The Cover of War (4 page)

4

A
mai went ridged.

She felt like
she had been thrown into icy water. Once, bathing near the Chinese boarder, she
had jumped into a freezing river; the heart-stopping breathlessness felt
physically the same.

She fought the
panic. On the inside she was roiling; on the outside she kept her appearance
calm. This could be the moment she lost the most important person in her world.

She had two
options: dispel Danny's suspicion; or tell him the truth.

Would he stay
with me if he knew the truth?
She knew he would
not. She loved him. He meant everything to her. She could
not
loose him.

She looked into
Danny's concerned eyes and knew he was expecting an answer. 'Why do they say
that?' She smiled remorsefully. 'Because I gave you some good information for
your stories? A spy would lie, Danny.'

I'm lying to
him,
she thought.
I'm shameful.

Danny looked
thoughtful. 'That's what I thought too.'

She felt his
hand on her shoulder.

He said: 'One
was the guy that broke in here this morning - A General Loan.'

'Him. He's an
extortionist.'

'Why didn't you
tell me?'

'It's not the
way we do things here, Danny. I just want him to leave me alone.'

'I hope I'm not
getting played here, Amai. I care about you. You know that, right?'

'I'm no
communist.' It was kind of truthful. Amai felt tears threatening. She walked to
the sink and filled a glass with water.

Loan or his men
would be outside her building now, waiting for her to move; waiting for her to
take them to Triet. Loan
would
get what he wanted. She would give him
Triet. But if she wasn't careful, she would end up floating in the
Mekong
- or worse. Suddenly she was in a
concrete room; Loan's smirking face hovered above her - and then he was raping
her.

She dropped the
glass and it smashed in the sink.

Danny came to
her. 'It's been a hell-of-a day.'

Amai put her
arms around him. The way forward was clear: she would lead Military
Intelligence to Triet, report Tet in every detail, and then leave
Saigon
.

She looked at
Danny. 'Let's get out of here.'

'I'm beat-'

'No.' She cupped
his face with both hands. 'I mean let's get out of
Saigon
. I love you, Danny. More than anything. Let's go anywhere. Let's
just get out of
Saigon
.'

'So you
are
a communist?'

'No, Danny. I
want us to have a life together. We can't have that here.'

He looked out
the window.

Her simmering
mind began to boil.

* * *

From the start, the thought that Amai was
somehow just toying with him had lodged in the back of Danny's mind. But now
she had confirmed her love. She had said it. He was elated. He wanted this more
than anything. But his journalist's eye could see something besides love in her
demeanor: her eyes were bright and sparkling, but the set of her mouth said
desperation.

She kissed him
softly. She had the most beautiful lips; the most sensual kiss. Her hand
touched his face.

'I love you
Amai, he said. 'Once I've done my job
here
, we'll leave the country.'

'We need to go
soon - how's tomorrow afternoon.'

'I'm going to
Ubon tomorrow. There's a story-'

'How long.'
    

'A week.'

'Can you make it
sooner?'

'I don't see
how. No.'

He felt her
tremble. He drew her to him. She held him tight.

Danny felt
drained. The day's hellish events had beaten him down, but then Amai had said
that she loved him and everything was different - And then there was the Weyand
story. Something told him that this could be his Pulitzer - his redemption.

A week,
he thought.
If all goes well, I'll get the story and the girl.

* * *

Amai poured another wine. It foamed over
the rim of the glass. She drank the bubbles and poured another.

A week in
Saigon
was too long. From the moment Triet
was arrested, Military Intelligence would be hunting her. A week would feel a
lifetime.

Danny's absence
however, would buy her the time and space she needed to report Tet, without his
finding out.

She realized
that she was clenching her teeth.

She forced
herself to smile.
I love Danny,
she thought.
And we're going to have
a life together.  

Her smile
receded.
If I survive.

* * *

Danny got into bed and Amai got on top of
him.

