Page 32 of Cry Havoc (Tom Reece #1)

CIA Annex

Saigon, Vietnam

“YOU GUYS STILL LOOK like shit,” Nick Serrano said, his voice deep and gruff with an accent that sounded Italian to the two MACV-SOG operators.

In contrast to what was happening at outposts across the country, this charming street in Saigon felt peaceful. If the generals wanted to wrap this war up, perhaps their headquarters needed to be closer to the reality of the field.

The three men sat at one of four quaint round wooden tables covered in white tablecloths and adorned with perfectly arranged place settings in an outdoor courtyard protected by high walls covered in ivy.

The light stone patio blended perfectly with the colonial architecture, creating the illusion that they were in the Loire Valley.

Water flowed gently from a spigot into the base of a small fountain, masking the intrusion of traffic noise from the street, just beyond the walls of their refuge.

Very French, Tom thought.

The same green tamarind trees that lined Rue Pasteur provided shade while flame trees that would bloom with fiery red and bright orange fern-like leaves in the months ahead to signal the coming of spring remained barren.

Their branches resembled the brittle fingers of an old man stretching for something just beyond reach.

Spotted doves cooed, and sparrows chirped from their limbs, their notes blending in an unadulterated natural harmony.

“Peaceful back here,” Serrano stated.

“A little different than Phu Bai,” Tom said.

The CIA man noticed Tom looking up at the birds.

“The birds love this courtyard. I think they know they are safe here. The Vietnamese have a preoccupation with trapping them and keeping them caged. I don’t understand it myself.

The caged birds sound different, like they are trying to escape, crying for help, frightened.

These birds,” he gestured to the trees above.

“These birds have a different sound. It’s relaxing. They sound free.”

Tom and Quinn had arrived still covered with the blood, sweat, and grime of combat. Serrano had taken one look at them and suggested they clean up.

Tom had showered and changed into jeans and a green T-shirt from his seabag, which had survived the ambush, though his Converse shoes were still covered in dried blood.

Quinn’s duffel had been destroyed in the convoy attack, but by the time he finished showering a new set of clothes in the correct sizes had been set out for him.

The Agency had sent someone shopping. He now wore clean tan pants, sandals, and a black button-up shirt.

“Thanks for the clothes,” Quinn said.

“The least we can do,” Serrano replied.

The CIA officer was dressed in beige pants and a thin white linen untucked dress shirt.

Leather shoes matched his slicked-back jet-black hair, and his dark complexion was offset by light blue eyes that appeared almost translucent.

He was in shape and clean shaven. Tom guessed him to be around forty.

A Zodiac Sea Wolf dive watch with rotating bezel and a distinctive white dial was strapped to his left wrist on a JB Champion stainless Oyster bracelet.

“Why did you want to see us, sir?” Tom asked.

“Cut the ‘sir’ business. This is the Agency. Nick is fine. I want to talk with you about the ambush. But first, can I offer you tea, coffee, beers?”

“I’ll take a beer,” Quinn said.

“Preference?”

“Local is fine.”

“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.”

“What do you do here?” Tom asked.

“I’m the head of what you would call CIA paramilitary operations.

The official title is Chief of Covert Action, which allows me a lot of flexibility.

Far East Division is more than happy to give me my space.

I run a few special projects but mostly manage our assets on the ground, though being here in Saigon has naturally led to relationships I can leverage in support of the war effort. ”

“Like recruitment?”

“Something like that.”

“Are you the chief of station?”

“No. The COS works out of Saigon Station in the embassy. It’s the largest CIA station in the world right now. Agency has the top three floors. I try to keep my distance. He’s got a bigger job, more political, and has to constantly deal with State. I have a different mandate.”

“What do you want with us?” Quinn asked.

“First, I want to express my sincere condolences on the loss of your teammate.”

Quinn nodded.

“Jack told me he’s arranging transport for you to Kontum and that you will be notifying his family.”

“That’s right,” Quinn said. “I recruited him out of Polei Kleng near Kontum in ’66. I’ve met his wife and son. It’s only right that I tell them.”

“I’ve offered the Agency’s assistance if you need it. Air America flight. Anything you need.”

“Why?”

