Bleeding in Black and White

by Colin Cotterill

  On his first day of orientation he was introduced to Gallas, a government trainer with decades of experience in heathen countries. Gallas advised him that life in the remote tropics could be a very lonely experience for a single man. Inevitably, one was left with nothing but native women upon which to vent one’s natural animal desires. They were, he told Dupré, a very poor substitute for “real” women. From experience, Gallas was of the opinion that administrators fared much better in the colonies if they took along a wife.

  Although Dupré had no objection to such a suggestion, he had no wife, and had never been in a relationship that was likely to yield one. So, the following day he put an advertisement in three of the rural newspapers around Amiens. To his amazement he received thirty-three positive replies. Even after sending his photograph, seventeen women still seemed interested in this man with “an established future in government service”. He’d mentioned his posting to the Far East and his position as governor and his mother had no doubts that most, if not all, of these respondents were gold diggers.

  Even so over the following month he’d been able to visit all of them. Eight cut off communication immediately after meeting him. Four were so unpleasant he had no doubt they’d be spinsters for life. But five remained who had some endearing qualities and seemed not to mind him. One was a very fine musician, another a minor authority in southeast Asian flora. One more was fluent in English and Chinese and had already begun to study Vietnamese. It was a hard decision to make.

  But, like most men with little experience of women forced into a corner, he settled on one applicant from Marseilles who’d performed fellatio on him in the back seat of his Renault at the end of their first date. It had been an experience like no other in his sheltered life, and he couldn’t erase from his mind the thought of this attractive hairstylist giving him a lifetime of blowjobs. As Monique fitted all the characteristics of a gold-digger as described by his mother, Dupré didn’t invite his only living relative to the registry wedding. In fact, it wasn’t till the eve of his departure that he bothered to mention to her that he had a wife. She was inconsolable.

  For her part, Monique seemed unconcerned at not meeting her mother-in-law. Neither did she introduce or mention her own parents to Dupré. The closer they got to the wedding date, the more his back-seat servicing began to, as it were, taper off. To the dismay of both parties, the wedding night consummation lasted some thirty seconds. Following that unforgettable night, Monique claimed a month of abstinence for “the tearing”, as she put it, “to heal”. He apologized profusely for his brutishness. Two days after that she began her first affair and had engaged in two more brief flings before L’Oceanique set sail for Singapore.

  To their amazement, their arrival in Ban Methuot was met with real pomp and ceremony. The town itself was a cesspool, a typical third-world pigsty, but their importance in it was unquestioned. There was a band, and speeches from the incumbent, and a cocktail reception and the odd bout of ethnic nonsense with loud noises and peculiar dances. Montagnard tribesmen in ill-fitting guards’ uniforms saluted them, and servants fawned around them. Even French expatriate tradesmen and plantation owners treated them with deference.

  As is the case when ignorant people are suddenly elevated beyond their rightful station in life, M. and Mme. Dupré became a different breed of ignorant people. They were now VIPs and they had to act in a way they expected important people to act in the colonies. Overnight they became arrogant. They had a district to play with for three years and, in their own ways, they intended to make the most of it.

  9.

  The office of the operations unit was housed above a carpeting company in the only three-story building on that section of Rhode Island Avenue. There were plans for a real CIA headquarters some eight miles out of town but that was a year or so off. Meanwhile the agency slummed at a number of discreet locations around the city.

  On Tuesday morning Bodge arrived holding his four-by-four-inch map with Casually Yours Carpeting marked with an arrow. The entrance had double doors leading into the discount emporium to the right and an unmarked staircase to the left. On the first floor he was met by a not surprisingly laid-back Casually Yours receptionist who was obviously placed there to divert non-CIA guests. She clicked an electronic lock on the door behind her and told him to have a nice day.

  Beyond the door was a much more serious reception area where they went through his paperwork, searched his bag, and fingerprinted him. Eddy Gladstein wouldn’t have made it into this building without a parachute. They directed Bodge towards Meeting Room D where his orientation had been slated to begin at nine. He walked along an aisle of squeaky linoleum. In front of each office there was a small desk with a black telephone and, invariably, a smartly turned out girl in her mid 20s.

  In front of Meeting Room D was an identical desk but its minder was nearer to forty. She was built like a large burlap sack of yams, and turned out in a frock that could only have come directly from an upholsterer of garden furniture. She wore spectacles with frame wings you could hang your hat on. Bodge stood in front the desk waiting for her phone conversation to come to an end. She had a voice that could scrape scum off a toilet bowl.

  Although he couldn’t really believe she hadn’t seen him, he coughed. A look of annoyance dropped across her face. He coughed again. She told her interlocutor to hang on, put her hand over the mouthpiece and glared up at him.

  “You can see I’m on the telephone?”

  “I can.”

  “Then surely you can also see how rude it is to be leaning over me coughing up phlegm all over the desk.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “I’m supposed to be reporting to Meeting Room D.”

  “So?”

