The Cover of War

by Travis Stone

  The only occupant was a cleaner. Major Johnson was not there, and strangely, there was no evidence to suggest that he ever had been.

  Nash met the other two in the living room. He put his hands on his head, and said: 'Goddamn it. He could be anywhere.'

  'He's with Amai,' Mancini mumbled. 'Where would he take her?'

  'Dinner? Drinks? A swanky hotel?' Nash said. 'But we can't search every restaurant and bar in Saigon.'

  Nash wished he knew what Johnson was like: did he flash around his money, or was he frugal? Was he the kind to parade a beautiful woman like Amai, or hide her away? He looked at Mancini and thought: Idiot. I'd know this goddamn stuff if it wasn't for you.

  Nash checked his anger and tried to think.

  Mancini said: 'We can check the popular ones easy enough.'

  'Make a list.'

  Nash could see, not just a fast promotion slipping away, but his entire career being flushed into an open cesspit.

  I'm running out of time. He pointed at the Marine. 'What department's Johnson in? What's his role?'

  The Marine held up his hands. 'No one knows. He's Pentagon. Even outside Westy's authority. Clearance to the highest level and all that shit.'

  Nash stared at the gaps in the villa's floorboards, and thought: This is getting worse.

  The Marine said: 'I gotta get back on post.' He began walking toward the Embassy.

  Mancini crunched a cockroach under his boot.

  * * *

  A cinderblock-wall separated the consulate from the Embassy's rear car-park. In the wall was a heavy steel gate. The gate, and a hundred feet of asphalt, were the final obstacles separating Johnson from the villa.

  Johnson's long fingers curled around the gate's latch-handle, and he hoped that the man behind him wouldn't recognize him.

  'Hey Johnson, it is you. Check it, brother.'

  Johnson rolled his eyes. No such luck.

  The man was an exuberant, young, African-American Flight Lieutenant, who barely knew him. Johnson didn't have time to stop for this no-body. He needed to make himself pretty for his date. He wanted to shower, shave, clip his toenails, trim his pubic hair, find the right shirt, find the right cologne, masturbate, and buy a necklace for Amai.

  'Yo. Johnson. You listenin'?'

  Johnson smiled. 'What is it Lieutenant?'

  'Hey check-it-out. Nigger steps out of a shower, right.'

  Johnson's lips curled. He hated that word.

  The Lieutenant barreled on: 'A gook sees his big cock, right, and says - how I get my dick that big? Easy, says the brother. Just tie a rock to that lil' worm. In a week it'll look just like mine. Week later the brother asks the gook if his cock is bigger. The gook says - No. But it has gone black.'

  The Flight Lieutenant burst into raucous laughter and slapped Johnson hard on the back.

  Johnson's teeth came together. But as the LT launched into his next gag, Johnson was monitoring the progress of three men, running across the asphalt toward the villa. One was a Marine attached to the Embassy guard. The other two wore the Army's short-sleeved dress-uniform; one a Corporal, the other a Captain. There was something disturbing about the Captain's expression - he was a man on a mission.

  The appearance of the men worried Johnson. His operational brief required he be suspicious. It also required that he go undetected.

  Who are they? Johnson thought. What do they want? What do they know?

  One could never be sure who was on whose team these days. Johnson could have left it alone. He had left nothing in the villa that would betray him or his work here, but he decided to confront the men anyway. Too much was at stake to leave things to chance. Politely, he turned and listened to the remainder of the Flight Lieutenant's lame joke, and then went though the gate. Halfway across the car-park he reached inside his shirt, took out his Smith & Wesson .45, and thumbed off the safety.

  He turned onto the villa's garden path and ducked the overhanging branches. Then he heard something behind him and spun round.

  Out on Thong Nhut Boulevard, he could hear an over-revving engine, and tyres spinning on concrete. He ran back down the path to the car-park and caught sight of a jeep as it flashed past the night-gate. The driver was thrashing the motor for all it was worth, and Johnson was sure that the determined looking Captain was the passenger.

  Johnson hoped his cover wasn't blown.

  He went into the villa.

