Saigon Cowboy

By H. Palmer Wood

Austin Bain liked working for the CIA, especially exercising his intellect to be one step ahead of a challenge. But deviating from his deciphering routine seemed to open another door to reality. Escaping death by minutes in Panama might have been a fluke, but it was enough to remind him of the dangers of his vocation. Resigning from the CIA he returned to civilian life, until a former cohort tracked him down vacationing on a remote Bahamas island.
That surprise encounter, catapulted Bain back into the Agency to help track and apprehend one of the most dangerous individuals the Armed Forces and CIA had ever dealt with in Vietnam. The French National and former college roommate of Austin Bain had developed a deadly profile, bent on revenge, as a result of tragic events involving the eventual deaths of a sister and father.
Working under a pseudonym, Bains search took him through numerous provinces in Vietnam when the US military presence was growing by the tens of thousands each month. At one time the fugitives roommate, Bain was considered the most likely to be able to identify the Saigon Cowboy, the freshman he lived with ten years ago at Syracuse University.
Both the bold aggressiveness and clandestine actions of the Cowboy continued to baffle those in pursuit. With his apparent ease of movement in highly secure areas, he continued to meet his objective of eliminating high ranking military and CIA agents.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781493145294

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Copyright © 2013 by H. Palmer Wood.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 02/012/2014

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

I am very grateful to my good friend Linda Ann Truitt,

an avid bibliophile, who without her encouragement

this book would never have been published.

And to my dear wife Ronali’s patience.

CHAPTER 1

Before she spoke into the microphone for the second time, the stewardess looked at the khaki uniforms on the military passengers. It had been a long flight from Travis Air Force Base in California, with only a two-hour refueling stopover at Hickam Field in Hawaii. Their uniforms, once tightly pressed with excessive starch, were now a tangle of wrinkles. Most of the 182 passengers were asleep, their faces no longer lined with anxiety. Regretting having to awaken them, the stewardess held the microphone and asked again for their attention. After hesitating, she continued when she saw most of the passengers looking in her direction.

"We will be landing at Clark Air Force Base in ten minutes. All passengers will be bused to the terminal building while the aircraft is being refueled. For those passengers staying on in the Philippines, have your orders ready when you board the designated bus. You’ll need your orders to pick up your duffel bags at the baggage ramp and transportation to your assigned post.

For those passengers going on to Vietnam, you must remain in the terminal until boarding time. Refueling should take about an hour.

Austin Bain was awake the first time the stewardess made her announcement. After standing and stretching his lean six-foot, two-inch frame, he looked around the cabin. The passengers in the military chartered 707 were military personnel, with only one civilian besides himself.

The big sergeant sitting next to Austin was still asleep. Austin’s effort to start a conversation earlier had only received clipped answers. Looking the sergeant over closely as he slept, Austin noticed he was wearing the Vietnam yellow-and-red service ribbon and wondered why he returned to the States.

Anxious to see something other than a few islands after ten thousand miles of ocean, Austin leaned forward and reached over the large sleeping hulk to open the shade. What happened next took him by surprise. A large hand came from nowhere and seized his wrist in a powerful grip, instantly immobilizing his hand.

Trying to maintain his composure and appear oblivious to the intense pain, Austin carefully modulated his voice. Excuse me. I was just opening the shade.

Only after eyeing him cautiously through half-closed slits did the sergeant release his grip and turned toward the window, sliding the shade up. From somewhere, a cigarette appeared on the sergeant’s thick lower lip, followed by a round of pocket massaging for a match. Unsuccessful, he turned and casually asked Austin, as if he were aware of him for the first time, Got a light?

Sorry, I don’t smoke, replied Austin, resisting the desire to caress his tingling wrist.

Hey! barked the sergeant, waving his cigarette at a passing stewardess, Light?

I can’t help you, Sergeant. No smoking until we land.

The plane lurched several times as it passed under a layer of clouds, revealing dark-green terrain and neatly tilled fields below. Austin thought about the illusive personality next to him and wondered how much of it was influenced by his duty in Vietnam.

