“I won’t change my mind,” Senator Goldwater said, a glass of bourbon in his hand, sitting down in the armchair left vacant for him opposite the large television set.
Four hours later, the cheering in the room was limited to cheers for Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, Mississippi, South Carolina, and Arizona. He had carried Fredonia.
36
November 5, 1964
Savannakhet, Laos
Tucker spent two days at the inn with Bui Tin and the two technicians who had flown the 250 miles from Hanoi to Savannakhet on the chartered flight when the word was passed up that Montana was prepared to cooperate. The technicians arrived in the early afternoon of the day following Tucker’s long evening with Bui Tin. Tucker had occupied himself during the morning making sketches of the evasive equipment that would substantially nullify the whole of the Igloo White operation except, as he explained to Bui Tin, on those occasions when troops traveling down the Trail failed to spot a Spikebuoy, shield its transmission in time, and penetrate its frequency. “This isn’t going to protect everything you’ve got, Colonel.”
“I did not expect that it would, Major.” Bui Tin spoke deferentially, as always.
Late in the morning Tucker said he would need some proper drafting paper. This was not readily available at the Lao-tse Inn, so Bui Tin gave careful instructions to the driver, who an hour or so later came back with it. He had found, he said, the small supply store that furnished routine provisions to Nakhon Phanom, forty-two miles away. Tucker found himself sketching on paper on which appeared, in tiny print at the bottom right, “U.S. Government issue.” He bit his lip. He would need to get used to the paradoxes. Already had, in a way. Since making up his mind the night before, he had not tortured himself about it. He continued with his work.
The Russian who came in from Hanoi knew only German, so that his questions to Tucker needed to be relayed through his colleague, the North Vietnamese technician, who also spoke German. Within ten minutes Tucker knew that he was dealing, in the case of the gook, with a total naïf. The Russian’s background, on the other hand, was considerable—but oh, light-years behind what Tucker Montana was talking about, so that he had to proceed slowly, spelling out every step of the technological machinations by which his powerful offensive system could be cheated of its prey. The last day was devoted to doing detailed sketches, with careful attention given to the three radiating elements that extended about 24 inches, enclosed within the flyscreen, and explicit instruction on how to tap the antenna with the frequency analyzer. These instruments, the Russian said, were available in rudimentary shape in the Soviet Union, but if the major could acquire one from the CIA and slip it to Bui Tin, that would of course make the work of refining it easier. Tucker nodded, making certain, by his detailed designs, that whatever the delay in getting their hands on an American sequencer, the technicians in Moscow could get on with the development of an adequate facsimile.
By dinnertime the job was done. There was nothing left to do until the airplane the next day. The flight to Saigon left at 11:15 A.M.
“With your permission, Major, we will leave on our charter before you, at ten.”
“Sure, Colonel.” Tucker did not care if they left at ten that night. He would make an excuse to Bui Tin, eat alone, and spend the evening reading. He hadn’t let on to anybody that he had yet to read Gone with the Wind, and it was only when Lao Dai, who had just finished it, pressed him to help her analyze it that he confessed. Without hesitation, she had stuffed the fat paperback into his briefcase.
And that was only three days ago, Tucker thought. He agreed to have a cognac later in the evening with Bui Tin, and they met in the colonel’s suite, without the technicians, at 10:30.
Bui Tin had given much thought to what, exactly, to say at the end. There must not be a hint of gratitude in the sense of favors done—quite wrong: Why should Montana do Bui Tin a favor?—But something, just a trace, of idealism shared. So that when he had poured the two drinks, Bui Tin lifted his hand and said, “Let us drink to a world without nuclear devastation.” That sentiment surely ran no risk, and of course he knew, after the careful briefings from Lao Dai, that this theme was the fastest and surest way to Tucker’s conscience.
Tucker raised his glass. “That’s good enough for me, Colonel.”
