“How? With clever planning and piastres invested in the right places. I was afraid for a while I’d put my money on the wrong horse. I was sure you’d blasted our beloved first couple into the beyond, but it appears you’ve talked yourself out of that particular scandal. Or, how else could you be back at work?”
“I had nothing to do with that,” Bodge pleaded.
“I believe you, Reverend. And I’m delighted. I have much more use for you out of jail.”
“Me? I have nothing. What could you possibly…?”
“Tsk, Tsk. So modest. You have nothing? Don’t insult me, M. Rogers. You have an income far exceeding anyone in Ban Methuot. You have cars and, quite soon, your very own airplane. And most importantly, you virtually have diplomatic access to the shipping of goods in and out of the United States. I can’t begin to tell you how useful all that could be to my enterprise.”
“Do you have no shame? Why, that’s blackmail.”
DeWolff clapped his hands. “Bravo. Bravo, you sad and pathetic man. Welcome to the start of our ongoing relationship.”
“And, if I don’t cooperate?”
“I can’t begin to imagine what reaction there would be in Washington to these pictures, can you? I hear there’s a terrible to-do about homosexuality in your country.”
“You’re an evil man, DeWolff.”
“Now, if you’re ready, you have a captive audience for your first sermon.”
“You can’t possibly expect me to preach now. Not after…”
“Force yourself, Father. I’ve been trying to push Christian values into these aboriginals for years. It might even make them more grateful for what they get here. And, consider it penance. You have a lot of making up to do.”
52.
The cutting shed was a vast roof. There were no walls. The floor was packed dirt and some three hundred Montagnard men sat cross-legged in rows as neat as the rubber trees. Six overseers with rifles were seated on chairs around the periphery. They didn’t seem any more pleased at losing their one day off than the Montagnard.
When the caravan of DeWolff, Bodge, Sister Natalia, and Overseer Manx marched into the hall, a slight mumble worked its way through those assembled there. Some at the rear straightened their backs to get a better look. The mood seemed to suddenly change. DeWolff held up his hands for silence.
“Gentlemen, thank you for coming to this, your first Sunday Mass,” he said. He spoke in colloquial French because he refused to stoop to the barbaric petit negre pidgin of these common folk. As a result, very few of the men ever knew what he was saying. Incredibly, only one of the overseers spoke a Montagnard language and he’d failed to return from his Saturday night in town. That, of course, was no accident. They would eventually come to find him tied and gagged in the jungle behind the market. “I give you, Reverend Rogers of the Evangelical Missions.”
Even when Bodge took a step forward, all eyes were still on Sister Natalia, better known to them as Great Matriarch Chama. Not one man could imagine what she was doing up there in front of them dressed like a French flower pot.
“My brothers,” Bodge said. His voice was strong and sincere. It was the type of voice he’d listened to endless Sunday after Sunday since his third birthday. “We are gathered together here today under the watchful eye of the Lord our God… Sister?”
Chama remained where she was, behind Bodge’s shoulder like a subservient interpreter. The M’nong language had become a lingua franca at the plantation. The words she spoke appeared to DeWolff and the overseers to be a translation of the preacher’s sermon. But they were not. She began with,
“Brothers of the tribes, I want you to react to my words as if I’m translating from the cross worshipper, here. Don’t act surprised or angry or excited. Just stay as blank as the mist.”
There followed a half hour of Bodge spouting a fiery tirade against the evil of sin and what terrible things would become of sinners in the afterlife. All the while, Chama was laying out her instructions. Once she’d signaled to Bodge they were ready, Reverend Rogers instructed all the men to get to their feet. Because he didn’t know the words in French, he started to sing, ‘We Shall Overcome’ in English. He clapped his hands and the Montagnard clapped theirs. In fact they appeared to be overcome with some inexplicable religious fervor. Bodge went to Sister Natalia and wrapped his arms around her. The Montagnard began to hug one-another and chant to some unseen God above them.
