“Well… that’s one way to look at it.”
“Tell me the other way so I know if I should bother to make my next car payment.”
“Well… tell them the truth. Colonel Mang has the evidence and the witness, and he’s put two and two together. They’ll go nuts, but that takes the pressure off us. They’ll have to deal with Mang. Best scenario, Mang blows the whistle, Blake is ruined, the CIA kills Mang, and we live happily ever after.”
“I don’t think life works like that. Look, there were two reasons to use civilians — one was plausible deniability if things went bad, the other was that they rarely whack one of their own. But if they think they have to, they’d whack us in a heartbeat.”
“They’re not that ruthless.”
“The CIA and Military Intelligence assassinated over 25,000 people here during the war.”
“No they didn’t.”
“You want to dance?”
“Sure.”
We put our drinks down and went out to the small dance floor in front of the band. They were playing another American name place song, Ray Charles’s “Georgia on My Mind,” and I pictured Edward Blake tallying electoral votes in his mind.
A lot of people were looking at us dancing, and the public affairs photographer took a picture of us, which I could see in the Washington Post captioned: “Paul Brenner and Susan Weber, Hours Before Their Disappearance.”
I caught a glimpse of Edward Blake looking at us, but he didn’t seem particularly disturbed. I was starting to think that he was clueless about his problem.
The band swung into “Moon Over Miami,” where there were lots of votes. I saw Bill talking to John Eagan, and they kept glancing at Susan and me as though they were trying to decide what size air shipment coffins we needed.
Susan said, “I wish we were back in Saigon dancing on the Rex roof, and that I’d told you then all I knew.”
“That would have been a long dance.”
“You know what I mean.”
I didn’t reply.
“Did you tell Bill you loved me?”
“I don’t share my feelings with other guys.”
“Okay, share them with me.”
For some reason, I remembered an old army expression: The enemy diversion you are ignoring is the main attack.
But that was being cynical and paranoid again. I said to Susan, “I do love you. And you know what? Even if you’re still deceiving me, and even if you betray me, I’ll still love you.”
She held me tighter as we danced, and I could tell she was crying. Hopefully, these were tears of joy, and not premature remorse.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
At about ten minutes to midnight, the last of the guests were leaving, the band was packing, and the bartenders were corking the Chardonnay.
Susan and I went into the ambassador’s residence and made our way through the quiet house toward the sitting room.
There were a few Secret Service guys standing around in the salon. I saw my young friend, Scott Romney, near the staircase, and he tensed up when he saw me. I said to him, “There are milk and cookies in the kitchen.”
We entered the sitting room, and Bill Stanley and John Eagan were already there. Also there was a man in an army green dress uniform whose rank was colonel, and whose nametag said Goodman. This was the Military Intelligence guy, Marc Goodman, and he would not normally have any interest in a homicide investigation. I guess it was Cam Ranh Bay that he was interested in.
He was a tall, lanky man, a few years older than me. I remembered seeing him out on the lawn. He recognized Susan from their meeting in Saigon, and they shook hands, and she introduced me.
The door to the Ambassador’s office was closed, and John Eagan said, “The Ambassador is with someone and will be finished shortly.”
Colonel Goodman said to me, “I understand you and Ms. Weber had a bit of trouble.”
I replied, military style, “Nothing we couldn’t handle, sir.”
Goodman wore the insignia of an infantry officer and had enough ribbons to make a bed quilt. I saw, too, the Combat Infantryman’s Badge, which I also owned, and the Silver Star, Bronze Star, and two Purple Hearts. My instinct said this guy was okay, but my instincts had also said that about Edward Blake.
Neither Bill nor John Eagan felt like making small talk, but Goodman said to me, “So, you were with the First Cav in ’68.”
“Yes, sir.” I called him sir because I was ex-army on an army assignment, and he outranked me. In about two days, if I saw him again, he’d be Marc.
He asked, “Saw action where?”
I told him, and he nodded. We exchanged a few details about our military careers, and he asked me, “Do you miss the CID?”
“Not recently.”
“Are you pursuing a career in civilian law enforcement?”
“I’ve thought about it.”
“I’m sure you’ll have no trouble landing a job in federal law enforcement after this assignment.”
That sounded like a joke, but he wasn’t smiling. So, maybe it was an incentive to be cooperative. I didn’t reply.
He said to Susan, “Have you been properly thanked for volunteering to be a translator and guide?”
Susan replied, “I was happy to help.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t easy for you to leave your work.”
This conversation had a surreal quality to it, the way all government meetings do, especially if the subject is sensitive; the art of innuendo, double-talk, evasive phrasing, and arcane code words. You could think you were being asked to go out for coffee, when they really meant you should assassinate the President of Colombia. You had to pay attention.
Bill struck me as a quiet sort of guy, which might be the only thing I liked about him. Nevertheless, he decided to speak. He said to Susan, “I’ve indicated to Colonel Goodman, and to the Ambassador, that you may be leaving the country involuntarily.”
She said to all assembled, “I’d like to stay. But as you know, my resident work visa has been taken by the police, and my status here is uncertain.”
I clarified this by saying, “We were arrested and may be arrested again.”
John Eagan said, “I’ve spoken to the Ambassador about both of you staying here tonight.”
“Good. It’s either here or Yet Kieu Street.”
Everyone knew that address, and it needed no further explanation. I said to Bill, “Where is your boss?” meaning the resident Hanoi CIA bureau chief — top spook in Vietnam.
He replied, “He’s out of town.”
Why he would be out of town at the culmination of a very important mission was a little mysterious. It could be that he wasn’t on the Blake team and was unreliably honest and couldn’t be trusted. But I had another thought, and I looked at John Eagan. I asked him, “How long have you been with the FBI?”
“Not long.”
“About two weeks?”
He didn’t reply directly, but said to me, “Paul, I know you have some issues with the world of intelligence, and it all probably seems like silly cloak-and-dagger stuff to a cop. But there are lots of good reasons why nothing is as it seems. It works for everyone, yourself included.”
“It’s not working for me, John.”
“It really is, Paul.”
There was a coffee bar in the sitting room, and I poured myself a cup. Susan went to the bathroom to smoke.
Bill took the opportunity to ask me to step out into the hallway, which we did. He said, “We can get you out of here in a day or two. Susan will be staying a few days longer.”
“Says who?”