The landing was smooth and a welcome relief after flying the six hours nonstop from Hawaii. A steward stood at the front of the cabin and announced to the servicemen getting off at Clark that there would be a Volkswagen van to take them to the baggage area where they could pick up their duffel bags. He reminded them to have their orders ready. All other passengers would be bused to the main terminal.

As the plane taxied to its designated parking area, Austin could see the small van waiting for the Clark Air Base passengers. Thinking this might be an opportune time to open a conversation, he said, Looks like the whole plane is going over.

The sergeant turned and asked, What did you say?

Nothing, he replied, surprised by his evasive reflex. I was just talking to myself.

The big sergeant stared at him for a moment and returned to the window.

Trusting this might be an invitation to talk, Austin asked, I noticed you’re wearing the Vietnam service ribbon. When were you there?

The sergeant glanced at Austin with a look of contempt and turned back toward the window, mumbling something about dumb feather merchants.

Ignoring the temptation to ask what the sergeant meant, Austin turned and looked down the aisle. Thinking what he might have to face when working with thousands of military men, his thoughts drifted back three weeks before, when he and two friends had decided on a two-week vacation in the Bahamas. They had flown from Orlando, Florida, to Freeport, Bahamas, and then to a coral runway on Treasure Island Cay, Little Abaco.

After a week of fishing and spearing lobster around the island, they were told of better fishing further east on Green Turtle Cay. It was on their second day at the Green Turtle Inn when Austin won the coin flip over who would fire up the grill for the day’s catch while the other two cleaned fish.

As Austin reached the summit of the small hill overlooking the harbor, he looked back and saw his two friends swigging down cold beer at the small open-air bar at the foot of the pier. He smiled when he recognized the dockmaster’s son; they had met the day before, cleaning their fish. Austin knew he would have plenty of time to shower and then fire the grill before they returned. As he entered the small cottage, he noticed the back door was open. Quickly glancing around the room, he was relieved when everything seemed to be in place. As he reached to close the door, a voice from the porch startled him.

Come out here and join me, Aus.

It took Austin several seconds to react to the man leaning against the deck railing. Stunned at first by his presence, he complied, slowly closing the screened door behind him. Karl, what the hell are you doing here?

Well, at least you can say hello, he replied as they shook hands. After all, I had to travel two thousand miles to get here. Not to mention spending two days tracking you down.

All Austin could do was stand there in disbelief. I know you didn’t come out here for a vacation. You must want something. Well, I don’t have anything, and you can tell the colonel exactly that, if he’s still running the outfit.

Wow! You are something. Haven’t changed a bit in four years. You’re still bent out of shape with the company, scolded Karl, half laughing.

What do they want, Karl? I said I was through, and I meant it.

Hold everything, my man. You’re getting all fired up before you hear what I have to say. How do you know I’m not here just vacationing?

Austin hesitated before he replied. He knew Karl too well to believe anything he said when he had that twisted smile on his face. Come on, Karl, cut the crap. Who sent you out here to find me… and what do they want? I told you it was all over after that fiasco in Panama. I’m through, and I mean it. I’ve got a good job without having to look over my shoulder every five minutes and can take a vacation when I want to.

Karl laughed at the last statement. I guess I screwed this one up for you. Listen, Aus, something’s come up that’s very important.

It’s always important, interjected Austin. That’s the whole problem. Everything has to be done yesterday. That’s why I don’t work with you guys anymore and can sleep at night. It took—

Hold it, Aus. I know it was rough for you, and I blame myself for some of it. But you have to hear me out. Right now it’s too long and complicated to get into it. If you’ll get out of those fish-stinking clothes, I’ll buy you a drink and dinner in town and tell you the whole story. I promise I won’t keep you out all night, he pleaded.

Austin raked his fingers through his black hair and squinted at Karl. What in the world could be so important for you to track me down out here? Not expecting an answer, he continued, I made it very clear when I left that I was through working for the government and thought they accepted it… In fact, I knew they had. What could be so important for you to come all the way out here?

I know it sounds crazy, but you have something they want. You’ll understand as soon as I tell you. It’s too long and complicated to explain it in a few sentences. You really need to know how the background fits in before you’ll believe me. You’ve got to trust me, Aus. I know what I’m talking about. Look, if you will come with me into town and give me an hour of your undivided attention and still can’t see where I’m coming from, I promise I’ll leave this island and go back and tell them I couldn’t find you. Will that satisfy you?