Something personal was needed, Bui Tin thought. He knew for certain only that Tucker would return to Lao Dai. He did not know whether he would now resign from the service, or continue in his job as if—as if nothing had happened. He eased into the subject carefully.
“Please give my cousin, Lao Dai, my warmest regards.”
“Oh, I’ll do that, Colonel, don’t you worry.”
A little probe. “Will she be returning to the United States with you?”
Tucker was startled. He had given the subject no thought, he reminded himself. But why should he have, since up until now he had thought himself as stuck in South Vietnam and Nakhon Phanom into the foreseeable future. “That’s for down the line, Colonel.”
“Why of course, I forgot. You are obviously needed here, in Nakhon Phanom.”
“Actually,” Tucker said—he was almost talking to himself—“actually, I’m not really needed. They’ve got all my ideas, the equipment is tested, it’s just a matter of production and coordination. They don’t really need me for that, though they think they do. But here I am, and here Lao Dai is, and as long as we’re both together in the same place it doesn’t matter, I guess.”
Bui Tin nodded, as though he had expended his interest in the subject. He began one of his rambling historical disquisitions on the history and culture of the region, as if determined to complete what he had begun in the car. Tucker’s mind was on other matters, though he sat there with the fine cognac, puffing on his cigar, producing his perfect smoke rings, and occasionally grunting this or that to suggest that he was following the colonel’s anthropological lecture. When his cigar was finished, he took advantage of a cadence in the colonel’s thought to rise and say, “That was very interesting, thank you very much.”
Bui Tin rose, and bowed his head. There was a moment’s pause.
Shake hands? The hell with it—Tucker extended his hand, and Bui Tin took it. There was no pressure exerted by either party. It was a formality.
The following morning, from his window, Tucker saw the three men departing in the same car that had fetched him. He would be following them out to the airport in an hour and a half. He had made his own arrangements with the inn to hire a car and driver.
Colonel Bui Tin let the technicians go through airport procedures ahead of him. They went through Laotian Customs and Immigration and would wait in the boarding area, or perhaps even inside the plane with the pilots, until Bui Tin joined them. This he would do quickly. Except as required, he did not want the pilots and the technicians in each other’s company. No loose talk. Having waited ten minutes, he opened the car door. His suitcase had been taken by the Vietnamese technician and loaded onto the charter plane with his own. Bui Tin needed only to complete his passenger manifest card, go out through Customs and Immigration and board the charter.
He bent over the counter, writing out his name, address, birth date, profession, passport number and expiration date—information he had carefully memorized from the passport taken from the manager of a Hanoi state purchasing company. As he wrote out his name, dashing it off as if familiar, there was an explosion. It sounded on his right, outside the main airport shed. Bui Tin threw himself on the floor. So did the dozen other men and women in the shed, whether behind the counters or on the passengers’ side. After a brief moment, there was a chorus of shouting and yelling. Two airport guards rushed to the site of the explosion. In a minute one of them entered and said something in Thai. Bui Tin looked over and saw the passenger agent standing now, brushing off her clothes. He took it to be the all clear, stood up and, showing no emotion, completed his form, handing it to the agent. He leaned down to pick up his briefcase, but it was not there.
“I do not know, sir, when Security will give us clearance to proceed.” Security did so only after the arrival of central police who inspected the bomb that had sat under a bush alongside the terminal building, evidently detonated by radio signal. It had caused no damage. A search of everyone in the area revealed nothing incriminating. One hour later, Bui Tin and the two technicians were airborne on their chartered DC-3.
A few minutes later, Tucker Montana arrived. He inquired into the causes of the excitement and was told.
One more bomb, more or less, he said to himself without concern as he filled out his passenger form. He waited, seated on a single chair behind the little newsstand. He would prefer not to spot one of his colleagues from Nakhon Phanom coincidentally bound on the same flight to Saigon. He would of course tell any such person that he had been on a hunting vacation, though probably his colleague would wonder why he had not bothered to drop in at their facility while in the area. Tucker planned to return to Nakhon Phanom, but only after a day or two with Lao Dai, decompressing. He would deceive Blackford, talk only about the hunt, and say, Yes, he planned to return to work. He would try to persuade Blackford to keep his mouth shut about Lao Dai, promising in return to try to get her to defect to the South.
