“I hoped to,” said Nakorn. “You are one of the reasons I came to this reception.”
“Please go ahead.”
“It concerns our Communist problem here on Lampang,” said Nakorn. “Surely you are aware of it from your own State Department and your meetings with President Noy Sang.”
“I think I have an idea of the situation,” said Underwood coolly.
“Perhaps you do not know how grave it is,” continued Nakorn earnestly. “We have neighbors across the sea who are literally breathing down our throats. I refer to Vietnam and Cambodia. They are pouring guerrillas into our two adjacent islands, and they have armed them with the very latest weaponry. If they are allowed to continue this without intervention, they will soon become too powerful for my army to handle. Ultimately they will come to Lampang, overrun it, and oust President Noy. They will crush our democracy here and take full control. Lampang will become Communist, a satellite of the Soviet Union in the South Pacific. This must be stopped by force while there is still time, while we have military superiority.”
Underwood had been listening closely, and it gave him a twinge of concern that if there was truth in this, Noy’s regime and very life could be endangered.
“I’ve been told the Communists were willing to address themselves to some compromise,” Underwood said.
General Nakorn shook his head vigorously. “Not possible,” he said. “That is the belief of some of our liberals who have been deceived. In fact, it is President Noy’s own notion that such a meeting of the minds can be formed. She has no real knowledge of the Communists’ strength and intent. She is being lulled by sweet words, but if she admits the Communists to our system, she will be gobbled up.”
“You’re positive of that.”
“Absolutely. Ask Mr. Siebert for his opinion.” Underwood faced Siebert, who had been listening in silence.
“What do you think, Percy?”
Before he could reply, Nakorn interrupted. “I’ll leave you two alone. Thank you for hearing me out.”
Underwood watched Nakorn melt into the party, and then he faced Siebert again. “Well?” he asked Siebert.
The CIA station head bobbed his head. “I’d say he’s generally right. I’m not trusting the general’s private sources alone. I’m trusting my own, based on what I know from our paid informants. No matter how any meeting between Marsop and Lunakul would turn out on the surface, it would lead to a takeover by the Communists in the end.”
Siebert paused. “You understand, Mr.President, I have no personal stake in this matter. My job is to report objectively to Langley, and to you. It is my opinion that it is best for the United States if Madame Sang does not allow the Communists to become a legitimate party in Lampang. Madame Sang does not realize that her action would give the Soviet Union a position they’ve never had in this part of the world.”
Shaken, Underwood said, “You’re certainly being unequivocal about this, Percy.”
“I mean to be. We have no choice but to go along with General Nakorn. There can be no thought of a compromise. Lampang’s army must drive the Communists farther into the jungle and strip them of their strength, and then eliminate them.”
“Why are you telling me this now?”
“I think you must tell Madame Noy Sang exactly what I’m telling you.”
“You’re suggesting that I speak to her about matters of state without consulting our own Department of State? In fact, why aren’t you taking this through regular channels?”
“Because if Madame Sang would listen to anyone, she would listen to you. You alone would have the greatest influence over her. You’ve just agreed to lend her millions to keep Lampang free and on our side.”
Underwood sighed. “I’ll see what can be done.”
He dismissed Siebert and finished his meal, which had suddenly become tasteless.
After putting aside his plate, he scanned the room and caught sight of Noy Sang shaking hands and saying good-bye to some foreign dignitaries.
Finally, noting that she was alone, Underwood pushed past several groups and approached Noy.
She saw him coming and smiled. “I was hoping to see you again.”
“I’m here. Do you have a little time for me? I must speak to you alone—well, as privately as possible in this room.”
Noy wrinkled her brow, trying to understand his concern. “Marsop,” she called over her shoulder, “President Underwood and I would like to have a few minutes together. Will you be a good fellow and see that we are not interrupted?”
“I will fend everyone off,” Marsop promised.
“Very well,” said Noy, drawing Underwood into a corner, almost hiding them behind a tall, leafy rubber plant. “Let’s talk. Matt, I haven’t seen you this serious before. Tell me what is on your mind.”
“I just had a conversation with your General Nakorn.”
“You know my opinion of him.”
“I’m less concerned with what Nakorn has to say than with what Siebert, our CIA station head, had to tell me.”
“What did he say, Matt?”
“Apparently you’ve arranged a series of talks between Marsop and we rebel head, 0pas Lunakul. Your General Nakorn was strongly against it.” He skipped a beat and then added, “And so was Percy Siebert.”
Noy’s delicate countenance had tightened. “Do you want to tell me what they told you?”
“I’ll repeat every word.” He hesitated. “It seems to make some sense.”
Her voice was low. “Tell me, what makes some sense?”
As best he could, Underwood tried to relate everything he had heard from General Nakorn and everything that Percy Siebert had confirmed. Noy listened emotionlessly.
When he came to the end of his recital, Underwood caught his breath and added, “You know I’m on your side, Noy. It was without hesitation that I approved of the loan you wanted for Lampang, indeed for a much greater sum. I intended that it be used for what you wanted, to make Lampang independent and its democracy strong. I saw that to be in my own nation’s self-interest as well.”
