Page 44 of Cry Havoc (Tom Reece #1)

Continental Palace

Saigon, Vietnam

SERRANO PULLED HIS FORD Zephyr to the side of the street and parked behind a green Renault Quatre Chevaux, which looked like a four-door Volkswagen Beetle.

“The Givral,” he said. “It’s a coffee shop. It’s just across from your hotel but has better java. And they know to make mine with honey and cream. It’s also a morning and afternoon haunt for spies and diplomats, raconteurs of all types. If you get bored, just come over here.”

They exited the vehicle and stepped into the café that abutted the sidewalk.

Serrano caught the eye of a thin Vietnamese man smoking a cigarette.

A pack of Lucky Strikes was on the table in front of him next to an ashtray filled with ash and butts.

He was holding court with two Westerners and at his side was an enormous German Shepherd.

“That’s Pham Xuan An,” Serrano said as they waited in line to order. “He’s a journalist, but they call him General Givral because he can always be found here with that dog of his.”

“Doesn’t the dog get hot?”

“One would think. His name’s King. Goes everywhere with An. You will probably see him at the hotel. He meets with sources and other reporters in room 307. Interesting guy. I haven’t quite figured him out yet.”

“Who are the other two?”

“David Halberstam with The Times and Neil Sheehan with UPI.”

Serrano ordered a coffee in perfect Vietnamese.

“You want yours with honey?”

“I’ll stick with black.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

They moved to the side to wait.

“This is a different side of the war, Tom.”

“Doesn’t even look like a war here.”

“And that’s the problem. These reporters are having the time of their lives.

They got a little action during Tet, so now they have stories for cocktail parties in New York, but Saigon is back to normal.

And it’s not just the journalists. State, Agency, military officials, USAID—shit, everybody is livin’ it up on ol’ Uncle Sugar’s dime.

They have gotten too comfortable here. Plus, they rotate home.

It’s not like World War Two where men were deployed until the war was won.

This new model incentivizes making it through your year in-country rather than defeating an enemy.

Push them all out of Saigon, out to the FOBs, and leave them there until it’s done.

Then, one way or the other, this war ends. ”

Their coffees arrived, and the two men took seats at an open table in the crowded café.

“It’s not just Vietnam, Tom. Democracy in Vietnam is a sham.

Everyone knows it. No one gives a fuck about ’Nam.

It’s nothing to us. In its broader context it’s the hot zone in a Cold War, but that war is only cold between the U.S.

and Soviets, and by God it better stay that way.

We can fight hot wars in Angola, Rhodesia, Dhofar, the Congo, Nigeria, and who knows how many other places before one of us wins.

As long as the nuclear weapons don’t fly, it’s a win for all of us. ”

Tom lit a cigarette.

“You think we can win this?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. You need the support of the populace, not just here but in the United States.

After the reporting I’ve seen on Tet, I think it’s going to be tough.

We’ve lost support here and at home. That puts us at a severe disadvantage.

Probably unrecoverable. Our presence in Vietnam is about a perceived advantage in gaining control and influence in third-world countries that are not yet affiliated with us or the Soviets.

This war is an attempt to establish a dominant position and halt Soviet expansion. ”

“The Domino Theory,” Tom said. “You believe it?”

“It has merit. Now that we are fully engaged, if we withdraw, it will undoubtedly embolden the Soviets. That was always the danger of intervention. If we lose, American power and the deterrence it represents is exposed as a myth and will encourage our enemies to instigate acts of aggression that perhaps they would have avoided but for an American defeat in Vietnam. That’s the real danger and why I keep doing what I’m doing.

How important was Vietnam to the Soviets?

Not very. Not until we got here. Now it is extremely important to them.

If they can engineer a U.S. defeat in ’Nam, they can do it anywhere we decide to intervene. That’s the danger.”

“You paint a bleak picture.”

“I paint an honest picture.”

“You’re telling me this is like the Titanic and all these general officers, spies, journalists, and diplomats are listening to the orchestra play as the ship goes down.”

“But add that they have not called for an evacuation. The lifeboats are not deployed. And they could have avoided the iceberg.”

“They’ll have a lot to answer for as even more Americans start coming home in body bags.”

“Sometimes, at the tactical level, all we can do is the best we can, which is what I do with special programs.”

“What types?”

“We can get into that after this job. See how you take to it. There is an official mission at the Agency, and then there’s what I do, which is more in line with our predecessors in the OSS.”

“Like the Jedburgh teams?”

“Yes.”

“And the official mission?”

“We supply the policymakers with the best information possible so they can make informed decisions when it comes to America’s defense.”

“Was Vietnam about to invade?” Tom asked.

“Don’t be a smart-ass.”

“Seems that with half a million troops over here we are just going to piss people off and give the enemy a lot of targets to shoot at.”

“I agree with you, which is why we need Gaston DuBois. This isn’t about today or tomorrow.

It’s about the long term after we leave Vietnam.

Imports and exports, moving people and material in and out of Southeast Asia while providing intelligence on the Soviets; what they are moving gives us great insight as to their intentions.

We need people in place who can not only provide information but influence outcomes. ”

“Men like DuBois.”

“That’s right. I don’t know how tonight is going to go, but I do know that DuBois feels like he owes you for saving his life and the life of his daughter.”

