American Romantic (8 page)

Harry said, So far.

Because I think you're the man for this job.

I'll help in any way, Harry said, fully concentrated now.

You're the right rank, not too high, not too low. In a word, you're deniable in case this somehow leaks.
Which it will not do.
And you have as much experience in-country as almost anyone in the embassy. You don't have the language, that's true, but neither does anyone else. And you've nothing to do with the security services. That's an advantage in these circumstances. Our friends on the third floor could use more cloak and less dagger. They are definitely not trusted by the other side. But most important, you have my complete confidence.

How much does Washington know?

What I have chosen to tell them, the ambassador said.

I see, Harry said.

The Secretary and I are very old friends.

I didn't know that.

Sometimes we talk in code.

Yes, sir.

If this goes wrong, I'm responsible. You too, but less so. The ambassador paused and added, This is what I call a moment of consequence.

Yes, sir, it certainly is.

You must have questions, Harry. What are they?

What's my brief?

Listen. Listen damn hard. Listen to every nuance. Take notes, if they agree to note-taking, which I doubt. Don't make an issue of it.

I understand, Harry said.

Go in a skeptic, stay a skeptic. Look on it as a visit to an especially disagreeable lawyer whom you might learn something from. How's your memory?

Good, Harry said. I have more memory than is good for me, to tell you the truth. More than I need sometimes.

The ambassador offered a wisp of a smile. He said, This will probably come to nothing. The track record with these people is pretty dismal.

On the other hand, Harry began.

Maybe not. Maybe they see an advantage. They initiated this after all. It's their play. The iron does seem to be hot. When it's hot, it's time to cook. At any event, clear your desk. You leave tomorrow.

Where exactly?

South to the mangrove swamps, their turf. You begin in one of the southern market towns. My driver will take you there. You will be met, and from then you're on your own. I wish I were younger, I wouldn't mind this assignment. It might actually lead to something important. It might be the first step out of this god damned mess. The ambassador slapped his hand on his desk and stood up. Harry stood also. The meeting was at an end.

This could be dangerous, the ambassador said.

As you say, Ambassador: No risk, no reward.

That's the spirit, Harry. I do wish we knew more about them. I mean their command and control. Personalities and names and backgrounds to go with the personalities. The man you meet could be a country lout or an honors grad from the Sorbonne. Odd, isn't it? We've been here for some time and they're still mysterious. We're an open book. They know our order of battle down to battalion level, names and capabilities. They know my grandfather was a jailbird, for chrissakes. They probably have a dossier on you. By the way, who's Sieglinde?

Harry was startled. Sieglinde?

Yes, Sieglinde.

A friend. She's gone away now on her hospital ship. Back to Hamburg.

Don't look so surprised. We keep track of our people. Part of the job. This is an unstable environment, in case you haven't noticed. The ambassador stepped to the door, and when he spoke his voice was soft. I've saved the most important business for last. This operation is classified top secret. If it leaks, it's scandal time. The idea of treating with an enemy as disorganized as this one is a no-go in Congress and elsewhere. There would be a firestorm that could threaten this effort for good. The Secretary and I are out on a limb. Of course we have the president's backing. We're not rogue elephants, although I'm not entirely confident, if worst came to worst, we wouldn't be left drifting in the wind. I cannot stress enough the need for absolute discretion for this moment of consequence. You are to say nothing to anyone. If anyone asks about you, they'll be told you're on leave. You've wanted some leave and are owed some leave and in a few days you'll be back at your desk, as always. Questions?

None, Harry said.

Good at keeping secrets?

Always have been, Harry said.

Yes, that's your reputation.

Need-to-know, Harry said.

Need-to-know, the ambassador replied. And no one does.

The press would go crazy, Harry said.

Yes, they would. They don't like us, you know.

I'm not sure they understand what it is that we do. Actually.

They're addicted to fracas, the ambassador said, opening his office door. He put out his hand and said, Good luck. He added a few more details about the rendezvous in the south, recognition procedures, a timeline. The ambassador suggested that Harry travel light and, obviously, unarmed. This kind of work, a weapon doesn't mean much. Theoretically you are their guest. They promised safe passage; we take them at their word. And for your journey I want you to have this. The ambassador reached into his pocket and took out a flat round case the size of a fifty-cent piece. The case was gold, the ambassador's initials on one side and on the reverse a date. Compass, he said, a gift from my dear wife many years ago. When you return, I expect it back. But for now it's yours. Who knows? You might need it. It's always brought me luck.

