The Whitehall Mandarin

by Edward Wilson

  Catesby could see that Huynh genuinely believed he was a journalist sympathetic to their struggle. It was a cover story Catesby needed to keep up. His journalist cover meant he was treated as a celebrity by the NVA officers. It would be a good idea, Huynh tactfully suggested, if Catesby started calling the NVA by its proper name, the PAVN – the People’s Army of Vietnam.

  As they travelled further north and west the number and variety of propaganda posters increased. But as they now travelled mostly at night, Catesby only saw them in the camouflaged rest areas where they slept and relaxed during the day. Catesby was surprised by the large number of women fighters who featured on the posters – but almost all the PAVN soldiers he encountered were male. He asked Huynh about it.

  The young Vietnamese shifted uneasily. ‘Most of the soldiers you see are going to die. Have you not seen the tattoos that many of them have on their arms?’

  Catesby had noticed the tattoos. ‘What do the words mean?’

  ‘“Born in the North to die in the South.” It’s important to keep up their spirits, so we make them believe that their mothers and sisters are fighting and falling too. And,’ added Huynh, ‘many of them are.’

  Catesby remembered a poster depicting a family: ‘A mother and her children fight the Americans together!’ It had sad echoes of the bereaved family in Phu Gia.

  Two days later they reached the Laotian border. There were no border markings other than signs on the trail welcoming the PAVN to the South and large posters exhorting: ‘Devote all our souls and strength for our southern kin!’ Catesby noticed that many of the posters now bore images of Ho Chi Minh looking much younger and healthier than he actually was. There were images of Ho reading a newspaper, of Ho speaking to a microphone and saying: ‘Nothing is more important than freedom and independence.’ Catesby decided to sound out Huynh about the political situation.

  The cooking fires in the waypoint rest areas were never lit until nightfall. But the mess halls were getting larger and larger. They were under thatched roofs where the camouflage was changed daily as soon as it wilted. The mess hall where they had eaten their midnight lunch was, during the day, divided into classrooms where the incoming soldiers learned infantry tactics and weapons familiarisation. After Catesby had finished his rice and Russian mackerel – Moscow had sent millions of tins of the fish to Vietnam – he asked Huynh if they could have a chat without the PAVN political officer listening in.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Huynh. ‘This one hardly understands a word of English.’

  ‘Yes, but he might recognise some of the names we use – and then ask you to translate.’

  Huynh looked around furtively to see if anyone was listening. ‘What do you want to talk about?’

  ‘The political succession in Hanoi. Ho isn’t getting any younger – and I am a journalist. But I assure you my reportage will be favourable to the cause. Let’s have a look at the anti-aircraft battery. It appears pretty impressive.’

  ‘The crew will be asleep. They lay their bed rolls in the ammunition bunker.’ Huynh smiled. ‘They say if it takes a direct hit they won’t wake up.’

  The anti-aircraft battery consisted of three Soviet-manufactured ZPU-1 guns. They weighed half a ton each, but could be broken down into 170lb sections for transport by pack animals. Catesby already knew this from innumerable SIS training sessions on Warsaw Pact weaponry. Weapons usually bored him rigid, but these had recently brought down three US helicopters trying to insert SOG reconnaissance teams. The political officer had gloated when he told Catesby the story. The PAVN had no military secrets when it came to broadcasting their successes to the world. They realised it was a war for public opinion as much as military objectives.

  Catesby settled himself into the gunner’s seat of the nearest ZPU-1 and took a bead through the sight. He had never been popular with the Cousins. Catesby knew that the CIA suspected he was a working-class version of Burgess and Maclean covertly passing NATO secrets to Moscow Central. They were wrong. Catesby regarded himself as a loyal Briton – and it was this loyalty that made him advise Prime Minister Harold Wilson to keep the UK out of Vietnam. But what would happen, Catesby wondered, noting the ZPU-1 was loaded and ready to fire, if he actually shot down an American bomber or helicopter? Advising Wilson not to send UK troops to Vietnam was one thing, but this…

  ‘You wanted to talk to me?’

  In his fantasy about being a PAVN anti-aircraft gunner Catesby had almost forgotten Huynh. ‘Sorry, I was dreaming.’

