“No trip wires to see, Môn Ami,” he had replied, a large smile on his face as he held up what had looked vaguely similar to a child’s candy lollipop; with a thin yellow coloured stick stuck into a small round flat metallic disk, that had been about the diameter of a silver dollar, and seven to eight millimetres thick. “A barometric detonator. And, as it doesn’t need trip wires – there’s no wires for them to see,” he had gone on to enlighten me.
“But I presume that it requires a change in atmospheric pressure to active it.”
“Oh, yes – most certainly,” John-Luke had been getting cocky.
“So, what do you have to do to detonate them, create your own weather front?” I had asked – I had been flippant.
“That is exactly what you do, Môn Ami. You create your own weather front. You create your own change in barometric pressure – you create an initial explosion that causes an immediate change in air pressure.”
“And you’ve set that up?”
“Yea, baby. On one of the bunks, in the hut, I’ve laid down an AK-47 on top of a concussion grenade,” he had gone on to explain. “As soon as one of the bad guys picks it up – and they will…boom. The overpressure will detonate the C-4 that I’ve placed under the veranda, which in turn, will detonate the rest – simple chain reaction.”
“Sounds good in theory – but, in practice?” I had queried.
“Practice…oh it definitely works in practice – on that I can assure you, Môn Ami,” With that he had pouted his lips and had blown me a kiss, before climbing up into the open sided ‘chow’ hut. From there he had gone directly to the prison hut, emerging a few moments later, beaming.
“Done?” I had asked.
“Oh, yes – most definitely done,” he had replied. “One under the stove in the chow hut and one under the shit bucket, in there,” he had said, indicating to the prison hut, grinning all over his face. “That should cause un peu dune odeur – a bit of a stink.”
By then, the POWs had washed and changed – not much of an improvement, but less of a telltale stench to follow us round. From reed matting and two long lengths of bamboo, the two Americans had also fashioned a make shift stretcher, on which they could carry their very sick companion.
The shorter and fitter looking of the American POW’s, called Aaron, had come over, addressing me directly. “What about Trixie?” He had asked.
“Trixie?” I had been taken aback, somewhat. “Who the fuck is Trixie?” I had asked straight back at him.
“The dog,” he had replied. “I found her body under the chow hut, when Hank and I went looking for poles to make up a stretcher,” he had explained. Then, more in deference than in anger, he gone on and added, “I know you had no other choice but to shoot her – I know that. But could we please bury her?”
Obviously, from my facial expression, the POW called Aaron must have guessed what my reply was going to be.
“She saved my life – look,” he had blurted out, tears welling up in his eyes. He had then pointed down to a hideous, wide, uneven scar, a strip of stark white stretched tissue, which had run down the complete length of his left calf. “Cut gone sceptic,” he had stated, almost with pride. “And Trixie licked it clean for me – she licked out every last bit of puss and crap, until it had healed over.”
I had heard of people using animals, especially dogs, to clean up open wounds and sores, before – something apparently contained in the animal’s saliva. I had always though it to be an old wives tale, an urban legend…but I had been proven wrong – seeing the evidence in the flesh, so to speak.
“Please, Sir. I owe Trixie my life – please let me bury her,” he had pleaded.
“I’m afraid we don’t have the time,” I had replied. “We don’t know how long it will be before this compound goes ‘hot’ and we’ve got a fire fight on our hands,” I had tried to rationalise with him.
“Please, Sir – they’ll eat her. They’ll tear up and put her in a cooking pot,” Aaron was crying then. “She saved my life, Sir – P L E A S E!”
“We’ll take her back with us. You and Hank carry her on the stretcher, with the Kiwi – and we’ll bury her as soon as we get back to base,” I had promised the distraught man, finally relenting to his impassioned plea.
John-Luke had looked at me gone out when he had seen the two American POWs carrying the stretcher, with the sick New Zealander on it – and the dead dog carefully cradled and balanced between the unconscious man’s legs.
***
I had kept my word to Aaron – as soon as we had arrived back at the Phu Bai base, I had buried the small dog.
Accompanied by John-Luke, and with two VNAF medics in tow, I had taken the American POW to the rear of the hanger, where there had been a small garden created around a tall white flagpole. Removing some of the large rocks at the base of the flagpole, using a trenching tool, I had scooped out a fair sized hole on its eastern side. Aaron, the American POW, despite his frail weakened condition, had insisted on taking Trixie from off the stretcher being carried by the two bemused medics. He had placed the dead dog gently in the ground. No tears – no words, he had just dropped to his knees and, with his bare hands, filled in the hole.
“Thank you, Sir,” Aaron the POW had said, taking hold of my hand and shaking it surprisingly firmly – considering his condition. “If there is anything that I can ever do for you, please call on me.”
Aaron was later to become a two star General in the Special Activities Division, SAD; before being elevated to a senior executive position with the Directorate of Operations, the DO, which was the branch of the CIA responsible for covert operations and ‘special’ activities – later, after 911, to become the NCS, the National Clandestine Service.
It’s good to have friends in high places!
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Vietnam had been the last time that I had seen or heard of John-Luke – that is until I had received that telephone call, back in summer of ’85.