Austin took a deep breath and let it out slowly as a sign of surrender. Okay, okay. What about my two friends down at the dock?

You know we have to talk alone.

I guess the only way I’m going to get you off my back is to listen to you. Do you mind if I take a shower first?

Smiling with relief when he realized Austin would go with him, Karl nodded and said, Only if you can take one before your two friends return. I don’t have time for formalities. We’ll go down to New Plymouth, and I promise to keep it as short as possible.

This is really crazy. You don’t want to meet my friends and want to take me to New Plymouth to tell me what’s going on. Okay. I have time for a shower, and I’ll go to dinner with you—on one condition, insisted Austin. Don’t jerk me around and try and con me into getting on board with the company again. Don’t forget how close I came to leaving this world—thanks to you.

For a split second, Austin saw a flash of guilt cross Karl’s eyes, but then he grinned. Hit the shower. I’ve got a boat tied up behind the cabin.

Ten minutes later, after a quick shower and a change of clothes, Austin scrawled a brief note to George and Skip. I hope that convinces them I haven’t been kidnapped. Austin grinned as he folded the note and wedged it in the front screen door.

The bay had a small chop when the rented skiff Karl was piloting pulled into the main channel of White Sound and headed for the village of New Plymouth, a mile away. Ever eat at one of the hotels in town? yelled Karl over the roar of the outboard.

No, never.

There’s a nifty restaurant in one of the inns. I had lunch there. It’s small and expensive, even for a resort town this size. I don’t think there’s a chance your friends will stop there for an after-dinner drink.

After several futile attempts by Austin to communicate above the noise of the engine, he finally decided to wait until they had reached land. His thoughts drifted back to the last days he spent in Panama with Karl. He remembered with a shudder how close he came to never leaving. His last assignment sounded simple enough. The colonel had asked him to fill in for Karl and ride along on a routine investigation near the Canal Zone. He was looking forward to this local excursion.

*     *     *

The department hired a few Panamanians to help them investigate problems between the army’s Criminal Investigation Division and the local government. Washington was sensitive about the US military putting too much muscle on the natives. It was mostly petty theft, common in any foreign third-world country where there are American military installations. There was the typical pilferage common to any installation but rarely a big heist.

Austin’s primary responsibility was recording and documenting Panamanian agent activities after they were debriefed, deciphering incoming coded messages and a number of mundane security procedures. He had been in Panama almost a year and was hoping for a transfer to Europe. The chief of base, an ex-army colonel who had delusions he was still in the military, would occasionally allow him to fill in when a regular agent was unavailable.

Austin was jolted back to the present when Karl cut the boat’s engine as they neared the town’s wooden pier. As Karl was securing the boat to the pier, Austin started asking questions about why he had tracked him down.

Later, said Karl, nodding toward two Bahamians pulling up a cast net with thrashing shimmering mullet. I’ll answer questions when we get off this dock.

Austin’s thoughts again drifted back again to Panama. The village where they were to meet the informant was forty minutes away, and they were only there for five or ten minutes at the most. All he found were three window fans and a case of Valvoline motor oil. The fans were manufactured in Japan, and the motor oil could have come from anywhere. Austin sensed the informant was being too cagey about where he got them and the people involved. Austin remembered telling the Panamanian agents that he thought this trip was a waste of time. The two agents just shrugged and headed for the door.

It was the next event that changed his mind to stay with the agency. He believed his narrow escape with death couldn’t be anything but divine providence. They hadn’t driven a mile when he asked the driver to stop at the next service station so he could relieve himself.

He recalled he hardly got the words out of his mouth when the driver slammed on the brakes. In Panama, when you have to go, you go, whether you’re in sight of a house or not.

A slight smile creased Austin’s mouth when he thought how his modesty had saved his life. There were a few shanty-type houses nearby on the backcountry road, and Austin looked for a tree to stand behind. Spotting a deep ditch across the road, he headed for it, moving a little faster when the driver whistled and yelled, All you gringos are the same. You talk macho, but you hide when you piss, just like a woman!

