Jake Fonko M.I.A. (9 page)

I continued asking around about Driffter, and also gleaned what information I could on the situation in Cambodia. A lot of what I found was brand new to me, because the White House had covered our Cambodian activities with such a heavy security blanket. We all knew well enough, back in 1970, that we’d hit VC staging areas and supply centers across the border, including that four-week cavalry invasion along the Fishook. It was common knowledge that we’d bombed the Ho Chi Minh trail pretty hard, though it never seemed to affect the flow of materiel. But what the U.S. public had been told about Cambodia amounted to a grain of sand on a beach. Old hands now told me that all but a few areas in the country had been heavily carpet-bombed by waves of American B-52s. Some of it covered our troop pullout in 1973. Some went after cross-country Viet Cong supply lines. But a lot of it made no obvious sense whatever. I recalled the demonstrations in the States to stop the bombing in Cambodia—the peaceniks had not a clue how bad it really was.

The Cambodian people, I learned, appeared on the surface to be the friendliest, most pleasant folks in southeast Asia. But, unlike the South Vietnamese, they also could be tough, ruthless fighters with a bent toward savagery, for instance hoisting enemy heads up on stakes as a victory display. I heard that villagers, angered by rough treatment from Lon Nol’s troops, killed his brother, Lon Nil, then cut out his liver, had it cooked and passed morsels around. It bore out Sarge’s tale, but his Daniel Boones must have mixed it up with Vietnamese, not Cambodians, because the Cong drove the natives out of the border areas wherever they moved in. The Cambodians hated the Vietnamese (and vice versa) but hadn’t the wherewithal to eject them.

Lon Nol took the government from the previous ruler, Prince Sihanouk, in a 1970 coup, and the Prince had fled to China. The CIA denied any involvement with the coup, but the US government clearly preferred Lon Nol because he cooperated with Kissinger’s policies, whereas Sihanouk had objected to getting his country caught up in the war. Sihanouk was popular with the people. Lon Nol was not—his regime was more corrupt, brutal and incompetent than even Cambodians were accustomed to.

The Khmer Rouge, the guys lobbing all the rockets and artillery rounds into Phnom Penh, had for years been carrying on guerilla warfare from jungle strongholds. Between them and the American bombing, most of the peasants had been driven from their villages and rice fields to the comparative safety of the towns, bringing the country near to famine. Recently the Khmer Rouge swelled in numbers and equipment, and had come out of the jungle in force. Nobody knew much about them, but how could they be worse than Lon Nol? At least so everyone hoped, as nothing could now stop them from seizing the country.

The American Ambassador to Cambodia, John Gunther Dean, threw a dinner on the evening of April 6 for the American journalists still remaining in Phnom Penh. Some of them told me about it the next day. The Embassy had been trickling non-essential people out of Phnom Penh for weeks. Dean tried to persuade the press corps to pull out with the last of the government mission when the time came, which could be momentarily. Henry Kissinger’s ears must have sizzled during those hours, from things said by all parties present. Most of the guys were ready to split; they wanted to be on the scene when Saigon fell. Sydney Schanberg of the 
New York Times
 was determined to stick it out, and we can all be grateful for that. Things got hairy for his Cambodian buddy, Dith Pran, but all’s well that ends well. Schanberg was so intent on getting The Story that I don’t think he ever even took notice of me. Just as well—publicity was the last thing I wanted.

And still no contact. And nothing from Sonarr. The roar of war grew more insistent daily. The manager at the Phnom asked nervous questions about the bill I’d run up. I’d about run out of cash. My attempts to contact Saigon met increasingly spotty phone service. The few times I managed a connection, Sonarr was out, or in a meeting, or couldn’t come to the phone—all the transparent excuses you use when you don’t want to talk to somebody. Could Sonarr be pulling that on 
me
?

Finally, on the umpteenth try, I heard his voice.

To hell with security. “Todd, this is Jake Fonko, in Phnom Penh. Hey, what’s the deal? This place is about to blow.”

“Jake, Jake. Good to hear your voice. Listen, hang in there. We’re on the verge. We’re 
this
 close now. Hang tough, pal.”

“For God’s sake, Sonarr. What’s going on? It’s been three weeks! What the fuck are you doing to me? What am I supposed to do?”

“Jake, trust me. We’ve got assets all over that place. You’re in good hands.”

“The hotel manager’s giving me grief about the bill. I’m out of money.”

“Oh, okay, no problem. Glad you told me. Give me a few minutes on that. I’ll get him off your back. He’ll advance you some cash. He’s a friend.”

“All U.S. personnel are pulling out, any day now. What do you want me to do?”

