“Sorry,” he said, and walked slowly into the bathroom. There was a cotton robe on the hook behind the door. Before putting it on, he took another look at himself in the mirror. Yet another Bodge looked back. Just how many of them had there been since New York? When he came back into the room, the poncho was self-standing like a tent beside the bed and Hong was on a guest chair wiping the mud from her feet. Bodge was aware of how beautiful she looked but was still too dazed to see the situation as erotic.
“I can’t offer you anything,” he said.
“That’s good,” she smiled. “I haven’t come for refreshment.” She was wearing a primrose ao dai and her hair lay thick as molasses over her shoulders. Bodge sat on the end of the bed and watched her fussing at her ankles with the handkerchief. The mud didn’t seem so important. She was delaying. She had something to say and couldn’t bring herself to say it. So he waited till she was ready.
Even without looking up at him, she said, “Mr. Rogers…”
“Bodge.”
“Bodge.” She finally lifted her head and seemed surprised again at how vulnerable he looked. “Are you okay?”
“Yes thanks.”
“Bodge, I’m about to make a request. Unfortunately, it isn’t a request you can refuse. I don’t want you to get angry. I apologize for having to do this because I think you are basically a good person.” She paused for effect but he saw her draw in a deep secret breath to shore her nerves. “I’ll begin by telling you what I know.”
“Go ahead.”
“Your name isn’t Rogers. You are not a missionary, and you were not married to that poor lady who was killed by the tiger in Ban Methuot.” She waited for some reaction from him but received none. “You are an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency and you have been sent here to spy on the French and on us.”
Bodge spoke, not because he was shocked or indeed because he had anything to say. He spoke because he could tell from her face that she was waiting for a comment and he didn’t want to disappoint her. “Where did you hear all this?”
The confrontation and exposure were not going the way Hong had envisaged. There were no denials, no innocent chuckles or signs of embarrassment. But she had no choice but to go on with her prepared speech. “We Vietnamese aren’t as stupid as you take us for. You aren’t the only ones with intelligence networks and spies.”
Again he felt obliged to react. “Wow!”
There was nothing on Bodge’s face beyond the expression of a man listening to an interesting story. Hong wondered whether she might have grossly underestimated this man, whether he was devilishly clever and already one step ahead of her. There was an element of panic in her next comment.
“If anything happens to me tonight, this information will be released to both the French Administration and the Viet Minh. That process is already in place. Your whole operation — all your other agents in Vietnam, will be compromised.”
“What could happen to you?”
“What?”
“You said, if something happens to you. Something like what?”
She couldn’t read him, not at all. She had no idea of his tactics, no inkling of what he was thinking. Her only course was to go forward.
“In the next few days, I shall be defecting. I shall travel to America with you. I have a passport in the name of Mrs. Rogers, and a US Embassy signed certificate of our marriage. Naturally, these are counterfeit but I believe they’ll pass the most stringent inspections. I have sisters in your country. You can leave me there with them and come back. If you go along with this, I won’t expose your operation.
”
“Thank you.”
Had he actually said, “Thank you”? Did she hear him right? “Don’t you have anything else to say?” she asked.
“Well…” He thought about it. “This is actually what we’d call at home, blackmail.”
Her heart plunged to her stomach. Something was wrong. “You could put it that way, yes.” A full thirty seconds passed while she watched him think. It was as if he were mentally assessing the damage, going through filing cabinets to see what would be lost. When he finally looked at her, he seemed to have come to a conclusion. She felt an eerie shudder tingle at her neck. She honestly had no idea what to expect.
Bodge’s mouth turned up into a smile and he laughed. He seemed so very happy. “I might have to borrow some money for the air fare,” he said. “I’m broke.” And he chuckled again.
“So… so you agree?”
“Oh, lady. You wouldn’t believe how happy you’ve just made me. As soon as I set foot on US soil, I’m out of this life.”
“But what about your work, your career?”
“Screw it.”
“You aren’t angry with me?”
“Hong, are you in a hurry to go anywhere?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Because if you’ve got a couple of hours, I have a story that will shock you.”
Hong left the hotel at 5:30. She had to unbolt the front door to get out. There was nobody in reception and no guard out front. The rain still fell in torrents and hammered onto the rubber of her cape like the drums of war. But there was nothing foreboding about the sound. It was invigorating. The rain drums beat out a tattoo — a marvelous announcement of her freedom.
She walked barefoot through the slimy mud, her shoes in her hands. And she smiled. For once it wasn’t the imitation smile of a diplomat, or the masking smile of a reluctant lover. She smiled because she was truly happy. For the first time, she honestly believed things were going to work out. Her life might turn out to be right. She’d shared the sweet American’s horror story, cried real tears at his losses, and agonized with him over the unsolvable mysteries. But, as he spoke, she looked at him and was aware that she actually liked him. Being there with him was good. Before she left, she’d kissed him on both cheeks and watched him blush.
“Thank you,” she’d said, and, for once, she meant it. She was thanking him for sharing, for his honesty and trust. She was thanking him for giving without expecting anything in return.
