Page 46 of Cry Havoc (Tom Reece #1)

SERRANO WORKED HIS WAY through the gears of the Zephyr’s four-speed manual transmission, pushing the six-cylinder engine through a turn.

“Ford makes these things in the UK,” he said. “This one belonged to my predecessor. The red leather is a bit much, but what can you do?”

Tom sat on the front bench seat, right arm resting on the open window ledge. He wondered if he should roll it up, lest someone toss in a grenade. He decided to follow Serrano’s lead and leave it down. Maybe it was better to be blown up than bake to death?

Rue Cabinet had escaped much of the destruction of Tet. Serrano surmised that was to protect the journalists, leaving them alive to report on the war. It made no sense to kill the reporters and news crews who were so helpful to their cause.

They stopped at a checkpoint just outside the Cholon district, an armored personnel carrier blocking their path. Serrano showed his ID to a nervous-looking soldier in an ill-fitting helmet and flak jacket who may very well have been in high school the week before.

“Careful, sir. There are still pockets of VC in there.”

Serrano looked ahead at the smoke still rising from the ruins of what had once been a thriving Chinatown.

“We’ll call you if we need you, Private.”

“Yes, sir.”

The APC moved forward, allowing them to pass, and then rolled back into place.

“We really did a number on this place,” Tom said, as they drove through a war-torn section of the city.

“VC guerrillas drew us in,” Serrano said. “Maybe that was their plan, maybe not. Regardless, they succeeded in getting us to destroy major portions of Saigon. A damn shame. I love this city.”

What was left of civilization melted away and Serrano accelerated away from the smoke and rubble.

Rice patties flanked the road as they sped northwest, villages of bamboo rising from flooded fields.

“They’ve been living this way for at least two thousand years,” Serrano said. “To conquer Vietnam, you need troops in every village, but even if you do that, they can just wait you out anyway. What do you see out there?”

“Looks peaceful.”

“It does, doesn’t it? Out here, unlike the city, they live in harmony with the land due to some confluence of Buddhism, Taoism, and Confucianism. There’s an old saying: ‘The authority of the emperor stops at the gate to the village.’ If you are going to rule Vietnam, you better understand that.”

“Do we?”

“Some might, like Lansdale. Maybe a few others. Each of these villages is a society unto itself, self-sufficient and therefore independent. And if you take one by force, what do you get?”

“Trouble?”

“Rice. Not gold or riches. There’s no oil. Just rice. Maybe a few cows, chickens, or dogs. We won’t succeed in restructuring Vietnamese society in our image, or if we do, it’s going to take a lot more than Levi’s and Marlboros.”

“Speaking of, mind if I smoke?”

“Be my guest.”

Tom lit a cigarette and blew his first plume through the open window into the late-afternoon air.

The Iron Triangle was to their north in the Bình D?ong Province.

Tunnels. Even in the heat of the late afternoon Tom shivered, remembering the darkness and claustrophobic conditions of the underground labyrinth.

“Tom.”

“Yeah.”

“Thought I’d lost you for a minute.”

“I’m good. Just taking in the view.”

“We’re about thirty minutes away.”

“How many times have you been there?”

“A few. The DuBois plantation is one of the larger estates, a remnant of the French colonial days. Gaston discovered early on that the smaller farms were limited by their inability to process their own product, so he doubled down on that end of the business. He processes not only his own rubber, but rubber from the smaller plantations and nearby farms. His export company ships it out of the country. Even though this is their home, neither he nor Ella will ever be fully accepted as Vietnamese because of their French blood, which is what gives us our in.”

“Our in?”

“If Hanoi takes the South, he’ll be done for; land confiscated. They will both probably be killed. He has a vested interest in us and the South winning this war.”

“How does he keep from being murdered as it is? From what I understand, the plantations are ideal recruiting zones for the communists.”

“He treats his workers well. Historically, that has not been the norm. Harsh working conditions and inhumane treatment, what amounted to slave labor, has been the rule. The Vietnamese have a complex relationship with rubber, Tom. The sap from the trees might as well be white gold. Men and corporations will kill for it. Many Vietnamese see the plantations as a continuation of French colonial rule. Thousands of acres have been burned by guerrillas.”

“But not Gaston’s.”

“Not yet. He also employs his own security force with an intelligence arm.”

“Sounds like a warlord.”