  30

  Bien Hoa Airfield

  15 miles north of Saigon

  10°58'13.85"N 106°48'30.42"E

  The C-130 landed heavily and taxied toward a wide parking area, the setting sun's last bright splinters flashing through the portside windows like welding flare.

  Amai was the only thing on Danny's mind. I have to get to her.

  Something told him that she needed him. He desperately needed to look her in the eye; touch her skin; tell her how much he loved her.

  The rear ramp started to lower. Heat blur swirled in the artificial light beyond. Danny saw headlights, speeding toward the aircraft, and though: They're in a rush to unload.

  'Fuck-a-duck,' Blue said. 'MPs.'

  Danny felt a surge of panic; he was so close to Amai. 'What do I do?'

  Blue pulled him back into the C-130's interior. Danny could see MP jeeps pulling-up through the portals on both side of the fuselage.

  Blue led him to the front of the cargo hold, and opened the portside hatch. Blue jumped out. Danny followed. They went under the fuselage to the nose wheel.

  Blue pointed to the hangar, less than twenty yards away. 'Run forward of the nose. When you reach the fence, follow it to the hangar.'

  Blue ran and Danny followed. At the fence, Blue slowed to a stroll.

  They entered the hangar.

  'Sorry mate,' Blue said. 'But I gotta love-n-leave-ya.'

  Danny understood, and ran to the backdoor. He went through and onto the narrow street.

  I've gotta hide, he thought, panicked. They'll see me.

  He went behind a row of dumpsters and crouched down. Darkness fell.

  31

  Amai wore a silk pant-suit in salmon pink with a high buttoned Chinese collar. The fabric adhered to her breasts, highlighting their shape like vacuum packed melons, and revealing the points of her nipples.

  She looked across the lamp lit Dong Khoi Street to the Hotel Continental and trembled. She was sure that somewhere near the hotel, an ambush lay in wait.

  Worse still, it was half-past-seven and Triet did not yet have the drug. He's insane, she thought. This is suicide.

  'How will I get the serum?'

  'I will have it delivered to you in the restaurant.'

  She felt a jet of panic. If Triet failed to deliver the serum she would end up having to have sex with the Major again. She feared letting Danny down for a second time, and cringed.

  Is Danny even alive?

  'It will be fine,' Triet continued. 'Just keep him at the restaurant until you get the serum.'

  'The Major will ask about Thi.'

  'Use your imagination.'

  'You'd better deliver the serum-'

  'Everything is in hand. Be at the café at ten o'clock tomorrow morning with the information.'

  Triet's hand went between her shoulder blades and he pushed her toward the Hotel.

  Amai was half-an-hour early for her dinner date with Major Johnson for good reason. She crossed Dong Khoi, and cautiously explored the hotel's surrounding streets, alleys, and pillared alcoves for signs of a trap, knowing full well that if Thi had given up Major Johnson's identity under torture, a trap is exactly what she would be walking into.

  The scene appeared normal.

  Normal, she thought. What the hell is normal?

  At the hotel's entrance, Amai saw her face in the glass. She felt her gut drop. She had lost faith in the safety of the world a long time ago; but now everything scared her - even her own reflection.

  A bug grill crackled above the door and Amai's head snapped up.
<
br />   Get a grip, she thought. You can do this - one last time.

  She went into the hotel and the doors swung shut behind her, sealing out Dong Khoi's traffic noise. The air-conditioned lobby was cool and her heels click-clacked across the parquet flooring. She eyed the large potted palms, expecting men with guns to come out from behind them, slam her to the floor, and handcuff her.

  Any second now, she thought.

  Her heels click-clacked across parquet flooring.

  She passed the concierge desk. No one had jumped out, but not having the truth serum upped her anxiety. She could give Major Johnson the details of the Tet attacks, but only after she had successfully drugged him.

  But I don't have it. Her skin prickled. Will it even work?

  She felt powerless. Everything was outside of her control.

  Don't look nervous, she thought.

  She stood tall and pulled back her shoulders.

  Her heels click-clacked across the parquet flooring.