She felt herself
getting wet. Sex would be a temporary distraction from her mounting dilemmas.
Danny was hard. She put him inside her and rode him slowly; sensually; deeply.
He loved her to be his cowgirl. Soon the fantastic sensations of lovemaking
took her focus off Tet; off capture; off Triet; off betrayal. She rode Danny
faster; harder; her skin slapping against his. It felt so good; so wild; so
free. He was lasting much longer than usual; hard sex usually made him come
quickly. Then he gripped her waist and his face twisted in pleasure. She loved
doing this to him. She loved him.

She watched him
fall asleep. She didn't mind; he was exhausted - he'd had an awful day. He
deserved rest. Danny's breathing slowed as his sleep deepened. Amai's eye fell
on his satchel.

The letter.

She wondered
what secret it held.

It didn't
matter; the letter would solve a problem. She could not just meet Triet
whenever she wanted;
he
called the meetings. But there was an emergency
procedure, if information of absolute importance was found.

Amai got off the
bed and tiptoed around to Danny's side. The old floorboards groaned with her
movement and she cringed.

I need that
letter.

Danny stirred
and rolled over. She stopped.

His eyes stayed
shut.

She knelt beside
the bag, opened the drawstring, and felt inside. His camera slid out and hit
the floor with a thump. To her, it sounded like a gunshot.

Danny's eyes
opened and he stared straight at her.

Her heart
stopped.

He said:
'Night.' And then rolled over.

Amai's mouth was
dry. She put her hand back in.

Got it.

Amai took it into
the bathroom, which contained nothing more than a night bucket and a bowl of
water on a solid wooden shelf. She dared not light the candle so she unbolted
the small window. It creaked as it opened, letting in a gentle mix of light
from the moon and the Embassy's windows.

She started to
read:

**EYES ONLY - BURN AFTER
READING
**

My friend,

I hope this finds you well.
I will trust you to do the right thing. I have done my homework on you and
understand that you are a patriot; as am I.

I only ask that you never
attach my name to any of this.

I have already risked my
reputation in leaking my belief that this war is un-winnable. I'm sure you've
read
The Post's
article, entitled: "
Vietnam
: The Signs of
Stalemate."

But why do we remain in an
un-winnable war, bogged down in deadlock? I now believe a Military Industrial
Complex to be pulling the strings of this campaign.

I know for a fact that the
warships Maddox and Turner Joy were not attacked by North Vietnamese torpedo
boats - this was a Lyndon Johnson lie. He used this lie to gain congressional
consent to attack
Vietnam
.

Unfortunately the lies only
get bigger.

All of my battle plans must
be approved by the
United Nations Security Council, located in
New York City
. A
Soviet General named
Alexel Nesternko heads this office!

Is he communist? Does he
pass this information on to communist forces? I don't know. I want you to find
out, as I cannot.

Then there is the policy of
not pursuing the enemy into
Cambodia
. This simply gives the NVA sanctuary. They
can sit within spitting distance of us, in total safety.

To not pursue the enemy
breaks every rule of combat!

Consider the logic behind
not allowing our combat pilots to attack Surface-to-Air missile sites, until
the SAMs capable of shooting back. Ludicrous! Once again it breaks every rule
of combat.

Other deeply concerning
anomalies also exist.

This whole thing reeks of
conspiracy.

When you arrive at you
destination, you will be met by a man named Benmore. He will provide you with
the information and equipment that you need.

Remember,
Saigon
's eyes are many.

I will be in contact.

Destroy this after reading!

The door opened
and a jolt of fright rocked Amai's body. Danny walked in half asleep, his
tackle swinging from side-to-side.

'Hey gorgeous,'
he mumbled. 'What you doing?'

'Nothing.'

Danny urinated
loudly into the bedpan.

She went back to
bed.
You idiot,
she thought. But the information was significant enough
to justify a meeting with Triet. It would be their last.

Danny got in
beside her. She cuddled into his back and hung her leg over his.

Amai didn't
sleep. She lay beside Danny and made sleepy love with him in the early morning.