There was such an overwhelming atmosphere of love and happiness, the overseers couldn’t help but smile at the childlike innocence of their charges. They’d never seen them so cheerful. Even so, they were edgy in the beginning when the first men came to shake their hands. But they couldn’t begrudge them. They clutched their guns in their left hands and shook with their right. But more and more came. They crowded around the overseers smiling and singing, till one guard couldn’t see the next. Bodge went to Overseer Manx and locked him in a loving embrace. It was then Chama issued forth with the screeching ancient battle cry of the M’nong.
The overseers were subdued in seconds without a shot being fired. The only injury was sustained by Manx who came off second best in a brief wrestling match with the reverend. It occurred to Bodge it was the first actual hand to hand fighting he’d been involved in since he joined Operations — or even, since college. DeWolff, in shock, was about to flee but Chama quickly put herself between him and escape, and held her knife to his testicles.
They went first to the house, where fourteen domestic servants seemed only too happy to be restrained and gagged. Mrs. DeWolff on the other hand was so appalled to see a gang of black thugs in her clean house that she fainted on the spot. The layer of Bibles and bleeding Jesus’s in the trailer behind the jeep was only a foot deep. Below it were some fifty carbines all oiled and loaded and ready to fire.
Bodge and the Montagnard approached the overseers’ compound silently from three different directions. Only two more men were found there and they were woken from deep sleeps and hog-tied. The local wives and whores of the expatriates were rounded up by the armed Montagnard and marched off to the stockade. They found the kidnapped Montagnard women exactly where they were told they’d be — in the cellar of a barn fifty yards behind the compound. There was no guard. Although many of the captives were scared and unused to daylight, most were in good health. It turned out that General LePenn had insisted on that. The stronger ones went to help their husbands gather their belongings and begin the long walk home to their villages.
All the while, Bodge took photographs with DeWolff’s own Brownie. The slavery on that particular plantation was over. It had been a swift and bloodless coup, and in spite of all the weaponry, not a shot had been fired. Even the overseers had to admit it had been cleverly done. There remained only one last matter for Bodge to deal with. DeWolff, tied hand and foot, was sitting on the antique chaise longues — naked in front of his house, tears streaming from his eyes as the workers paraded in front of him laughing at his predicament. Hong climbed down from one of the Royal Lodge land rovers and walked over to Bodge.
“Any problems getting past the guards at the gate? he asked.”
“No, we caught them a little by surprise.”
“And Ban Methuot?” he asked.
She looked at her watch. “I think our visitors from Saigon will find this far more interesting than hunting for you. The letters should be arriving at the Residence, the garrison, and the Montagnard liaison office about half an hour from now. That gives us time to get out of here.”
“Wait. They have a helicopter, you know.”
“I’m afraid it’s going to have a mechanical fault.”
He laughed. “I see. Is there anything you haven’t taken care of?”
“And the photos?”
He swung round to show her the camera. “I have the whole show documented. We can leave this for the Saigon people. And I have some souvenirs of a number of local celebrities. Our eminent plantation owner here has been running a blackmail r
acket. It includes one or two high ranking army officers — one general included. That should be enough to ensure military cooperation, don’t you think?”
“Perfect.”
They walked together through the house, Hong astounded by the opulence. It made them even more pleased to have caused DeWolff’s comeuppance. At the end of the tour they stood smiling at each other in the shadow of the doorway. She seemed to glow with an aura of victory — a common pride in a job well done. There was something magical about the moment. Bodge was certain she felt it too but couldn’t put it into words.
“Hong?” Bodge said.
“Yes?”
“I…I think you’ve done a marvelous thing here.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” she blushed slightly. It was barely noticeable but it made her look vulnerable for once and gloriously feminine. To his own surprise, Bodge leaned forward to kiss her. He was about to close his eyes as he got closer. Like a boxer she took a step back and gave herself room to swing her fist. It landed at the corner of his mouth with a crack they could have heard in Hanoi.
“Hey!” he cried, reeling backward. He immediately tasted blood on his tongue.
“Perhaps you thought you were back at a high school dance in Tennessee, for a second. Don’t you dare dishonor me like that again, Reverend.” She threw back her hair and walked out into the sunlight.