  The hotel's luxury was a sick contradiction to the destruction raging outside the city. Then she remembering that it wouldn't be long before the war found its way inside.

  She passed a man belting out a baroque verse on a large, gloss-black piano. Ahead, two impossibly large flower arrangements of orange, yellow, white, green, and purple, towered above her. The music got inside her, its building discordance lifting her anxiety. A concierge pointed to the restaurant doors and she nodded. He held open one of the doors and she held her breath, whilst scanning the visible floor area beyond. Amai went in and felt immediately trapped.

  She went straight to the bar. This is where they'll do it, she thought. This is where they'll arrest me.

  Several groups were dining and the hum of their conversations filled the room. Amai ordered Bin Tay and soda and the bartender gave her a nod. She took her drink, put her back to the bar, and scanned the room for anything that looked out of place; anything that might indicate a trap.

  Several of the diners' faces were familiar: a rubber plantation manager and his wife; the owner of a chain of tailors' shops and his teenage mistress. The suave Maitre d' was also familiar. He looked at her and looked away and cold dread spread from her chest, into her arms.

  Who is he? She thought.

  Then she placed him. The Maitre d' was one of Triet's men. He looked back again and smiled charmingly. Amai relaxed - the Maitre d' was on the game. She felt less alone.

  She recognized no one else, and no one else recognized her. The alcohol's buzz eased her nerves, so she finished her drink, got another, and opened a leather bound menu at the entrée page, but her mind wandered from the words, to the whereabouts of Thi, Danny, and the serum. The second drink went to her head and she stopped herself from getting a third. She was being hunted, and her survival would depend on her ability to think fast. Instead she took a glass of water and waited for something to happen.

  Then Major Johnson walked in.

  He wore tan slacks and a red, open-collared shirt, splattered with white frangipani. He saw her and smiled. She went cold. The game was on. She returned the Major's smile with a flirtatious grin and he came over, took her wrist, and pressed his rubbery lips to the back of her hand.

  'Lovely to see you, Amai.' He put on a concerned face. 'Where is the beautiful, Thi?'

  In a torture chamber, Amai thought. But you already know that, don't you?

  She spoke through her fingers. 'Thi's ill.' She turned her head and pouted. 'Don't say you like her more than me, Major.'

  'Au contraire my dear, Amai - you are the apple of my eye. And please, call me Randy. Only my staff call me by rank.'

  Amai realized that she had been inside the Hotel for quite some time now without triggering an arrest, and dared to hope that there might not be an ambush after all. She took the Major's hand. 'Shall we sit?'

  'Sure thing.' The Major summoned the Maitre d' by raising a long arm, clicking his fingers, and saying: 'Hey, buddy.'

  Triet's Maitre d' rushed to the Major. Extremely well mannered and dressed in an immaculate black suit, the Maitre d' seated them at the back of the dining room behind the jagged leaves of a potted palm, where Amai could see the door, and the Major could not. He handed the Major a menu and a wine list, and then went away.

  The Major put a small velvet box on the table in front of her. 'For you,' he said.

  Amai felt strange. She opened the box and a thin diamond necklace sparkled at her in the candlelight.

  She felt sick. What am I?

  In her mind's eye, Amai saw a thousand faces - they were all Nhu An's. Amai forced a smile and faked enchantment.

  Around her neck, Amai wore a choker of forty fake pearls in five rows of eight. She took off the fake pearls, put on the real diamonds, presented her neck, and said: 'See anything you like?'

  He looked dopily into her eyes and grinned.

  'It's beautiful,' she said, looking over each of his heavy shoulders, scanning the floor.

  'It is you who is beautiful, Amai.'

  Anxiety had killed her appetite, but she said: 'I'm starving.' And thought: I'm cornered. 'What do you recommend?'

  'I heard through a reliable source that the cannelloni is the best in Saigon.'

  'I'll have to take you word for it.'

  A nervous waiter with rat like features took their orders and went away. When he came back he brought champagne and half-filled both flutes. Amai wanted to gulp the wine, but forced herself to take a sip. The Major raised his glass and made a toast which Amai didn't hear. She clinked glasses, and thought: Focus. Her goal was to get the Major somewhere private, and then drug him. She had a plan for this, but first she needed the serum.