A chill returned to him when he recalled the event that happened just after he remembered them laughing. He had no sooner climbed halfway down into the ditch than a tremendous concussion lifted him off his feet and knocked the wind out of him. Shrapnel tore into the ditch’s opposite bank, passing just inches above his head and kicking dirt into the air. A cloud of dust billowed around him as he crawled his way up the side of the ditch, ears ringing and spitting dirt. He peered over the top through the dissipating cloud of smoke and dust and was shocked to see the car gone.

All that was left was a smoking engine block and something that might have been a car’s chassis. Twisted metal strips and unidentifiable car parts were strewn in a wide radius along the road. Two of the houses along the road were damaged with missing windows; and a third, closest to the car, was almost knocked flat. Stunned and disoriented, Austin didn’t wait around to examine the parts to see if any were human.

Because of the devastation, he was convinced someone had driven by and thrown a bundle of dynamite through the car’s open window. Thinking the bomber might still be around, he drew Karl’s service revolver, which he gave him as they were leaving the office, and ran down the ditch for several hundred feet to a bridge. Climbing out of the ditch, he crossed over the bridge and hitched a ride back to the field office.

It was two days later when the report came in that a bomb must have been planted in the car’s trunk, probably when they were inside talking to the informant. Later when the informant was nowhere to be found, they knew the whole episode had to be a setup. That was enough for Austin to take a hard look at his future with the agency, which eventually led to his resignation.

Karl brought him back to the present. Hey, why so quiet all of a sudden?

Memories… I would just as soon forget but can’t.

Forget about Panama, Aus. You got away clean. Not even a scratch. But I am indebted to you. You saved my bacon. You know macho me, if I had been there and had to take a leak, I would have stood at the top of the ditch… or better yet, probably pissed on the car’s tire if they razzed me like they did you. And this ole boy would have been history. You were some kind of lucky, reflecting before he continued, I guess I was too.

Wanting to change the subject, Austin started asking questions.

Okay, amigo, said Karl, resigned. Let’s take one question at a time.

Before he could continue, Austin asked, Something bugged me on the ride over here. Not that we were hiding from anyone, but I thought we covered our tracks before we ended up on this island. How did you find us? We didn’t know we would end up here when we left, and I can’t remember telling anyone on Treasure Island.

You’ve been away too long. Karl laughed. Remember, I work for people who specialize in finding people. It didn’t take long to find where you were staying on Treasure Cay. Remembered the taxi driver who took you to the ferry? The one of you asked about the Green Turtle Inn? It doesn’t take long to get a little sloppy, he added with a smirk.

Yeah, but it’s nice not to be paranoid about everything and everyone for a change, retorted Austin.

Karl turned to Austin. I won’t keep you in suspense any longer… What I’m about to tell you is hot. Very hot! That’s why I had to meet you as I did. There’s precious time to lose, and every day can mean another life. The last thing the colonel wanted to do was bring you back in, and he still had big reservations when I left.

The colonel hasn’t retired by now? All he got from Karl was a blank stare. Well, screw the colonel. But wait a minute. Who said I’m going back in? I told you I was out, and mean it. And furthermore, I don’t want to go back to Panama.

Hold it, Aus, said Karl, holding his hands up and regretting he said it. Don’t get excited. I told you I would leave this island without you if you felt you couldn’t help. So relax! All I’m asking is for you to hear what I have to say. That’s all. Pointing up the hard-packed shell street, he continued, This whole story is so complicated, let’s wait until we can sit down and have a drink. The restaurants just up the street, he said, nodding in the direction they were headed.

The inn was set back off the road on the seaward side of the island and was partially hidden by a preponderance of tropical flora. Austin would never have found it if they hadn’t been looking for it. The inn was old by the appearance of the warped, weather-beaten clapboards, which only added to its charm. The grounds behind the thick hedge of disheveled sea grapes belied the perfect English garden it hid. Once inside, Austin’s previous doubts of Karl’s statement of expensive accommodations faded. The dining room was small and quaint, with abundant antiques. Old original paintings of great clipper ships lined the stained and lacquered walls. A ship’s binnacle and compass standing in a far corner, with its brass brightly polished, bore the scars of many storms and perhaps a wreck.

