by Peter Gilboy
“Wait a minute,” the general interrupts. He looks hard at Alec. “Are you suggesting that you actually thought the letters could be related to one of our soldiers? From that war over there?”
“We felt it necessary to rule everything out, sir. Our job is to follow up on every lead. We’re thorough, as you know. We’re very thorough. We have to be. There was a very remote chance that the letters might be related to Mr. Pavlik’s spouse who was killed over there.”
“Unbelievable,” the general says under his breath.
“But we’ve ruled that out now, sir,” Alec adds.
The general starts to say something, but Hoffman raises a finger. “We need the coordinates for those ROWBEC letters,” he says.
Alec nods. “Not a problem.”
“Of course,” I say.
Tell him, Quintyn. Tell him.
The general shakes his head. “Besides, the whole thing is preposterous,” he says. “What is it, more than thirty years since that war?”
Tell him!
I try to sound casual. “Of course there’s been evidence over the years,” I say.
“All of it debunked,” Hoffman quickly interjects. “Providing so-called evidence of missing Americans is a cottage industry over there. Fake dog tags and teeth. You know that. And it has been for decades. They’ll invent any artifact or claim anything about an American just to get some money.”
“Respectfully, Mr. Hoffman,” I say, “some would say there’s been a cottage industry on our part to debunk the evidence that’s come out about soldiers we left there. Not to mention attempts to thoroughly discredit anyone who conducted operations to find them.”
Hoffman sighs. “There were seven government investigations, Ames.”
“Yeah. Like you said, by the government.”
“Your government, Ames.”
“Including General Eugene Tighe,” I add. “He was DIA head then, and he testified that we did leave soldiers there. That we did leave men behind.”
“Nonsense,” Hoffman says. “Nobody believed him back then, and nobody believes him now.”
He turns to General Finders. “General, I can appreciate that families will hang on to any hope. I feel for them, I really do. But we’ve fallen for a shitload of fake information in the past, and we looked pretty dumb falling for it. We’re not going to fall for it again.”
The room is quiet. After a moment Hoffman adds, “That’s why any attempt by Rogowski to revive this issue is reckless. It will only raise the hopes of those who suffered from the terrible loss of their relative.”
Ask him, Quintyn. Ask him.
“What about the live sightings?” I say.
“Whose side are you on Ames?” Hoffman snaps.
“Over a thousand of them,” I add.
“A long time ago, and none of those sightings, I repeat none, has panned out. Zero, are we clear?”
That’s shit.
“I don’t think that’s true,” I say.
“Excuse me?”
Tell him it’s shit, Quintyn. Tell him!
“Mr. Hoffman, what you’re saying simply isn’t so.”
His face grows red. “I’m sorry, but do you know who you’re talking to?”
Someone who doesn’t know shit.
“Someone who doesn’t have all the facts, I believe.”
“That’s enough, Ames!” It’s General Finders.
“Sir,” I say to General Finders, keeping my cool. “The White House knows very well that some sightings did pan out. But that nobody acted on them. Or they didn’t act in time. Thirty U.S. airmen were working on a road gang near Nhommarath. That’s in Laos, sir. It led to Operation Pocket Change. There was also Operation Lazarus. And others. Each of them predicated on excellent intelligence. We knew they were there. We knew it.”
“Then how come they didn’t find anybody?” Hoffman asks with a sneer.
“You tell me,” I say.
Hoffman leans toward me. “There’ve been enough conspiracy theories in the last twenty-five years.” He looks at me squarely. “I’ll repeat, Mr. Ames, that not one of those so-called sightings was ever verified. And it’s irresponsible for Rogowski or anyone to suggest something different.”
Walking K. Tell him! Walking K.
“What about the walking K symbol?” I ask.
“That again,” Hoffman says dismissively.
“What is it?” the general asks.
“It’s nothing,” Hoffman declares.
I feel something coiling up inside my chest. An anger. I look over to Smith. He’s still said nothing. He looks bored. I keep my voice even.
“The walking K,” I explain to the general, “was a symbol used by pilots back then to signal distress. They called it a ‘walking K’ because the leg on bottom of the ‘K’ was elongated. CIA satellites picked up precisely that symbol dug into a rice field in Sam Neua. And three letters next to it. U-S-A.”
“Sam Neua?” the general asks.
“In Laos,” I say.
“Yes, of course. Laos. And when was that?”
“Nineteen eighty-eight, sir.”
“Well, still, that’s a long time ago,” the general says.
“That’s right,” Hoffman emphasizes. “Long time ago.”
“And nothing came out of it, I’m sure,” Finders adds.
“Right again,” Hoffman says.
The general looks to me. “Besides, how does all this relate to those so-called coordinates you heard on that listening cone.”
“It doesn’t,” I admit. “We’re Middle East.”
“Well, there you have it,” the general says. “The letters, or whatever they were, were from smugglers, probably. Or some kid having fun. Or, like you said, an anomaly in the vegetation.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Alec tells him.
Roy Smith still hasn’t said a word.
The general smiles stiffly. He leans back. “That’s it, then?” he asks. “Are we done?”