But no one came that he had ever seen before, with the exception of the young man who did the crossword puzzles and oohed over the family album. He was evidently bound back to Saigon, having done whatever business he was here to do.
In a piston plane, not a jet, it was a substantial flight, two hours and a half to fly the 360 miles across southern Laos and eastern Cambodia into Saigon, perched there on top of the Mekong Delta. Tucker was drained of strength, just as he remembered finding himself at the end of those sixteen-hour workdays at Los Alamos. He was stirred quietly by the thought of a warm, relaxed evening with Lao Dai. He would of course not tell her what he had done—Bui Tin had reassured him that no one would learn of his complicity from Hanoi—merely that he had listened to Bui Tin’s line of argument, that he had found it persuasive, and that he would do his best to introduce her cousin’s arguments in the circles he moved in. After all, she had said time and time again that all she wanted was for Tucker to listen; now he could safely say that, after all, he had spent two and one-half days with her cousin. Could anyone beat that for listening? He smiled as he reflected on the satisfied expression on her face when he especially pleased her.
At the safe house Blackford tore the receiver off the hook seconds after it had begun its ring.
“Yes. Alphonse?”
“Confirmed. He is on the eleven-fifteen to Saigon.”
“Okay. Now listen, when he gets off the plane, you stick close to him. If he waits for a bag, you wait for a bag. Come out of the airport right behind him. As soon as he gets outside, I’ll collar him and tell him to come on in with you and me to the Citroën. I’ll have it parked close. He trusts me, but I don’t want to approach him while he’s still in the airport waiting for a bag. Don’t want to give him time to think. You got it?”
“Entendu.”
They were coming down. Tucker Montana held his nose and blew through it, easing the strain on his ears. Saigon looked awfully hot, compared to life on those nice hills in Thailand–Laos.
He walked down the narrow gangway and into the familiar airport, which seemed to grow in size every time he landed. He grabbed a copy of Stars & Stripes, which he scanned as he waited for his bag. Well whaddaya-know, Lyndon Johnson had been elected for a full term as President! There was a front-page picture of Goldwater, with the caption: “The Candidate who refused to concede until the next day.” Probably had a hangover from celebrating, Tucker thought. Celebrating that he wouldn’t have to handle this mess. But it was a good thing Goldwater was beaten. He was sure as hell likelier than Lyndon to bring on a world war.
He spotted his bag, picked it up, shoved the stub into the hands of the guard at the gate, and went out in the relentless sun to hail a cab.
He spotted Blackford walking toward him. He caught just the words, “Tuck, come on …”
A uniformed man with a rifle shoved Blackford to one side, hard. Another bore down on Tucker from the right, another from the left, a third behind him. “Major Montana, you are under arrest. Extend your hands behind your back.”
Montana felt the steel press of the pistol on the small of his back.
He complied. A van drove up. The back door opened. The officer in charge, a South Vietnamese who wore a colonel’s insignia, gave orders in Vietnamese to the driver. Twenty minutes later the van stopped. Tucker could hear gates being opened. He looked through the barred window at the back of the van and saw soldiers closing the gates. The van stopped. Tucker was led out and registered at the desk. Then to a bare wall where his two escorts left him, the officer in charge having said in English, “Stand still. Photograph.” Tucker’s eyes closed when the flash bulb popped. The guards were back. He was led to a cell guarded by a massive door. Inside there was a bench, and light only from a narrow slit, eight feet up. After he was unshackled, the guards left him, slamming the door shut.
Tucker Montana looked up at the narrow light, lay down on the bench and wept, and prayed for strength.
When the van came to the prison gates, Blackford told Alphonse to slow the Citroen in which they were trailing the military van.