“What am I really doing here, Nick?”

“We’ll feel it out at dinner. If you hit it off with either Gaston or his daughter, then you stay in Saigon and further develop the relationship.”

“Further develop?”

“Yes. The world I work in is all about relationships. The spotting and assessing stages of recruitment are over but I have struggled to move past that with Gaston or Ella. Based on what happened during Tet, I think you are in a position to move this forward. If it gets to the recruiting stage with either of them, you can turn it over to me.”

“Nick, I don’t know what you are talking about. I don’t speak ‘spy.’ I’m not trained for this sort of thing.”

“Don’t worry about that. Just be cordial. Gaston doesn’t know it yet, but his repayment is going to be as an asset for the Agency.”

“Against the Soviets after we are gone?”

“Yes. Part of a broader network, but yes.”

“Is he married?”

“He was. His wife disappeared in 1963. She was Buddhist.”

“Well, that’s going to be hard to overcome. The regime arrested thousands of Buddhists that year. Killed hundreds.”

“That’s why we need you.”

“And Ella?”

“If there’s a spark, we exploit it.”

“We?”

“You. She will run her father’s company one day and could be a valuable long-term asset. She might be even more valuable than he is.”

Tom thought of the spark he had felt upon first meeting Ella in the CIA annex and then again on the roof of the Majestic. He wondered if she felt the same attraction.

“I’m not all that comfortable with this, but I’ll do what I can.”

“I know. And as soon as possible I’ll get you back to Phu Bai.”

“Thanks.”

“In the meantime, you can call the Continental Palace home.”

Serrano peered through the huge open window that overlooked onto Dong Khoi Street and Lam Son Square.

“That’s it,” he said, pointing at the white and yellow French colonial four-story building across the street.

“It used to be called the Continental Hotel after a hotel of the same name in Paris. They changed it to the Continental Palace sometime in the fifties. They also call it Radio Catinat because of its reputation as a congregation area for journalists and spies. The bar in particular. You can see it from here. It’s on the ground floor.

Open air. The drinks flow and they watch le tout Saigon from their barstools.

They call it the Continental Shelf. It’s quite the scene.

I recommend you try their cocktail of the same name. Are you a gin drinker?”

“I’ve been known to dabble. An old commanding officer of mine in the Mekong Delta lived on the stuff, which meant we lived on it too.”

“Well, be sure and try their Continental Shelf.”

“What’s in it?”

“A couple ounces of gin and fresh orange juice over ice. Half a lime. Shake once, that’s the key, and, if they forget, be sure to have them add more ice. Can’t have enough ice.”

“Good intel.”

“We’re the CIA after all.”

“At least you get the important things right.”

“I’m going to ignore that,” Serrano said, cracking a smile. “Time and Newsweek have their Saigon bureaus on the second floor, which is where I put you. Interior room overlooking the courtyard in case a bomb goes off in Lam Son Square.”

“That was thoughtful.”

“It’s also less of a jump in case you have to get out due to a fire or a coordinated attack from the ground floor.”

“Good to know.”

“This is Dong Khoi Street, here,” Serrano said, indicating the street in front of the coffee shop. “Locals call it Catinat. The hotel faces Lam Son Square, though most still call it Place Garnier, and that’s the Saigon Municipal Theatre.”

“Impressive.”

“The Continental is the central hub for meetings—journalists, politicians, diplomats, and the occasional soldier, though the military has holed up at the Rex Hotel down the road. They do their daily press briefings on the rooftop garden bar at 4:45 sharp.”

“I’ve seen them,” Tom said. “The ‘Five o’Clock Follies.’ ”

“An unfortunate and all-too-appropriate moniker.”

“If they would quit the rosy portrayal of U.S. progress and be honest, they’d be taken more seriously.”

“We’ll see if that changes in the aftermath of Tet,” Serrano said.

“I think I’ll keep my distance from Rex. With all the military brass there it seems like an obvious target.”

“That’s a solid call. The Continental is also rumored to be owned by a family with Corsican mafia ties.”

“Rumored?”

“The press loves it. Adds to the mystique, but I can confirm. They bought it in 1930. You done with the coffee?”

“Yeah,” Tom said, extinguishing his cigarette.

“Remember, you’re Tom Smith here.”

“Creative.”

“All right, let’s get you checked in.

The Vietnamese man selling newspapers on the corner of Lam Son Square watched the two Americans exit the Givral Café and stop briefly at the sleek British-made sedan.

The taller man reached inside and removed a duffel bag.

They both crossed Dong Khoi Street through a mass of bicycles, mopeds, and rickshaws and entered the French colonial that dominated the block.

They passed under the huge green letters adorning the building just above the ground floor identifying the building as the Continental Palace.

A few minutes later the shorter of the two men returned to the car, pulled into traffic, and drove away.

The man stopped waving the day’s paper at passersby and leaned against the wall to take a break. He lit a cigarette as cover and pulled a pencil from behind his ear, making notations as he had been instructed in the periodical in his hand.

Later in the day he would ride his Peugeot scooter to the Cholon district and deliver that paper to a medical clinic.

Then he would ride home to his family.

What materialized from the information he provided in the paper was none of his concern.