I’m impressed. How did you find this place?

Karl nodded to a waiter and held up two fingers before he replied. It was arranged when they knew you were on the island.

Well, either you have a big budget or they’re trying to impress me, and I suspect it’s the latter.

A faint smile from Karl confirmed it.

Now you have me suspicious. What could I possibly have that’s important enough for the colonel to track me down? All he had to do was call my office in Orlando, asked a puzzled Austin.

Karl held up a finger for Austin to hold his questioning as a waiter approached. Good evening, Mr. Metz, said the waiter with a slight British accent but also something else Austin couldn’t detect. Just the two of you, sir?

After Karl had replied, Austin dropped his voice and said, Now I’m really impressed. How big a tip did you leave him for lunch?

Tut-tut, my boy, you really have been sheltered too long. You have to get out where the money is. The waiter is simply a professional. And to answer your question about not looking you up in Orlando, this situation I’m about to tell you about just came up three days ago.

The small quaint restaurant looked little more than a tea room, but the menu Austin picked up was enhanced. You weren’t joking about being expensive. Austin smiled. I’m glad you’re picking up the tab. How can they justify these prices? I mean, who knows about this place to come here and support it?

When I got in last night, I called the ‘night watch,’ and they booked me here and said it was exclusive. Exclusive, I guess, for a limited number of people who like to pay a lot for the inn’s fishing excursions. From a comment between a manager and the clerk at the registration desk, I think the company might be cashing in on an old marker or two.

And to think the company might have changed, thought Austin. Well, are you ready to tell me what’s going on? prodded Austin.

Sure, let’s have a drink, and we’ll order later. But I want you to relax and be receptive to what I have to say.

If it has something to do with the colonel looking for me, I’ll listen, replied Austin with a grin, but I’ll save you time right now by saying, ‘No way!’

Karl silently replied by opening his hands and shrugging. After they had ordered their drinks, Austin shook his head. I still can’t believe you’re here, right out of the blue.

An old black woman shuffled out of the kitchen with a tray to retrieve dishes from the other couple in the dining room, who were now departing. Their drinks came, and they laughed about Karl’s adventures with all his past girlfriends. They reminisced about the last time they had seen each other, four years before. They had written a few letters since, and Karl wanted to know what had happened to that great-looking blond Austin was engaged to. Austin told him it was a long story but fundamentally, things didn’t work out.

Karl, I’ve finished my drink. What could be so important that the colonel would give you carte blanche credit to entertain me?

Give me five minutes to warm up. Okay?

You’re already had forty-five minutes.

First, this has nothing to do with Panama. Bear with me. Remember when we were students at Syracuse U? asked Karl.

Wait a minute, interrupted Austin. Then why is the colonel involved with my being in Syracuse?

The colonel and I were relocated to Langley about a year after you left. The colonel was nearing retirement but became so excited about what I’m about to tell you, he decided to postpone his retirement.

Really, snapped Austin, frustrated over all the trivial details.

Seeming to ignore his sarcasm, Karl continued, That was almost ten years ago. It’s hard to believe it’s already 1966. I remember the time you lost your term paper and stayed up all night rewriting it, just to find out someone in your class had found it and turned it in to the instructor that afternoon.

You remembered that? asked Austin.

How could I forget? I was your roommate that last semester. You kept me up all night. If I remember correctly, the instructor graded you on your second paper. The one that was full of mistakes because you were so tired.

Yeah, I remember. He was a mean son of a bitch. I was thankful to get out of that course with a C.

Not to change the subject, Karl, but you didn’t come out here to discuss our old college instructors.

Karl was suddenly dead serious. What I’m about to tell you will be find hard to believe, but stay with me and listen carefully.

Leaning forward, he continued, "Several months ago, our field office in Saigon was getting scattered reports of a Caucasian fighting for the Vietcong. The reports coming in varied, but most identified this individual definitely as a Caucasian and most likely an AWOL GI. Needless to say, when it finally filtered down to our office, it was passed it off as a typical rumor. Just as it did, when someone reported a company of Russian advisors and later a battalion of Chinese regulars were hidden in the Mekong Delta.