Harry took the case and snapped it open. It had the look and feel of a fine timepiece. I'll keep it safe, he said.

And one last thing, Ambassador Earle said. A friend of yours arrives tomorrow. I'll have to tell her the cover story, you on leave. She will be disappointed. She certainly did want to see you and sends her regards.

Harry barely managed to ask the question: Who's that?

Congresswoman Finch, he said, the battle-ax from the Foreign Affairs Committee. She's leading a delegation to assess how things are going, meaning when do we take the gloves off and let the army fight as it was trained to fight. How in God's name do you know her?

Friend of the family, Harry said. And with that, he took his leave. In the outer office Marcia handed him an envelope. Greenbacks, she said. One thousand U.S. In the event of an emergency. You sign for it here, she said, and handed him a pen and a slip of paper. Harry signed, tucked the envelope into his jacket pocket, and hurried down one flight of stairs to the street. He paused a moment, squinting into the morning sun. The street was crowded with cyclos and taxis, here and there an army jeep. The temperature was near ninety and rising. His mind was crowded with questions to which there were no ready answers. He thought of them as gaps, a tumultuous landscape in deep shadow. He did not know where he was going, except it was south. He did not know whom he was to meet, not a name or a rank or an age. He did not know the agenda, if there was one. They had given him one thousand U.S. in the event of an unspecified emergency and Marcia had leaned close, touched his elbow, and murmured, Stay safe, Harry. Take care. He carried the gold compass in his pocket, a good-luck charm. And all this guaranteed by a Frenchwoman named Adele, a woman of the Left barely trusted by Basso Earle. Trusted just enough to—smooth over the gaps. Harry could hear the undertow of excitement in the ambassador's voice. His confidence was contagious, a kind of American fever. Harry lit a cigarette and noticed the tremor in his fingers. Not fear but anticipation of the sort a man might expect on his wedding day, flowers in the church and a mighty organ groaning in the choir, a beautiful girl at his side—and out of sight but palpable, the shadow line dividing past and future, or youth and maturity. He was embarked on a great voyage, alone at the helm. The street filled up and Harry marched away to his villa to stuff a few things in a duffel and wait for the ambassador's driver.

S
IX
days later, Harry awoke in a string hammock in the damp heat of early morning. He had not slept well, bothered all night long by insects and unsettling dreams. He lay still and heard the feral rustle of the jungle, indistinct and undefined except for the sudden meow of the camp cat and, a moment later, the waking cry of a bird. How many days since he had bathed? Five days? No, six, counting the night in the market town before he had set out at dawn on his mission—the ambassador's much-discussed “moment of consequence” that now appeared to be a moment of no consequence. Harry eased himself out of the hammock and stood, listening once again. He had heard heavy breathing during the night, unmistakable sounds of lovemaking and not for the first time. Unmistakable was probably the wrong word. In the deep jungle anything was mistakable, including heavy breathing. The jungle was disorganized, without form. He remembered reading somewhere that the deep jungle's shapes and colors were luxurious. They were not luxurious, they were coarse, mean sights, without harmony, the very soul of chaos. The sounds at night were neither benign nor consoling. They were sinister. They seemed to promise harm, even the meow of the camp cat. Harry stood in the doorway of his hut, jungle darkness all around him. He started when something brushed his ankle, God knows what it was. He was damp with sweat on his chest and back, sweat slick as a mirror. They had not bothered to shackle him. If he escaped, where would he go? This terrain might as well have been a concentration camp, the jungle as forbidding as any barbed wire. The first half hour en route he had been blindfolded, slow progress, one bend after another, and then they removed the blindfold. What was the point? One bend was much like another and the path itself monotonous as a piano's middle C struck again and again, all the grace and variety of a jackhammer. The going was easier without the blindfold. He saw no villages on the trail and no signs of human life except the occasional mark of a sandal's tread. He was sorry now that he had thought of the piano analogy. The piano put him in mind of Chopin, and Chopin was not helpful. It would be good to think of something that was, but nothing came to mind.