“We’re going to win this one, Jake, I can feel it. Hang tough.” Click.

Win 
what,
 I wondered? 

Not the war,
for sure. Next morning the Americans still at the Phnom bolted their breakfasts and flocked to the Embassy—E-day had dawned. A flight of big transport choppers set down on a nearby football field, and several hundred Marines charged out, armed with M-16s and grenade launchers. They set up a perimeter, slashing the tires on some jeeps to block off the area, and the exodus—remarkably orderly, considering—commenced. In hardly more than an hour everybody who was going, went. I had Sra Sar pedal me down there to watch it happen. We arrived in time to see Dean climb aboard, Old Glory folded under his arm. In all, fewer than 100 Americans, and maybe half again as many Cambodians, were hauled up and away toward the horizon. Small clusters of locals, mostly shirtless young boys, stood around watching. I don’t think they realized we’d just thrown them to the wolves. They were too busy scurrying around picking up stray gear we’d left behind.

Hardly had the last helicopter gotten airborne when a salvo of rockets rained down on the landing zone, once more an ordinary football field. The Khmer Rouge had the range all along, but waited until the Americans were safely away. The party was over: people were getting blown up. Sra Sar put a little extra mettle to the pedals.

Talking to Sonarr gave me a modicum of reassurance. I still didn’t know what was coming off, but he sounded on top of things, at least. He straightened out the hotel manager. I hoped and prayed he was being straight about those assets. The next several days I mostly killed time, ferreting out what booze still remained in town and passing scuttlebutt with the Brits and Germans and the handful of Americans still around. Outside my hotel, Cambodian riels bought nearly nothing, and U.S. dollars did little better. Good old Sarge and his fives, tens and twenties. I put them to use in the spirit in which I knew he’d intended. Sra Sar happily accepted five grams of gold for the rest of the month. We scared up an eating house still serving edible food and struck a deal with the Chinese owner. He’d feed me and Sra Sar and tell me when we reached five grams. If I liked what he’d delivered by then, I’d sign on for ten more grams. Bottled water was getting scarce. I started putting those purifying tablets into pitchers of water I drew from the tap. Better than having to break the diarrhea pills out of the first aid kit Sarge had given me.

The day after the Americans left, the streets seemed eerily empty of traffic. Buddhist New Year, Sra Sar explained—everybody was at home celebrating with family. At seven that evening the entire city suddenly erupted with a rattling wave of small arms fire, not the awaited invasion, but a twenty-minute goodbye to the Year of the Tiger and welcome to the Year of the Hare. To my way of thinking, had all that firepower been directed horizontally, at the Khmer Rouge invading force, the Year of the Hare would have been better welcomed.

Every day more and more rockets and shells whistled in. Dark plumes of smoke rose from every direction. The government announced curfews which people, most of whom had no place to go except the streets, generally disregarded. America cargo planes flew over, parachuting food and other supplies into the city. On the Tuesday after the helicopters left, it happened. I was eating lunch at the Chinaman’s stall when the American hippie kid rolled up on his bicycle. I’d seen him around town during my excursions, but mercifully he hadn’t made a habit of hitting me up for handouts. He looked as dirty and unkempt as ever. Whatever money he’d caged on the streets of Phnom Penh hadn’t been foolishly squandered on cosmetics and fine clothes. “Excuse me, Mr. Philco,” he said. “Can you spare a moment? Somebody would like to talk with you.”

Funny—where had he learned my name?

Had my mysterious contact finally showed up? “Who is it wants to see me?” As if what the kid might tell me would make any difference—where I sat, I’d have to be grateful for pot luck. My combat knife was on my calf, should I need it.

“A friend of yours,” he said, “It’s just a few blocks from here. Only a minute with your cyclo.”

Sra Sar appeared from a nearby oasis of shade where he’d been squatting and chattering with some other cyclo drivers. The kid told him an address, and off we went, the hippie kid leading the way. We passed the Central Market and went south on Norodom Street. We followed the kid left into a Chinatown sidestreet lined on both sides with plastered, two-story shophouses, then made a right turn at the first intersection. He stopped a few doors later, and we pulled up alongside.

“This is it, Mr. Philco,” the kid informed me. “He’ll be here shortly.” He took off down the street and around the next corner, leaving us parked before an open, dingy shop front chock full of gunny-sacked goods and packing boxes. What sort of business it was, I couldn’t even guess. Years of monsoons and tropical sun had erased the name decorating the tattered awning that drooped out over the sidewalk, and it was Chinese characters in any case. I scanned up and down the street, hoping to spot trouble early and wondering from what direction my mysterious summoner would appear. And trying to ignore the fact that I was a sitting duck for anybody who wanted to pick me off.

