They sat across from each other, sharing a bottle of wine, reliving Peter’s life in the United States, his years of schooling, all the things Buonaparte now wanted to hear from Pierre’s lips. Hours passed, and throughout the conversation, Buonaparte drank in his grandson’s words, along with the wine, savoring each bit of information, stopping him only to ask more detail. When their talk finally turned to Peter’s military training, Buonaparte’s interest seemed even more intense. He questioned him about the details of Ranger training, demolitions, special weapons, shaking his head at it all.
Peter smiled across at him. “It’s not as amazing as it sounds, Grandpère. The training is just very refined.”
“I know,” Buonaparte said. “I was just thinking of poor Napoleon. All that he missed by being born too soon. He was such an innovator in using the technologies of his time.”
Hearing his grandfather speak of Napoleon hurled Peter back into his childhood, the dark paneled study, the books, the toy soldiers, the military portraits. Days that had seemed to be one thing, but had actually been another. He leaned forward again. “Grandpère,” he said, “we’ve talked about me for hours. Now I would like to go somewhere where we can talk of other things.”
Buonaparte made a circular motion with his hand. “Saigon is not a good place for that, Pierre.” He smiled at his grandson. “I know you have need to hear many things. But I must ask you to be patient for a few more days. Then it will be arranged for us to be together, and we will talk about everything you must know.” The smile faded from Buonaparte’s face. “Until then you must appear to be nothing more than another American soldier. Your safety depends on that.”
Peter exhaled deeply, bringing the smile back to Buonaparte’s face.
“Indulge an old man,” he said. “Just for tonight, let me enjoy my grandson who has come home to me.”
There seemed to be a hint of something more in his grandfather’s words, something Peter could not quite grasp. “Of course, Grandpère,” he said. “But tell me one thing. Why did you choose this place?”
Buonaparte raised his hands and let them fall back to the table. “I thought it would look more natural for a newly arrived officer to go out to a restaurant. I didn’t expect you to come in the back door with hard eyes and a gun in your hand.”
It was nearly dawn before Peter left the restaurant, and a tired Buonaparte Sartene made his way into the now empty front room, where an overweight Vietnamese awaited him. Wearily, he sat down across from the moon-faced man known as Tran Loy, who for years had run this restaurant and gambling house for the Sartene family.
“Your meeting was satisfactory?” Tran Loy asked.
Sartene nodded. “As always, my friend, you provided well for my needs. But now I must ask you to do one more thing.” He paused to emphasize the importance of what he was about to say. “Notify our other people here in Saigon that my grandson has arrived. He must be watched with great care.”
Tran Loy looked at Sartene with open curiosity. “This is a very unusual request from you,” he said.
Sartene’s face remained blank. “There is a very unusual need, my friend,” he said.
Chapter 19
SEACON—Statistical Evaluation and Counterintelligence—the unit to which Peter had been assigned, was located in a small cinder-block building adjacent to the command complex inside Tan Son Nhut. The interior of the building was air-conditioned and soundproofed, to keep out the suffocating heat and the noise generated by the constant flow of aircraft only a few hundred yards away.
It was 1700 hours when Peter entered the squat, bunkerlike building—a full fifteen hours before he was due to report for duty—and he was still suffering from the combination of jet lag and the previous night’s reunion with his grandfather.
He had been asleep when the sergeant had hammered an insistent fist against the wooden door of his tent. His new commanding officer wanted him to report immediately, the sergeant’s curt voice had announced, leaving Peter with the distinct need to place his foot squarely in the man’s face. He had not been sure whether it was the tone of the sergeant’s voice or the fact that he did not want to leave his bed. He had settled for a few angry words.
Inside the unit office, he was directed down a long hallway which ended at a plain wooden door, bearing the name COL. BENJAMIN H. Q. WALLACE. COMMANDING.
Peter knocked twice, opened the door on command, stepped inside and came to attention.