  ‘You wanted to talk about politics?’

  Catesby nodded. He suspected he was going to have to walk a tightrope in the next few weeks and wanted advice on how to keep his balance.

  Huynh paused, then spoke in a whisper. ‘It is no secret that Ho Chi Minh is old and unwell. The two Le’s – Le Duan and Le Duc Tho – are effectively running things. In my view, Le Duan is the more powerful and the more radical. He is determined to liberate the South at all costs through military victory.’

  ‘How do you feel about that?’

  ‘I support his views, but it isn’t an easy decision. There are others – such as Ho himself – who favour a negotiated peace. They think that the puppet government in Saigon is so corrupt that it would soon fall like a rotten fruit. But who can be sure when the Americans have so much money and power to back them up?’

  Catesby stared thoughtfully into the dark night. Ruling a country at war is drinking from a blood chalice. You are walking into the unknown and each false step – and there will be many – will cost thousands of lives. Catesby looked at Huynh, who was a dark, diminutive shadow.

  ‘And what about you? Why have you come back and what is your role?’

  ‘I have already said. I am a Vietnamese patriot who wants to fight and suffer alongside my people. And as a student of architecture I have practical engineering skills. I have been offering advice on road building.’

  ‘And what about Miranda? Have you followed her back here because you love her?’

  ‘She is part of the reason, but not all of the reason. She is a very strong-minded woman. Her views may get her into trouble.’ Huynh sounded almost angry.

  ‘Are your differences with Miranda political or personal?’

  ‘Political. She doesn’t understand the limits of Vietnamese nationalism and independence. She wants our war to be part of an international peasant revolution.’ Huynh shrugged. ‘Miranda is a fanatical…’

  The jigsaw pieces were falling neatly into place. The thing that annoyed Catesby about the Americans, and many of his SIS colleagues too, was their ignorance about Communism. The best intelligence officers were merely stupid; the worst were rampaging cretins on a crusade. None of them grasped the gaping theological differences between Communists. The inner-sanctum high priests of Moscow and the theologians of Peking hated Communist heretics more than they hated the capitalist Satan.

  Huynh began to walk away.

  ‘You didn’t finish,’ prompted Catesby. ‘You said Miranda was a fanatical something.’

  ‘She’s a fanatical Maoist. And she doesn’t realise that China is Vietnam’s historical enemy. We admire their culture, but fear their power.’

  ‘But you accept China’s help. Most of the ammunition and explosives I’ve seen coming down this trail have Chinese markings on the boxes.’

  Huynh patted the anti-aircraft gun that Catesby was sitting on. ‘Most of the heavy weapons and the trucks are Russian.’ Huynh smiled. ‘Our leaders are playing a duplicitous game; they have to. We want to play Moscow and Peking off against each other. We want Russia and China to compete for our allegiance, to bribe us with guns and food.’

  ‘In the end, which way will you jump?’

  ‘Personally, I want Vietnam to be independent of both of them. But I suspect that Le Duan and most of the leadership are secretly pro-Moscow.’ Huynh smiled. ‘I know for certain that General Giap is pro-Russian. He drives around in a Russian limousine.’

  ‘And what role is Mi
randa playing?’

  ‘She is helping with our propaganda effort. And her insights into the British ruling class and your political system are very valuable.’

  Catesby smiled. She certainly had tons of salacious gossip to pass on. ‘What about her Maoism?’

  ‘She certainly argues a good case long into the night. And no one can condemn her for being pro-China. But I think the situation is turning awkward.’

  ‘Is she in danger?’

  ‘I hope not. In any case, you will meet her in a few days.’ Huynh laughed. ‘Provided a B-52 bomb doesn’t meet you first.’

  »»»»

  Two days later they came to a paved road for the first time. The crushed gravel surface looked bluish-grey and Catesby remembered the rock crushers and bulldozers that Bucksport had briefed him about. The heavy Soviet ZIL trucks travelled in convoys of six from waypoint to waypoint – about 20 miles apart – where they were offloaded. On the return journey north, the trucks were mostly empty except for sacks of letters and badly wounded or very ill PAVN soldiers. As an honoured journalist guest, Catesby rode in the cab of a truck with the driver. Perhaps they didn’t want him to report tales of the horror that the mutilated soldiers lying as cargo had experienced.