A soft voice issued from the shop behind me: “Greetings, Captain Vonkijovitch.” Vonkijovitch! The original family name before it got shortened to Fonko. How could anybody in Phnom Penh possibly know that, or even pronounce it? Luckily I sat turned away from the open shop front, aimed toward the street, because the shock of hearing it had to have showed in my face. I hoped I hadn’t given away anything with body movements. I resolutely ignored the voice.

“Please do come in, Jake Fonko,” the voice repeated. It sounded familiar. Nobody named either Fonko 
or
 Vonkijovitch had ever set foot in Cambodia. I sat firm, unconcernedly assaying the passing parade of sweating cyclists and bustling coolies.

“Phil,” the voice intoned, louder this time, “it is simply fantastic! Imagine meeting once again you here, of any places Phnom Penh, all time boondocksville if ever I saw it! To think a star of the Hollywood cinema is visit such a hole in the street, could who believe that, I ask you?”

Saints preserve us! It was Mikhail!

4

The midday tropical
sun so baffled my eyes that I could scarcely make Mikhail out, but his shadowed vantage point gave him a clear shot at me. He’d positioned himself back in the shophouse, in a niche among splintering crates, tattered jute sacks and rotting cardboard packing boxes stacked up to the low tin ceiling. He obviously knew my several identities, leaving me no reason to continue playing coy. I slid down off the cyclo and picked my way down a brief aisle littered with tattered paper scraps, dingy vegetable matter and dustballs the size of trench rats.

He was taking his ease in an old swivel chair by a plain rosewood desk that had been waiting decades for a fresh coat of varnish. “So, how are you finding Phnom Penh, Captain Fonko?” he enquired cordially. “Current hospitality falls far short of what this unfortunate city provided in better times, I’m chagrinned to say. Please, take a seat.” He motioned me to a well-used straightback wooden chair. “May I pour you a tea? Sorry I can’t offer coffee, or any sugar or cream either—and Famous Amos cookies are needless to say out of the question. You know how desperate the supply situation stands in Cambodia right now. Even we friends of the people can come by very little beyond bare subsistence.” On the desktop he’d laid out Chinese teacups and saucers, fine and delicate and clean, quite in contrast to the surroundings. The tea poured from the china pot steaming, though no heat source was apparent.

“Fancy bumping into you here of all places, Mikhail,” I remarked. “But why do you call me ‘Fonko’? I’m Phil, remember?” The one-room shop reached back into a cluttered darkness that could easily harbor whole gangs of thugs. I shifted the chair to put my back against an untidy pile of large boxes stacked along the wall, which also enabled me to keep track of both the rear of the shop and the street entrance. I took some small comfort from my combat knife, strapped to my calf—as long as nobody came out shooting, it gave me a chance. Mikhail rotated his seat to match my adjustment. I sat down and took a cup of tea. The place reeked of mold and old manila rope. Two slow overhead fans wafted the musty, muggy air without producing any perceivable comfort. Sweatballs began forming in my armpits and tentatively testing the slope of my ribcage.

“Let us dispense with our tiresome masquerade,” he said, once I’d settled in place. “As your own Mark Twain so aptly put it, if one tells the truth he has so much less to remember. I am well aware that you are Captain Jake Fonko, military intelligence expert and CIA operative. And I am pleased to formally introduce myself as Emil Grotesqcu of the Russian KGB. Though I doubt that it’s any surprise to you.”

Boy, did he have 
that
 wrong! “Well, yes,” I allowed, “it was fun while it lasted, but you are right, what is the point of prolonging it?” What the hell was the point of it in the first place, I wondered. I noticed that Mikhail / Emil / Whatshisname no longer made any effort to speak bad English. “So, what brings you to Phnom Penh, Grotesqcu? Is your assignment with the Polish mission completed now?”

“Why, you brought me here, of course—and you were my assignment in Saigon, as you well know. Your abrupt disappearance put us in quite a dither and caused a bit of trouble for me, since I was responsible for your surveillance. It took a while to determine your whereabouts. Your sudden burst of interest in Cambodia gave us a clue; but hard information and the final decision to pursue you took over a week to arrive, thanks to the dogged efficiency of our central bureau in Moscow. Getting here proved troublesome. Easy enough for you, with your American air supremacy, but I had to come overland across a border bristling with hatred, suspicion, boobytraps and heavy armament on both sides; and I doubt that ten continuous meters of unmined highway run anywhere in Cambodia. A tedious journey, I can tell you! And then I required several days to get things organized once I arrived in Phnom Penh.”