  “Okay. Thanks.” He walked past her and knocked on the meeting room door. There was no answer so, mainly to be away from the obelisk at the desk, he opened the door and put himself on the other side of it. The room was set up for some serious briefing. There was a movie screen on a tripod on one side and an 8mm projector on a table in the middle of the room. Desks were piled high with folders that burst with ill-matching papers. Along the walls was a gallery of pin boards covered in black and white photos, and graphs and maps. Bodge felt an honest to goodness buzz.

  He was up at a board studying aerial photos when the door flew open and Palmer strode in with even more files and boxes in his arms.

  “Bodge, how you feeling?”

  “A little tired sir.”

  “Any news?” He offloaded the files onto the only empty desk.

  “I called Lou’s apartment before I left the lodgings.”

  “Nothing, eh?”

  “No.”

  “He’ll turn up.”

  “I assume they…”

  “Yes?”

  “I assume the security people will check the hospitals… the morgue.”

  “I’m sure they were on that first thing this morning. Coffee?”

  Bodge said “yes” before he remembered the sour-faced secretary. She’d probably inflict a curse on him if they forced her to work. But Palmer had apparently come up against her before. He left the room and came back ten minutes later with two steaming mugs on a tray. He’d made it himself. There seemed to be no end to his diplomatic skills. He went back to the door and poked out his head. Bodge heard him call very politely, “Stephanie — when you’re ready.”

  Bodge didn’t see her as a Stephanie. More a Helga or a Daisy. She came into the room with her notepad and pen. She too had a mug of coffee. Bodge knew Palmer had made it for her.

  “Have you two met yet?” the boss asked.

  “Yes,” said Stephanie. She sat on the opposite side of the room to the two men and put her industrial-sized handbag on the desk in front of her.

  “Yes,” said Bodge looking for an opportunity to smile at her but not getting one.

  “Good then. Let’s begin. The mission is a long-term covert placement in Vietnam under assumed identities.” The word identit
ies twanged a string in Bodge’s mind and he wrote down; ‘Switching ID? Ask later.’

  He looked up when Palmer said, “Bodge, I believe you know pretty much all there is to know about the French presence in Indochina.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Then perhaps I could trouble you for a brief historical overview.”

  “Sure. How far back would you like me to go?”

  “From their first involvement.”

  “All right.”

  He started a little further back than they really needed to go, with the Jesuits in the 1600s and the opportunist traders that hung on to their robes. He described succinctly how the French came to colonize the region, how the Japanese invasion temporarily gave the Vietnamese dominion over their own lands, and how the French returned to lay claim to the region’s vast natural resources until the communist Viet Minh engaged them in a protracted guerrilla war.

  “And that war continues,” he concluded. “France controls about a fifth of the country, mostly Saigon, Hanoi and the areas around their plantations. But they don’t have the resources to regain old territory. That,” said Bodge, “is presumably where we Americans come in. It’s our aid that keeps their army fighting and essential services running. That’s as much as I know.”

  Palmer applauded which caused Stephanie to look up for the first time from her notes.

  “Very nicely summarized from the French point of view. Later on I’ll let you know how we believe the Vietnamese communists see things. But I think we have a good enough understanding of where we are today in the Vietnam you’re both heading off into.”

  Bodge’s jaw dropped. “Both?”

  Stephanie gazed across at him with a look of angry resignation. She obviously knew something he didn’t.

  “Oh sorry. I assumed you’d talked to agent Delainy already.”

  “No. I thought…”

  “What did you think, agent?” the woman asked dryly.

  “No offence, but I thought you were a secretary.”

  “Because I’m a woman?”

  “Because you were sitting at a reception desk, answering the telephone, and taking shorthand.”

  “Well, let’s pray the French are as easy to fool as you.”

  Palmer laughed to himself. He’d obviously already imagined the splinters this relationship would leave. “You are both to be placed in situ in a small…”

  Bodge was devastated. His heart churned in his chest. This wasn’t what he’d dreamed of. She wasn’t the type of person he could spend an hour with, let alone two years.

  “I was lead to believe,” he interrupted, “that I’d be working alone.”

  “As I’m the only person in a position to lead you anywhere,” the older man said, “I know for a fact that isn’t true. We didn’t discuss the situation.”

  “You’re right, but…”

  “Bodge, this is the first day of a very long program. You aren’t going to make life hard for me, are you?”

  “No… sorry.” He sunk back on his chair and began a sulk that was to last most of the day. He felt as empty as the Polo Grounds off season.

  “Then, perhaps I may continue.” Palmer drained the last of his coffee, pulled his hand-written notes in front of him, but spoke without referring to them. “You are to be placed in situ in a small town called Ban Methuot. It’s in the Western Highlands some three-hundred miles from Saigon. I’ve included details and photographs in a dossier I’ll be letting you have later. It seems like a very…interesting part of the country.” He reached for his mug and proceeded to take a sip from it even though Bodge knew it was already empty. Palmer liked to use silent pauses for emphasis. They weren’t ever likely to forget that Ban Methuot was “interesting”, synonymous perhaps with “complicated”.