Hoffman shakes his head. “Not yet.” He points a finger at Alec. “If we ever catch you near any of another section’s satellites we’ll have your ass in federal prison so fast you’ll have windburn.” He looks to the general. “And, Finders, I would recommend you keep your men in line.”
The general looks stunned. “Yes, of course,” he manages.
“And I want those coordinates,” Hoffman says again.
“Okay, okay, you’ll get them,” the general says. “That’s it. Now, I have work. We’re done here.”
But the coiled-up thing inside me isn’t done.
“It’s shit,” I say.
Good, Quintyn. Good.
General Finders straightens up and glares. “What did you say, Ames?”
“There’s only one reason he would want those coordinates. Sir.”
The general puts his fist on the table. “I think you should keep in mind where you are. And when I say we’re done, I mean done. You got that?” The general looks from me to Alec. “No more of this, whatever it is. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Alec says. He moves toward the door.
I point to Hoffman. “He knows. He knows that certain people have made every attempt to debunk the information about our men being left behind, and destroy the credibility of those who reported it, call them crazies, conspiracy nuts, anything to assassinate their character.”
“That’s enough, Ames! I can put you on suspension in a heartbeat.”
“Respectfully, sir. It’s still shit.” I get to my feet.
The general attempts a smile before continuing. “There are going to be some changes around here. This…this so-called unauthorized access is one of the reasons. We’re just not efficient enough, and our missions too often are in conflict. I know we can do better. A lot better.”
There’s an uncomfortable silence. I study Smith or Greene or whoever he is.
The others get up.
“Oh, Ames,” the general says.
I face him. “Yes, sir.”
>
“My best to your mother.”
In the hallway, Alec and the White House guy, Hoffman, go ahead toward the elevator. I motion Smith to stay back.
“Now you’re Roy Greene,” I say.
“That’s right.”
“And you didn’t say a word in there,” I tell him.
“And you’ve got some balls, Ames. Got you nowhere, though. Besides, my job is to observe. Then I act. I’m not a paper pusher like you.”
“Who were you with over there, Smith. The Phoenix Program?”
“No, Red Road. Ever hear of it?”
“No.”
“Well, there’s a reason,” he says with a soft chortle.
“And who are you with now?”
“I’m your friend.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
He smiles at me. “I got a day job at INR.”
“Bureau of Intelligence and Research,” I say. “You keep diplomats up to date on intelligence.”
“Yeah, but like I said, that’s just my day job. I’m also part of a team, Ames. A good team that actually does something.” In a quiet voice he adds, “We’re on your side, Ames. And we can get her out.”
I turn toward the elevators.
“By the way,” he adds, “Rogowski is a fool. And dangerous. If he goes public, he’ll get Pavlik killed. You stay away from him.”
“Or what?” I say.
The corners of his mouth are turned up in amusement. His eyes are laughing at me.
Eddie and I continue toward the elevator.
40
A VILLAGE IN SOUTH VIETNAM
DAY 229
THERE WAS A CHANGE in the air. Something was different. Patricia Pavlik sensed it. Or maybe it was an anticipation. What was it? She wasn’t sure. She thought of T.R. Where was he now? It had been so long. What happened to him? What happened to the other Americans? Had some gone home? Had they all gone home? Were they ever there at all?
She was not yet allowed into the village. She wasn’t worthy. She had lost two teeth from the buildup of some kind of bacteria. It wasn’t enough to just scrape them daily. She was like them now, and she was about to lose more teeth; she could feel it.
But something was different. Very different.
Her education hadn’t changed. It continued without letup; hours each day, a grinding repetition of memorized points, drilled in so that she might be worthy: The only just cause is our revolution. The United States is unjust. Because we are just, we will triumph. The United States does not have the will. America fights short time. We fight long time. Soldiers go home. We fight longer. It does not matter how long. For America and its servants, the puppets of the South, they grow weaker. That is proven as the United States departs. A worker builds a car and then he wants a car…
The change she sensed, maybe it was the ending of the monsoons. No, that was still far off. It was something else. Something pending that they weren’t telling her.
It wasn’t that she had more physical freedom. They had already given her more. They let her get water from the well and use it to wash. She had dignity with herself again, if not with them.
But that wasn’t the change she felt either.
Yet with the change that she sensed, she was hopeful again. It would be over. Finally over. Those who waited for her would be as jubilant as she was. She would be home again.
She knew it.
For diversions from the lessons, Patricia had tried to turn her liberator’s propaganda into language sessions, asking for this word in his language, or that word. She was now able to speak rudimentary sentences, though her liberator enjoyed smirking at her pronunciation. And, he had promised that the Leniency Team, the cadre from the Committee, would interview her soon to see what progress she had made. Maybe then she would be permitted into the village. Or even released.
But that wasn’t the change either. It was something else. Even her stiff-faced liberator had changed somewhat. Perhaps they sensed the same change coming. Perhaps they had the same anticipation. Or they knew something.
The peace conference. The Paris negotiations. They must be close to signing it. It must be almost over now. Over.
Yes, that was it.
