three-quarter-ton Army truck. The Vietnamese driver slipped from behind the wheel and climbed up with us onto its bed to help Flippi pull the tarp away. Two long poles lay flat beside iron braces, and something that looked like what I’d seen on a fifth-grade field trip back in Philly—wooden stocks the Pilgrim fathers used to restrain minor lowlifes, imprisoning their wrists and necks while exposing the rest of them to public ridicule. Except Flippi’s yoke had just a head hole, none for hands.

  A large, heavy slab of polished metal lay on sandbags in the truck. Tapping it, Flippi grinned and ann
ounced, “A hundred ’n’ ten pounds of steel.”

  “What the fuck?” I said, reaching to touch its gleaming edge.

  “Careful. That baby’s sharper ’n’ hell. A giant razor blade. This all’s one of them gen-u-ine portable guillotines the Frenchies used to keep the zips in line, suckin’ on government opium pipes.”

  “Flip, you own this thing?”

  “Nearly. Whaddya think, Ellie? The posts stand fifteen feet high once they’re put together. Blade fits on rails in between. They lash the dude to the plank ’n’ shove him—or her—under the blade head first. Close the neck restraint, unleash the blade. Drops seven feet. Whap! Bounces a bit on these springs that cushion the fall so’s it don’t damage the edge. It’s a honey, no?”

  “Friggin’ sensational.”

  “Body rolls right into that chest there, head tossed in after. Lined with zinc, for the blood.”

  “Still works?”

  “Smooth as the tits on a goat. We had it operatin’ this afternoon.”

  “What’s the plan?”