Two Songs This Archangel Sings

by George C. Chesbro

  “Of course, but not as badly as they wanted to kill this one. Archangel was the only American they ever put a bounty on.” Loan Ka paused, studied the end of his glowing cigar as he rolled it between his thumb and index finger. “Could anything I say get the American into any more trouble than he’s already in?”

  “Nothing you can say to me will hurt him. And I won’t repeat anything you say to anyone else who might hurt him.”

  The Hmong thought about it as he puffed on his cigar. “I wouldn’t want anything I say to be misunderstood,” he said at last.

  “It won’t be.”

  “I believe that Archangel was quite mad,” Loan Ka said through a thick cloud of pungent, blue cigar smoke which lent his words a surreal, disembodied air. “He seemed to have a terrible and almost insatiable need for violence, as others have a need for food, water, and rest. I will not say that he loved to kill; it may be true, but I am not certain. I do know that he loved to fight; he seemed to need to be near death, his own or others’. If more than three or four days would go by without contact with the enemy, he would become very restless and irritable. Then he would go out alone, at night, and hunt the enemy himself, armed only with his bare hands, perhaps a knife or martial arts weapons designed for silent killing. Sometimes he would be gone for as long as a week, and we would think that he was dead. But he always returned, usually reeking and filthy, covered with dirt and caked blood. I do not know what he did to his victims and did not want to know even then. I suspect he was even more savage than the Pathet Lao, and the acts he committed led to their fear of him and the bounty they placed on his head. In any case, after these lone hunting forays he would be all right for a time—relaxed, the wildness gone from his eyes, seemingly once again at peace with himself. But then the tension in him would begin to build again if there was a prolonged period without combat. Always, if the enemy did not come down the trails or through the jungle to us, he would go out after them. Archangel was the most savage and awesome warrior I have ever known. He became a legend, Mongo, as hated and feared by the Pathet Lao as he was respected and revered by us.”

  “When did he first come to you?”

  “In early 1968, soon after the Tet offensive.”

  “How did he come to you? Did he just walk into your village out of the jungle?”

  Loan Ka shook his head. “No. As I said, there were Americans before him. A mile or so from the village there was a clearing which was used as a helicopter landing site. That was how our supplies were brought in, and how American personnel were shuttled in and out.”

  “What about communications?”

  “Archangel, like the others, had a shortwave radio, but its use was always kept to a minimum. There were regularly scheduled meetings twice a month between Archangel and his superiors, and Archangel would always go to the landing site at a prearranged time, unless he’d received a radio message instructing him not to.”

  “Did you ever see any of the men who came to meet with Veil Kendry?”

  “On occasion, but only when the helicopter was bringing in supplies; then we would go to carry back the munitions. However, we were not allowed to go along when the meetings took place; Archangel was supposed to go alone. We ignored this restriction after the Pathet Lao put a price on the American’s head. After that we always accompanied him, despite his objections. Six of us would escort him to the landing site, then remain a distance away.”

  “Were you close enough at these times to see the landing site when the helicopter came in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ever see the faces of the people who came just to talk to him?”

  “Until the last time, there was only one man—the same man—who came with the pilot. He was dressed in civilian clothes.”

  “You’re sure it was always the same man?”

  “I believe so, yes, although I never saw his face because of the long-billed cap he wore. Also, every time I saw him he was wearing a pale green raincoat that seemed too small for him. He was fat, about a foot shorter than Archangel.”

  “If he was wearing civilian clothes, it may have been Veil’s C.I.A. controller,” I said, half to myself.

  “They didn’t like each other.”

  “Veil told you that?”

  “No. The American never spoke of the man or what they talked about. But they were always gesturing angrily at one another, and their loud voices carried. I did not have much English then, but I could understand the sound of anger. Archangel was always highly agitated after these meetings, and he would usually go out alone hunting afterward.”

  “You say there was only the pilot and this man in the green raincoat at the meetings up until the last time?”

  “Yes.”

  “When was the last time?”

  “The early fall of 1972.”

  “This was when Veil left your village?”

  “It was when he was taken away,” Loan Ka replied curtly, his voice taking on a sharp edge of emotion. His eyes had gone slightly out of focus as he stared at a spot just above my head, and his face had a haunted expression, as though he were looking into the depths of a nightmare which was very old, but which he could not forget. “I’m certain Archangel received no warning that he was being taken out, or he would have told us. We escorted him to what we assumed was just another regularly scheduled meeting, but this time there were two helicopters waiting at the landing site, One was a large troop carrier, and there were a large number of South Vietnamese soldiers inside with assault weapons. The other helicopter carried the man in the green raincoat, and …” Loan Ka paused, swallowed hard, then virtually spat out the last name. “Colonel Po.”

  The name, “Colonel Po,” struck a distinctive chord—one that was very loud and dissonant. “Liu Sakh Po?” I asked.

  The Hmong nodded, and I felt the muscles in my stomach and across my chest begin to tighten. The information touched on a situation—and answered questions—that had made headlines in American newspapers for a week or more in 1972, in the fall.