Bodge, stunned, worked his jaw to see if it was broken. He knew his lip was split. It hurt when he started to laugh.
“Wow. What a gal.”
53.
Bodge drove, Chama sat beside him, and Hong sulked in the back. They passed the guard post where one Frenchman and two Vietnamese sat roped to the fence.
“Three more men who underestimated a woman,” said Hong, still fuming. In fact, the atmosphere didn’t improve until two kilometers later when Lady Chama suddenly ripped off the French sack and began adorning her naked breasts with beads from her handbag. It was hard to stay moody at such a sight. As if she realized she owed these two people a debt of gratitude, without expression on her large face, Chama told them a story. She was fluent in five Montagnard dialects and Vietnamese but her French was a rough pidgin that removed all subtlety from her tale.
“I know where you tiger he come from,” she began. Bodge eased his foot onto the brake and pulled the jeep to one side of the mud track. He killed the engine and turned to look at her.
“Where?”
“Tell you true, I’m not think. I’m know.” Her hands began to organize the beads around her necklace and her deep voice related the story. “Not normal for whitey to order tiger that still living. Normal he want skin or tooth or claw, but this whitey he want the whole thing, still breathin’. Goes to a Bahnar village down by Mo-in. Famous they be for huntin’ tiger. They find whitey a tiger. Not such biggest one they ever get but he happy enough.”
“You know his name?” Bodge asked.
“No. But I know he a soldier man. Big shot soldier man.”
“How do you know that?”
“Bahnar say he order little soldier round. When he come to pick up the tiger he order little soldier round. Then he tell Bahnar keep quiet. They tell someone they get dead. That why I no say nothing. But now I owe you big time Mr. Bodge. An I sorry you missus. This a bad thing.”
Bodge removed the envelope from his jacket pocket and produced a photo of General LePenn. He held it up to Chama. “Is this the man?”
“No, boss. Him tooth too long. Whitey about same year you.”
“Do you think you could get one of the Bahnar to come here and point the man out?”
“If I tell him, he come. But soldier man say he kill all.”
“I think there might be a way to protect them once the official inquiry begins. Damn, the army is supposed to be looking after the Montagnard, not threatening them.”
“Then I make him come.”
They dropped Chama off at the rendezvous point where her nervous bodyguards had been pacing for most of the morning. She kissed Hong and Bodge and chanted short mantras of eternal blessing for them. She made them promise to come for a feast and lots of rice whisky once everything was sorted in Ban Methuot. But something in her mind told her she’d never see these two again. That left Bodge and Hong uncomfortably alone. The consort opted to remain in the back seat. Neither seemed to know what to say. After five minutes Bodge looked in the mirror and touched his fat lip.
“I think I’m going to need stitches.”
There was a moment of silence before, “You’re lucky I was in a good mood or you’d need new teeth.” Even a threat sounded beautiful in her lovely French.
Bodge smiled and winced. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. It was just the adrenaline making me overly bold.”
“I’d like you to remember who I am.”
“I will. But, don’t forget you’re flesh and blood just like me. Don’t forget that royalty is overrated.”
She recognized her own words and smiled to herself.
“If I promise to remember who you are,” Bodge continued, “may I call you Hong, rather than Your Esteemed and Respected Majesty?
“I suppose so. After today’s project I believe you’ve earned that much, Reverend Rogers.”
“My friends call me Bodge.”
“It’s a silly name.”
“That may be true. But it’s mine, silly or not. So, Hong…?”
“Yes…, Bodge?”
“Are you in love with the Emperor?”
“Mr. Rogers,” she pulled herself up stiffly in the seat. “Are you absolutely determined to ruin this day for me?”
“Sorry.” He focused his mind on the road for a few seconds while he negotiated a stretch of deep mud. Once he was clear of it he looked again in the mirror. He wasn’t certain but he may have noticed a slight smile there. “So, are you?”
“It’s none of your business, so just drive.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” He touched the imaginary brim of his chauffeur’s cap. “Did you have a choice?”