London to Wellington, with stopovers in Bangkok and Sidney, had taken just under thirty hours, arriving mid afternoon in Wellington. Bendy Wendy had sent a car to meet me at the airport and, within the hour, I had been ushered into an office at her branch of the New Zealand Security Intelligence Service Head Quarters, in downtown Wellington.
“Hi yer, Martin – how you doin, mate?” she had greeted me, in that high pitched squeaky voice of hers, getting up from the desk that she had been sitting behind. Small in height, about four eight, she had been so pitifully thin that, if she had turned sideways on; she would have almost disappeared from view.
“I’m good,” I had replied politely back, gently shaking her small thin hand. “How are you?”
“Me – I’m not so bloody good,” she had replied, indicating for me to sit down on a chair placed at some distance from the front of her desk, while she had hoisted her small frame up to sit on the desk, itself.
“Oh – and why is that?”
“Cause of your bloody French mate – Lukie,” she had whined.
“Actually, he is not full blown French, he has dual nationality – he is also part English, as well.”
“Okay – because of your bloody Pommy French mate, John-Luke S…,” she had quickly answered back. “That’s why I’ve got my arse in my bloody hands!”
“I haven’t seen him for an age,” I had confessed, before asking: “So, what’s he been up to?”
Bendy Wendy had paused, probably for dramatic effect. “Lukie has only gone and blown up a bloody ship!”
Shit – that had been dramatic enough.
“What ship?” I had asked, and then had promptly answered my own question: “The Rainbow Warrior.”
The Rainbow Warrior, the flagship of the Greenpeace movement, had been sunk in the port of Auckland, just days before. At the time, details had been extremely vague although we had heard, through our intelligence sources, that the French had blown it up to prevent the ship from interfering in their scheduled nuclear tests at Moruroa
.
Images of John-Luke planting C-4 explosive, all those years previously in Vietnam, had come springing back to view. “And you believe that he was responsible?”
“We don’t believe – we bloody know it,” she had been quick to counter. “He had residue all over his hands and if he didn’t plant it – he sure as hell handled it.”
“So, why did you ask me all the way over here? Patrick and I would never do anything to compromise your security or sovereignty – and you guys know that. So why am I here?” I had asked, and then, cutting to the chase: “You want that I should take ‘care’ of John-Luke? If so, it’s not going to happen. Not by me, anyway,” I had responded firmly.
“No – not taken care of in that way,” she had replied, an unusual softness in her voice. “There were two bombs planted on The Rainbow Warrior and, as well John-Luke, we have arrested two other French Agents. We’re holding them on passport and immigration charges. We’ll charge them with the sinking once we’ve got all the evidence together. These two were part of a team of six. We’ll get the other four later, one way of the other.”
“And you’re saying John-Luke was part of this team?” – The maths had not added up.
“No, two different types of explosives were used,” she had gone on to explain. “The residue, which we found on John-Luke’s hands, has been forensically linked to the first detonation; which had been a slab of C-4 that had buckled a few plates, just above the waterline. The second detonation was a SEMTEX shaped charge, that punched a large hole well below the waterline, causing the ship to sink in less than four minutes – drowning one of the crew,” she had added
“So, what are you going to do with John-Luke?” I had repeated my question. “You seem to imply that you won’t be charging him. So what are you going to do with him?”
“You were both in Vietnam, weren’t you?”
I didn’t reply, but instead had fixed her with a stare.
“My eldest brother was in Vietnam, with the NZ SAS,” she had continued, her voice breaking up slightly. “He got captured by the VC in ’69 and sent to a POW camp, initially up in North Vietnam and then, later, he got sent to a camp deep inside Laos…,” Wendy had then started to sob, softly.
“Can I get you anything – some water, perhaps?” I had offered, getting up to place a reassuring hand on her arm.
She had shaken her head slowly from side to side and, inhaling deeply, had continued: “There, he would have rotted if it hadn’t been for the bravery of two gung-ho bastards, who had gone in and rescued him,” she had looked me directly in the face, tears pouring down hers. “He only lasted a couple of months after getting back to NZ – complications with pneumonia caused by malaria. But, for those two months, my folks had their son back. And, me, I had my big brother back…and he had us; his family by his side – so he didn’t die alone in some stinking hell hole.”
I had passed her a handkerchief out of my pocket.
“So, you see, mate – I would like you to take care of Lukie. I owe it to the memory of my brother – if nothing else. Just get him on the next flight out of here!”
“Okidoki,” I had agreed.
“And on no account are you to ever let him come back to New Zealand, never – understood?”
“Understood.”
“And you owe me a bloody big favour, too. Understood?”
“Yes – understood.”
I didn’t know then, at that point in time, that it wouldn’t be long before Bendy Wendy would call that favour in.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
John-Luke had physically changed almost out of all recognition to the last time that I had seen him, all those years ago.
The shoulder length dark blonde hair had gone – replaced with a completely shaven head. Also gone, the puppy fat of the face, and that of the body, too – judging by the solid muscles that had rippled under the white cloth of the close fitting t-shirt that he had worn. But the sparkling laughing smile in those bright blue eyes had still been there.