"Reports, however, continued to come in about this Caucasian with the same general description. You know how rumors sometimes run amuck and everybody seems to get involved. It really didn’t get anyone’s serious attention until a field-grade officer was an eyewitness.

This so-called cowboy was seen with an estimated company of Vietcong, in an area that was supposed to be secured. The report said it shocked the officer and two enlisted men, who under cover, were able to observe this individual for a good five minutes. They had the impression that he was in command and was an American!

By the time they were able to slip away and sound the alarm, the VC and this cowboy character had vanished into the jungle. It didn’t take long for the word to spread and had everybody excited. Information started pouring in from every sector. Every company commander that had a man AWOL swore it had to be his man.

Probably a disillusioned GI, assumed Austin after listening carefully to Karl’s story. There are a lot of people who think we should get out of Vietnam before we get too involved. Maybe some crazy GI is rebelling against the system.

Karl looked hard at Austin before he spoke. How do you feel about our involvement over there?

Austin took a deep breath and let the air out slowly before he replied, "I guess you might say I’m starting to have mixed emotions. At first I was gung ho, but now they’re starting to send troopships over there. I don’t want to sound liberal or un-American, but I hate to see us mix it up in a war that far away from home. We got into it thick with the Chinese when we were in Korea. They pushed us all the way down to Pusan and before the war was over, we lost over fifty thousand men.

The way I’m beginning to look at it, just what possible interest do we have over there to fight someone else’s war? I can see sending a few advisors over and maybe supplying the Vietnamese with weapons to defend their country, but using our soldiers who are being killed, I have to say no.

I guess our reason and the biggest argument is to stop communism before it spreads any further. Maybe the Philippines will be next and then Japan. We may have lost men in Korea, but it sure stopped them in their tracks and now South Korea is one of our strongest allies in the Far East.

Austin shook his head. I really don’t want to get into an argument over military strategies with you, Karl. Suddenly looking him right in the eye, he asked, What I want to know is, how did the agency get mixed up with this cowboy character in Vietnam? I don’t see how that fits in.

Well, we do, Aus, but let me tell you the rest of the story, and you’ll see the connection, Karl replied, pausing to light a cigarette.

Sounds to me like this character would stand out like a sore thumb and would be an easy target, speculated Austin as Karl took a long drag.

The Cowboy? Right you are, he replied, blowing the smoke away from Austin. In fact, there were highly reliable reports that on two separate contacts, our military could have taken him out.

Well? asked Austin. Then why didn’t they?

Karl leaned back in his chair and sighed. From what I’ve been told, the first man who sighted him thought he might be a UN advisor.

A UN advisor with the Vietcong? Austin laughed. And the second time?

Would you believe the man said he couldn’t shoot a white man? This brought a laugh out of both of them.

In both cases, they had observed this Caucasian cowboy totally out of context where a Caucasian shouldn’t be. Before reality set in, he was gone or his groups were too close for the GI to survive retaliation. At this point, continued Karl, the stories were really flying thick, and reports were too numerous to check out. But they were sure they had a Caucasian out there but weren’t sure if it was an AWOL GI, an Australian gone bananas, or a Russian advisor!

CHAPTER 2

"The investigation turned serious a month ago when two of our agents were ambushed on the outskirts of Saigon. They had been investigating a purported large payoff to a Chinese merchant in Cholon, a suburb of Saigon, for sensitive information. They were on their way back to the office when their driver had to stop to avoid a group of children playing soccer in the street.

From the report, the van was fired upon as it slowed for the children and stopped as it hit a light pole. Several witnesses reported that both agents were shot but seemed to be alive, when one of the assailants, a Caucasian, delivered the coup de grace—with what was described as a large revolver!

This cowboy character again? asked Austin.

Karl nodded and continued, There were at least two good witnesses: the driver of the van and an off-duty policeman. The driver was seriously wounded and played dead, but he heard this Cowboy character tell one of the Vietnamese assailants, ‘Now they’re dead’ in French!

That makes sense, exclaimed Austin. Didn’t they have a lot of French living there at one time? I would have been suspicious it was an embittered Frenchman from day one, for whatever reason.