“Captain Peter S. Bently, reporting as ordered, sir.”
Wallace sat hunched over his desk and returned the salute with a casual flick of his hand.
“Come in and sit down, Bently,” he said. “Sorry to drag you in a day early, but we work odd hours here, and I won’t be around during the day tomorrow. He eyed Bently carefully as he crossed the room. “I wanted to make sure you were squared away and briefed before you started.”
Peter seated himself in a straight-backed wooden chair and watched Wallace open a military personnel folder—his own, he presumed.
Wallace went through the folder quickly, occasionally nodding his head, or glancing up at Peter over the wire-rimmed gold glasses that were perched on the end of his flat, fleshy nose. He was in his early fifties, reasonably trim, with the enormous hands of a heavyweight prizefighter, which were conspicuously hairless. He cupped his chin in one hand and massaged his cheeks with his thumb and fingers, then ran the hand over his wiry black hair, which showed no sign of gray. Rubbing his cheeks that way made his face appear highly pliable, almost as if composed of putty. He removed his glasses, revealing slightly bloodshot brown eyes, then eased back in his chair and stared at Peter for a full minute.
“Tell me why you went indefinite and volunteered for duty here,” he finally said. “You looking for a career in the army?”
“No, sir. It seemed the logical step, given the training I’d received, plus the opportunity to see a part of the world that interests me.”
“This shithole interests you? Judas Priest, why?”
“It has an interesting history. …” Peter hesitated. “And my father served here, during and after World War II, so I grew up hearing a great deal about it.”
“I noted that in the intelligence investigation report on you. Light colonel, OSS. I have no doubt that’s one reason you were accepted for this duty. That, and your ability to speak the language. The army believes in these things. But as far as this place being interesting goes, you’d have to find two hundred years of insanity interesting.”
“I was raised with a great deal of military history, sir,” Peter said, already growing weary of explaining himself. Suddenly he wished he could tell this man how his war would be lost because he didn’t understand his enemy, and never would.
Wallace grunted. “Military history, shit. This is a two-hundred-year-old race riot. There’s not even a damned front.” He looked back at the folder and flipped several pages. “Says you speak Vietnamese and Lao. Where’d you pick those up?”
“My father employed a man who spoke Lao, and decided I should learn. Vietnamese I studied in college.”
The colonel nodded to himself. “Also French, Italian and Corsican. Isn’t Corsican just pidgin French?”
“No, sir. Actually it’s closer to Italian.”
Wallace nodded again, then turned another page. “Interesting training. You seem to have managed to keep it going without ever getting a permanent assignment. That’s a pretty good trick. If you hadn’t gone indefinite, I would have said you beat the army pretty good.” He looked back at the papers in his hand and began to read from them. “Military Intelligence Course; Kennedy Special Warfare Center; Airborne Operations School; Ranger School; Jungle Warfare School; Pathfinder School; Demolitions; Counter-Insurgency Operations; Communications.” He nodded again, without looking up. “Special qualifications. Demolitions; Firearms and Special Weapons; Chemical and Biological Warfare; survival techniques; martial arts: karate, aikido, judo and tae kwon do.” He sat back in his chair and star
ed at Peter again. “You sound like a fucking one-man army. On paper, anyway.”
Peter allowed the words to fall away, not willing to be goaded.
Wallace waited for a response, then leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “Well, Bently, we don’t have time here for much else but chasing down Charlie. You look good on paper for that. But, then again, this isn’t school, is it?”
“No, sir.” Peter kept his voice flat, unmoved.
