Tree of Smoke (47 page)

“What time is it?” the colonel asked.

“Almost one. Are you hungry? And welcome, incidentally.”

He’d been told to expect the colonel sometime after the rainy season, and that was all. Been told in fact by the colonel.

“I ordered coffee,” the colonel said.

The dog attacked its privates with a volcanic, ecstatic grunt-music.

“Got yourself a dog.”

“It’s Mr. Tho’s. I think we might eat it.”

The toilet flushed in the downstairs bath. Jimmy Storm came out in clean fatigues. Adjusting the hem of his shirt, he stared at the masturbating animal. “I think your dog’s in love.”

“My dog? I thought he was your dog.”

Storm laughed and sat on the couch and said, “You’re a foolhardy moocher of a mutt.” He scratched the dog’s head and then smelled his fingers.

“Why didn’t you take the chopper?” The sight of Jimmy Storm made him speak brusquely.

“The chopper’s no longer mine.”

“Oh. Whose is it, then?”

“It still belongs to our allies, but they’ve put it to better use. And we’re breaking down the LZ—that’s official now.”

“I thought all this was happening months ago.”

“The gods move slow, but they never stop moving. No more Cao Phuc, as of this September first.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Fortunes of war,” the colonel said. “In any event, I wouldn’t have taken the chopper today. This is an unofficial visit. Just family.”

“Tho can bring you a beer. Or what about a drink?”

“He’s making coffee. Let’s talk with our heads clear. I’d like to conduct some business.”

“Well, okay. I’m not here for the free doughnuts.” It was something his mother sometimes said, and it sounded silly to him.

“Have you thoroughly reread the Dimmer article?”

“On double agents. Yes, sir.”

Storm said, “Jesus Christ.”

“What.”

“I read that thing.”

“What.”

“Nothing what. It’s not applicable.”

“Sergeant.”

“Colonel, if you want to assassinate the Virgin Mary with Oswald’s Mannlicher, I’ll spot for you.”

“You’re saying we’re not within the guidelines.”

“Yeah. Adapt and improvise.”

“Skip? What say?”

“I’ll drive the getaway car.”

“We’re not shooting the Blessed Virgin.”

“Should I wait to be told? Or should I ask?”

“We’re here to discuss a hypothetical.”

“Not an assassination.”

“No. God, no.”

“Along the lines of a deception operation?”

“So you remember our previous chat about this kind of thing. Our hypothetical chat.”

“You talked about a double. A hypothetical double.”

Mr. Tho came in with a tray of cups and two pots and poured coffee for the Americans and tea for Nguyen Hao. As he departed he herded the dog from the room with the side of his foot.

The colonel worried his coffee with the spoon. “What is this stuff?”

“Creamer? That’s powdered creamer.”

“Powdered cream?”

“No—‘creamer.’”

“Lord, it doesn’t dissolve. What is it made of? Clay?”

“Hao brought it. I assume Mrs. Diu asked for it.”

“Jesus Christ. It tastes like somebody’s armpit.”

“Seems like it’s been around for years,” Storm said. “It kind of snuck up on civilization.”

“Engineers could build a substantial dam out of this stuff. They could hold back mighty waters. Now. As to our ruse de guerre. The operation.”

“The double. The hypothetical double.”

“His status has shifted.”

“How much can you tell me?”

“He’s a walk-in. He had his toe in and out for quite a while. But when Tet came, he dove headfirst. He’s ours. If we use him, we use him long-range and short-run. So we can keep this a family op. Are you needing some information?”

“Family op. The family is…”

“Just the three of us here, and Hao’s nephew Minh, my helicopter pilot. Lucky. You’ve met him. Lucky, and the three of us.”

Storm said, “And Pitchfork.”

“And Pitchfork, if we need him. Pitchfork’s in-country.”

“I thought the Brits were out of this.”

“They’ve got a couple of SAS teams here in New Zealand uniforms. And a few specialists wearing Green Berets. So Anders is here. He was SAS for years.”

“Now, ‘long-run but short-range’—what does that mean?”

“Long-range, I said, but short-run. We’ll send him back north for a onetime op, delivering some deception material. This is the operation I brought you out for, Skip. Operation Tree of Smoke.”

The colonel waited for Skip to adjust to this news.

Skip experienced no excitement. Only the lethargy and sadness of a man freezing to death. “How far outside the guidelines are we?”

