“We’ll need a taxi,” he replied.
“Have you got a tag on one that doesn’t keep trip records... or hasn’t got a two-way radio contact with a dispatcher?”
Bu Chen brightened. “Easiest thing in the world,” he said proudly.
A black Citroen of ancient vintage ghosted down the alley that was beginning to fill with sea fog. The low sedan came to a shuddering stop at Madame Peacock’s back door. Its brakes squeaked piercingly. Madame Peacock turned her hand over when I reached out to shake it, avoiding the fifty dollar bill I offered. She brushed Willow’s cheek with her own and patted her fanny lightly to urge her out the door. The inside of the taxi smelled as though it was also used as a delivery van for unsealed containers of fish viscera-based fertilizer.
A circuitous route under Bu Chen’s supervision was followed. A uniformed marine came out to challenge me when I rang the night bell next to the piked, wrought-iron fence surrounding the U.S. Embassy. He took me inside, making Willow and Bu Chen wait. That irritated me, but I curbed the urge to protest.
Things went better after the duty officer was summoned. It was almost as if we were expected.
We were ushered into a small ante room and offered coffee. After a twenty minute wait, Ambassador Cavendish showed up. He was wearing a tuxedo. That and his salt-and-pepper hair topping a florid, smiling face made his appearance characteristic of senior level diplomats. He apologized for his semi-formal dress. He would have to apologize again later to his host and hostess for being tardy for an official reception and dinner.
“I didn’t expect three of you,” his well-modulated voice said, looking at Bu Chen. The chunky Asian, looking like an off-duty gravedigger, didn’t shrink under the station chief’s penetrating gaze. By contrast, the ambassador’s eyes twinkled lustfully and his smile broadened when he looked long at Willow. I wondered what face he’d wear if he knew she’d just killed a cop.
“All of us need your help,” I said, including Bu Chen.
Without prelude, Ambassador Cavendish moved to a small safe. He worked the combination, then drew out a manila folder jammed thick with sheaves of yellow teletype paper. He brought the file back to his desk and laid it before me. He waved a hand over the bulky stack of messages. “This is the stuff that’s come in during the past twelve hours. Frankly, I don’t recall anything carrying such a consistently high priority. Most of this pertains to supplying information directly to the White House. I hope you have some answers.”
“Are all of those from David Hawk?” I couldn’t believe he would be that verbose.
“A few are from the State Department,” Cavendish replied. “They outlined the problem for me, although much is couched in terms that are suggestive of an extreme crisis situation without spelling out direct United States involvement. It seems that our country is being pushed into a very delicate position because of the acts of some faction engaged in terrorist activities aimed at the North Vietnamese government,” he paused.
“I know that much, Mr. Ambassador. You put it very concisely. I take it you’ve read the whole file?” He nodded. “Then you could save me a lot of time by filling me in on the high points.” He nodded again. “I don’t mean to be critical of how this is being handled, but just how many people know what’s going on?” I asked.
“Absolutely no one but myself. And my senior code clerk downstairs, of course.”
“I meant back home in Washington.”
“Oh. Yes. Because of the gravity of the situation, the National Security Council has been called together and is remaining in loose session. The president is pressing for news, requiring hourly reports from myself and God only knows who else on anything but of the ordinary. I’ve been unable to contribute anything other than notifying Washington that you had arrived. I wasn’t told that Mr. Chen was an associate.”
Bu Chen’s shoulders went back a little at the unexpected recognition. “Keep him anonymous,” I said.
“Of course. Whatever you say. I’ve been instructed to do nothing unless you specifically request assistance. I understand the success of whatever it is you’re here to do requires both utmost secrecy and total noninterference.”
Those sounded like Hawk’s words. I was glad to know that he was still pretty much running the show. “That’s fine. So... what is going on, in Hanoi and back in Washington?”
Ambassador Cavendish ran an unsteady forefinger across his lips. “Well, the best news is that everything in Hanoi is quiet for the present.”
“No more killings,” I amplified. “That could mean a lot of things. First, the police and security forces in Hanoi may have made a capture or a killing of their own. If that’s the case, we’ll hear about it, although not necessarily right away. They’ll take time to set the stage before they spring the news in order to get the maximum propaganda effect. The other possibility is that the job is either finished or called off. I doubt if it’s finished.” I was thinking of the list of names Hawk had sent me.
“Too much has gone into setting up this operation to cut it short,” I went on. “The option that gets my vote is that this is the calm in the eye of the hurricane. Just a period of laying low and re-grouping following the initial assassinations.” Cavendish sat behind his desk nodding in agreement. “What’s the attitude at the White House?” I asked him.
“Their analysis parallels yours. The thinking is that very few individuals are involved. A large foraying party is too cumbersome. It’s a matter of only two or three suicidal and extremely gifted individuals helped along the way by other misguided, unthinking people.” I broke in because a dazzling light of understanding flooded my brain. Cavendish had hit it on the nose. Everything fell into place. Only one link was missing from the chain. “Do you have a man here in the marine detachment who is about my height with broad shoulders and blond hair?”
“Big? Blond? What makes you think he’s a marine?”
“His hair was short... like a military haircut.”
“He’s no marine. You must be thinking about Colonel Jeleff, our military attaché. He’s on leave right now.”
“Military attachés equate to intelligence work, so your Colonel Jeleff undoutedly knows how to get individuals across national borders. He runs a pipeline, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” Cavendish answered as if it pained him to admit it. “I know he brings certain persons out of places like Cambodia and Laos and interrogates them.”
“So he can reverse the flow just as well.”
“I presume so,” Cavendish knew damn well it was done. He wanted to deny his knowledge of Jeleff’s covert activities.
“Colonel Jeleff was seen with General Martin in the past two days. Who else but Jeleff knows the lay of the land better? Who but Jeleff could smuggle anyone into Hanoi. I don’t know how he did it, that’s incidental. You know, there’s no squad of commandos churning up Hanoi. This is a one-man show starring Keith Martin!”
“I can’t believe it,” exclaimed Ambassador Cavendish.
“That’s because you don’t know Martin, but you damn well better believe it. Once we tell Washington what’s been uncovered here, they’ll verify that that’s the way it’s coming down.”
Cavendish squared his shoulders. “Wait a minute. That’s only supposition... a guess on your part. Why, I’d be the laughing stock of the State Department if I told—”
I cut him off. “You’ll have your butt kicked higher than the Capitol dome if you don’t. I can guarantee that. Send the message Eyes Only to David Hawk. Make it a verbatim quote from Carter and add N3 after the name. Just get it off. Now! I’ll use your desk to write up the confirming evidence, though it won’t be needed to convince Hawk. Close the message with the phrase Instructions Requested.”