  Colonel Liu Sakh Po had been the most notorious officer in the South Vietnamese army. A scion of one of the wealthiest, most powerful—and, many said, most corrupt—families in South Viet Nam, Colonel Po had never, to anyone’s knowledge, had a single bullet fired at him in combat. Yet he had been the most prominent spokesman for both the government and the army, in effect a flamboyant propagandist in French-tailored uniforms constantly warning that South Viet Nam would fall to the Communists if the United States did not provide ever-increasing amounts of aid. Po spent all his time in Saigon, a distance from the battlefield that did nothing to slow the numbers of large, glittering medals with which he was constantly being decorated in recognition of his “public relations” efforts.

  Then a New York Times reporter had discovered that one Liu Sakh Po, ARVN colonel, was Saigon’s most prominent crime czar, trafficking in narcotics sold to American servicemen, a thriving black market in American-supplied foodstuffs and munitions, and prostitution. Although angry denials were issued by both the South Vietnamese and American military commands, and even though the reporter was hastily expelled from the country and branded a traitor by certain United States senators and congressmen, the evidence against Po had continued to build. Then, at the height of the scandal, Colonel Po had simply disappeared from public view. Now I knew where he had gone—into the jungles of Laos, with the help of the Americans.

  Ironically, within the past year the Times had begun another series of articles on the infamous Colonel Po, a kind of retrospective and update written by the same reporter, a winner of three Pulitzer Prizes. According to the articles, Po had been spirited out of South Viet Nam after the collapse of Saigon and helped to settle in the United States, a fact that had been well hidden for more than a decade, up until the publication of the articles. Also, according to the articles, Po had brought his old tricks with him to his new country. Operating from a well-guarded mansion in Albany, New York, he was said to control a wide em
pire in drugs and prostitution throughout upper New York State. Déjà vu.

  “Why was Po brought into Laos, to your village?” I asked, pretty certain I knew the answer.

  “He was to replace Archangel, and the soldiers in the second helicopter formed his personal bodyguard. I do not know why this decision was made; as far as I know, he was the only non-American adviser sent to work with the Hmong anywhere in Laos.”

  “The Americans were helping him hide from a very nosy press.”

  “Even from the distance where we were standing, we could see that Archangel was angrier than he had ever been before. There was another American in the helicopter with the man in the green raincoat, an officer. Po and his men just walked away while Archangel argued with the officer and the man in the raincoat. They shouted back and forth at each other for almost half an hour.”

  “Could you tell the officer’s rank?”

  “I believe he was a general; he had stars on his cap and the epaulets of his jacket. It was this man who finally ended the argument; he spoke very sharply, and then Archangel threw down his gun in disgust and climbed into the smaller helicopter.”

  “And you never saw Veil Kendry again?”

  Loan Ka shook his head. “We saw him again.”

  “But you said this was the last time—”

  Loan Ka held up his cigar in a gesture asking for patience. “It was the last meeting between Archangel and his superiors.”

  At a sound to our left, both of us turned toward the doorway where one of Loan Ka’s sons stood with a girl about his own age. She was dark-eyed, with long, shimmering black hair and olive skin. I thought she was beautiful. I had not heard the young man leave the house, had not heard a car start up, but Peter had obviously gone out into the night to bring the young woman back.

  “This is Kathy,” Loan Ka continued quietly.

  “Hello, Dr. Frederickson,” the young woman said, her English delivered with a lovely, lilting accent. She stepped forward, and I stood up and took the hand she offered. “I know of you. I am a sociology major at the university here, and two of your monographs on family structure and crime are required reading in a course I’m taking. It’s an honor to meet you.”

  “My pleasure, Kathy.”

  We sat, and Loan Ka’s wife entered carrying a tray with hot tea and pastries. After serving us, she left, motioning for her son to go with her.

  “Colonel Po and his soldiers were not interested in fighting the Communists,” the Hmong continued. “They were interested only in preserving their own safety. Indeed, they didn’t even trust us; they stockpiled most of the arms and ammunition in their own private compound, which they forced us to build for them.

  “Then, about two weeks after Po arrived, our children began to disappear. At first we thought it was some kind of Pathet Lao terror tactic, and that individual Communists had somehow found a way to penetrate our defense perimeter and kidnap our children. But, as we were to learn, this was not the case. The most beautiful of our children, both male and female, were being stolen by Po’s men, then smuggled into Viet Nam for use in Po’s Saigon brothels.”

  The words had been softly spoken, without any effort to lend them special weight. Still, I felt as if I had been dealt a physical blow. “My God,” was all I could think of to say, and I lowered my gaze.

  “It was almost a month before we discovered who was responsible for the disappearance of our children,” Loan Ka continued softly. “It was not in our power to bring our children back to us, but we could do our best to punish those responsible. By this time we had few arms and little ammunition, but we took Po and his men by surprise and managed to kill many of them. Po himself escaped into the jungle.

  “Without arms or ammunition, we could no longer fight the Pathet Lao and Viet Cong, and so they began to move freely down the trails in our region. On the other hand, we were not attacked—probably because the Pathet Lao assumed we were still as well defended as we had always been. We waited for the Americans to contact us again, for another adviser and more arms. But no more helicopters came. For us, it was as if the war had ended—except that our children had been lost to Po’s brothels, and nothing could assuage the grief of our tribe.”