“Guidelines don’t apply to hypotheticals. We’re brainstorming.”

“Then you don’t mind if I play the role of Dimmer a little?”

“Go ahead. We need a Devil’s advocate.”

“I think in this case, the Devil is you.”

Storm said, “Skipper’s on the side of the angels.”

“He’s asking the hard questions. Somebody has to. Go ahead. What would Dimmer say?”

“I can tell you exactly what questions he’d ask. Or anyway the important ones—the ones that leap out at me.”

“For instance.”

“Can you control his commo both ways?”

“No. We won’t even try. This is a onetime, one-way operation. He can blow this particular op and nothing else. We give him nothing else.”

“And if he blows it? If he’s a fake?”

The colonel shrugged. “Nothing ventured. Next question.”

“Has he told you everything? Or at least enough to start testing him by polygraph? How’s your information?”

“Nebulous at this point. We’re still in the process of initial assessment. You’ll be the IO on this one.”

“Me?”

“You’re not here for jollies. You’re the interviewing officer.”

Skip took a deep, involuntary breath and let it out. “So.”

“So—next question.”

“I guess this one’s already been answered: How far along is the process? Has he been polygraphed? But we’ll do that later.”

“I don’t want polygraphs. I don’t trust those things.”

“Dimmer says to test continually. ‘Polygraph early and often.’”

“No polygraph. There’s only one way to vet a man, and that’s with blood. He’s given us the blood of his comrades. That’s better than any machine can tell us.”

“Why not both?”

“Only blood will tell. He needs to feel we trust him. And do you trust me? Can you go with my judgment on this?”

“Yes, sir. No polygraph.”

“Thank you, Skip. It means a lot.” The colonel wiped his upper lip with a finger. By a kind of inner wilting, and a sinking of the sun in his expression, he managed to convey that trust in his judgment was at a premium. “What else?”

“The jackpot question.”

“Shoot, sir.”

“Have you reported the case?”

The colonel shrugged.

“Let me get the article.” Skip rose to his feet.

“Up jumped the Devil,” Storm said.

Though it was classified, he kept it on the desk. “He’s got a list of do’s and don’t’s,” he said when he returned. “Number Ten.”

“Don’t stand, please.”

Skip resumed his seat. “Number Ten: ‘Do not plan a deception operation or pass deception material without prior headquarters approval.’”

“This is what I’m talking about,” Storm said. “But what the fuck.”

“Twenty: ‘Report the case frequently, quickly, and in detail…’ Let’s see here. All right, the Devil speaks loud and clear: ‘The service and officer considering a double agent possibility must weigh net national advantage thoughtfully, never forgetting that a double agent is, in effect, a condoned channel of communication with the enemy.’ What we’re discussing amounts to an unauthorized liaison.”

“I like ‘self-authorized.’”

“A self-authorized liaison with the enemy.”

The colonel said, “Hao, will you get me some real milk somewhere on earth, please?”

Hao left the room.

The colonel sat up straight, hands on his knees. “Nobody in this room has ever met the hypothetical fella. No liaison as of yet, as such.”

“Colonel, sir, as long as it’s just us for a minute.”

“Right. Go ahead.”

“I understand it’s a family op and all that. But should we necessarily be talking in front of Hao?”

“Hao? At this point Hao knows more than we do. He brought our man in. He was the initial contact.”

“What do we really know about him?”

“Really? What do we really know about anybody in this hall of mirrors?”

“Really nothing.”

“Ten-four. Here’s a rule of thumb: trust the locals. Have I ever told you that?”

“Plenty.”

“You can’t trust everyone in this country, but we’ve got to trust somebody. We go by our guts. And I can tell you this,” he said, as Hao returned with a small pitcher, “I just asked for milk and here it is. And that’s how everything always works with Mr. Hao.” Hao sat down and the colonel said, “Mr. Hao, we’re planning a self-authorized national deception operation. Are you with us?”

“’Zeckly,” Hao said.

“Good enough?” the colonel asked Skip.

“Plenty good.”

“More questions?”

“That’s the lot,” Skip said.

“Fine.” The colonel took from his breast pocket a half dozen three-by-five note cards of the kind Skip had handled all too often, and began a presentation. “It’s out of the bag: a national deception operation. But it can’t be any kind of op unless it comes with a plan. Let’s move to that phase of the hypothetical. How do we get bogus product credibly into the hands of the enemy? Specifically into Uncle Ho’s hands? Through a plant who allows himself to be captured and tortured? Through a double who ‘steals’ phony documents? An almost impossible task, but a combination of those two would be nearly ideal. Coming from separate sources, its credibility would be enhanced.”

