The Asian Mantrap

Twelve

Madame Peacock was outwardly calm. Her hand was steady as she poured tea. She and Willow conversed in a common language while I sat with them in the well-furnished, combination parlor-office adjacent to the main bar. When our unusual hostess took a seat and sipped the aromatic brew from a wafer-thin, hand-painted china cup, she switched to French.

Madame Peacock got right to the point. Her voice was high pitched, almost rasping. The apparent tightness in her throat could be caused by apprehension of events to come. “You must wait until Bu Chen returns. He will find a place where you can be safe — not here. You need not worry; I will see that none of my girls talk, but they will not keep silent forever. I hope your stay in Bangkok was to be a short one.”

That gave me the chance to tell Madame Peacock we’d be ready to leave as soon as we collected Keith Martin. Willow, the incurable romantic, had to inject the bit about Martin’s love-driven crusade to rejoin his war-time sweetheart.

A small smile grew on Madame Peacock’s thin lips. “Her name is Phan Wan Quan, a delightful flower. You have not been misled. Mister Martin’s search ended here. In failure, I’m afraid. You see, Phan Wan, who succeeded in establishing herself as a refugee from Hue, was actually a North Vietnamese woman sent by her owner to Saigon so she could make a fortune selling herself to rich Yankee soldiers. After the Americans left, Phan Wan was sent here because I had an arrangement with the man in Hanoi.

“It is true that Phan Wan loves your friend Martin very much. It is possible, despite what you might think to the contrary. I did not dissuade Phan Wan from the idea that her Yankee lover would someday return. She never gave up hope. It gladdened my heart to see that he came. I never thought he would.”

I grew impatient. “Where are they now?” I asked.

“Phan Wan now lives in the home of Nho Phu Thone, her master. He withdrew her after the Americans were sent out of Thailand.” She saw the look on my face. “Oh, yes. She was taken away weeks ago. To Hanoi, of course. I told that to your Mister Martin as well. Then he left.”

I knew that was what she was going to say. I had two questions. “When was this?”

“A little before midnight the day before yesterday.”

In time to put into motion the rash of assassinations, I thought. The most important question came next. “Do you have any idea where he went?”

“None at all. He seemed to be in a hurry.”

I was too. With none of the answers I needed forthcoming, my mind picked over the few facts and many possibilities that had developed from Martin’s peculiar actions. It didn’t make sense to me that Martin would claim he was hung up on a prostitute to the extent he’d risk his career by disappearing and create a lot of diversions to keep his movements secret. I was sure Martin had come to Bangkok for reasons more likely linked to the premise that he was part of a fanatical group bent on avenging American POWs. Whatever the plan — mad as it was — Martin was being helped.

At that point, my brain came to a dead stop.

I still wasn’t sure what part his old flame, Phan Wan Quan, played in his scheme. I decided that was an issue apart from the main thrust of Martin’s obsession. But now I was almost certain just how much of a grip the madness had upon him.

“How did Martin get here? By taxi? Did he walk in?”

Madame Peacock’s thin, arched eyebrows bent in thought. “A private automobile. A big, black American sedan. With an American at the wheel. I went with Mister Martin to the door. He was both sad and angry, it seemed. He got in the car next to the driver, a broad-shouldered, yellow-haired man with a short haircut. I didn’t see his face.”

“The license plate?”

She shook her head.

“Are you onto something?” asked Willow.

I didn’t have a chance to reply. Bu Chen came in from an alley entrance. He was perspiring. “It’s done,” he announced.

“I’ll get you a drink,” Madame Peacock said, rising. She was a smart woman. What she didn’t hear she couldn’t repeat.

“We’ve got big trouble,” Bu Chen said in a low voice. “When I saw that the big pig Willow clobbered had been zapped, the other one had to go,” he explained. “Those two bastards have been pressuring folks along this street for years. They deserved what they got. But the law will be down here in force soon. They’ll intimidate those birdbrain chicks out there. One of them will eventually spill her guts. They all know me. My life isn’t worth dog shit. Yours neither, now. Sorry I gotta lay this on you, but we’d better figure out what to do.”

He could have been making a subtle threat. Even if he was, I understood his position, which was little worse than the one occupied by Willow and myself. Willow looked pale. She had never been in a spot as tight as this one. “Can you get us to the American Embassy?” I asked.

“We’ll need a taxi,” he replied.

“Have you got a tag on one that doesn’t keep trip records... or hasn’t got a two-way radio contact with a dispatcher?”

Bu Chen brightened. “Easiest thing in the world,” he said proudly.