Lieutenant Patricia Pavlik knew she was going home.
41
JANUARY 18, 2006
WASHINGTON, DC,
1:30 P.M.
SO NOW OUR CLAYMORES are in place. We’re about ready to sleep. We slap bug juice on our arms and faces, our clothing, so the mosquitoes won’t bite through. They’re still here, though, clouds of them, swirling battalions of them attacking our arms, our legs, our faces. A buzzing in our skulls. We can’t wave them away like at the beach. We push them off like veils over our heads.
We’re heading south in my T-Bird on Thirteenth Street, Eddie and me. We’re going to the track. For a run. Or rather, I’m going for a run. Eddie thinks it’s too cold to run. Besides, he says that it hurts his joints. He’s joking, of course.
The sky is a white sheet. It’s supposed to snow again, but for now the streets are clear and the old snow is piled up high. My T-Bird gives me the outside temperature. Twenty-one degrees. Cold, but not too cold to run. I’m bundled up. And I need to run. It clears my head, cuts down the brain chatter. It’s just me, then, me and my heart thumping and my lungs trying hard to catch up.
I think back to the meeting with Finders and Hoffman and Smith. Finders didn’t have a clue. But Hoffman did. And Smith does. Not just about ROWBEC but about the others who weren’t released. At one point there was so much evidence that the president held a Rose Garden ceremony and pledged that his administration would do everything possible to find the prisoners still there. He even threatened to resume bombing if the Americans weren’t released. He authorized Operation Pocket Change, a thirteen-man CIA team that went into Laos, to Nhom Marrot, in an attempt to find American prisoners that we knew were there. When the mission results were leaked, and then misreported, the door closed. Even when General Tighe testified to Congress that there was no doubt that we left Americans behind, it was hardly noted. The country had other concerns. People wanted to get on with their lives.
But that was so long ago. How could someone have stayed alive that long? Julia is probably right. It’s just about money now. That’s all. Squeezing family members for whatever they can get. But if there’s no Patricia Pavlik, then how could Smith know about her too? Maybe he got the same bogus information that we did.
Regardless, I feel an odd kind of relief. Any part I may have had in this is over. With my satellite access being scrutinized now, I couldn’t help Smith or Greene or whoever he is now, even if I wanted to. Which I don’t. I care, though. Of course I care. But I reside in the world of realities, and there’s only so much that one person can do. Things that used to be important to me aren’t so consequential now. I can retire. Comfortably. I can do all the things that I haven’t had a chance to do. And I can do them with Julia. And with children. Yes, with children.
I should apologize to her now. Tell her she’s right. And I will. Tonight. Then tomorrow we can resume our honeymoon; I’ll whisk her away to Hawaii and we’ll find some far-off island where there’re no phones.
I pass Harriet Tubman Elementary on my left. It’s a modest brick building, though much grander than anything Harriet Tubman could have imagined. She was a tough one, a rescuer of prisoners in her own right; but she had the small advantage of her underground railroad being across land. Not across the Pacific.
Now there’s a beat-up van behind me. It’s blue, with DC plates, and it’s made two turns as I did. I make a right on Columbia.
The van turns also. It comes closer, not at all trying to hide. I can’t make out the plate numbers, but there’s a crack in the windshield and dents on the front left. A civilian. Even the government would be embarrassed to have such a vehicle.
I go a block and turn left on Fourteenth and left again on Harvard. The van is still there. A little further on, I see a blue-and
-white sign—a Sunoco station with a single island for gas and a minimart that looks really mini. I pull in, and the van pulls right in behind me.
I brake before the pumps and jump out. In two strides I’m at the door of the van and yanking it open. The man behind the wheel doesn’t look dangerous. Good. He’s white. Young. Middle thirties, maybe. Sandy hair. Round face. Twenty pounds overweight. I pull him out of the van and push him against the side of it. The man is shaking.
“You’re Rogowski,” I say.
He seems surprised. “We need to talk, Mr. Ames.”
I let him go and step back. He puts out his hand, nervously. I don’t take it.
“About the case you’re working on,” he says. “About the soldier.”
“No idea what you’re talking about,” I tell him.
“Mr. Ames, I know there’s a soldier who’s still over there. And I know it’s a woman.”
“Good for you,” I tell him. “Now stop following me.” I turn back to my car.
“Wait, Mr. Ames. I’ve done my homework. Eight female soldiers were killed in Vietnam, isn’t that right? Also, female Red Cross workers, two AID women, and two female journalists. And in Laos, four missionaries and four nurses were captured, and later shot or burned to death.”
Maybe he has done his homework.
I turn back to him. “Don’t forget Operation Babylift,” I say.
“April 3, 1975,” he says. “Forty women killed trying to rescue the children as Saigon fell. It was tragic.”
“So what do you want?” I ask.
“I want your story.”
“I don’t have a story.”
“Yes, you do, and I want to bust it wide open, Mr. Ames. I want to tell the story that no one wants told.”
“Good luck,” I say. I head back to my car.
He calls after me. “I’m on your side, Mr. Ames.”
I face him again. “I don’t have a side,” I say.
“But I really am.”