A Dangerous Friend (20 page)

For everyone, Rostok said.

A propaganda victory.

And these affairs have a way of getting into the newspapers. People talk, it's natural. Troopers talk when they've been mauled and they think it isn't their fault. And before you know it, there're reporters nosing around and asking if there've been any intelligence failures lately and if it's true that a captain's missing and presumed captured. So I'd guess they have a week's grace, max.

And then Rostok had a fresh thought. Why did they brief you?

Pablo said, They want our help.

Do they now? Rostok said with a sharp laugh. Come to us for help? When they never give us squat? When they never give us the time of day? I don't believe it. What do they want?

They don't know what they want, Pablo said. They want us to keep our eyes open. Report suspicious activity. Ask around. Maybe we'll hear something that'll help them. Pablo smiled bleakly and placed his hands flat on the table. They were a little sheepish about it because they know they've been pricks in the past. He looked directly at Rostok, his eyes huge behind the lenses of his spectacles. I promised full cooperation. I said you would be around to talk to them personally. Listen to what they have, make your own assessment.

They have my number. They can call me.

As you wish, Ros.

They want a favor, they can come to me.

I'm sure you'll hear from them.

They're looking for someone to share the blame.

It wouldn't be the first time, Pablo said. Still. Bit far-fetched, don't you think, Ros?

No, Rostok said.

What did he look like? Sydney asked, realizing he had used the past tense as if the man were already dead. What else do we know about him?

Nice-looking boy, Syd. Big kid, off a farm somewhere in the Midwest. Built like a truck.

That's good, Sydney said.

I suppose it is, Pablo replied.

Sydney heard the false note, the hesitation and the little sigh at the end, and wondered about the thing unsaid. Pablo removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He turned to stare myopically out the window at the motionless gardeners. Sydney wondered what sort of life Pablo Gutterman led with his wife in the bungalow in the suburbs, what he did in the evenings and on weekends. He was rarely seen at the Brinks for the movies or at the various restaurants in Saigon or Cholon. He and his wife did not entertain, at least they did not entertain Americans. There was mention once of summer holidays in the mountains around Dalat but that was before the war moved south. Someone said he played golf at the course north of the city, that he had a Saturday foursome and bet dollar-dollar Nassau as if he were still living in Miami. His partners were Vietnamese businessmen, one of them his brother-in-law. Hard to imagine Pablo in a golf shirt and slacks, squinting through his spectacles, lining up a putt. Most of the Llewellyns had no private lives away from the job. Day and night were identical. Their conversations always had to do with the situation in all its forms, metaphors and scenarios, as Rostok liked to say. Pablo Gutterman continued to stare out the window at the gardeners. Evidently he had said all he intended to say about the missing soldier. And then Sydney realized they did not know his name.

George Whyte filled the sudden silence with a windy digression on the limits of the military mind, unimaginative yet reckless, avid for success while avoiding responsibility for failure, addicted to heuristic slogans and the hard lessons learned in the previous war. The Pentagon had entirely too much money, it made them careless ... But by then the others had drifted off to a worried discussion of personnel changes at headquarters in Washington, memos arriving every day with mysterious signatures, realignments in the office of the Comptroller and the office of Management Planning as well as Procurement and International Training. The godly hand of that bastard Boyd Llewellyn was present but not visible; no one knew what he was after beyond his habitual obsession to control the paper, the
IN
boxes and the
OUT
boxes. Something sinister was transpiring in the office of Inspections and Investigations, perhaps a new deputy director or counsel. The place was a revolving door. They were bearing down with unnatural zeal and promising a visit in-country before the end of the year; and in the meantime were demanding fresh statistics that could more accurately measure progress—

Forget them, Rostok said.

You can't
forget
them, Ros.

The reports of the Group go directly to the White House. Some of you still don't understand. Our lad with the Montagnards? White House was delighted with the coverage. Our lad isn't burning villages or wasting civilians. Vice President himself has taken an interest, you see.

But the Pentagon signs the paychecks, George Whyte said.

And writes the efficiency reports, someone else threw in.

Do the minimum, Rostok said wearily. He looked at his watch. So, George, what happened to the safe? I assume it's installed and running.

Little problem there, Ros, George Whyte said. It was too heavy for the damned floor.