  There was a delay of nearly two days when the road was closed because of a B-52 bombing raid which took out a bridge, caused a landslide and killed a number of engineers and road workers. Catesby had been close enough to hear the air being sucked into the fireballs of the bombs before he was rushed to an underground bunker. Considering the massive amount of damage, the road and bridge repairs were carried out quickly and efficiently. An entire battalion of engineers appeared as if by magic. A PAVN press officer showed him an oil pipeline pumping station that had been unscathed and was up and running.

  Catesby knew that posing as a journalist was a natural cover for a spy. The two jobs are similar. You asked a lot of the same questions because both professions were seeking the same underlying truths. One of the PAVN transport officers had bragged to Catesby that US bombing interdicted only 3 per cent of the supplies heading south. Catesby kept a tally of the wrecked trucks and road damage he had seen and reckoned the figure was accurate. The camouflage discipline and the ingenuity of the PAVN were impressive. He particularly liked the hidden river bridges, which were built just below the surface of the water. Trucks splashed happily across the rivers while the bridges were completely hidden from aerial reconnaissance.

  But it wasn’t going to be an easy victory, even though the North Vietnamese were harder and more disciplined than their southern compatriots. It was obvious that the Saigon government was corrupt and unpopular, but the popular uprising in the South that Hanoi was hoping for had not happened – and might never happen. Catesby realised that the PAVN was in for a long and bloody war.

  »»»»

  Tchepone is a Lao town with thatched houses on stilts, which straddles Route 9. It is on a fast-flowing river with rapids and surrounded by mountains. The PAVN military base near Tchepone was a massive hidden city that sprawled over several square kilometres. There were mess halls, hospitals, communication centres, an airstrip, classrooms, a theatre, surface-to-air missile batteries and massive underground supply depots. Catesby was given a guided tour by a French-speaking PAVN colonel. He was impressed by the medical facilities. The big problem wasn’t trauma wounds from US bombing but malaria, which killed three times as many soldiers as the Americans.

  Catesby liked the Wild West atmosphere of Tchepone. The only rationale for the town was Route 9. Tchepone was a stopover point for travelling traders and soldiers. The French had built the road to link the Vietnamese coast with the western extreme of their Indochina empire at Savannakeht on the Thai border. Tchepone was the halfway point and had everything a weary traveller needed: bars, chop houses, opium dens and brothels.

  The town was also a good place for Catesby to shake off his PAVN minders and have private chats with Huynh. He got the impression that Tchepone was off limits to the military. The restaurant was a relaxed place where you sat on reed mats around a raised platform woven out of rattan. The low platform served as a dining table laid out with a variety of food that you could eat in any order. Catesby didn’t trust the water so he ordered Lao whisky, which they sell by the bucket. There was also French ‘33’ beer, which everyone called ba moùi ba.

  ‘Ba moùi ba,’ said Huynh, ‘is Vietnamese slang for being lecherous. It means you’ve had too much “33” and have lost your reserve.’

  Catesby was surprised to hear Huynh say that. It was the first time that he had referred to anything even vaguely sexual. Huynh always seemed shy and puritanical. Seducing him must have required all of Miranda’s skills. ‘Are the Laotians more hedonistic than the Vietnamese?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say hedonistic; I would say more relaxed. The French used to say: “The Vietnamese plant rice; the Cambodians watch it grow; the Laotians close their eyes and listen to it grow.”’

  Catesby gestured at the table. ‘But this food is excellent and prepared with great care.’

  ‘The French colonists made racial assumptions that were not true.’

  ‘What is that called?’ Catesby pointed to a spicy mixture of marinated meat.

  ‘Larb moo.’

  ‘So it must be beef?’

  ‘No, it’s pork.’

  ‘But pigs don’t go moo.’

  Huynh didn’t get the joke.

  They ate with bare hands as was the custom. Catesby noticed that the Laotians only used chopsticks to eat noodles. He began to understand why SIS and FO Asia types go native. When they come back to London they don’t always adjust and seem to have contempt for the people around them. He wondered if that was the key to understanding Lady Somers – or at least part of it.