A black Citroen of ancient vintage ghosted down the alley that was beginning to fill with sea fog. The low sedan came to a shuddering stop at Madame Peacock’s back door. Its brakes squeaked piercingly. Madame Peacock turned her hand over when I reached out to shake it, avoiding the fifty dollar bill I offered. She brushed Willow’s cheek with her own and patted her fanny lightly to urge her out the door. The inside of the taxi smelled as though it was also used as a delivery van for unsealed containers of fish viscera-based fertilizer.

A circuitous route under Bu Chen’s supervision was followed. A uniformed marine came out to challenge me when I rang the night bell next to the piked, wrought-iron fence surrounding the U.S. Embassy. He took me inside, making Willow and Bu Chen wait. That irritated me, but I curbed the urge to protest.

Things went better after the duty officer was summoned. It was almost as if we were expected.

We were ushered into a small ante room and offered coffee. After a twenty minute wait, Ambassador Cavendish showed up. He was wearing a tuxedo. That and his salt-and-pepper hair topping a florid, smiling face made his appearance characteristic of senior level diplomats. He apologized for his semi-formal dress. He would have to apologize again later to his host and hostess for being tardy for an official reception and dinner.

“I didn’t expect three of you,” his well-modulated voice said, looking at Bu Chen. The chunky Asian, looking like an off-duty gravedigger, didn’t shrink under the station chief’s penetrating gaze. By contrast, the ambassador’s eyes twinkled lustfully and his smile broadened when he looked long at Willow. I wondered what face he’d wear if he knew she’d just killed a cop.

“All of us need your help,” I said, including Bu Chen.

Without prelude, Ambassador Cavendish moved to a small safe. He worked the combination, then drew out a manila folder jammed thick with sheaves of yellow teletype paper. He brought the file back to his desk and laid it before me. He waved a hand over the bulky stack of messages. “This is the stuff that’s come in during the past twelve hours. Frankly, I don’t recall anything carrying such a consistently high priority. Most of this pertains to supplying information directly to the White House. I hope you have some answers.”

“Are all of those from David Hawk?” I couldn’t believe he would be that verbose.

“A few are from the State Department,” Cavendish replied. “They outlined the problem for me, although much is couched in terms that are suggestive of an extreme crisis situation without spelling out direct United States involvement. It seems that our country is being pushed into a very delicate position because of the acts of some faction engaged in terrorist activities aimed at the North Vietnamese government,” he paused.

“I know that much, Mr. Ambassador. You put it very concisely. I take it you’ve read the whole file?” He nodded. “Then you could save me a lot of time by filling me in on the high points.” He nodded again. “I don’t mean to be critical of how this is being handled, but just how many people know what’s going on?” I asked.

“Absolutely no one but myself. And my senior code clerk downstairs, of course.”

“I meant back home in Washington.”

“Oh. Yes. Because of the gravity of the situation, the National Security Council has been called together and is remaining in loose session. The president is pressing for news, requiring hourly reports from myself and God only knows who else on anything but of the ordinary. I’ve been unable to contribute anything other than notifying Washington that you had arrived. I wasn’t told that Mr. Chen was an associate.”

Bu Chen’s shoulders went back a little at the unexpected recognition. “Keep him anonymous,” I said.

“Of course. Whatever you say. I’ve been instructed to do nothing unless you specifically request assistance. I understand the success of whatever it is you’re here to do requires both utmost secrecy and total noninterference.”

Those sounded like Hawk’s words. I was glad to know that he was still pretty much running the show. “That’s fine. So... what is going on, in Hanoi and back in Washington?”

Ambassador Cavendish ran an unsteady forefinger across his lips. “Well, the best news is that everything in Hanoi is quiet for the present.”

“No more killings,” I amplified. “That could mean a lot of things. First, the police and security forces in Hanoi may have made a capture or a killing of their own. If that’s the case, we’ll hear about it, although not necessarily right away. They’ll take time to set the stage before they spring the news in order to get the maximum propaganda effect. The other possibility is that the job is either finished or called off. I doubt if it’s finished.” I was thinking of the list of names Hawk had sent me.

“Too much has gone into setting up this operation to cut it short,” I went on. “The option that gets my vote is that this is the calm in the eye of the hurricane. Just a period of laying low and re-grouping following the initial assassinations.” Cavendish sat behind his desk nodding in agreement. “What’s the attitude at the White House?” I asked him.

