Jake Fonko M.I.A. (8 page)

The further Sra Sar took me, the worse it got—shattered buildings, burnt out huts, piles of rubble and garbage, cratered, dusty streets. He told me the Communists had been shelling the city regularly for years, lobbing artillery and rocket into it every time they could creep within range. A one-day bombardment of the southern sector last year had killed hundreds and put 10,000 people out of their homes. Dozens of rounds crashed into town daily, and the airport took an even heavier pounding. That, I could testify to.

The refugees came because they feared the Khmer Rouge, but even more than that, because war had obliterated the country’s economy. The countryside no longer afforded food, work or safety. So into Phnom Penh they streamed—to find the same. I’d witnessed some sorry scenes in Nam back in 1970—villages turned to ash piles, Viet Cong torture victims, and freshly-minted orphans and widows just awakening to their plights—but nothing to compare with this. One mile of it pushed my misery gauge past the full mark. Sra Sar pedaled me back to the Phnom. I gave him the rest of the day off and put him on retainer, so that I’d have at least one of the locals on my side. Then I went up to my room and lay down for a while. What this place needed right then wasn’t another soldier.

The next day I took the bull by the tail and looked the problem squarely in the eye. If my cover was as an agricultural advisor to our AID mission, shouldn’t I check in over there? Wouldn’t it look suspicious that I’d spent four days pottering around the Hotel Phnom without reporting for duty? Around mid-morning I went out front. Sra Sar waited there, stretched out in the seat of his cyclo; he greeted me with a smile as wide as his coolie hat. I told him to take me to the AID office, and he hit the pedals without even bothering to ask for the address.

From the street it looked calm enough, but inside, the AID office was sweat, panic and flying paper. People rammed armloads of documents through shredders, stuffed things into boxes and packing cases, carried on feverish telephone conversations. I caught the eye of a guy who was dealing papers from file folders into two stacks—”keep” and “toss,” no doubt. “Toss” went straight to the floor and grew faster by far. “Help you?” he asked doubtfully.

“I hope so,” I said. “Is anybody here expecting Jack Philco?”

“Damn if I know,” he said impatiently. “What was that name again?” I repeated it slowly. “Anybody here looking for Jack Philco?” he shouted out. A chorus of “Who?” “Uh-uh,” “ Nope,” puzzled looks and heads shaking from side to side answered him. “I guess not,” he said.

The sheet in my orders listed the head of the AID mission, Thomas Olmsted, as my contact man. I asked if he might be able to spare me a moment. The guy stared at me as though I had a turd on my face. “Mr. Olmsted died a couple weeks ago,” he said quietly. “If you happen across Henry Kissinger, please punch the bastard in the nose for us. It was trying to carry out his fucking policies that killed him. Look, you’ll have to excuse me, friend. We just got orders to prepare to abandon. If you could come back in a day or two, maybe we’ll have a better handle on things and we can see what we can do for you.”

I expressed my sympathies for Olmsted and quietly backed out of the office. What the hell was on Sonarr’s mind? Setting up an operation, you’d 
have
 to know about something like that. At least in my old outfit we would have. If the CIA always operated with their heads this far up their asses, no wonder they caused us such headaches in Nam.

A bad start on the day. After a long lunch break Sra Sar pedaled me over to the Embassy, which housed the CIA station (U.S. standard practice is to give overseas CIA people Embassy cover, making it convenient for everybody else to keep track of our spies). Chaos reigned there even more comprehensively than at AID. Everybody seemed to have two telephones going at once. I smelled smoke from paper bonfires. Telex machines chugged along nonstop, and shredders whirred. Technicians hastily tore down communications equipment. A sandy blonde and a mousey brunette sat stationed at side-by-side desks inside the door, whapping away on IBM Selectrics. The blonde stopped typing: it must have been her turn to field the next walk-in jerk. I used the Jack Philco ploy on her and got the same response as previously. So. I’d tried the two most obvious points of contact with no success. Jack Philco was a non-person, as far as the American mission in Phnom Penh was concerned. Jake Fonko was not supposed to be here at all. What the hell? I thought. It’s worth a try. “Well then, maybe you can help me. I’m trying to get in touch with Mr. Clyde Driffter. He used to work out of this office.”

“Gee, I don’t know,” said the blonde. “I’ve only been here seven months. He sure doesn’t work here now. Barely even got unpacked,” she mused, “and now they’re sending us back to the States.” I noted that the brunette’s typing rhythm developed a sudden hitch. I glanced over at her: she stayed glued to her work.