“Is all that written on those little cards?” Storm asked.

“Jimmy,” the colonel said, “you make me tired.”

“All this is hypothetical,” Skip felt it necessary to be assured.

“Yes, yes, nothing’s figured out. We don’t know what we’re doing yet. Thus the coming debriefing. And you’re the debriefer. The man’s name is Trung. You have some Vietnamese. He has some English. You both have some French. Right, Hao—he’s got some English?”

Hao spoke his first complete sentence since entering: “No, Colonel, excuse me. He doesn’t speak English. None.”

“Well, fine. That’s why Skip spent a year in Carmel.”

“We’ll work it out,” Skip promised.

“I know you will. Mr. Tho!” the colonel called.

Tho appeared with a dishtowel in his hand. He was probably in his sixties but seemed physically no more than middle-aged—although philosophically seasoned, imperturbable—and he smiled radiantly because the colonel smiled at him first.

“Mr. Tho—break out the Bushmills.”

They all took Bushmills mixed with water. Even Hao accepted one and held the glass with both hands without drinking from it. The potion banished the colonel’s paleness, and halfway down his highball he seemed rescued from any symptoms of his illness. And clearly he was ill.

Without any bitterness that he could, himself, detect, Skip said, “Do you wonder what I’ve been doing?”

“The same as all of us—waiting while a viable strategy emerges. Meanwhile, what are you doing to keep busy?”

“Nothing. I’m wasted here. I’m a pogue.”

Storm said, “That’s jarhead terminology.”

“It applies.”

“Up until this stage we’re entering,” the colonel said, “the candidate has to set the pace. And look—the most convincing thing about him is all this delay and this reluctance. It says to me he appreciates what a step this is. And he’s honest with us about being doubtful.”

Hao spoke: “Yes. He is honest. I know him.”

“But now he’s committed,” Skip said.

“He’s come over. That’s right. That’s the situation,” the colonel said. “Now he’s ours and I want him here with you. I don’t want him in Cao Phuc or in Saigon. I want him where he hasn’t worked before.”

“But what’s the delay?”

“He can’t just disappear. He’s part of a cell. The cell is part of a network. He can’t just go on vacation. He’s offered credible reasons for relocating to this area, or he assures us he has, but it takes time. He says it takes time and I believe him.”

“Meanwhile, I’m a pogue. Reading Dickens, as you know.”

“And Ian Fleming. Sorry I couldn’t get the Tolstoy.”

“Anything big and fat, or full of suave secret agents.”

“Have you read Shell Scott?”

“Sure. You mean the series. Richard S. Prather.”

“What about Mickey Spillane?”

“Everything. A dozen times.”

“Henry Miller?”

“Can you get Henry Miller?”

“He’s legal now. He went to court. I’ll get you Henry Miller.”

“Get me
Tropic of Capricorn.
I’ve read
Tropic of Cancer.
”

“I didn’t like
Cancer
. Boring.
Capricorn
’s really good.”

“Wow. I didn’t know you stayed so current.”

“They were written in the thirties, man. Mr. Tho!” he called. “Do I smell food?” He drained his glass. “Let’s get out while lunch cooks. Let’s take a drive.”

“Or walk,” Skip said. “There’s a tunnel just down the road.”

“You’re kidding. Here?”

“We’ve got all the latest stuff, Uncle.”

“Let’s explore,” the colonel said. “And don’t forget the bottle.”

The outing was a failure. They followed a zigzag course down the main road, walking around the puddles. “Don’t talk to me about current events,” the colonel said. “That’s all I ask. Jesus Christ, another Kennedy. Can’t somebody kill Uncle Ho? These folks mean business.” He stopped as if to make his next point, but more likely to catch his breath. “You whack them down in January, they’re back all bright and shiny next May, ready for more of our terrible abuse. Is that the tunnel?”

“What’s left of it.”

The colonel waited silently ten seconds before persevering over the last twenty yards to stand before the tunnel, now an eroded delve in a small bluff.

“Well, no, Skip, no. I don’t think so. Have you seen the tunnels in Cu Chi? You haven’t, have you?”—pronouncing it the native way, so it came out
Goochy
.