  The Major's eyes hovered over her breasts.

  She ran her fingers through her thick hair and smiled, trying to present a picture of relaxed beauty; but on the inside she was churning.

  The cannelloni arrived and the Major pulled his eyes away from her body to inspect his food. 'Mmm,' he said.

  Amai had no desire for the Major, but his obvious desire for her body stroked her ego.

  Out of the corner of her eye she caught movement and tensed. Her elbow hit her champagne flute, knocking it over and sending wine into the Major's lap.

  It's only the Maitre d', she thought. Get a grip.

  She apologized to the Major.

  He smiled, showing impossibly white teeth. 'No problem. You look a little nervous?'

  'No,' she giggled for effect. 'Maybe a little.'

  Amai had a problem to clear up. With Thi's flat compromised, she needed to secure a location for the Major's drugging. She had an idea, and if Johnson was short of money, she would pay. She took both of his hands. 'Why don't we stay here tonight? I hear the rooms are nice.'

  He looked disappointed. 'Can't,' he said. 'I need to make a phone call later.'

  She faked a hurt look. 'There're phones here.'

  'A secure call,' he said. 'I need to use the phone at my place.'

  'Am I invited.'

  He licked his lips. 'You bet.'

  She smiled. So it's his place, she thought. So be it.

  Just then the Maitre d' rushed behind the Major, swiveling his eyes to the front door in warning. She looked toward the door and her nerves disintegrated. Nash and two of his men were in the restaurant.

  Amai stood, excused herself, and walked toward the toilets without turning. There was nowhere else to go.

  Amai heard the Maitre d' scoop up her plate and cutlery, and Johnson say: 'She's not finished, buddy.' And the Maitre d' say: 'I'll replace the meal and champagne free-of-charge, sir.'

  Amai pushed through the toilet door and felt even more trapped. Inside there were two more doors; one marked 'Le male', the other 'La femme'. She went into the male toilet hoping to find an external window. It was a small room with a urinal and water-closet; no window.

  She cursed herself for such lazy planning. Then she heard the restroom door bang open.

  It felt like her heart was trying to jump up
her windpipe. I'm caught.

  She locked herself in the water-closet and waited for Nash.

  She heard someone go into the female toilet, bang around, and then come back out.

  The male toilet door opened.

  She could hear a man's heavy breathing, and tried to stop hers.

  Knuckles wrapped on her cubicle. 'Open up.'

  Amai pushed her fingers as far down her throat as she could and felt her stomach convulse. She retched.

  The footsteps moved away and the door banged shut.

  For several minutes, she knelt in front of the toilet bowl, trying and failing to find the courage to return to the Major.

  The door banged opened again. A voice said: 'They're gone. Get back out there.' The voice belonged to the Maitre d'.

  Amai left the restroom, edged open the dining-room door, and peered out. Nash had gone, but her heart continued to thump erratically.

  Move idiot, she thought.

  She slipped through the door feeling incredibly vulnerable, and sat opposite Johnson. The Maitre d' immediately delivered her replacement meal whilst the rat-like waiter filled her champagne flute.

  The Major grinned. 'No harm done.'

  She felt the corners of her mouth draw back. 'How's the cannelloni?'

  'Mmm,' He spoke with his mouth full. 'Good.'

  She thought: Where's the damn serum?

  32

  Nash was fuming.

  On Dong Khoi, he leant against one of the Opera house's grooved, stone pillars, wondering how he could possibly find Amai in this crazy city. The heat inflamed his frustration.

  Under Hitchcock's nose, Nash had mustered a team of twenty-four MI staff to scour Saigon, but after visiting the most popular restaurants and bars, they had failed to find her, or the black Major.

  Where the hell are they? He thought.

  There were problems: he knew Amai's description, he had seen her with his own eyes, but he had never seen this Major Johnson, and oddly, the Army had no file on him - nothing. Nash realized that dressed in civvies, and eating in a restaurant, Johnson would look like any other Negro. He could've walked right past Johnson and not known.