“No point in getting any closer,” he said wearily, bitterly. “They were one step ahead of us.”
“We tried, Mr. Oakes. Wasn’t anything more we could do. Didn’t know they were also on the trail.”
Blackford cursed himself. Hadn’t Rufus told him that Tucker—and Lao Dai—would be tailed? There was nothing to be done at this point. Later.
Meanwhile, he had to be in Danang for the final, critical Tracer test. From there he would contact Rufus in Washington.
He didn’t know that Rufus had been reached at the airport in Honolulu by the Director. Over the telephone he had been told to return immediately to Saigon. Ambassador Maxwell Taylor had called the Director a half hour earlier to report that South Vietnam Intelligence had picked up the chief architect of Operation Igloo and was holding him, incommunicado, in Kham Chi Hoa prison.
37
November 7, 1964
Saigon, South Vietnam
Colonel Yen Chi, the head of the Army of the Republic of Vietnam Intelligence, was not himself able to understand the complexities detailed in the photographs that had been seized from the North Vietnamese colonel at the airport. That the plans had been done by Americans was obvious: all the writing—the specifications, the footnotes, the text—was in English. That it was information given to the enemy by Major Montana, while not yet absolutely established, seemed all but certain. Captain Minh-Lao Hoang had traveled on the Savannakhet flight with him, and had tracked him to the Lao-tse. At the inn he was in the company, continuously, of a Vietnamese who traveled under the name of Choi. A careful check on all incoming flights ended with the tailing, by one of Captain Minh-Lao’s associates, of two men, one of them an Asiatic, the second a Russian, also to the Lao-tse Inn.… Silver had crossed hands and got from the dispatcher the information that the chartered airplane in which they came had flown in from Hanoi.
At the inn, close observation revealed that the two new arrivals, together with Major Montana and a fourth man, had spent hours together, on Tuesday and again Wednesday, in the fourth man’s suite. Instructions had been given to the driver, who stayed by the Peugeot day and night. He was followed, on the second day, into Savannakhet. There he went to a little stationery store stocked with foreign newspapers and supplies specially purchased for American personnel at Nakhon Phanom. At
that store the driver purchased several large pads of what appeared to be sketching paper. These had been taken to the inn.
Captain Minh-Lao and his three men, conferring on Wednesday night and ascertaining from the dispatcher that orders had gone out to have the chartered plane ready for takeoff at ten the next morning, concluded that the man at whose suite the meetings had taken place was probably the senior member of the North Vietnamese delegation and that the sketching paper would almost certainly yield important material.
The diversion was planned. Two pounds of explosive were lodged at night, far enough away from the main airport shed to avoid ruining it, but close enough to make a noise deafening to everyone inside the shed. A battery-powered remote detonator was emplaced so that Captain Minh-Lao could set off the explosion with his tiny transmitter, carried in his pocket inside a cigar case. Minh-Lao was slightly puzzled to see only the Russian and the North Vietnamese enter the airport, without their companion, pausing at the counter to fill out their manifests. For a moment he considered detonating the bomb and grabbing one of their suitcases. But he peered out the entrance and saw his target sitting in the car, its engine running. So: They were boarding their flight in relays.
He dallied at the newsstand. Moments later, his mark walked into the building and, leaning over the counter, began to fill out the form. Minh-Lao pressed the switch on the transmitter, dove down on his belly behind his target and, while everyone else was prostrate, lifted himself on his knees and slid the target’s briefcase into his empty suitcase, just large enough for the briefcase, a few crossword puzzles, and a family album.
Colonel Yen was disappointed that he had not got hold of the sketch pads. “Obviously the two gentlemen from North Vietnam who boarded the plane ahead of your target had those sketches in their own briefcases. So that what we are left with is—this.” He pointed at the photographs. “Dr. Fwang-tse from Special Forces will be here any minute. He will surely be able to give us the meaning of the photographs.”
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