Danny got up,
washed, and dressed.

Suddenly, she
had to tell him. Confessing Tet to Danny would solve so many problems: Danny
would tell General Westmorland, and Triet's bloodbath would cease to exist;
Danny would use the story to get his prize, or whatever it was; and she would
dodge Military Intelligence.

'Danny,' she
said. 'I forgot to mention - I've come across a very important story - a big
one.'

Danny slid his
camera into his satchel. 'Yeah, babe. What is it?'

She opened her
mouth but the words turned to glue on her tongue.

'I've gotta go
babe. What's up?'

'Nothing,
darling.
It can wait.'

He bent down and
kissed her.

'Hurry back,'
she said. 'I'll miss you.'

He smiled. 'I
love you.'

He left. She
listened to his footsteps going down the stairs.

Something told
her that not telling him would be a decision she would regret for the rest of
her life.

5

December 27, 0445

A
top the US Embassy's roof, Captain Nash of Military Intelligence
monitored Amai's building. He would've loved nothing more than to arrest Amai,
but he couldn't - not yet.

Through the
circles of his Zeiss binoculars, he watched Danny leave via the front door, get
in his Press Corp jeep, and then drive away.

Nash waited for
Amai.

He had no proof
that she was a communist spy, but he knew she was. He grinned. She would lead
him to the big fish - in MI, they called him, The Ghost. Nash could have forced
Amai's knowledge of The Ghost's whereabouts under torture, but following her
would net the results without compromising the element of surprise; and for
this guy, surprise was critical - The Ghost was elusive. Nash believed the Viet
Cong to be planning something big; a major attack - in
Saigon
itself. Everything pointed to it. Nash's superiors disagreed.

Idiots.
Nash shook his head.
Why can't they see it?

But Nash wasn't
about to let incompetent superiors stop him. The situation presented the perfect
opportunity to shatter the Viet Cong plot, expose the incompetence of his
commanders, and confirm his own superiority.

They'll be
forced to promote me - again,
he thought. He
smirked.

Nash had been
promoted to Captain only eight weeks ago, but he wanted to rise quickly through
the ranks, and this war was the perfect opportunity to do so.

Nash tensed.
Amai was on her rooftop.

So that's how
she been doing it.

She walked to
the front edge and looked down into
Thong Nhut
Boulevard
. Then she went to the rear parapet. Nash
adjusted the binoculars' focus wheel, and Amai's image sharpened.

Wow.
Nash felt a buzz. Before seeing Amai, he had had hourly fantasies
involving doggy-style sex with Audrey Hepburn. But now he only fantasized about
Amai. Amai was sexier. She oozed sensuality. Nash stroked his thickening penis
through his uniform trousers.

Stay on task,
he cautioned himself.

His
vantage-point let him see most of her clever evasion technique. Her agility
surprised him. Her body was full and supple and her firm breasts bounced
rapidly as she ran over the tarred roof. He could see why the reporter had
fallen for her scam. Danny was a suave looking cat, but Nash had detected a
lack of confidence: during their conversation at the Grand, Danny had repetitively
touched his nose, and constantly broke-off eye contact to look at the ground.
He was obviously a determined journalist, prepared to go to extraordinary
lengths to get his story, but there was also some underlying flaw - something
broken in his psyche that made him vulnerable. It was that vulnerability that
an agent like Amai would exploit.

Nash prided
himself on confidence. He always maintained a macho posture. Self-belief was
the name of the game in the Intelligence business; without it you would quickly
become prey in a carnivorous world.

Nash watched
Amai drop over the rear parapet.
She's confident,
he thought.
Too
confident.

Vietnamese
females were deferential: quiet, shy, averting their eyes, squatting rather
than standing, covering faces with scarves; but not Amai. She strode
self-assuredly, she never squatted, and even through binoculars, he could see
that the centers of her oval eyes burned with a purpose.

