Page 184 of Cry Havoc

“But I’d read your file. It is my job to know the weaknesses and motivations of everyone in the building. I revisited it, in light of recent revelations.”

Penkovsky remained stoic.

“The file said the tuberculosis caused irreparable damage to your son’s lungs. It must be hard for a parent to watch their son suffocate. I understand it was extremely difficult on your wife. That is why she left you, isn’t it? You represented the state to her, the same state that killed her child.”

Penkovsky’s eyes burned in a fusion of hatred and pain.

“The official cause of death was organ failure after the disease spread beyond the lungs,” Lavrinenko continued. “Did it get to his kidneys? Spine? Liver? Brain? I do sympathize with you, Comrade. If it were me in your position, I can’t say what I would do, though I would hope I would not betray the motherland.”

“It is the country that betrayed us.”

“Is that what you tell yourself when the curtain goes up at the opera and you exchange coat claim tickets with the enemy? You were keeping Walker as your ace in the hole, as your American friends would say, in case you needed to defect. Of course, they would want to keep you in place feeding them information for years, but something as big as Walker, well, that just might have been your ticket. You didn’t know when to get out of the game. They were using you.”

“And I, you, Director.”

“I learned the way your mind works in all these years we have worked together. Do you think I just sit there and eat caviar and grow fat? I am watching, learning. That’s how I survive.”

Lavrinenko turned to the window and looked out over GRU headquarters, his eyes coming to rest on the crematorium, its chimney spewing dark, oily smoke.

“You know there is only one way out of here for you, Anatoly.”

Lavrinenko did not need to specify what that was. They both knew. It was through the chimney of the crematorium.

Four large Spetsnaz soldiers in suits entered the office.

Lavrinenko turned to them.

“I never want to see him again.”

Without a word, Penkovsky buttoned the top button of his tweed jacket and was escorted from the room.

CHAPTER 69

Saigon, Vietnam

November 1968

NICK SERRANO SLIPPED INTOthe booth across from Tom Reece with two beers in hand.

They were in Mama Bic’s bar on Tu Do Street, the unofficial Special Forces headquarters of the Vietnam War. It was just afternoon, but it always felt like midnight in Mama Bic’s, where the lights were low, and the music pulsed. If you did not look at your watch, you might think it was the witching hour.

Most senior CIA and State people, along with established journalists, avoided Mama Bic’s. They tended to stick to the more upscale establishments that offered the same distractions, albeit at higher prices. There was a class hierarchy in Vietnam amongst those who fought the war. Mama Bic’s was the domain of snake eaters.

This section of the city never slept. Among the restaurants and cafés were bars, nightclubs, whorehouses, massage parlors, and tattoo studios. Outside on the streets, pickpockets plied their trade as young GIs were distracted by swindlers, pimps, and entrepreneurial locals peddling anything the heart desired. From sex and drugs to gold and diamonds, it was all available on Tu Do Street. A soundtrack of competing rock androll tunes blared from the bars and clubs, the sounds colliding in a battle none could win.

The crowded, smoke-filled Mama Bic’s was packed with GIs in uniform, a few South Vietnamese soldiers, even fewer lower-level embassy staffers venturing out for an adventure, the odd journalist who had not yet broken into the big-time, beautiful waitresses, and, of course, prostitutes. Mama’s girls floated around the bar, enticing patrons into purchasing Saigon Tea, which really was just tea, regardless of what the exorbitant price tag suggested. A band on stage from the Philippines played a bad cover version of “The End” by The Doors.

“How did you find me?” Tom asked.

“I’m CIA,” Serrano responded. “And there really are not that many places to check.”

“There are thousands of bars in Saigon.”

“But there is only one Mama Bic’s,” Serrano responded. He raised his beer in the direction of a domineering woman behind the bar.

Mama Bic was a force of nature. Everyone in SF circles either knew her or knew of her. She ran her establishment with an iron fist, selling beer, liquor, and girls along with black market drugs and cigarettes. If you needed a Rolex or a gun, she could supply you. She passed no judgment; whatever you were looking for, she would find. She also had the best-looking girls in Saigon. She would even hide you from the MPs if you needed it. In a war where coming home was not a guarantee, Mama Bic’s could be your last good time before Valhalla.

Working as a bar girl for Mama Bic was different from working in other bars. She took care of her girls and had her own network of safe houses for them set up across the city. She had a mind for business and operated in an area as gray as charcoal. She had an arrangement to incentivize soldiers to bring her supplies from U.S. bases in exchange for a night with one of her girls. Mama Bic then sold the items on the black market at a serious markup. Part of the agreement was that youcould not pick the girl, the girl had to pick you. It was well established that she had bought off the Viet Cong, so you did not need to worry about getting fragged while enjoying a beer in Mama Bic’s. She was the most well-connected woman in Saigon. Rumor had it that she was on the CIA payroll.