Most of the French moved back to France when they lost the war in the North.

I would bet a lot of their descendants are still living there.

I’m sure there is a certain percentage, but let me finish my story.

Now caught up in the heat of speculation, Austin continued, I can understand your office in Saigon being interested in this character, but why are you? He seems like some screwed-up Frenchman to me, maybe a soldier of fortune. It would seem to be a simple matter to nail this guy. After all, how many people do you see wearing Panama hats in Vietnam, not to mention carrying an old six gun on his hip?

Those were my exact sentiments, said Karl, Until I heard the rest of the story. The problem isn’t just being another soldier and shooting him when he surfaces—but being white. It seems the only time anyone ever sees him is when he’s in control and with a large armed entourage. It seems he has an almost carte blanche pass to roam anywhere in Saigon, or the country at large, without being challenged. And I’m sure he doesn’t wear his outfit in Saigon. And what complicates it even more, I’ve been told there are numerous civilians working over there, from the US, Australia, Canada, the Philippines, you name it.

"So why don’t the contractors start checking out their own people?

That’s what makes it especially difficult, continued Karl. Most work for military contractors under the US Department of Defense—as engineers, construction supervisors, technicians, equipment reps, etc. They tell me there are hundreds of them over there. With the enemy being Oriental, it’s understandable how security isn’t as tight as it should be—especially when it comes to Caucasians.

It’s an interesting story, Karl, but what has motivated the CIA to be so interested? Don’t look at me to volunteer. I sure as hell don’t want to work for them or anybody else over there. I can’t speak French, and I certainly can’t give you any advice if they plan to send you there, except—Austin shrugged—don’t go!

Karl had that look of doubt Austin hadn’t seen in years. I thought you could speak French. He smiled.

Me, speak French? questioned Austin, pointing at his chest with his thumb. You’ve got to be kidding. If you’re talking about the few phrases I knew when we were in school, well-forget it.

It sure seemed to help you get all the girls you wanted. They used to hang around the dorm waiting for you. Remember? I was there! Karl grinned.

Believe me, they were pining for Henri. You remembered me telling you that. They kept hoping he would return someday or I might know where he was. Sure, I was envious of Henri. So was every male student on the campus. He had all the girls after him because of his accent. So why not take advantage of the fact that I was his best friend?

I was always curious how you managed to get a date with that good-looking chick that used to work at the library. You never would tell me, but I think you just did, he said, continuing to grin. Wasn’t her name Sylvia?

Austin was watching Karl carefully. He had always been impressed with his memory. He knew if he allowed him time, Karl would be able to name every girl he dated while they were roommates, and probably before. No wonder the CIA hired him.

Sure. Sylvia Belcher, replied Austin. Henri used to date her.

Karl’s expression changed to that of concern. I’m surprised you never heard from him. You were his best friend.

Henri? I kind of wondered for a while, reflected Austin. You know, I still feel sorry for him. He must have felt the whole world was against him, lamented Austin, staring unseeingly through a window at a blinking buoy bobbing offshore in the failing light.

Two couples entered the restaurant and sat at a table close to them. Karl lifted his finger for Austin to drop the conversation, and after catching the waiter’s attention, motioned for the check. What I have to say, Aus, won’t take long, but I’d rather have a little more privacy. Okay with you? We can have dinner later. Let’s walk out on the pier.

As they were walking to the pier, Austin’s memory of Henri Marquet flashed back to the first time they met in the fall of 1955, in a dorm room at Syracuse University.

*     *     *

Henri was already in the room when Austin was assigned as his roommate that first semester. It was far from friendship at first sight when Austin realized Henri had commandeered most of the closet space and taken the top three drawers of the five-drawer chest. The stilted relationship was further compounded by Henri’s rich French accent, which made it difficult to understand him. Austin soon learned to appreciate one thing, however. Henri had two beautiful sisters.

The oldest sister, Nicole, could speak perfect English and visited Henri every weekend for the first two months they were in school. Looking forward to those visits, Austin made a point of not trying to communicate with Henri on everything. The other sister, Marie, who was twelve, could hardly speak English. She had just moved from France and was enrolled in a private school near Poughkeepsie. Nicole was a sophomore at Vassar, and both sisters lived with an aunt near the college.