“But now you are less certain,” said Noy stiffly. “Are you telling me there were strings attached to your offer?”
“Strings?” said Underwood, briefly bewildered.
“That your loan carries with it a demand that we break off with the Communists, suppress them, and prove we are an anticommunist country worthy of being a trusted ally of the United States?”
“Noy, you misunderstand. That loan is yours to do with what you think best for your people. But you should reconsider one thing: that you may be allowing yourself to be too lenient with the Communist insurgents who want to destroy you.”
Noy was very quiet, eyes fixed on Underwood. When she spoke, it was with contained passion. “Matt, our Communists are not trained in Moscow. They are plain peasants, plain people, farmers, who want to eat three meals a day and to have a safe roof over their heads and their children’s. My husband understood that when he ran for president. He felt these Communists who wanted land reform above all else could be integrated with all our peasants and learn to gain what they want more slowly and without bloodshed. I always stood with Prem in his belief. Today I stand by what he stood for. I don’t want massacres. I want mediation. When the Communists hear my plans, see that these are exactly as their own without killing, I am certain they will put down their arms and come along with us.”
In his own mind, Underwood retreated. She made as much sense as Nakorn and Siebert. Perhaps more.
He had one question. “Weren’t your husband and your sister Thida murdered by Communists?”
She answered unhesitatingly. “I have not a shred of evidence of that. Naturally we were suspicious, and an exhaustive investigation was made, but we found no link to the Communists. Lunakul denies it without reservation. Maybe he lies. Maybe he is being truthful. Matt, we must give truth a chance before bullets.”
Underwood said, “Well, you may be right. It might be worth giving truth a c
hance.”
Noy touched Underwood’s arm. “Matt, I must leave to say good-bye to our other guests. But before I do, I want to ask a favor of you. When I was in Washington you invited me to stay an extra day so that you could show me your capital city and get to know me better. I did so.”
“And I appreciated it.”
“Now I want you to return the favor in kind,” she said. “I want you to stay an extra day in Lampang so that I can show you my people and how they live. Also, I want you to get to know me even better, so that you are convinced of my sincerity. Consider spending that extra day here with me. Don’t try to answer now, but go back to the hotel and sleep on it. You can give me your decision at breakfast here tomorrow. I hope that you will stay the extra day.”
“For political reasons?” asked Underwood.
“For personal reasons,” answered Noy. “I want to enjoy a day with you alone in my environment. Please, please consider it, and whatever you decide, I’ll understand.”
Matt Underwood had returned to his suite at the Oriental Hotel. Refusing to see Siebert or the press, he had dined alone, then tried to sleep, but tossed restlessly in his hotel bed. In his mind he reviewed Noy’s invitation, wanting desperately to accept it but still uncertain.
At last, jet lag caught up with him and he slept soundly.
Awakened by a servant, he showered, shaved, and dressed, and was driven to the Chamadin Palace before eight A.M.
In the dining room, sipping orange juice, were Noy, her son, Den, Marsop, and of his own party only Press Secretary Bartlett.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” said Noy somewhat formally. “Did you have a good night?”
“Eight or nine hours and dreamless,” said Underwood. He addressed Bartlett. “What time are we scheduled to leave for Washington?”
“Air Force One will take off at eleven. The press plane goes at noon,” said Bartlett.
Underwood concentrated his attention on Noy Sang, who was beside him. “I’ve been thinking of your offer, Noy,” he said. “Does it still hold?”
“Of course, Matt.”
“Then, we’re on.”
“I’ve put everything else aside for this,” she said. “I’m just delighted. First we’ll tour Visaka and the suburbs. Our destination will be my summer place, Villa Thap. It has a lovely beach where we can cool off. We can change and swim there.”
“I wasn’t prepared for that.”
Noy smiled. “I was. We have swim trunks in all sizes. You can have your choice. I’ll arrange for us to take a basket with a light lunch. How does that sound?”
“Perfect,” said Underwood.
Bartlett looked puzzled. “Is there something I should know?”
“Yes,” said Underwood. “You can tell the press I’m on schedule. Have their plane leave at noon. But I’m not going to leave an hour earlier. I’m going to pretend to and spend an extra day here, and probably leave at midnight.”
“That’s going to upset a lot of plans, Mr. President. Is this stay-over imperative?”
“Officially, I’m taking the extra day to delve into the Communist situation on Lampang with the help of Madame Noy. That’s what you can tell the press when you land back in Washington and I don’t follow until the next day.”
Bartlett remained troubled. “Is there an unofficial reason?” he inquired.
Underwood smiled at Noy and then at Bartlett. “There is one, but not for publication. Just for your information.”
“Very well,” said Bartlett.
“I want the extra day for some rest, and to get to know our Southeast Asian ally a bit better.”
“Thank you, Matt,” Noy said in an undertone.
“Soon as breakfast is over,” Underwood added to Bartlett, “you can leave and arrange everything. Inform the Secret Service that I’m staying the extra day and I expect them to remain, too. I don’t want to get into trouble with those leeches. But for yourself, you herd the correspondents on the press plane and take off with them. Tell them I’ve gone already. That’ll get rid of any suspicions.,,
“What do I tell the first lady?”