“You’re sure?” I asked the blonde.

“I’d know if anybody would,” she said. “I keep track of the paychecks. Sorry I can’t help you, Mr. Philco. We’re pretty busy right now. If you could excuse me…” I looked over again at the brunette. Her eyes fixed intently on her typing, but her fingers were tense. She mis-hit a key and paused to white out the error.

“Huh, last time I saw Clyde he said to drop by if I was ever passing through Phnom Penh” I said, trying to sound sincerely disappointed, but loudly enough that the brunette caught every word. “Well, that was quite a while back. Guess I missed him. Maybe next time. Thanks anyhow.”

I went out to the street and climbed aboard the cyclo. “Where, sir?” Sra Sar asked. I gave him a take-it-easy signal and sat there, watching the door I’d just exited. It wasn’t long before the mousey brunette appeared, looking up and down the street. I’d made myself very visible. She spotted me, hesitated, then squared herself up and strolled over trying to look nonchalant.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Philco,” she began, as if by the sheerest accident she’d just happened to notice me. “Excuse me, but I couldn’t help but overhear you just now. Linda is new with us. She isn’t familiar with Mr. Driffter’s case.”

“Case?” I asked. “Haw, did old Dragonfly get himself in some sort of scrape?”

“Dragonfly” got a rise, which she covered up instantly. “No, no, nothing like that. But he works in a special capacity. Not everybody in the office knows about him. Listen, I was just going out on my tea break when I noticed you parked here. I know a quiet spot, if you want to talk about it.” She gave Sra Sar the address, squeezed in beside me, and off we went. Finally! I thought. At least this operation isn’t 
total
 bullshit.

Her name was Grace. She was almost as good at pumping me for information, as I was at evading her. As far as she knew, Jack Philco epitomized the dedicated, foursquare civil servant—just a humble rice expert en route between my last post in the Philippines and my next one in Sri Lanka. They’d shuttled me up to Phnom Penh to check out the situation. I’d hoisted a few with Driffter back in ‘73 when I passed through, thought I’d look him up this time around, for old time’s sake.

On the other hand, Gracie didn’t give away much either. I had the feeling it would take extreme field interrogation procedures—dropping her blindfolded out of a hovering Huey, maybe—to pry anything involuntary out of that toothy little mouth. “His schedule is sort of irregular,” she said. “If you’d let me know how to reach you, he could get in touch if he happens to come into town. Is there any special message you want to give him?”

Looking for a password, I wondered? I’d found a key fact—somebody in Phnom Penh attached significance to the name, “Clyde Driffter.” That sufficed for now—better to not stretch my luck. I’d see if I could fish out any other leads before I got too tangled up with mousey Gracie. Which was a temptation: wedged in with me on that narrow cyclo seat, she seemed worth further exploration. She didn’t feel as mousey as she looked. “No, just tell him Jack Philco dropped by to say hello.” Then I realized that anybody with connections could locate me with a couple phone calls—so what was the advantage in being over-coy? “If he happens through in the next couple days, I’m at the Hotel Phnom.” I made a mental note to stay more conscious about security over there from now on.

“Okay,” she said. “If he checks in, I’ll sure relay that. Goodness, look at the time. I’ve overstayed my break, and we’re just swamped! Linda’s going to be mad, oh well, let her be! We just got the word to clear out, but fast. Won’t be soon enough for me—I’ve been praying for this ever since January, after they blocked the river. This country is really down the tubes. What a shame. It used to be so nice here. Can you give me a ride back?”

My pleasure. We swung back by the Embassy and dropped her off. Okay, something had finally popped. I had nothing to report back to Sonarr, really, but at least I felt reassured to know my mission wasn’t a complete chase after wind.

Scuttlebutt in the hotel that evening held that General Lon Nol, the head of the Cambodian government, soon would take French leave. My British correspondent friend, Nigel by name, had heard that Da Nang was being evacuated. By breakfast the next day, March 31st, official word had come—the Commies captured Da Nang. They still had a good distance to go to reach Saigon, but Da Nang was our major naval base up on the east coast. Its fall meant Military Zone I was history. And of course the VC reaped tons of materiel—no way we could move much out, or even destroy it, on such short notice. Now nothing stopped them from rolling right down the coast, except the horde of refugees they’d driven out onto the roads. Some of the American newsmen at the Phnom were getting antsy now—the Big Story threatened to erupt in Nam, and they were here, not there.