Wallace smiled at his failure to provoke, picked up a pack of cigarettes from his desk, offered them to Peter, then lit one for himself. His voice became softer. “Your job will be a simple assignment on paper. It’s just not simple to get it done. Maybe speaking the language will make it easier for you. Basically, as part of this unit, you’ll be looking for VC operatives here in Saigon. You’ll try to learn what the VC here are up to; any information you can develop on upcoming military operations, troop movements, weapon movements, terrorist raids. Also you’ll keep track of all new incidents as they occur and try to uncover any new information about overall VC strength in the south.” Wallace paused, as if shifting gears from his staccato military prattle. “We keep very precise statistics and records on all this to feed the computer for future use. In addition to that we keep a close eye on any civilian black-market activity that may either co-opt our own people or be of aid to Charlie. When we do find something big, like a VC weapons depot or a command center, we raid it and destroy it. Any questions?”
Peter’s voice remained flat. “Only one, sir. How closely do we work with our counterparts on the ARVN side?”
“When we have to, as closely as necessary. Otherwise, be friendly and social, but in your work avoid them like the plague. We have to clear any raid, or anything that involves their people with them. But that’s done at my level, so you don’t have to worry about it.”
Wallace stood and walked out from behind his desk. Peter was surprised at how tall he was. At least six-three.
“Normally, we give all new men arriving here a week to get acclimated to the weather, the food, the water, and everything else. Mainly it’s to give you time to get your bowels in order. That’s policy for all new men in-country. But here, we don’t have a week. We’re understaffed and we’re going to stay that way until the war widens a bit. So I’m afraid you’ll have to live with a little bending of policy.” Wallace looked at him hard, defying him to object.
Again, Peter said nothing.
After a few moments Wallace smiled. “You don’t let things get to you, do you, Bently?”
Peter allowed the trace of a smile to play across his lips. “I try not to, sir.”
“That’s good.” Wallace extended his hand. “Welcome aboard. You just follow the drill, don’t go off half-cocked on your own, and we’ll do some good work together.” Wallace walked back behind his desk, but remained standing. “Tomorrow, you get squared away here in the morning. In the afternoon you’re going to take a run up to a village outside our Bien Hoa base. There’s an interrogation center there I’d like you to see firsthand. It will give you a quick fix on what we’re up against. I’ll make sure everything is cleared for you.”
“Fine, sir. It should be interesting,” Peter said.
“It’ll be that,” Wallace said. “One more thing. There’s a club, of sorts, that most of our command people and just about all the ranking ARVN officers belong to. Called the Room of a Thousand Mirrors. Be a good idea if you joined it. A little personal contact goes a long way in our type of work. It’s expensive, but we can cover the membership cost.”
Wallace returned to his chair, then looked up at Peter. “Any questions, Bently?”
Peter hesitated. “Just one, sir. The name of that club sounds rather exotic.”
Wallace snorted laughter. “Right on the mark. It’s a very fancy whorehouse. But they have a good bar, an excellent dining room, and the atmosphere of a gentlemen’s club. And it does serve our purposes. The only difference is, you can also go upstairs and get laid in an unusual setting. But I’ll let you judge that yourself.” Wallace massaged his puttylike cheeks and smiled to himself. “All that, and it’s run by a beautiful Korean woman whom we’ve investigated half a dozen times.”
“Investigated?” Peter asked.
Wallace nodded. “A little paranoia among the CIA types over at our embassy. They decided she had to be KCIA. Didn’t figure the Koreans would let anybody run an operation like that unless it was one of their intelligence people. After that didn’t prove out, they decided she might be VC, sent over by the North Koreans. More nonsense. Frankly, most of the brass wouldn’t care if she was Ho Chi Minh’s sister, if she’d only work at the trade. Unfortunately, she doesn’t. She just runs the place.” Wallace allowed his eyes to harden again. “But why don’t you eat there tonight and see for yourself? I can call and arrange it.”
When he left Wallace’s office, Peter found his weariness had been replaced by overwhelming hunger. His last meal had been aboard the aircraft, almost thirty-six hours earlier, and he had no regrets about following Wallace’s “suggestion” about where to eat. He only hoped the food was as good as the man had claimed.