“The official version,” said Underwood with a small wince.
Leaving Chamadin Palace, Press Secretary Jack Bartlett stopped to speak to the first Secret Service agent in the hallway.
“Smitty,” he said, “there’s been a change of plans. The president won’t be leaving at noon but closer to midnight. Also, you’d better plan to be mobile this afternoon. I know the president is taking a tour of the city and suburbs after eleven thirty. I think his destination—he’s accompanying President Noy Sang—is Villa Thap, her summer place. Where’s your boss?”
“The last I heard, Lucas went down to the palace gate to talk to the captain who’s the Lampang security chief.”
“I’d better find him,” said Bartlett. “I want to tell him the president’s new schedule.”
Bartlett left the palace and walked toward the gate, where he could see Lucas in conversation with a Lampang security officer.
Bartlett interrupted. “Frank, I need you for a minute.”
The gate was open, and Bartlett waved the Secret Service head outside.
There were two pillars, and Bartlett brought Lucas to the nearest one, out of earshot of the Lampang officer.
“Frank, the president is sending the press on after he leaves. Only he isn’t leaving here on schedule. They are not to know that he’s decided to stay the rest of the day and see some of the city with President Noy Sang. Then he’s going to drive into the countryside with Noy. She has a summer home called Villa Thap. She wants the president to have a swim before lunch, and to cool off before he leaves for Washington.”
“Thanks for telling me,” said Lucas. “I’ll run out to this Villa Thap and look it over before the president gets there. He’ll be coming around two o’clock?”
“Just about,” said Bartlett. “I’ll be leaving the president entirely in your hands.”
“You needn’t worry.”
“Keep the local press at a distance. Our own press will be on their way home. But the locals can be troublesome. I want the president to have some privacy.”
“He’ll have all the privacy he wants,” guaranteed Lucas.
After that, Bartlett took a Lampang staff car back to the Oriental Hotel, and Lucas went through the gate and strode into the palace to notify his agents.
No sooner were both out of sight than Hy Hasken stepped from behind the pillar.
Lighting a cigarette, he considered.
Villa Thap was now his own destination. But where in the hell was it? He decided to go to the gate and inquire of the Lampang security officer.
So President Underwood wanted this extra day in Lampang with Noy Sang alone.
Hasken grunted. Not quite. Not if he had anything to say about it.
Villa Thap was thirteen kilometers outside Visaka.
With his rented car, Hasken collected his photographer, Gil Andrews, and the sound man at the Oriental Hotel, and then he followed the directions he had been given.
Once he had found it and parked, he and his crew surveyed the layout. Like most of the summer homes, Villa Thap was an airy, elegant mansion built into a hillside. Presumably because it was shady and cool there.
Hasken stood on the edge of the hilltop and peered down at Noy’s summer home. He could see a fair portion of it, even the steps leading to the front door. There was a path that led to a crest from which stairs dropped out of sight to a private beach below.
“You want to get the president and his lady,” said Andrews. “You won’t see anything from here, especially if they go down to the beach for a swim.”
“You’re right,” agreed Hasken. “It’s a blind spot. You can bet the Secret Service will keep us up here with the local press. We won’t be able to see a damn thing.” He turned around and then added, “Maybe.”
Behind them, across the road, was a row of modern beach apartments five and six stories high.
&nb
sp; “The one right behind us,” said Hasken. “It’s six floors. The top floor must have a perfect view of the beach. Let’s find out.”
The three of them crossed the road to the six-story apartment building and rang the bell, summoning the landlord.
In less than a minute the landlord appeared. He was a gruff, elderly man no more than five feet tall, olive-skinned, with a flowing gray moustache.
“Yes?” he asked.
“We’d like to rent an apartment,” Hasken said. “All taken,” the landlord rasped.
“Just for a few hours,” said Hasken. “The top floor facing, down toward the beach.”
“It’s taken, too. Rented by a banker from Visaka. He always comes here from the city by six o’clock.”
“We’d be out by five o’clock,” said Hasken.”Not disturb anything. Just want to take some photographs from the sixth-story window.”
“I don’t know,” said the landlord. “It’s his apartment…”
“But you rent it to him,” said Hasken. He opened his jacket and took out his brown wallet. “You could sublet it for three or four hours.” Hasken removed some bills. “I could pay in American dollars.”
The landlord eyed the bills greedily. “American dollars?”
“One hundred of them,” said Hasken, beginning to count out the bills. “For just a few hours.”
“I don’t know,” said the landlord. But by then he knew. “You would disturb nothing?”
“Not even a speck of dust,” promised Hasken, handing over the greenbacks.
Minutes later they were inside the sixth-floor apartment.
Gil Andrews went directly to the window and narrowed his eyes. “Perfect,” he murmured. “The beach,” said Hasken.
“Every inch of it. Clear as can be. With my zoom lens I’ll be able to count the grains of sand.”
Hasken grinned. “Set up your equipment.”
Matt Underwood and Noy Sang were seated comfortably in the rear of her Mercedes sedan, and her pockmarked chauffeur, Chalie, was driving them, circled by a motorcycle escort.
The Guest of Honor Page 12