“That description is not too far off. He is not above making someone disappear, but our assessment is that he has insulated himself by doing business differently, paying living wages, treating his staff with dignity and respect. From what I have observed, he treats them like family.”

“Every family has its black sheep,” Tom said.

The DuBois plantation was in the low hills about 20 miles outside of Loc Ninh, in the Binh Phuoc region. The higher, more dramatic peaks of the northern portions of the province loomed in the distance, slightly obscured by the heat mirage on the horizon.

“What are you thinking, Tom?”

“Just how breathtaking and wild this place is. Wonder if we’ll be back here in twenty years as tourists?”

“Like Europe? Maybe.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

The flats of the lowlands had given way to hill country, and Serrano downshifted as he navigated through the winding turns of the jungle road. He lifted his hand from the stick and pointed at the valley below.

“There it is.”

The DuBois estate emerged from the dense rainforest, the rolling hills behind it dotted with small, thatched huts.

To Tom, it looked like photos he had seen of castles in the Loire Valley.

Built from white and gray stone with sections of red brick, the enormous mansion was surrounded by a wall that looked too low for the structure it bordered.

Serrano slowed the vehicle and turned onto the long, tumbled travertine driveway.

The castle’s facade was laced with large windows abutted by open wood shutters.

Recessed behind stone columns were dark decorative double doors marking the entrance.

A statue of a stag surrounded by four hounds was perched atop a clocktower above it.

Just below the statue was an imposing clock.

Tom checked it against his Rolex. Right on time.

Serrano pulled the car to a stop in the stag’s shadow.

“We made it.”

Tom exited the vehicle and stretched. He was dressed in khaki pants and a thin untucked white button-up shirt that hid the Hi-Power.

Serrano, wearing dark pants, a brown shirt, and a cream-colored blazer, joined him on the passenger side of the vehicle. He held a bottle of 1954 Grand Vin de Chateau Latour that Tom was certain came from the CIA annex armory.

“Bienvenue!” Welcome! The voice belonged to Gaston DuBois. He stepped from the shadows of the stone entranceway, leaning on his intricately carved cane.

“Monsieur DuBois,” Serrano said, shaking the older man’s hand. “Of course, you remember Mr. Tom Smith.”

“How could I forget? I owe you both my life. I am sorry Mr. Jones could not be here, but I understand he has pressing business elsewhere.”

“He does, sir,” Tom replied.

DuBois wore a matching light tan linen suit and vest over a white button-up shirt, an indigo cravat around his neck.

A Vietnamese butler in a dark suit held the door open as DuBois led the way inside.

Tom was struck with how gloomy it was. As his eyes adjusted, he became aware of the clutter.

It was like he had stepped back in time.

Mahogany tables and bookcases were filled with leather-bound books and silver trinkets from another century.

Persian rugs lined the floor and oil paintings that looked like they belonged in museums were arranged along the walls.

The furniture was upholstered with varying patterns of fabric that seemed in conflict with one another: the sofa at war with the chair, the rug waiting to see which one won before choosing sides.

All together it amounted to almost a hundred years of collected family history.

“Brought you a bottle,” Serrano told their host.

“Nineteen fifty-four,” Gaston said, admiring the bottle. “A challenging year for Bordeaux. An even more challenging year for the French in Indochina.”

He turned to his butler. “Decant this will you, please,” he said, switching from French to Vietnamese.

“Yes, sir.” The butler took the bottle and disappeared into what Tom assumed was the kitchen.

Tom paused at a table next to a grand piano. It was covered with black-and-white photographs. Most were of a woman who looked like Ella, though she was obviously older.

“My wife, Mr. Smith. I miss her dearly.”

Tom decided not to push.

“I have cocktails waiting upstairs where we can watch the sunset. Then dinner,” he said, leading the way up a wide stone staircase. The cane seemed more of a decorative accessory than a mobility aide. Tom wondered if it concealed a weapon.

At the top of the stairs, he led the way out onto an expansive stone terrace overlooking the gardens with views of the distant hills.

Two servants in black pants and white shirts held silver trays.

Small wineglasses filled with a red liquid, garnished with red raspberries, were perched on one.

On the other were an assortment of olives, cheeses, and saucisson, dry-cured sausage.

“Please, gentlemen,” Gaston said, gesturing to the trays. He noticed Tom eyeing the drink with suspicion.

“A Kir Royale, Mr. Smith. Champagne topped with crème de cassis.”

“What’s that?” Tom asked.

“A black currant liqueur.”