What gave the KGB such a big interest in 
me
? I was just one more junior officer in the peacetime U.S. Army, and as far as my CIA work was concerned—I couldn’t think of any I’d actually done to date, other than Sonarr’s fool’s errands. “So, in spite of all precautions, my cover deceived no one,” I mused, hoping he’d tell me what my cover was. I sure had no idea.

“I’m afraid not,” he said with a satisfied smile. “We saw through ‘Phil’ immediately. You clearly didn’t know a computer from your elbow. Besides, you gave yourself away right and left. I’d have expected from as accomplished an operative as you more discretion in passing the book code from Mr. Sandals to your contacts in the restaurant and the bookstall—and actually leaving your copy of 
Le Rouge et le Noir
 on your nightstand where your maid could see it—careless, careless, careless. You were observed picking up a message in the Cercle Sportiff, making exchanges with the flower vendor, and the cigarette girl, and all those others. Amazing productivity for such a short period—every agent in your Saigon network that we knew about, and a host of new ones besides. Even, we discovered to our horror, several we’d counted among our own.” He reached his briefcase up from the floor beside his chair, set it on the desk and pulled out a thick envelope. “We got some admirable snapshots.” He passed me a handful of 8 x 10 glossies, depicting me scratching my head, asking for a light and just about every other of those weird assignments Todd Sonarr had put me up to. “Interested in ordering prints? At professional discount, naturally,” he added with a chuckle.

Apparently all those pointless tasks had some point after all. I hadn’t a clue what, but Grotesqcu was obviously impressed. “My mistake,” I said, shaking my head slowly back and forth in bemused exasperation. “Clearly, I had underestimated my visibility in Saigon.” Talk about telling the truth !

“You are all too modest, Captain Fonko,” he said. “Your CIA dossier renders you of utmost interest to us, no matter where you might happen to be. In fact, it was only when you went to Saigon that we at last realized Jake Fonko and the elusive Jack Philco were one in the same man. In all modesty, I must claim credit for that discovery, as it was I who finally deduced the connection between his travels and yours. Given my familiarity with your case, my superiors dispatched me to Saigon to cover you. You may not realize just how deep my interest in Jake Fonko goes,” he went on. “Ours is a relationship dating back almost seventy years.”

“That’s before my time,” I observed, “and you don’t look nearly that old either.”

“No, not a personal relationship, of course. But our families go back a long way. Don’t you know your family history?”

“Somebody immigrated to the U.S. around the turn of the century,” I said. “I’ve heard they got ‘Fonko’ out of the name, ‘Vonkijovitch’, but we’ve not been in close touch with relatives since my dad moved from Detroit to Los Angeles.”

“Americans,” he spat with disdain. “Family means nothing to them—another of your country’s many fatal weaknesses. Elsewhere in the world family is a respected institution, with good reason. Then you’ve never heard the story behind your ancestor’s journey?” My puzzled look answered his question. “It goes back to a business partnership between our great grandfathers.

“Our families hailed from a small village, named Ravnosk, at the confluence of the Sava and Drina Rivers in what is now Yugoslavia. A more tumultuous spot would be hard to find, as it sat on the border between the Austrian-Hungarian and Ottoman empires, which also was a fracture line between the Muslim and Christian worlds, and in addition to which was a point of mutual contact among the Bosnians, Croatians, Slovonians and Serbs. In 1906 Vienna, reacting to anti-Austrian policies of the Serbian Radical Party, banned the import of Serbian-grown animals, which at the time loomed large in their economy. As one might surmise, given all those borders and frontiers, smuggling was a lively business in Ravnosk. In fact, anyone there engaged in legitimate trade—legitimate in the sense of paying official duties, tariffs, license fees and what have you—was despised as mentally defective and ethically retarded.

“My great-grandfather, Ratko Grotesqcu, and yours, Ignatius Vonkijovitch, were young men on the make. They sensed profits to be made in smuggling a bargeload of contraband pigs across the river, as Serbian farmers were selling low, and Croatian butchers were paying dearly. It happened that just as Ratko Grotesqcu was ashore collecting payment, with Ignatius Vonkijvitch down in the barge standing guard over the merchandise, the Austrian police showed up in force. Whether they had been tipped off, or whether the appropriate bribes had been neglected, or what else might have gone awry, no one to this day knows. My great grandfather cut and ran, absconding with the cash, while your great grandfather dove into the river, swam back to Ravnosk, gathered up his wife and infant son, and fled over the mountains to Dubrovnik. What choice did he have? The buyer was out his money, the farmers hadn’t been paid, and the Austrian police had the pigs and an arrest warrant.” He paused to pour more tea into our cups.