Nash believed
the Viet Cong to be a far more formidable enemy than his superiors. Among the
obvious signs of insurrection, Nash had detected the existence of an all female
spy network. Nash believed Amai to be one of them. These female spies obtained
highly classified information, such as battle-plans and targets, with ease. As
a result, when
US
attacks were
launched, the forewarned enemy was gone, leaving a waiting ambush. The disaster
at Ap Bac had been the start of it, and Nash was sure that Amai's network had
been involved; possibly even Amai herself. Since then, things had gotten much
worse.

I'll smash
this little spy ring to pieces
, Nash thought.

But the
Commander, The Ghost, eluded him. Nash had no idea who he was, or even what he
looked like. Locations revealed by tortured spies had always been abandoned
hours or minutes before Nash's teams arrived to make the arrest.

But now that
Nash had Amai to follow, he would find The Ghost.

In preparation
for an attack the size that Nash suspected, the VC would have stockpiled
weapons, ammunition, battle-plans, and orders. He would rub these in the face
of his immediate superior, Colonel Hitchcock.

All he needed
was The Ghost.

Amai was his
bait.

Nash took his
radio's handset and directed two of his Corporals to the rear of Amai's
building. 'Observe only,' he said. 'Goddamn don't let her see you.'

Prone to
impulsiveness, his Corporals needed to be kept on a tight leash.

* * *

So as to standout, Amai had worn her blue
dress.

Specks of melted
tar from the roof had stuck to the soles of her sandals. She vaulted the last
parapet and dropped into the alley.

They must've
seen me.

She made her way
to the main street and waved down a powered-cyclo; a three-wheeled machine with
red wheels and blue mudguards and a bench-seat in front of the rider.

Amai got into
the seat. 'Cholon, please. Follow the canal.'

'Kenh Tau Hu?'

'Yes.'

There was a
pre-determined procedure for an emergency meeting with Triet. It involved
taking a red scarf to a Cholon address, putting it under the doormat, and then
waiting at a strip-club called, The Flashing Tiger.

Amai was nervous.

The cyclo bumped
over the rough pavement, the driver working hard to avoid collisions with the
motorbikes, cycles, and pedestrians that swarmed the road. The familiar smells
of fish oil and broth mixed with the humid air, the sickly aroma clinging to
her clothing, hair, and skin.

Every now and
then Amai glanced back past the driver. There was no sign of a tail.

Surely they
saw me?

The noisy cyclo
added to the hanging pollution. In Cholon, the streets narrowed and she could
smell the canal, behind the buildings on her left. She still hadn't spotted the
tail.

Where are
they?

Without warning,
a motorbike towing a makeshift trailer came out of a side-street and into the
cyclo's path. The trailer, wrapped in a wire cage, was crammed full of piglets.
The motorbike was out of control, its overloaded trailer tilted one way, then
the other, and then rolled onto its side. The trailer hit the pavement and the
cage broke open. Piglets ran squealing in all directions.

Amai's driver
swerved to the right to avoid the crashed trailer. She was sure the cyclo would
roll. The right front wheel lifted off the ground and the contraption spun
sideways. They skidded to a stop facing the curb. The motor chugged for several
seconds and then died. A piglet knocked a woman off her bicycle; others caused
the traffic to stop. One just stood in the roadway, paralyzed by
indecision. 

Amai thought herself
lucky to have avoided injury.

Then she saw the
tail and her body stiffened. Reflected in a shop window, two brand-new BSA
motor-scooters pulled over and stopped. They were ridden by Americans with
military style haircuts.

The cyclo would
not restart. Amai helped the driver push it to the roadside. Acting casually,
as one who did not expect to be followed, she started walking up the street.
The Intelligence officers followed. Then it happened.

Automatic
weapons' fire opened-up behind her. Amai's head snapped around. Someone was
shooting at the Americans. The men on the new BSA scooters fell onto their
sides.

Then she saw the
jeep.

American
soldiers jumped from the jeep and started shooting. A hailstorm of bullets
clattered off the masonry and ricocheted across the street. Amai began to run.
 