What do you mean? Rostok demanded.

We got it upstairs all right. He waved at the ceiling. Last night, it took five men to do it with ropes and pulleys. It's a big Moslem you know. Weighs a damn ton. It's just as awkward as can be. He smiled sadly, another hope dashed, and said no more.

Where is it now?

George pointed at the ceiling. Up there, he said. Third floor. Half in and half out of the floor. The beam cracked. We can't budge it.

Can we open the door to the safe?

George shook his head. It's stuck. We can't get to the combination lock. Thank God the second beam held or it would've fallen into the basement, maybe killed someone on the way down.

And no one thought to check the floor?

That's Procurement's job. It's their responsibility. Obviously we needed a structural engineer and we didn't have one. I'm afraid we need a smaller safe, Ros.

Rostok sighed, one more worry in a busy day. Where are the reports?

Where they've always been, Ros. Locked in the filing cabinets in the big closet. Secure enough for the time being.

See to it, Rostok said.

And the Mosler?

Get the smaller safe, George.

I mean the one that's there. That's stuck. That's betwixt and between.

Tell Supply to reinforce the ceiling.

Yes, Ros.

And keep it quiet.

Will do, Ros.

The meeting began to break up. George mentioned that
Doctor Zhivago
was playing at the Brinks and wondered if anyone wanted to join him for the film and a steak later at the roof restaurant, a nightcap or two and early to bed.

Rostok had a dinner with the deputy at JUSPAO.

I have a mahjongg game, Pablo said.

Sydney had two sociologists. He fished in his pocket for the memo. I'm supposed to brief them on the role of women in Vietnamese society. And what they think of the war. Anyone know any anecdotes?

They don't like it, Rostok said. A woman told me that only the other day.

Can you flesh that out a little, Ros? Her name and age. Economic status. Education. And how many of her children have been killed?

Pablo Gutterman gathered up his papers and prepared to leave.

What was his name? Rostok asked.

Who?

The congressman's nephew.

Smalley, Pablo said. Captain Harry Smalley.

What else do you know about him?

Not much, Pablo said. West Point, class of 'sixty-three or 'sixty-four, somewhere in there. This was his first command, he'd only been in-country a few months. When I met him, he was playing poker and listening to loud music. Drinking beer. Complaining. They were in stand-down. I remember his hands were so big the cards disappeared into them.

His CO say anything?

His CO said he was a big dumb blond.

Anything else?

Smalley said this one thing to me. He was restless, eager to get back to the field, into action. He said, "I hate stand-down. I hate bivouac. Bivouac's no good. Equipment rots, men get into trouble."

Did he say what kind of trouble?

No, he didn't, Ros, Pablo said. I think he meant trouble generally. Trouble of the spirit, undefined trouble, trouble that comes when discipline breaks down. Because of the idleness.

Rostok looked at him strangely. Makes no sense, he said. When you're in stand-down, you're safe. No one's shooting at you. You play poker, drink beer, sleep late in the morning. Stand-down's every soldier's dream.

Not Smalley's, Pablo said.

Big dumb blond, Rostok said.

He was a soldier, Pablo said.

Make me a memo, Pablo. Everything you know about him. Everything that you can remember. Memo on my desk tomorrow? Make a call or two if you have to. I'd like a full description, too. So if we find him sitting in a cathouse in Bien Hoa we'll know that's him, the missing Captain Smalley. Can you do that, Pablo? Confidential, personal to me. And anything you can dig up on the hoi chanh, his name and age, his bill of particulars. When he defected and where and to whom and what he got for his trouble and who gave it to him. Who controls him? CAS? The army? And any speculation you might have from your private sources, a likely place they might take our captain for safekeeping. Any speculation at all, no matter how out of the way or off the wall.

That may take a while.

Close of business tomorrow, Rostok said, and turned to leave the room.

Why do you want this, Ros?

That's my business, Rostok said, and walked through the door.

They listened to the click of his heels in the corridor, then watched him hurry across the lawn to his Scout, the one with the long aerial and the yellow light on the roof. He jerked his arm in the direction of his driver, who was talking to one of the gardeners. Rostok was already in the car and reading from some document when the driver leapt into the driver's seat, backed up, and hurtled away in a flurry of gravel.

What was that about? Pablo asked.