Address in hand, Peter walked out through the base, past the ARVN sentries guarding the gate, and began looking for a taxi. As he waited, a jeep pulled up, and Peter watched one of the ARVN guards walk around it, probing the undercarriage with a mirror attached to a long pole. He smiled to himself, wondering what action the guards would take if they found the bomb they were searching out. Then he noticed the sandbag bunker just beyond the gate, and his smile broadened. The only warning a driver would receive would be the sight of the ARVN guards racing for safety, he decided.
But that, he had found, was the military. Everyone followed orders, no matter how absurd. The officers did so in the hope of promotion, the enlisted men to avoid problems. And when danger reared its head, everyone covered his tail and prayed for salvation. All else involved the pure pleasure of exerting power over someone else.
Peter thought of his new commanding officer, and the power game that had just been played. You’re pulled out of bed and belittled, just to make certain you realize who’s in control.
When Peter had first been exposed to the military, he had wondered about his grandfather’s intense interest in its history. Then he had realized that what intrigued the old man was not the military, but the tactics of war. For those who lived among the anonymous uniformed ranks, the game was all-important, and war and its tactics were only an extension of the game, one that provided greater opportunities.
When a Bluebird taxi finally pulled to a jolting halt beside him, Peter entered the rear of the filthy, scarred, threadbare blue Renault and immediately began haggling with the driver over the fare to the Room of a Thousand Mirrors. Initially, the driver insisted on a hundred piasters, and only after several minutes of debate did he lower the price to fifty. A pre-departure orientation briefing had warned that cab drivers routinely demanded four or five times the civilian fare from Americans, but would usually settle for double the price under pressure.
Peter had undertaken the debate in English, wanting the full force of the driver’s argument, along with the muttered curses he would utter in his own tongue. It was not a question of money—one hundred piasters amounted to roughly eighty-five cents, American—but a chance to recapture childhood memories of shopping with his mother, of reliving the oriental need to haggle over every sale, amid claims that their children would face starvation if merchandise was sold at the price demanded, was irresistible. The driver had not disappointed, and Peter sat back satisfied, determined to give the man an outlandish tip, thereby reaffirming his belief that all white men were truly mad.
The taxi barreled along Truong Minh Giang, across Cach Mang and into Le Loi Boulevard, past the Senate Building and the Vietnamese Marine Memorial. The driver, like the other Vietnamese who raced beside him, seemed oblivious to any notion of safety, and for his own peace of mind, Peter found himself concent
rating on the sidewalks, where a mass of humanity hurried past the singsong shouts of street vendors, who sold everything from food to clothing to household utensils. It too was as he remembered. The sights, the sounds, and especially the smells all provoked memories of the past. He had been a child when they left Vientiane and moved to the house on the Mekong. But even now he remembered the smells of that city, the underlying odor of mass rot, mingling with the pungent aromas of the food merchants who lined the streets.
The taxi screeched to a halt outside a walled building, and Peter pried himself out of the cramped passenger seat, then handed the driver fifty piasters, plus a fifty-piaster tip. The driver stared at the money, then back at Peter again, as if trying to decide whether he was dealing with insanity or the simple inability to understand Vietnamese currency. The driver resolved the question with a simple grin, bobbed his head up and down, and repeated, “Thank you, du ma,” several times before lurching back into traffic.
Peter watched him race away, barely able to restrain laughter. It was the perfect ending to the entire debate, both for himself and the driver. Du ma was the Vietnamese equivalent of “motherfucker.”
The Room of a Thousand Mirrors was located just close enough to the center of the city to escape the battered slums that dominated most of the outer reaches of Plantation Road. It was a sprawling old colonial mansion, with screened terraces that overlooked a rear garden. It was French opulence at its best, with tasteful sandstone carvings set above the doors and windows.
Inside the carved teak door, Peter found himself facing a floating garden of water hyacinth, the delicate blue blossoms reflecting against the shallow water of the pool in which they floated. An elderly woman of indeterminate age, dressed in a white-and-gold ao dai, came from a side room, stopped a few feet away and bowed.
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