The Americans
gave chase.

She reached the
canal edge. In the water below, a line of small barges were moored against the
wall. Amai jumped from the bank and thudded onto a barge's deck. It rocked
violently and the owner fell into the brown water. Amai ran through its leafy
cargo and then leapt the short gap to the next boat. Ahead of her the flotilla provided
an unstable pontoon that led deeper into the steep-sided canal. The further she
went, the higher the wall rose above her, but beyond putting distance between
her and the Americans, she had no plan.

She glanced
back. Two Americans had reached the bank; they held M-16s. Behind them, a beefy
soldier was yelling for them to stop.      

She thought:
I'm
done for.

Then the crackle
of gunfire echoed across the water.

* * *

Nash was gutted by his own stupidity, but
he had no time to think.

He watched in disbelief
as bullets thudded into the chests of his two corporals. For a second, it
didn't seem real.

Fucking do
something,
he thought.

Nash knew if he
didn't react, he would die.

He leapt onto
the barge, landing on his feet in a pile of vegetables. His ears were ringing;
the muscles in his legs sluggish. This was his first time in a real gun fight.

Nash ran for his
life along the barges, but Amai had made them rock and he struggled to keep his
feet.

I'm moving
like a slug.

As he stumbled
forward, he expected to hear the shot that would end his life.

* * *

Afraid, Amai came to the last boat in the
line. Here the canal wall rose to over ten feet above her head.

There's no
way out.

The strapping
American came toward her, arms and feet spread wide, struggling to keep his
balance on the rocking boats. She looked past him and saw the Viet Cong man; he
was one of Triet's. The VC man raised his AK-47 and the shots crackled.

Bullets hit the
deck, inches from the Intelligence Officer. He slewed sideways, his face etched
with fear.

The next burst
hit the man's lower legs.

Amai watched him
stumble, fall into the murky water, and disappear from view.

Rooted-to-the-spot,
she locked eyes with Triet's man. Almost unbelievably, the front of his body
was churned into red paste as bullets ripped through his chest. Behind him,
Amai saw General Loan and knew that she was next.

She looked up
the brick face of the canal wall, and halfway up saw the rim of a concrete
storm-water pipe. The storm-water flowed into the canal via large pipes in this
part of the city. This was one was about three feet in diameter and dribbled a
foul smelling discharge. Amai didn't hesitate. She knew what she had to do to
survive.  

She jumped
vertically and caught the lip with both hands. It was slimy. Her hands slipped.
Then her fingertips found chips in the masonry. She gripped on for all she was
worth, hauled herself up, and slithered through the opening.

Amai felt sure
that Loan had had a clear shot, and wondered why he hadn't fired.

He wants to
follow me.

The pipeline
reeked of gas. She held her breath and crawled through the sludge as fast as
she could. The fumes forced her to hold her breath and she feared she would
suffocate.

An iron grill
appeared in the pipe wall. Amai pushed her mouth between the bars and took a
breath. The air was barely breathable. Looking out, she realized that she was
on the far side of the street, looking back at the stalled cyclo. General Loan
had the cyclo driver by the scruff of the neck. Amai took more air, held her
breath again, and then crawled further into the pipe. She found another vent,
and took more air. Ahead of her was a ladder with a ring of light above it. She
climbed to street level; then she ran.

She felt like
kicking herself; but she'd done everything right - the MI soldiers had made the
mistake. They had ruined her plan.

Where will I
go now?
She thought. Panic set in.
I can't go
back to the flat.

A man stepped in
front of her; a Vietnamese man; the man from the Trung Hoa. She looked around.
There were more.

They're Viet
Cong.

The man from The
Trung Hoa shoved her into a doorway. Amai knew that they knew who she was.

He said:
'Where're you going?'

'None of your-'

'Where?'

There was
violence in the man's eyes, but Amai didn't think he would really hit her. 'To
Triet.'

'Fool-'