“Ratko Grotesqcu headed north,” he continued. “Ultimately he settled in Kiev, in the Ukraine, where he had some contacts, and set up a trading business. Ignatius Vonkijovitch somehow got his family onto a ship and eked his way to America. At your immigration entry point, Ellis Island I believe, a harried clerk was baffled by his name, and he emerged as an entirely new man, Iggy Fonko. Again witness the disregard of Americans for family: where else in the world would a lazy, ignorant functionary be permitted to strip a man of his heritage?

“But there is a marvelous irony to our forebears’ saga. My ancestor, arriving with an admittedly purloined boodle, prospered as a merchant in the Ukraine for a decade and accumulated a small fortune during the Great War. But then came the Revolution, and he lost everything but his life, and that by the slightest of margins. The Grotesqcus barely avoided starvation during the Stalin years, managing by hook or crook to escape the fate of some tens of millions of their countrymen. And harrowing tales of their survival through the hideous times of The Great Patriotic War are still whispered among the family today.

“Meanwhile, Iggy Fonko, who fled Ravnosk as an impoverished fugitive, made his way to Chicago, where he found work in a Swift meatpacking plant and settled with his family. And a half century later, here we sit. Through determination and dedication I overcame much hardship and attained a post in our KGB; while you, who grew up in a California mansion, spending your youth soaking up the sun on the beach, rampaging around in a sports car, and being thrown out of university for sexual deviance, enjoy a similar position in your CIA.”

This guy was getting really off the wall. “Come on,” I protested, “nobody would call a Mustang a sportscar.”

“I confess that my training did not include advanced study of the taxonomy of American automobiles.” said Grotescqu. “But no matter. I find our mutual history most amusing. The fates are indeed unfathomable, are they not?”

“If it isn’t one thing, it’s another,” I agreed. My great-grandfather a Yugoslavian pig-smuggler? What next? We sat there sipping our tea. Not the worst way to pass the time while Phnom Penh collapsed, though the stifling atmosphere of the dingy shop could have used some work. By now perspiration covered my skin: little streams trickled straight down my flanks to soak my waistband. Forming sweatbeads pricked at my forehead. Grotesqcu was leaning back in the swivel chair, hands clasped behind his neck and elbows out, with a foot on one of the wheeled struts at the base, and the other leg crossed over it, ankle resting on the knee. How did the bastard manage to stay looking so cool and comfortable, I wondered.

“You’ve a fascinating background, Captain Fonko,” he observed. “I at first doubted your yarns about your Hollywood career, but they proved accurate.”

“How could you check them out? I don’t believe my name ever showed up in any credits.”

“Oh, it took a little effort, but we have plenty of idle manpower at our disposal. We obtained copies of the films and TV programs you mentioned through contacts we have in Hollywood, then gave them, plus the mug shots I took of you, to a team of political prisoners, with instructions to locate you. Poor devils! We house them in asylums. Usually they are grateful for tasks such as we give them, just to break the monotony. However, after a few days of watching American television from morn to night, they were begging for Siberia. I verified a few of your appearances myself. Such drivel I haven’t seen since I attained a position sufficiently high to relieve me of the obligation to attend our propaganda films! Your Barbara Eden is quite a looker, I’ll admit; but ‘I Dream of Jeannie’ must have ended the career of that clown who played the astronaut. I compliment you on your performances—you were extremely difficult to recognize, as you claimed, a real chameleon.”

“Your briefcase camera must have quite a lens.” How else could he have gotten those mug shots of me?

“KGB optics technicians are second to none,” he declared proudly. “But as clever as they were with the mechanism, I was afraid you’d catch on. I mean, leaving my briefcase on the table, as I had to, was pretty obvious. You must have seen plenty of similar equipment.” He picked out some more glossies out of the envelope, close-ups of me sitting across the table from him in the bar at the Majestic Hotel, and passed them over.

Excellent shots, actually—fine grained, sharply focused, with good depth of field. Hardly any “fish-eye” perspective at all. I picked up his briefcase and turned it around in my hands. The front panel had a false back, making a compartment for the camera, and the lens gathered in the world through the oversized keyhole for the lock. A microphone, a tiny one with a wire leading to the recorder at the bottom of the case, nestled in one of the accordion folds on the side, just peeping over the rim. “Well, none exactly like this,” I admitted. I’d never in my life seen anything even remotely like it. If this was the kind of thing the CIA did, nobody told 
me
 about it. “Obviously you’ve done a thorough job keeping tabs on me, Grotesqcu, very thorough. Commendably thorough. So, why go to the trouble of luring me to this hole in the wall for a meeting?”