“Mr. Rogers!”
“Bodge.”
“Mr. Rogers, what do you think gives you the right to ask personal questions of me?”
“Well, the way I see it, I should have been dead many times over. I get the feeling I’m living on borrowed time. Tomorrow, I might be killed by the Montagnard warriors, or shot by police, or soldiers. Knowing he owes a debt to death makes a man impatient for answers to all the questions he has in his head.”
She stared at his eyes in the mirror. “I can’t recall having met anyone as direct — yet apparently uncomplicated as you. So full of secrets, yet wide open for all to see like the Dowager’s sarcophagus.” Bodge smiled again. “No,” she said. “I had no choice. But he’s a good man.”
“It doesn’t worry you that he changes teams so often?”
“He does not. You understand nothing. He’s faithful to his own team, to his own people. You seem to forget he isn’t a man as such. He’s the embodiment of Vietnam’s royal traditions. It’s his status that’s shuffled back and forth between the French and the Viet Minh and the nationalists, not him. It’s all symbolic, very much as if each in turn is occupying the royal palace. But the man himself wants only what’s good for his subjects.”
“And shooting deer at close range is good for his subjects?” It was a cruel comment and Bodge wished he could take it back. It had obviously been seasoned with jealousy.
“How sadly cynical you are, Mr. Rogers. He hides up here for a very good reason, so that he isn’t seen on newsreels or in the journals taking dinner with the invaders. This is his protest.”
“Okay. I can buy that.”
“At last. Now, let us talk of the motivation for the military’s attempt on your life. What do you suppose they had to gain?”
“Surely you can see that?”
“If I could, I wouldn’t waste my time asking you.”
Bodge found a comparatively dry spot on the road and stepped on the brakes a
gain.
“Right,” he said. “If I’m going to share my theories with you, I’m not doing it through a rear-view mirror like some servant. Either you sit up here or I’m keeping it all to myself.”
Hong’s lips reluctantly creased into a smile and she climbed into the front passenger seat beside him. Once they were back on the road, Bodge laid out his interpretation of events.
“I believe it all started with our little conspiracy.”
“The official inquiry?”
“That’s it. We got it into our heads that we could stir things up enough to get the Vietnamese government and the French administration interested in the murder/rape case of the Montagnard girls.”
“And we did.”
“Indeed. Between you, me and Petit we were able to raise a big enough stink for the French embassy to promise a military inquiry. Now, if the men in question were conscripts they’d know what trouble they were in and get the hell out — desert. But, what if there was an officer involved? What if the man responsible was hoping to advance his career in the French military? Rape and murder, particularly of a people he had sworn to protect, would have him court marshaled and thrown in the stockade. Such a man would have good enough reason to be very upset.”
“You think he’d go to the trouble to kill all four of us?”
“No. And he didn’t need to. His motivation wasn’t revenge. We’ve assumed the tiger was brought to the mission house to silence Mrs. Rogers and myself. But that wasn’t the point at all.”
“Bet?”
“Exactly. She was the only witness — the only person who could have identified the officer and his men. And he didn’t even need to kill her. Just the fright she’d get from waking up with a tiger in her room and a few well-placed threats would be enough to ensure her silence. I imagine they’d underestimated the ferocity of a half-starved tiger.
“I saw slivers of meat on the ground floor the day of the attack. The police assumed they were just more remnants from the carnage. But they weren’t. The army officer’s unit had carried the tiger to the house under the cover of darkness — I imagine, in a wooden crate. They’d laid a trail of meat to Bet’s room while she slept and cleaned up their footprints with the mat before releasing the animal at the back door. That door was closed when I arrived and I’m sure I don’t know of any wild animals with the wherewithal to wipe their feet and close the door behind them. Once the animal was safely inside, the soldiers had left it to its own devices and fled. But our tiger was a curious beast. For some reason it wanted to begin its hunt upstairs where it found Stephanie’s door open. And the rest, we know. I imagine the thunder lulled, Bet heard the commotion and ran up to investigate. That was her undoing.”
Bleeding in Black and White Page 26