“Their analysis parallels yours. The thinking is that very few individuals are involved. A large foraying party is too cumbersome. It’s a matter of only two or three suicidal and extremely gifted individuals helped along the way by other misguided, unthinking people.” I broke in because a dazzling light of understanding flooded my brain. Cavendish had hit it on the nose. Everything fell into place. Only one link was missing from the chain. “Do you have a man here in the marine detachment who is about my height with broad shoulders and blond hair?”

“Big? Blond? What makes you think he’s a marine?”

“His hair was short... like a military haircut.”

“He’s no marine. You must be thinking about Colonel Jeleff, our military attaché. He’s on leave right now.”

“Military attachés equate to intelligence work, so your Colonel Jeleff undoutedly knows how to get individuals across national borders. He runs a pipeline, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” Cavendish answered as if it pained him to admit it. “I know he brings certain persons out of places like Cambodia and Laos and interrogates them.”

“So he can reverse the flow just as well.”

“I presume so,” Cavendish knew damn well it was done. He wanted to deny his knowledge of Jeleff’s covert activities.

“Colonel Jeleff was seen with General Martin in the past two days. Who else but Jeleff knows the lay of the land better? Who but Jeleff could smuggle anyone into Hanoi. I don’t know how he did it, that’s incidental. You know, there’s no squad of commandos churning up Hanoi. This is a one-man show starring Keith Martin!”

“I can’t believe it,” exclaimed Ambassador Cavendish.

“That’s because you don’t know Martin, but you damn well better believe it. Once we tell Washington what’s been uncovered here, they’ll verify that that’s the way it’s coming down.”

Cavendish squared his shoulders. “Wait a minute. That’s only supposition... a guess on your part. Why, I’d be the laughing stock of the State Department if I told—”

I cut him off. “You’ll have your butt kicked higher than the Capitol dome if you don’t. I can guarantee that. Send the message Eyes Only to David Hawk. Make it a verbatim quote from Carter and add N3 after the name. Just get it off. Now! I’ll use your desk to write up the confirming evidence, though it won’t be needed to convince Hawk. Close the message with the phrase Instructions Requested.”

For a moment it didn’t look like the ambassador was going to cooperate. He thumbed the thick file of teletype messages as if to derive a decision from their bulk. He got up from his chair and stepped aside. “Help yourself.”

“What’s the coded communications turnaround time between here and Washington?”

“With the priority assigned to this matter, between twenty-five and thirty minutes. I’ll alert my code clerk.”

I was scribbling the last words of my two page message when the ambassador returned. His bow tie was undone, his shirt collar open. “We’re ready,” he advised me. “My code clerk has the current rotor settings fed into his crypto machines.” I handed him the two sheets and he left the office again.

Five minutes later a knock sounded on the door. It was opened immediately by a pistol-armed marine corporal bearing a tray holding coffee cups and a carafe. “Compliments of the ambassador,” he said, walking toward Willow. He placed the tray on the table in front of the leather sofa in which she sat.

I was on my second cup when Ambassador Cavendish rejoined us. He waved off an invitation from Willow to accept coffee. He came over to stand next to me and spoke in guarded tones. “Are you sure about Colonel Jeleff being involved with this scheme of General Martin’s? I’ve known Jeleff for some time. He seems levelheaded and dependable, not one to engage in villainous activities that defy authority.”

“Let me ask you a question: Did he see service in Vietnam?”

“Ah... yes, he did.”

“He was a prisoner of war, too Right?”

“No. You’re wrong there, Mr. Carter. But his younger brother was. He came home with both legs missing.”

I shook my head instead of swearing out loud. “Remember, Mr. Ambassador, you’re not to interfere.” He bobbed his head again with his favorite answer. “So I respectfully request that none of what we have discussed here becomes known to Colonel Jeleff, and especially that you take no action against him for what he has done. If any charges are brought against Jeleff for his part in this, they will originate in Washington.”

“I quite understand,” agreed Cavendish. He was going to say more, but his telephone rang. He picked it up, listened, said “Thank you.” He turned to me.

“Washington has responded to your message.”

It read as if Hawk had composed it.

The message had no signature. There were two meaningful groups of characters tacked on. One was RENAVSUBC, the other CONFREMB. These were codes indicating standby procedures for emergency evacuation and assistance. They were the only glimmers of light in the entire text. They told me that the president hadn’t written me off too. These letter groups meant that — assuming survival — I had a way out.

Even so, the message ended too abruptly to suit me.

I was left with a cold, empty feeling.

I had questions, but none about what had to do. In order to avert a crisis, Martin must be stopped at any cost. The cost to Martin for having taken the role of instigator and executioner was his own life. I was to be the instrument of death.

The presidential edict was both right and wrong.

When weighed in the balance, I could understand how the decision could only go one way.