Saigon (70 page)

“You can’t be as bad as you paint, yourself,” said Joseph quietly, “if you’ve listened to your conscience.” 

“I’m going to borrow your phrase now — I’ve never talked to anyone like this before. But listening to you tonight made me suddenly want to confide in you — I can’t tell you why. And since the Diem coup I’ve tried consciously to see my stories with a more compassionate eye, tried to think of the story first, not myself. I don’t know whether I’ve always succeeded, hut I’m trying at least.” 

“I haven’t known you long, Naomi,” said Joseph, smiling again. 

“But it’s been long enough for me to know that you’re a rare spirit.” 

They crossed Le Loi Square, heading in the direction of the Continental Palace Hotel, and Naomi moved closer to Joseph to slip her arm companionably through his. “You Americans are very quick on the draw with a compliment. I’d hoped to get in first with something like that about you.. 

As he came down the steps of the Continental Palace with another officer of the 301st Infantry Division with whom he had been dining, Captain Gary Sherman glanced casually across the street in front of the hotel and noticed a broad-shouldered man in a pale, tropical-weight suit escorting a strikingly elegant woman with blond hair. The man, graying at the temples, was laughing, and Gary watched the couple idly for a moment or two before he realized with a start that the man was his father; a moment later he saw that he also knew his companion. They were walking close together arm in arm, and as soon as he recognized them, he stopped where he was and watched them approach the hotel. Because they were engrossed in their conversation, Joseph and Naomi didn’t see Gary until they began climbing the steps, and then they looked up to find him blocking their way. 

“Gary! What a surprise!” Joseph’s face broke into a broad smile of pleasure. “I thought you weren’t going to be able to get away from your unit again for another week at least. You know Miss Boyce-Lewis already, I believe.” 

“Sure, Dad, we met once.” Gary’s voice was deliberately cool and he greeted the English journalist with a curt nod. 

“We’ve just been dining at the Cercle,” said Joseph, still smiling. “It’s a pity we didn’t know you were in town. You and your friend could have joined us.” He glanced at the other officer, but Gary made no move to introduce him. 

“I was watching you both cross the Street — I don’t think somehow that would have been a good idea.” 

The smile on Joseph’s face faded a little but he patted his son’s shoulder warmly. “Nonsense, but what I’d really like to do, Gary, when you get into Saigon again is to have you come to dinner at my villa. I’m settled in now. You’ll get to meet some of the American correspondents who write about the war.” 

“That will be just great — but you’d better send me your printed invitation well in advance so I can fix it with the VC for a night they’re not working. So long.” Gary grinned as he spoke but there was an unmistakable note of sarcasm in his voice, and he nodded formally at Naomi again before moving off briskly down the steps. 

Joseph watched him go for a moment then turned apologetically to Naomi. “I’m sorry about that.” 

“Don’t apologize,” said Naomi quickly. “I sensed it was partly my fault for taking your arm.” 

“I don’t want any apologies on that score,” said Joseph firmly. “I wouldn’t have missed that for anything.” 

In her third-floor suite Naomi waited until the Vietnamese waiter had delivered a tray of Scotch, ice and Perrier water then sat down beside Joseph on the sofa. After a moment’s hesitation, she took hold of one of his hands. “I can’t tell you how much this evening has meant to me, Joseph. Thank you for indulging me with so much talk about 1945 and my father — and for every- tiling else.” 

“I’ve talked at least as much about myself, it seems to me,” replied Joseph, smiling; then on an impulse he lifted her hand and pressed his lips gently against her fingers. 

She watched him in silence, her face expressionless but she made no effort to remove her hand. “I really ought to get some sleep now, Joseph. I’ve got an early flight to Hong Kong tomorrow.” 

Joseph nodded understandingly. “I only wish you were staying longer.” 

“I’ll be back again before very long.” She rose to pour a drink and placed it on the low table in front of him. For a moment she stood indecisively beside the sofa — then she smiled at him again. “I’m going to get ready for bed now, You may take five minutes to drink your whisky, and after that you’re free to leave.” Still smiling at him she removed her shoes and walked to the bedroom door in her stockinged feet; but before opening it she looked around at bins and smiled again. “Or you can stay, if you like.” 

Joseph looked up in astonishment. “I thought you said you had to get some beauty sleep.” 

“You didn’t listen carefully, Joseph. I said I ought to.” 

After she’d left the room, Joseph took off his jacket and tie, and spent ten minutes over his whisky. When he finally opened the bedroom door he found the room in shadow; only one lamp was lit, and Naomi was sitting on the far side of the bed with her back to him. She wore a white lace nightdress which left. Her shoulders bare and she was brushing her hair in a distracted fashion. 

“I began to think you weren’t coming.” She spoke in a whisper but didn’t turn round. 

“I felt I ought to wait — in case you wanted to change your mind.” 