“As you know we work hand in hand with SOG; targeting, assets, strategy. If I’ve got the assets and can help, I will.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, about the prisoner. We have identified him as Phúc Tran, a colonel in NVA military intelligence. Did you see the documents from his satchel?”

“No, we just turned it over to MI and the interrogators,” Quinn replied. “What was in it?”

“Maps of American bases in Quang Tri, Hue, and Da Nang.”

“All in the North,” Tom said.

“Yes. It also contained three red envelopes with messages inside.”

“What did they say?” Quinn asked.

“Lam Nut Bau troi, Rung chuyen Trai Dat,” Tom whispered.

“That’s right. How did you know?” Serrano asked.

“He kept mumbling that phrase the entire flight down here. Like he was in some sort of trance.”

“The envelopes also had lists of names,” Serrano continued. “Still working on it, but each list of names corresponds to the areas surrounding Quang Tri, Hue, and Da Nang.”

“Who are they?” Tom asked.

“From what we have ascertained, they appear to be Catholic clergy, teachers, people working for the provincial government, and a few merchants.”

“A hit list?”

“I would suspect.”

“Why just in the North?”

“Last year we had the VC and NVA on the run. I’m thinking a massive country-wide assault could be in the works. With the Tet New Year celebrations starting tonight, about half the South Vietnamese army is on leave.”

“You said country-wide, but these maps are just in the North,” Tom said.

“I’d guess he’s not the only one. He just happened to be the one that got caught.”

“NVA thought they could move him so close to an American FOB because we were not supposed to be operating that night.”

“That’s right. I checked, and you did not submit a mission approval message to Saigon. Your CO covered for you after the fact.”

“How do you know that?”

“Not my first rodeo.”

“That means someone in Saigon was deconflicting U.S. missions against infiltrators from the North? Captain Lam?”

“Appears so. There are almost certainly more.”

“Fuck, why are we still sharing information?” Tom asked.

“By, with, and through our Vietnamese counterparts is the name of the game these days.”

“Politics.”

“And now we can’t ask Lam because he’s dead. Nor can we ask the prisoner, because Captain Lam executed him,” Serrano said.

“The NVA took a big risk and burned one of their assets to ensure Colonel Tran did not make it to the interrogation center. Whatever he knew, it was important enough for him to take it to the grave.”

“I think we know what’s coming. Jack Singlaub shares my concern and has raised it with Westy,” Serrano said, referring to General Westmoreland. “He’s preoccupied with Khe Sanh, which has been under siege all week. Press in the States is already calling it ‘America’s Dien Bein Phu.’ ”

“They better be fucking careful, or the whole country is going to look like Khe Sanh and Dien Bein Phu,” Tom said.

“What do you know about Captain Lam?” Quinn asked.

“Captain Lam was from Nha-Ky-Thuat.”

“The Strategic Technical Directorate, our ARVN SOG counterpart.”

“That’s right. That means he knew you were escorting your prisoner to CMIC.”

“And now we are at a dead end.”

“Quite literally. He didn’t say anything else?”

“No,” Quinn said. “Tom, anything come to mind?”

Tom shook his head.

“What now?” the SEAL asked.

“I’m going to get a cable out through the station to Langley.

For some fucking reason the seventh floor, and even some of the assholes at the station, refuse to accept the fact that this country, including right here in Saigon, is going to get hit, and it’s going to get hit soon.

Get some rest. Let me know if you need anything; I’ll be talking with Jack regularly.

The field hospital should be preparing Amiuh for transport.

We’ll get you to Kontum. In the meantime, where are you staying? House Ten?”

“Yeah,” Quinn responded.

“Well, if you actually want to get some rest, we’ve got a few places scattered around Saigon. Clean, quiet, safe. Let me put you up in one.”

“That actually sounds good,” Tom said, looking at Quinn, who nodded in agreement.

“The booze will still be at House Ten on your next trip. Tonight is T?t Nguyên ?án, the Vietnamese Lunar New Year to mark the coming of spring. There will be huge celebrations over the next three days. Things are going to be lively. What else do you need?”

Tom looked at Quinn and raised an eyebrow.

“I won’t be shy. You are the CIA after all.”

“What is it?”

“The little Browning .25s they give us don’t pack much of a punch. Do you have something a little bigger we can borrow?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”