The skinny man had been motionless in the shadows that surrounded the hotel. His black umbrella blended with the sagging canopy of leaves. He shuddered from the cold and damp that had risen up trough his bones. Four hours she’d been in the foreigner’s room. Four hours. Unacceptable. She’d have to pay.
57.
Bodge was woken by the silence. The rain had stopped and something in his subconscious had come looking for the missing sound. The light through the window could barely be called day. It was a gray, Boston-like dullness that made a person want to stay in bed. But Bodge thought it was the loveliest morning he could remember. The room still held her scent. The bed still assumed the shape where she’d lain at a conservative distance, listening to his stories like a teenager. His mind still held her presence, her voice, her smile, and her honest tears. His stomach clenched as he thought of those final nervous kisses on his cheeks. There was no doubt in his mind. Being in love was getting better.
He showered. Even the stink from the toilet had assumed a bouquet, a fruity pungency. The free toothpaste beside the sink tasted of a heather frost. Slowly, a second reason for his elation came to him. The photograph projected itself on his mind and he smiled. He and his pal, Lou had been set up. The little shit Gladstein had got the two of them stoned and taken compromising pictures of them. That’s what the security guys had over him. Far from annoying the hell out of him, he felt great about it. He had his friend back. He hadn’t misread Lou at all, and one hurdle looked lower. It was jumpable. He just needed to be back there to take the run up.
He dressed in his stale clothes and wondered, in this little town, where he’d find anything new in his size. Suddenly aware of an almighty hunger, he went downstairs to see whether he was too late for breakfast or too early for lunch. It had been a very long time since he’d eaten. To keep off unwanted contact from restaurant guests, he took his Bible and sat it open on the table in fr
ont of him. He was too nervous to enjoy the food. That morning, he and Hong, the unthinkable duo, were to leave for Saigon and plan their escape.
Even the glare from the hotel bell-boy didn’t succeed in destroying Bodge’s mood. Both the footman and the receptionist watched eagle-eyed as he walked to the front door, looked up at the sky, and ventured out. The Vietnamese raised their eyebrows at the peculiar Western habit of taking a stroll for its own benefit whatever the weather. They wouldn’t realize for another few hours that he’d just checked out. When you’re wanted for a double homicide, running out on a hotel bill seems such a trivial thing. Bodge walked down the broad driveway, looking left and right, his ears primed for sounds from behind him. The skinny man in black wasn’t hard to spot. Why would a Vietnamese man in a French suit be admiring bougainvilleas that dripped rainwater onto his head? Bodge passed him and nodded and the man looked away.
Bodge walked in the direction of the royal villa they’d passed the previous afternoon on their way to the Baliverne. It was only ten minutes walk, but the streets were slick with mud and deserted as if people knew the rain would be returning shortly. The clouds were bloated like abandoned milk cows. It wouldn’t be long before the next downpour. His shoes filled with puddle water. His trouser cuffs were red with mud.
The skinny man followed twenty yards behind on the opposite side of the narrow street. He wasn’t much of a follower. In his black suit he stood out like a shadow puppet against the whitewashed walls. For five minutes, Bodge splashed through the puddles and was just beginning to enjoy the scenery when the unexpected happened. Traveling at an unsuitable speed for the toy town streets, an enormous black Cadillac came hurtling round the bend and headed straight for Bodge.
He’d seen the scene a dozen times. The car slows, the doors open, and Edward G Robinson gets perforated with machine gun fire. So, Bodge ran across the street in front of the car and dived head-first into the thick mimosa bushes. The car’s brakes locked and it skidded ten yards past him. He poked his head out to see the skinny man run toward it, slip, and land on his rump. The Cadillac door opened and Hong looked out.
“Bodge, quick!”
The skinny man, his suit ruined, climbed to his feet and undid his jacket. A large pistol, the type one would expect a pirate to use, was tucked into his belt. He reached for it. Bodge broke out through the bushes, ran for all he was worth to the car, and threw himself over Hong’s lap into the passenger seat. The man had the gun in front of him now and pointed it directly at Bodge’s side of the windshield. Hong slammed her foot on the gas and headed straight for the would-be assassin. He dropped the gun and flattened himself like a charcoal drawing against the wall. The wing mirror took a button off his jacket. Bodge looked back to see him shaking there with fear and anger in the exhaust smoke.
“That was fun,” Hong said smiling at the rear view mirror.
“Who in blazes was that?” Bodge asked, twisting himself into a proper sitting position.
“Chamberlain, Drung.”
“Chamberlains carry pieces?”
“He’s sort of a guardian — one of the Emperor’s spies. He keeps an eye on me when I’m here. He’s angry because the Emperor is off on a hunting trip and he can’t get word to him.”
“You don’t suppose he might have actually used that gun on me, do you?”
“There’s no question about it. It’s what he does.”
“Shoots people?”
“Protects the Emperor’s interests. He read me the riot act when I got back to the villa this morning. He put me under house arrest and said he’d be ‘taking care’ of my friend. That’s you.”
“How did you get away fr…Okay, never mind. You aren’t the arrestable type. I know. So, should I assume there’s been another change of plans with regard to transport to the capital?”