  Now there was a prolonged silence, broken only by the muffled sound of rock music coming from a room upstairs and the clink of dishes as Maru Tai worked in the kitchen.

  “I was one of the children taken,” the girl called Kathy said, picking up the thread of the story. Her voice was barely audible at first and was often broken by sighs, but it gained strength as she continued to speak. It was all I could do not to reach out and take her hand, tell her that it was all right and the she did not have to relive this nightmare. But I needed to hear all of it. It was why Veil had put the symbols in the painting.

  “I was caught by one of the soldiers as I was walking along a trail just outside the village,” Kathy continued. “He put a hand over my mouth and jabbed my arm with a hypodermic needle. I can’t remember how I was taken away, but I seem to remember the sound of a helicopter. I was taken to a … place, in a city, where I found some of my friends who had disappeared before me. I’m sorry, Dr. Frederickson, but it would be most difficult for me to talk about the things that were done to me there.”

  “It’s all right, Kathy; that’s not important. Just tell me what you can.”

  “Some time after I arrived, a pimp took a boy and myself out on the streets to look for customers. It was perhaps three or four in the morning. The boy and I were so … tired. The streets were empty, but still the pimp would not take us back and let us sleep. We stood in a doorway, the pimp gripping each of us by the shoulder so hard that it hurt very much. Then we heard the sound of footsteps coming along the street, just around the corner from where we stood. The man came around the corner, and the pimp pushed us out in front of him. It was the American.”

  Something that felt like an electric shock flashed through my chest, momentarily making it difficult for me to breathe. “You mean Veil Kendry?”

  “Yes—if that is the name of the man on the posters you hung up around the neighborhood. The children just called him the American, and the adults called him Archangel. He was wearing a uniform. He was clean shaven, but his face was haggard, and he looked like he had not slept in a long time. The pimp spoke to the American, offering one or both of us for his pleasure. The American stood very still as he listened to the pimp, but all the time he was looking down at us. There was an expression on his face which is very difficult to describe. I believe I saw tears in his eyes, and he was smiling gently, as if to reassure us that everything would be all right. But behind the tears and the smile was an expression more frightening than anything I have ever seen.

  “When the pimp finished his proposition, the American killed him. It was almost a casual gesture—the American just reached out with one hand, wrapped his fingers around the man’s neck, and snapped it with a twist of his wrist.” Kathy paused, shuddered. “Sometimes, in nightmares, I can still hear the sound of the pimp’s neck breaking; it was a hollow pop almost as loud as a gunshot.

  “Then the American stepped over the body of the dead pimp and picked up the boy and me in his arms. He held us close for some time, and when he set us down on our feet his face was once again filled with this terrible rage. He asked us to take him to the brothel. We couldn’t remember how to get back, but the American was very patient with us. He walked with us through the streets, carrying us when he could see that we were too tired to go on, until we finally found the brothel. He held us close once again, then gently pushed us back into the shadows before he crossed the street and entered the brothel.

  “I don’t know what happened in there. I do know that there were always big men inside, armed with guns. I didn’t hear any gunshots, nor even any shouts; still, I believe the American killed all the guards and managers inside the house, for when he came out he had the other eight children with him.

  “The American, walking in the middle with
his arms around us, led us through the city to a Catholic Relief Agency. I remember that it was dawn when we got there, because orange sunlight shone in the nun’s face when she opened the door. The American explained the situation to her, and she promised to see that we were returned to our families. Then the American turned and walked quickly away. It was the last time I ever saw him.”

  Maru Tai, who had been standing and listening in the doorway, now entered with more pastries and hot tea, and a new bottle of liqueur. I opted for the liqueur; I needed it.

  “Thank you, Kathy,” I said. “I know how hard it must be to relive that experience. You said the American was in uniform. Could you tell his rank?”

  The beautiful young Hmong woman shook her head, causing her black hair to ripple across her shoulders. “It was the only time I’d ever seen him in uniform, and I was a child. Rank wasn’t something I was thinking about at the time.”

  “Of course. Can you remember if he was wearing any kind of decoration on his cap, or on the shoulders of his shirt?”

  The girl closed her eyes and cocked her head to one side as she tried to remember. Finally she opened her eyes, nodded. “Yes. Now I remember that when he lifted me up and held me, I saw some kind of metal bird on his shoulder. It was silver. Does that tell you anything?”

  “Yes, Kathy. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you were willing to come here and tell me this.”

  “When Peter picked me up, he said that the American had disappeared and that you were trying to help him. I’ll never forget what the American did for me, and I would do anything to help him.”

  “Do you have any idea what the American was doing in Saigon, or how long he’d been there?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you have any idea how much time had passed between this incident and the day he was forced to leave Laos?”

  “I can answer that,” Loan Ka said. “From information I’ve gathered from speaking with others since then, I would estimate that it was seven or eight weeks from the time Archangel left our village. And the attack came on the same day that Archangel dropped Kathy and the other children off at the Catholic Relief Agency.”