  The boss smiled and continued. “You are to work under cover as Baptist missionaries — husband and wife. You will be replacing the incumbent couple who have prematurely come to the end of their tenure. That, very broadly, is the situation. Could I have your initial reactions and questions?”

  Bodge could neither speak nor breathe. Stephanie could, apparently, do both.

  “How would our backgrounds check out if anyone took the trouble to go into things?”

  Palmer seemed impatient with the question. “Naturally, that’s all been thoroughly taken care of. You don’t need to worry about logistics. The comment I was hoping for at this juncture was more your feelings.”

  “My feelings?” She smirked. “Since when did the agency care about my feelings?”

  Bodge didn’t carry a gun but he hoped the other man did.

  “Let’s assume we started to as from this morning,” Palmer replied without a break in rhythm or a crack in his icy cool demeanor. “And let’s assume also that I’m the senior agent here and that when I ask you to say or do something, you say and do it without question…or sarcasm.”

  Stephanie stiffened, but Bodge recognized something, perhaps excitement, on her face. She switched instantly to “respectful subordinate” role.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I feel very proud to have been selected for this mission. I’m excited to contribute to our Government’s efforts in…”

  “Stephanie!”

  “Sir?”

  Palmer shook his head. “I helped write the manuals about how you’re supposed to feel. What I’d really like to hear is how you actually feel, particularly about your cover and about working with Agent Leon.”

  “I don’t think this is the place to…”

  “It is exactly the place, and the time.”

  Bodge watched it all like a corpse whose relatives were discussing the handiwork of the embalmer. Agent Delainy shrugged away a slight blush before putting down her pen and unleashing her thoughts.

  “Sir, as you know, I was uncomfortable when I learned I’d be working with an agent with no field experience. One never knows how a new operative is likely to react under difficult circumstances. But I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. There was a possibility he could be a quick learner. Some agents are naturally sharp, good at assessing a situation and reacting appropriately. But…”

  “But what?” Bodge heard himself ask at the same time as Palmer.

  “But, I have a very strong instinct about these things. It’s an instinct that’s been honed by my years of fieldwork overseas. It grew from the desire to survive, knowing whom to trust my life with and whom to avoid. I’m certain Agent Leon would be a poor undercover agent.”

  It occurred to Bodge he’d suddenly become so small he could barely see over the edge of the desk.

  “In fact,” she went in for the kill, “he strikes me as a buffoon.”

  To Bodge’s intense annoyance, Palmer gave one of his wry smiles.

  “Well, thank you for your candor, Agent Delainy.” He turned to Bodge. “Agent Leon. Your turn.”

  Bodge felt like some timid domestic animal on his first day home from the pet shop, curled quivering in the corner of his cage behind the wood shavings.

  “I…I don’t really have anything to say.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Then, I don’t think there’s anything I should say, given the circumstances.”

  “Bodge, I didn’t have you down as a person who was afraid to speak his mind. If you aren’t honest with us today, I can’t see any hope for this project.”

  Palmer seemed to be enjoying himself. Bodge, certainly, was not. It appeared he had no choice. He puffed out one or two steadying breaths before he spoke.

  “In that case, I wasn’t given the forewarning that I’d be working with an agent with such a vast… set of experiences. Or, indeed, with anyone at all. I’d assumed, quite naively, that I’d be out there on my own. So I didn’t arrive here today with any preconceptions about a fellow agent.

  “I guess I wasn’t blessed with an acute instinct. I tend to rely on the senses you can account for on a medical chart. But, from what I’ve seen and heard of Agent Delainy in the very short t
ime we’ve been acquainted, I have been able to formulate an opinion. Here goes. I can honestly say that I can’t recall having met a more unpleasant woman. The thought of spending two years with her fills me with dread.”

  “Likewise,” came a muffled voice from across the room.

  “Excellent, excellent,” he said. “Now isn’t it better to have dragged all that out into the open? Get it out of the system?”

  “You surely aren’t still proposing we work together?” Stephanie asked. She’d already reached for her handbag and seemed poised to head home.

  “My dear Stephanie, you two are going to be perfect together. Tough no nonsense missionaries soured from years of marriage. All the internal conflicts of couples wed more to the church than to one-another. I don’t want you to lose this animosity. It’s marvelous. I’m afraid over the next few months you may learn to respect, perhaps, heaven forbid, even like each other.”

  Stephanie blew hard through her nostril, expanding a small bubble of mucous that she didn’t hurry to clear away with her handkerchief. Bodge looked on in disgust. Palmer continued,

  “Bodge, I want you never to forget the way you’re feeling right now. It will come in useful. Trust me.”

  Agent Leon knew for certain he would never forget the way he felt at that moment because he was positive he would never recover from the feeling. If the woman had redeeming features, indeed if she had a personality at all, he wasn’t about to chip away at her to look for them.

  The day progressed with logistical information about the posting and the CIA role in Vietnam. Although the US was providing aid to the French, it did not legally have the right to place observers in the field to monitor the progress of the Viet Minh war against French occupation. It was supposed to rely on French intelligence, eighty-percent of which was fictionalized in an office in Hanoi.