“We’ll be driving ourselves.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. Isn’t that a bit dangerous?”
“Yes.”
“Splendid. Do you suppose Billy the Kid will be sending out a posse after us?”
“Billy…?”
“The skinny guy you just squidged against the wall.”
“He doesn’t know where we’re going. He wouldn’t imagine we’d be crazy enough to drive all the way to Saigon overnight in this weather. But there may be army patrols on the road that report the royal number plate.”
“And Viet Minh?”
“You never can tell,” she said. Bodge smiled. “Does that worry you?”
“Strangely, no.”
Hong smiled and gunned the engine to climb the first of many hills that rolled toward the southern planes.
58.
The rains caught up with them at Duc Trong, about forty kilometers from Dalat and would be with them all through the night. Bodge and Hong shared the driving. They passed a hundred sentry towers but not one guard bothered to step out into the rain to check their papers. Travelers in the daytime usually had their paperwork in order. The couple had talked about many things, but at around 3AM the conversation came round to leaving Vietnam.
“You do know I don’t have a passport, don’t you?” Bodge reminded her. “It’s back at the house in Ban Methuot.”
“I might be able to do something about that. But it’ll take time — a week?”
“We can’t get it sooner? The longer we wait, the more chance there is of us getting busted.”
“No. Unless…”
“What?”
“Unless you had a friend at the US embassy.”
“I don’t have friends anywhere…present company excepted. You are my friend, aren’t you?”
“Not really. I don’t trust anybody.”
“Couldn’t you just pretend to be? Just till we get to America.”
“I’ll see.” She looked at the black shapes passing her window and at her orange reflection from the dash lights in the glass. “Wait! You do have a friend. Copeland. I forgot all about him.”
“Who’s Copeland?”
“He came to Ban Methuot with the French authorities. I didn’t have a chance to mention him. He’s from your embassy. He seemed really keen to find you.”
“And put me in jail.”
“No. I didn’t get that feeling about him. He seemed, you know, kind.”
“Yes, we have a knack of giving that impression, just before we drop ordnance on you. You really are a sucker for Americans, aren’t you?”
Hong had spun around on her seat and was rummaging through the junk on the back seat. He looked sideways at her rump for a second too long and almost drove them into a ditch.
“Steady,” she said.
“Your fault. You disturbed the balance.”
She returned with her old ao dai and pulled something from the secret pocket. “Here.”
She took a cigarette lighter from the glove box and held its yellow flame up to the name card. “Marion Copeland, United States Aid Agency.”
“What was that?”
“United States Aid…”
“No, I mean the name.”
As he spoke, a breeze blew out the flame and she couldn’t get it to light again. “I think I’m out of fuel.”
“Give it here.”
She handed him the card and he ran his fingers over the embossed lettering. Even before he raised it to his nose, he could smell the faint trace of scent. “What did he look like, this Mr. Copeland?”
“Normal, about sixty.”
“Gray hair?”
“You know him?”
“How was he dressed?”
“Smart. Nice white suit. Good tailor.”
Bodge thumped the wheel with the heels of his hands and whooped. “Yup, I guess I do. You remember me telling you about Palmer?”
“You think it might be the same man?”
“Well, it might just be wishful thinking, but if we make it to Saigon in one piece I believe Mr. Copeland would certainly be worth a visit.”
They almost made it to Saigon in one piece. Alt
hough they hadn’t seen it yet, the sun had risen several hours before. They’d talked their way through two Vietnamese army roadblocks. Being in the Emperor’s Cadillac helped. It was quite obvious who Hong was, and Bodge flashed his CIA ID which nobody could read, to prove he was the royal bodyguard. They’d just passed through Phuong Lam, about 100 miles from Saigon when the car hit a submerged boulder and the front axle snapped like a chicken bone. Hong had been driving at the time but Bodge assured her he wouldn’t have seen it coming either.
“So, where are we?” he asked.
“Stuck,” she said.
“And exhausted,” Bodge added. The going had been slow in the rain and neither of them had managed to sleep. “I don’t suppose there’s a Best Western up ahead.”
“Is that a hotel?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
“But we can’t be more than three miles from Din Quan. Do you feel like a walk?”
“Do I have any choice?”
Hong found her old poncho and a spare cape in the back, and put some important bits and pieces into a cloth bag. Bodge still had only his Bible so he offered to carry the satchel. The cream-colored cape barely reached his thighs and made him look like a toadstool. The rain had become a mid-day drizzle and somewhere beyond the low clouds, they got the feeling the sun was attempting to make an entrance. They kept to the road but, in the hour it took them to reach the outskirts of Din Quan, nothing passed them. There wasn’t so much as a buffalo in the fields.
“Best Wes-tern. Best…best. Bodge,” she said. “We’ll have to start speaking to each other in English soon. I’m quite an imbecile in English. I’m sure you’ll lose all respect for me.”
“Well, if you prefer, we could speak to each other in Vietnamese. Then we’ll see who’s the imbecile.”
She laughed and squeezed his arm. Bodge had become extremely sensitive to her every move and word and touch.
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