I hadn’t been in Phnom Penh for even a week yet, and already it seemed like I’d passed into some other century. Still no sign of the contact Sonarr had promised, but I’d put one point up on the board. I’d discovered that the name, Clyde Driffter, could draw a reaction. Next I’d find out where else it might stir things up. Guys in a line of work usually hang out together, in a limited number of places. Driffter was a chopper pilot and CIA. I asked Sra Sar if he had any idea where helicopter pilots did their drinking. He thought of one place and took me over. The bartender had only worked there for a month, and as far as the cook was concerned, all farangs looked alike—”Mr. Driffer, no know one like that.” So I asked if they knew of any other places. It’s called snowballing: you ask their friends, and then you ask 
their
 friends, and so on and so on. By the end of the day I’d scouted a dozen bars and restaurants, some hardware and equipment shops, two hotels that pilots favored and a couple whorehouses. A few people recalled a pilot named Driffter but hadn’t seen him lately. One bartender said he was out of town but was expected back soon. Like mousey Gracie, he took down as much of my particulars as I’d divulge, saying he’d let Driffter know I was looking for him. A brothel keeper didn’t remember for sure, but thought maybe that name belonged to one who had a special fondness for teenyboppers. Odd. Two people assured me Driffter was around and active, but out just now. Otherwise, his was a trail long cold.

The next day, Lon Nol confirmed the rumors by embarking, so we were asked to believe, on a goodwill tour of Indonesia and the United States. Cambodia no longer had even a poor excuse for a government, and prices in riels went into orbit—western currency or nothing. That night we heard that Neak Luong, a strategic ferry town, fell, ending a three-month seige. The Cambodian army lost its last defense on the Mekong River south of the city, and estimates were that the Khmer Rouge now outnumbered the government troops by two to one.

Rumors circulated that deserting soldiers now rampaged through outlying sections of the city, robbing, raping and looting at will. Sra Sar dismissed them as English fairy tales: First of all, he pointed out, there weren’t that many soldiers left. Second, those remaining had regrouped to defend the southern edge of the city—because they knew what was in store for them and their families if the Khmer Rouge took over. Third, how could men as starved and exhausted as they do much raping? And finally, the kids the government was reduced to drafting were too young to be capable of raping anybody in the first place. I figured he had more reliable sources than the BBC did. Still, I took the precaution of putting my own lock on my hotel room door, and also strapped my combat knife to my calf. Not exactly heavy firepower, but I had no other weapon on hand. My pants fit loosely enough that only a trained eye would notice it.

The description of Driffter included a list of local contacts from his CIA days. I went over it with Sra Sar. He confirmed that it represented a high-class clientele. Driffter had worked with Sosthene Fernandez, who was Lon Nol’s commander-in-chief; Lon Non, who was Lon Nol’s brother; Sak Sutsakhan, the Cambodian Assistant Chief of Staff; and an assortment of other generals and colonels. Sra Sar didn’t see much chance of my contacting any of them. High military officers lived like war lords. They wouldn’t let their own people within shouting distance, let alone strange farangs. To prove his point, he took me by a top general’s villa. Had his personal guard been put into the field, they might well have turned back the invading forces. No way I was going to get a line on Driffter via that route.

I plugged away at solving the DRAGONFLY puzzle over the next couple days. In the evenings I hung around the bar at the Phnom and got a little closer to some of the Americans who congregated there. Too much was happening too quickly. As per instructions, Jack Philco, stalwart AID advisor, kept his profile as low as possible, but it wouldn’t hurt to get into the loop. Fortunately, neither correspondents nor government staff members nor shady fringe figures had much interest in discussing agriculture. The universal topics of choice were: When would we evacuate? How long would Cambodia last? And, what was going to happen after that?

The word on April 4 shocked us all: defense forces at Cam Rahn Bay had collapsed. The major American naval base in Vietnam, it lay even closer to Saigon than Ban Me Thout did. The Commies had captured three hundred miles of coastline in five days and now owned everything all the way north to China. The next day I put in another call to Todd Sonarr. His secretary told me he was out of the office, but she was glad to hear I was all right. She said he’d get in touch as soon as he could, but that Saigon was “getting troubled.” I told her she sounded great, and to take care of herself.