She shook her head quickly and put the brush down. After a moment he began to undress, then she felt the bed take his weight. “I ought to tell you, Joseph, I’m not awfully good at it,” she said softly. “I hope you won’t be disappointed.” 

She laughed a little muffled laugh hut the tension in her body was unmistakable, and when he brushed his lips across her shoulders he felt her quiver. 

“Neither am I,” he said smiling at her back. “It’s surprising how deceptive appearances can be.” 

When she finally turned to him, her eyes were open wide as though she was startled by her own actions, and he kissed her gently on the forehead before taking her in his arms. Their lovemaking was tentative, almost reverent, without high passion, but each sensed wordlessly in those moments that the separate obsessions that had drawn them back to Saigon again and again had led at last to an unexpected solace for them both. 

Joseph’s personal telephone began ringing while he was still unlocking the door to his office at eight—thirty AM. the next morning, and when he lifted the receiver the note of urgency in his brother Guy’s voice was immediately evident. 

“Can you get over to the embassy right away, Joseph, please? Something special’s come up.” 

“What’s it about? 

“I can’t say over the telephone. I’ve been calling you at your villa all night. I gave up finally at four AM. when your bep told me you still weren’t in. You didn’t leave a contact number.” 

Joseph’s eyes narrowed as he registered the note of reproof in his brother’s voice. “Something unexpected turned up, Guy. Do you mind giving me some idea why I should run over there right away?” 

“I’d rather tell you when you get here,” replied Guy with slow deliberation. “But let me assure you it’s in your own interest to get here fast.” 

“Okay, I’ll be there right away.” 

As he hurried towards the new fortified embassy that had been built on the site of the old French Bureaux de l’Infanterie north of the cathedral square, Joseph puzzled over his brother’s urgent summons. Guy had come back to Saigon for the second time nearly a year before as a counterintelligence case officer, and normally the staff of the Joint United States Public Affairs Office had little or no direct contact with the CIA Saigon station that now occupied the top three floors of the ultramodern Chancery block. At a personal level, the antipathy which Joseph had felt from the start for the brother who was sixteen years younger than himself had not lessened with the passage of time, and by habit and mutual consent, relations between them had always remained cool and distant. Joseph therefore concluded that the reasons for Guy’s call must be professional, and searching his memory he recalled hearing some behind-the-hand talk at a cocktail party that intelligence reports suggested a new Viet Cong offensive was being planned to coincide with the annual Tet holiday, due to begin in two days time. The expert reaction, he already knew, had been that if plans of a major offensive had leaked out so easily, they must be part of a new propaganda ploy, and not much credence was being given to the threat. Perhaps, thought Joseph, some new evidence had come in and Guy wanted to brief him personally, but he gave up speculating as he came in view of the embassy, struck suddenly by its ugliness. It had taken two years to build and only four months before, in September 1967, had it finally replaced the former French bank premises overlooking the Saigon River which until then had served as the United States diplomatic headquarters in the city. Like President Thieu’s Doc Lap Palace, the entire facade of the Chancery was protected by a rocket and artillery shield, a concrete carapace that gave the building a sinister, fortress like aspect. A ten-foot wall also surrounded the compound, and a raised helicopter pad had been built on its flat roof; inside, a Marine force of sixty men patrolled the grounds day and night, and as one of the Marine corporals on gate duty checked his pass at the main entrance on Thong Nhut Boulevard, Joseph reflected ruefully that the rocket screens on the embassy and the palace had turned them into grim monuments to the indefatigable Viet Cong; these essential defenses were an ever-visible public acknowledgment that the guerrilla forces would always be strong enough to strike unimpeded at the twin headquarters of their enemies in the heart of their own capital. 

In his room on the fifth floor of the Chancery, Guy wasted no time on preliminaries. As soon as Joseph stepped through the door, he waved him to a chair and pressed a button on the tape recorder on his desk. Because the quality of the voice reproduction was poor, Joseph couldn’t make out the opening words, but he sat bolt upright in his seat the moment his ears attuned to what was obviously a recording of a short-wave broadcast. 

My grandfather is Senator Nathaniel Sherman, who has served as Democratic senator from Virginia for more than forty years, and I wish it to be known that, contrary to his views, I see the cruel war of aggression being waged against the heroic Vietnamese people by the United States as a crime against all humanity 

Joseph’s knuckles whitened on the arms of his chair and he stared at the tape recorder with an anguished expression. “Thank God! At least he’s alive.” 

Guy nodded grimly but lifted a finger indicating they should hear the recording through. 

I was shot down while carrying out inhuman air raids against churches, hospitals and schools in the Democratic Republic of Vietnam and I regard my role in the war as evil and shameful 

Joseph listened to the rest of Mark’s confession in a shocked silence, and the moment Guy switched off the recording machine, he buried his head in his hands. When at last he looked up again his face was pale, and he spoke through gritted teeth. “He’s alive, Guy — but what in hell’s name have they done to him to make him say that?” 