“Bonjour Marteen, comment le diable vous est? Le temps long – aucun voit?” – ‘Hello Martin, how the devil are you? Long time – no see’. He had greeted me enthusiastically, getting up from the bunk in the bare cell – despite the fluent perfect French, he had still sounded like an Essex ‘lad’, to me.
“So, who has been bit of a naughty boy, then?” I had replied, returning his firm embrace
“Baiser enfer!” – ‘Fucking hell!’ He had sworn out aloud, taking a step back from me. “I didn’t blow up the fucking boat,” he had exclaimed angrily.
“Ship,” I had corrected him.
“Ship – boat – what does it matter…I did not blow the fucking thing up.”
“No.”
“No – my instructions were to disable it…prevent it from putting to sea. And that is exactly what I did. I placed a small charge directly over a seam, well above the water line, and well away from the crew’s quarters. All it would have done was blow out a few rivets and split the seam open.”
“So, what went wrong?” I had interrupted him, offering him a Dunhill International cigarette out of a square flat maroon pack with gold edging and sides – I had changed by brand of cigarettes shortly after leaving Vietnam.
“Apparently, some arsehole licker, in the Central Directorate of Interior Intelligence, had overheard President Mitterrand say how much he would like something to happen to The Rainbow Warrior. And, immediately, they sanctioned a team from the Directorate to come over and blow it up!”
“Isn’t that your outfit, though?” I had asked him.
“No!” he had replied. “I’m with Le Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure – The General Directorate for External Security – the DGSE,” John-Luke had paused momentarily to take a pull on his cigarette. “I was already out here – with orders to disable the boat…ship,” he had suddenly corrected himself. “And, at all cost – without threat to the safety or lives of the crew,”
“You obviously didn’t know about the other team, then.”
“No – I would have called them off, if I had of known. The explosive charge that I planted detonated at 1145 hours – and all the crew had evacuated. But then, some of the crew decided to go back on board to retrieve personal possessions. The explosive left by the DGSE detonated at 1200 hours. It was a shaped charge, designed to scuttle the ship and was placed below the water line – placed exactly where it would cause maximum damage.”
What John-Luke had told me rang true – it was typical of Government Agencies to work in complete isolation, and total oblivion to other organisations, especially those involved with national security.
“I am truly sorry about the guy who drowned,” John-Luke had remarked, there was genuine remorse expressed in those blue eyes of his. “So – what is to become of me?” he had asked.
“Looks like you’re coming with me – Môn Ami,” I had informed him. “Wendy has taken care of things.”
“But, why?”
“Her brother.”
“Her brother?”
“Yes, he was the New Zealander you and I rescued from that POW compound, back in Laos.”
For a moment, John-Luke didn’t say anything. He had looked quite pensive, obviously mulling round what I had just told him.
“I am greatly indebted to Wendy,” he had said, at length. “I am also greatly indebted to her brother, too,” He had paused again, before grinning. “And I am also very grateful to you, Môn Ami, for rescuing my sorry arse, yet again,” and had then added, almost as an afterthought: “And what exactly are you going to do with me, Marteen?”
“What exactly am I going to do for you – I am going to offer you a job,” I had replied. “That is exactly what I am going to do for you.”
***
And John-Luke has been a valued member of the Family, ever since.
An accomplished player of the mandolin, he loves nothing more than to restore the classical instrument…that is, when he is not following his
other passion in life, humping guys and girls – I had omitted to inform you that John-Luke is bisexual: ‘Any port in a storm, Môn Ami.’ as he would say.
While John-Luke can do ‘close up and personal’, he obviously specialises in blowing things up – property or people, it makes no difference to him. And, despite his more mature age, like some aging rock star, John-Luke is always available for outings and tours…providing that he can take his petite faire taire des pus with him – his ‘little hush pussy.’
After all, we all have our favourite pets – don’t we?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Maaka H…, whose name means God of War, is of the Ngāti Toarangatira iwi; a New Zealand Maori tribe from the southern part of North Island – and can trace his direct ancestry back to the famous early 19th century warrior chief, Te Rauparaha. Te Rauparaha composed the ‘haka’, or challenge, which is still currently performed by all Maoris today, including the ‘All Blacks’ rugby team.
Less than three months after picking John-Luke up, I had been back in Bendy Wendy’s office at the New Zealand Security Intelligence Service Head Quarters, in downtown Wellington…but, this time, I had been there on business – she had some ‘work’ for me.
“Hi yer, Martin – how you doin, mate?” She had greeted me in her squeaky voice. “Grab a chair and take the weight off your feet – good trip?”
“Yes, as good as a thirty hour commute and a couple of stopovers can be,” I had replied, sitting down on a thin plastic moulded chair, in front of her equally plastic desk. “You have some work for me.”
“Yea, it’s not so much ‘work’ ‘work’, but undercover support and backup for one of our blokes,” She had started to explain, standing immediately in front of me, leaning her thin frame against the front of her desk. “We need someone to ride shotgun for us,” she had continued and then, had clarified, “Oh, we’ll still pay you your daily fee – minimum five days payment, plus all expenses. That okay with you?”
Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family Page 14