I imagine he'll want to brief his good friend the undersecretary, Sydney said. He will want to do that personally so Highest Levels know that everything possible is being done to rescue the young man and that Rostok himself personally is on the case with his own information, information supplied to him by private sources unavailable to the embassy or the military—

Me, Pablo said.

You, Sydney agreed.

But I don't know anything more, Pablo said.

Then tell him that.

You try telling him that, Pablo said.

Probably he'll forget about it tomorrow.

Rostok never forgets anything, Pablo said.

Sydney began to laugh. He forgot to return the call to the White House.

No, Pablo said. He wants privacy.

***

Back in his office at Tay Thanh that afternoon, Sydney found a letter in his
IN
box, creamy stationery with initials on the back flap, an invitation to lunch a week hence, twelve noon, tenue de ville, regrets only, Dede and Claude Armand. Accompanying the invitation was a hand-drawn map, most detailed, handsomely decorated, directions to Plantation Louvet.

The next day he called Pablo Gutterman for advice as to a tailor. He needed slacks and a shirt, the things he had brought with him were not suited to the climate. After listening to Pablo's complaints about Rostok, Sydney was rewarded with a tailor's name. And the day after that he drove to Monsieur Tan's in rue Catinat, a few doors away from the Continental Palace. Monsieur Tan suggested a white linen suit, an ice cream suit for the tropics, a suit that breathed and kept its shape. A suit that would not be out of place in California or Texas or even Paris in France. Delivery in three days, twenty dollars U.S.

Be careful, Pablo had said when Sydney asked him for the name of a tailor.

T
HE WEATHER TURNED
. Heavy clouds motored down from the North and the temperature fell ten degrees. The milky sun disappeared as if it had never existed and the rain forest appeared as a damp monochrome. There was an urban shape to the gray light, the sort of pall that wraps New York or Chicago on a foul autumn day. Sydney was late rising and stood quietly for a long time looking out the window of his bedroom at the street. The smell of the forest was as rank as compost; and then the wind came up and the drizzle began. He watched schoolchildren troop up the street in the drizzle, their books in bright plastic satchels. They walked two by two, holding hands, as orderly as a column of infantry.

He heard Mai moving about in the office below. She was singing softly to herself. He dressed slowly in the shadowless gray light, thinking that the room had improved since it belonged to Dacy. There was a picture of his daughter on the bureau and a poster of the
Normandie
that he'd bought at Orly. He owned a clock, a transistor radio, and a bright red bedspread he'd found at the market. Of course the room was clean, tidy as a monk's cell, and he wondered when he would begin writing on the walls and hiding whiskey bottles in the closet. The Malraux lay on the bedside table unopened. On the floor was a foot-high stack of press clippings thoughtfully sent over from USIA, and a month-old copy of
Time.
He wondered whether the World Series had begun and who was in it. He looked at the picture of his daughter and realized he had heard nothing from her in weeks; when he first arrived he had a card from her every few days, a picture of an animal or a New York landmark with her scrawled upside-down signature and "love." When he wrote her next he would tell her about the farmer who had surrendered his mind but was withholding his heart, a sentiment that would appeal to Karla; and then he remembered he had two unmailed letters to Rosa in the glove compartment of his car. The front door opened and closed and he watched Mai hurry away to the café, her ritual morning tea with her friend Thuy.

It was still raining an hour later when he spread the map on his bureau, tracing the route to Plantation Louvet with his finger. It resembled a labyrinth, Tay Thanh to Xuan Loc, then north from Xuan Loc. He had never been north of Xuan Loc, a region the government had abandoned because there was nothing important to protect, only a few peasant villages and the rubber plantations. The roads were unfamiliar and some of them seemed little more than cart paths or trails. The odometer would be essential—
11.6
km north of Xuan Loc, past the ruins of the fort and the Buddhist shrines nearby, turn right; 2.5 km and then left; 1.3 km another left; .5 km and left again; 2.6 km a sharp right at the fork; and 7.2 km straight ahead to Plantation Louvet. On the map the plantation was marked with a little French tricolor.
Pay close attention to the distance,
Dede Armand had written in her rolling schoolgirl script,
there are no road mark
ings. Drive slowly. You should not meet anyone, but if you do, don't stop. Drive on. Good luck.