“They’ve tortured him just like they’ve tortured all the other poor bastards who’ve fallen into their hands,” said Guy in a voice that shook with emotion. “Mark’s so damned gutsy they’ve probably had to work harder on him than most — that’s maybe why it’s taken them all this time to squeeze that obscene bullshit out of him.” 

“Where did that come from?” Joseph nodded towards the tape machine. 

“Havana Radio put it out last night.” 

Joseph cursed softly and closed his eyes again. 

“Even if Mark wasn’t my nephew, that would turn my goddamned stomach,” said Guy fiercely. “But knowing what a brave, decent guy he is makes it ten times worse.” He rose from his seat, paced angrily across the office and stood staring out through the window. “It must simplify things a little in your mind too, Joseph, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it make you care less about those deep historical complexities you’ve always warned me about? Doesn’t it make you wonder whether all the trouble really stems from the ‘monstrous exploitation’ these people suffered under the French?” Guy labored his quotation in an exasperated tone. “Couldn’t it just be that these people have got a sadistic streak a mile wide that makes them want to kill and maim other human beings for the sheer hell of it?” 

Joseph sighed wearily and stood up. “Perhaps we could debate that old theme some other time, Guy,” he said quietly. “Meantime I’d like to borrow that tape if I may and listen to it again on my own.” 

“Sit down please, Joseph. You’re right maybe this isn’t the moment for airing our differences.” The younger man’s tone was conciliatory suddenly and he returned to his desk and sat down again. “I didn’t ask you to come over just to listen to the tape— there’s more to it than that.” 

“What do you mean?” Joseph resumed his seat, lines of anxiety furrowing his brow. 

“All that follows is classified, okay — for your ears only.” 

Joseph nodded his agreement. 

“In the last few months, the Viet Cong have begun putting out subtle feelers about talks on prisoner exchanges and what they tantalizingly call ‘other political issues’ 

Joseph’s eyes widened in surprise. “Do you mean the Viet Cong want peace talks? That’s way out of character, isn’t it?” 

“It’s downright unprecedented. It may be a cover for something else — we can’t rule that out. But anyway, over the last two or three years we’ve been steadily picking up some important prisoners here in the South — leading cadres in the Liberation Front. Their cover is so deep even our friendly Vietnamese interrogators here in Saigon can’t get the real names out of some of them. They all usually have at least six aliases. You know as well as anyone the military and political leadership down here has been sent in from Hanoi — but proving it is something else.” 

“But now you’ve had some approaches about those prisoners, is that what you’re saying?” 

Guy nodded. “Right. The first contact through third parties three months ago threw up a list of half-a-dozen prisoners the Front wanted released right off. They suggested American pilots in Hanoi might be freed in exchange. We’ve heard nothing at all for several weeks but there was a new contact last night —just a few hours after Mark’s confession went out on Havana Radio,” 

“Do you think that was deliberate?” asked Joseph quickly. 

“Almost certainly. They seem to see Mark as a trump card because he’s the grandson of the famous Senator Sherman. The Front last night offered a list of a dozen Americans, naming names for the first time — and Mark’s name was among them.” 

“But that’s marvelous news, Guy!” 

Well, let’s try and keep this in perspective —- it’s early days yet. And the plot gets thicker,” 

“What do you mean?” 

“In the list of the Saigon prisoners the Front want released in exchange, there’s one new demand — for a very special prisoner indeed. He was captured iii the delta a year ago and he’s been held in solitary confinement ever since in a whitewashed, refrigerated cell in the old Süreté cellars at the top of Catinat. He’s so god-damned tough he hasn’t even revealed his name yet. He’s known only as ‘the man in the white room’ — that’s the way the Front listed him. We’re sure he’s on the Central Committee of the Lao Dong at Least — maybe even a member of the Politburo. We’re beginning to think he might be the object of the whole exercise and they’ve probably waited until now to ask for him in an effort to play clown his importance. He hasn’t said a single word in twelve months, but we’re as sure as hell he’s the highest- ranking North Vietnamese we’ve ever had in our hands.” 

“So why are you telling me all this?” 

“Because it struck inc suddenly last night after Mark’s name came up — you may know something no other American in Saigon knows.” 

“What’s that?” 

“You ran around the Tongking jungles for several weeks with half the present Hanoi Politburo in your cloak-and dagger days with the OSS, right?” 

Joseph nodded guardedly. 

“I thought maybe you might just know ‘the man in the white room’ by sight. He might just be an old buddy of yours. If we could pin him down, it would help us evaluate the swap deal.” Guy rose abruptly from behind his desk. “I thought we might go arid take a look at him.”