  ‘Does my English,’ said Huynh, ‘sound more British or American?’

  Catesby smiled. Huynh’s English was heavily accented and sounded neither, but he wanted to be kind. ‘You definitely sound British.’

  ‘Good. That’s how I want to sound.’

  ‘But try not to say “gotten” or “restroom”.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And how good is Miranda’s French?’

  ‘Not as good as my English.’

  ‘I am sure you are right – and I’m looking forward to meeting her.’

  ‘Then you can judge for yourself.’ Huynh paused. There was a faint note of suspicion in his voice. ‘Your French is good – awfully good for an Englishman.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Catesby paused and wondered if Huynh knew more than he was letting on. ‘It’s a pity we haven’t met Miranda yet. Is she near here?’

  ‘I believe she is.’ There was something dark in Huynh’s voice. ‘And I believe there are going to be meetings this evening.’

  Catesby helped himself to sticky rice and a large portion of moo. Something told him that he needed to eat up, even though he had lost his appetite.

  »»»»

  There was an East German tape recorder on the table. Catesby assumed the three PAVN soldiers seated around it were officers because of their age and demeanour, but none of them wore badges of rank. There was a fourth person wearing a PAVN uniform, but he clearly wasn’t Vietnamese although his skin was just as dark as theirs. He didn’t really look like any of the photos Catesby had seen. He looked older, more tired – and much harder. His eyes and cheekbones clearly belonged to the indigenous peoples of Mexico and Central America, but there were also traces of Spain and other European countries as well as hints of African swarthiness. Lopez was the classic Latin American mestizo, the mixed-race progeny of centuries of slavery, rape and colonisation. He stared at Catesby with blank expressionless eyes.

  The oldest of the PAVN officers spoke in a stilted singsong French. ‘We are pleased to introduce you to Captain Francis Lopez. As you know, Captain Lopez witnessed at first hand the brutality of the US military in its war of aggression against the people of Vietnam. Captain Lopez made the heroic decision
to change sides to fight with the oppressed people of the world against US imperialism.’

  Catesby wasn’t sure whether to address Lopez in French or English. He knew that Lopez had been educated at a lycée in Paris, but decided that English would make his journalist cover less suspect. ‘It is a privilege to make your acquaintance, Captain Lopez. Thank you for meeting me and, I hope, you will agree to be interviewed to tell the world your story.’

  There was a long pause before Lopez spoke, but when he did the discrepancy between the mestizo face and the East Coast patrician voice could not have been greater. The voice of Lopez was the product of generations of old money polished to perfection by expensive prep schools and Harvard. It wasn’t a voice you could buy with elocution lessons. You either had it or you didn’t. The Roosevelts had it, the upstart Kennedys did not. Gore Vidal and Katharine Hepburn had it too. It was never condescending, but often supercilious and languid. The Lopez version, like Vidal’s, was soft and had a faint hint of the American South.

  ‘If I were handing out prizes for platitudinous bullshit insincerity, you would be first in line.’

  Catesby smiled. ‘I apologise if that’s the way I sounded.’

  ‘Maybe it’s just the way you are.’

  ‘You’re probably right. I can’t do social niceties without sounding like I’m taking the piss. I’m just a hack reporter trying to get a scoop.’

  ‘What newspaper do you represent?’

  ‘I write for two papers.’ Catesby named them. Both had proprietors who were friends of C and more than willing to cover for SIS.

  ‘I don’t think either of those newspapers could be described as anti-imperialist.’

  Catesby nodded agreement. Lopez knew his stuff. Both papers were conservative-leaning. ‘But they have big circulation – and I want the British public to realise that the Americans are waging a brutal and senseless war.’

  Lopez looked at the French-speaking PAVN officer and spoke to him in what sounded pretty fluent Vietnamese. The only word Catesby picked up was thieu tuong; the guy Lopez was talking to was a general. The conversation lasted a minute or two with another PAVN officer joining in. This one was addressed as dai ta, colonel. All three of them made gestures in Catesby’s direction that didn’t seem complimentary. The conversation ended and Lopez stared hard.