Page 64 of Cry Havoc

“I’ll hold off for now,” Tom said. “A coffee sounds great.”

“How do you take it?”

“Just black.”

Serrano looked at a small Vietnamese man dressed like a French waiter in black pants, white shirt, and black vest. He was standing on a raised vestibule seemingly guarding the glass double doors that led inside the annex.

“Beer, black coffee, and tea, please.”

The man bowed his head ever so slightly and disappeared inside.

“Tea? You don’t look like a tea guy,” Quinn said.

“Looks can be deceiving. Got addicted to it in Korea. I still start the day with coffee, but in the afternoon, I switch to tea. Now it’s a habit.”

The waiter returned holding a tray. He placed an ice-cold Biere “33” in front of Quinn, condensation rolling down the bottle. A glass French press was set next to Tom. The short Vietnamese man slowly pushed the plunger down before pouring its contents into a small white coffee cup next to it.

“Thank you,” Tom said.

The waiter served Nick his tea along with a small container of honey. He then positioned a basket of French breads and pastries in the center of the table.

“Thank you, Diêp. That’s all.”

Diêp bowed again and retreated into the confines of the building.

“Please, gentlemen,” Nick said, motioning to the bread and pastries.

Both Tom and Quinn helped themselves as Nick added honey to his tea with a wooden honey dipper.

In response to Tom’s look, Nick said, “They make excellent honey here in Vietnam. I put it on everything. Feel free to try it in your coffee. That’s what I do.”

“Maybe I’ll ease into it,” Tom said, taking a sip of his dark liquid. “Wow, this is bold.”

“Vietnamese coffee is some of the best I’ve found. The Hai Ba Trung district is dedicated to coffee shops. It’s remarkable. The French introduced it over a hundred years ago like they did everything else, hence the dark roast. What do you have up in Phu Bai?”

“Instant Nescafé, I think. Same stuff that’s in our rations.”

“After this, you just might not want to go back.”

Truth be told, Tom couldn’t wait to get back to Phu Bai.

“Jack probably told you,” Serrano said, referring to Colonel Singlaub. “But we worked together in Korea and Manchuria. Korea was my first posting.”

“Pardon me saying so,” Quinn said, “but you don’t seem like an Agency guy.”

“Because I talk like a street cop and not like I went to Yale or worked on Wall Street?”

“There is that.”

“I was only ten when we were attacked at Pearl Harbor, so I missed that one, but I was ready for Korea. I come from a family of coppers in Chicago. Well, one side is coppers and the other is Outfit.”

“Outfit?” Tom asked.

“Cosa Nostra, the mafia. I think that’s one of the reasons the Agency wanted me. Connections in Sicily. They were looking for language-qualified applicants. I speak Sicilian and now French and Vietnamese.”

“How did you get from Chicago to Langley?” Quinn asked.

“I had uncles who had been in the war. I realized there were options other than police work or prison. I wanted something different, so I broke the family mold, concentrated on my grades, and got into Georgetown. They were building up the Agency when I graduated. The 1947 National Security Act opened some doors. CIA needed bodies. Maybe I was one of the expendable ones. Next thing I know, I’m at the Farm and then in Korea. Jack was deputy chief of station then. We worked in Manchuria together after that. He requested I take this posting.”