Harry saw stars through the trees and guessed the time near dawn. They had taken his wristwatch, for safekeeping they said.
Une garantie,
according to Comrade Fat, the one who seemed to be in charge. There were four of them, Comrades Fat, Thin, and Tall, and Comrade Mao, for her round face and sour disposition. The names were Harry's inventions. None of then offered their actual names. Harry was called Yankee. Now someone murmured in his sleep and shifted position, a rustle of bamboo and what sounded like a fart. Harry had a vague idea of direction, and by starlight he could see the two huts opposite his own, and a little apart from them the third hut, occupied by Comrade Mao, and the pit where the fire had been. Harry moved slowly into the clearing, and when he heard the creak of his rubber flip-flops he removed them from his feet and put them in the pocket of his khaki shorts. His mind was working slowly, the effect of fear. He did not know if this was fear of the known or fear of the unknown but it was surely one of the two. His thoughts were discomposed. They were residue thoughts, slippery and barren as slush. He moved slowly, but not so slowly as to lose his balance. Unbalanced, he would stumble. In a few moments he was at the camp's perimeter—and how long had that taken him, three minutes, four? The earth was damp beneath his feet and he remembered now the water along the way, water sometimes an inch deep, other times a foot or more, and he had blundered along while the others complained. He was in the middle of the file, entirely disconcerted when he was blindfolded, Comrade Mao muttering directions. Go straight. Now we turn left. There had been an argument over the blindfold but Comrade Fat insisted on it and then relented when Harry stumbled and fell twice in the space of five minutes. Evidently they were awaiting instructions from a senior comrade, supposedly arriving from a base camp farther south. Days passed and the senior comrade did not arrive. Harry's escort became restive. Without instructions they were adrift. They were difficult to tell apart, except one was fat, one thin, one tall, and one female. They were Munch-faced, featureless; not the Munch of
The Scream
but the Munch of the dead or the ill. Of course when they spoke they might as well have been speaking Norwegian.

And then the senior comrade arrived without warning, striding into camp at high noon—that was yesterday—wearing a pressed khaki uniform with the shoulder pips that signified captain. He ordered the girl to prepare a pot of tea and he and Harry sat cross-legged in the largest hut and talked. The captain did not offer his name so Harry thought of him as Captain Munch. His English was very good. He knew Harry's rank in the foreign service, knew that he was born in New York, had graduated from Columbia, was unmarried. The captain revealed nothing of himself but Harry suspected by his slurred accent that he was most likely a country boy. They talked through the afternoon and early evening without measurable result. There was something coiled about the captain, a muscle-bound suspicion so complete as to suggest obsession. He was ever watchful, switching to French as the afternoon wore on, a flat monotone, occasionally lapsing into his own language without offering translation. His voice carried great assurance, ex cathedra pronouncements as definitive and unassailable as a recitation from an especially reliable dictionary. Harry listened for any hint of irony or uncertainty and did not find it. Talking to the captain was like talking to a statue—on those few occasions when he was invited to speak. Harry had the idea that the captain regarded him as a particularly obtuse student.

All would be satisfactory in his country when the Americans departed and until that time—nothing. Departure was the precondition for peace. Nothing else mattered. Everything else was by the way. The puppet administration was not serious. They were lackeys of the American empire and would collapse soon enough when left to their own miserable follies, ignorance, and corruption. They were in any case unable to defend themselves. They do not understand that their army belongs to us and would assert itself at the proper time. The war was already lost and the Americans knew it and yet refused to take the necessary step. A simple step, really. Quite logical. This is a strange mission you have undertaken, Monsieur Sanders. On whose authority are you here? Harry replied that he was here on instructions from the American ambassador to listen to what the captain had to say. To hear the views from the other side. He had hoped they might have an exchange of views, find points of agreement, some mutual understanding that might help bring light to the darkness. There were already many dead. There will be many more. Perhaps—and here Harry smiled and stated in well-rehearsed Vietnamese—we could have a moment of self-criticism.