Their father was their only parent and lived in Paris. Henri was always vague about what his father’s vocation was other than it had something to do with exporting machinery. His father always provided Henri with the best, and there never seemed to be a lack of anything. When asked why he didn’t enroll in a New England Ivy League college like most of the wealthy foreigners, Henri would explode into a lengthy discussion about capitalism.

Henri was an instant hit with the girls on campus, not only because he was handsome, but because of his French accent. This didn’t go over well with the male competition, and the only male friend Henri really had been Austin. In spite of the arrogance Henri seemed to exude, Austin began to appreciate with time a brilliant and witty character. Unfortunately, Henri’s personality continued to come across as contemptuous, despite Austin’s attempt at subtle tutoring. There were times, however, when even Austin was suspicious of Henri laying on the accent too thick with the girls. With Henri’s Porsche roadster, there was hardly a girl on campus that would refuse a date. Those who played hard to get rarely had a second chance.

Austin’s friendship with Henri grew, and he had been invited to visit Henri’s home in France that summer. Austin’s relationship with Henri’s sister Nicole became more familiar despite her brother’s overly protective character. Austin had known about a surprise visit planned by Nicole and Marie that fateful Saturday morning. It had been a month since either of them had seen the girls.

Nicole had called Austin a week before and told him to keep Henri in the dorm until they arrived. It was Henri’s twentieth birthday, and they had planned to stay the weekend. Austin remembered how excited he was when someone said there were two visitors downstairs waiting to see Henri.

That was the beginning of the end for Henri at Syracuse University and the loss of Austin’s best friend. A loss he would never forget.

The two visitors waiting for Henri were not his sisters but the dean of men and a security guard. They were very somber and asked Henri to come with them to the dean’s office. Austin was surprised when the dean asked him to come along too. They asked why they were being detained and were told they would have to wait until they reached the office.

Austin was asked to wait outside while the dean spoke to Henri in private. The security guard then told Austin that the school had been notified by the Onondaga County Sheriff’s Department that Henri’s two sisters had apparently interrupted a burglary in progress at a gas station on the outskirts of the city.

Both girls were taken as hostage when one of the employees slipped away to call the police. The two girls were found an hour later near a country road, severely beaten and brutally raped. One sister was critical and not expected to live while the other was catatonic. The security guard said the police were lucky to have found Henri’s address in one of the girl’s purses.

When Henri came out of the dean’s office, he was devastated. He collapsed on the floor and started screaming in French. There was little Austin could do but help him back to their room. He was able to call Henri’s aunt, who said she would contact Henri’s father in France. Austin found out from the dean what hospital the girls were in and drove Henri there in his car. When they arrived, they were informed that his oldest sister, Nicole, had died due to a suspected cerebral hemorrhage. The youngest sister, Marie, was still in shock; and no one was allowed to see her until her condition stabilized.

Austin knew that Henri was very close to his family but didn’t expect him to become violent when he found out Nicole had died. He started throwing chairs and anything else he could pick up in the waiting room.

In French and broken English, Henri demanded to be taken to the jail where the suspects were being held. In spite of the hospital’s compassion, it took all of Austin’s persuasion to keep them from placing Henri in restraints. Between hysterical sobs and yelling, Austin repeatedly whispered to Henri that if he would quiet down, he would take him to the jail. Apparently, Austin got through because he suddenly became strangely calm. Even with that, it still took some persuading to convince the hospital that he would be okay if they release Henri to his custody.

Austin remembered the anxiety he had when they were walking to the car. He was concerned how he would restrain Henri when he found out he wasn’t going to take him to the jail. Henri could physically best him four out of five times when he wasn’t angry. Before they reached the car, Austin was surprised when Henri said, Take me back to campus. I want to get my car.

Henri said nothing on their way back. As they pulled up in the dorm’s parking lot, Henri jumped out and ran over to his Porsche before Austin could get his door open.

Henri was in his car and had the door locked and was frantically fumbling with the ignition key. Austin pleaded with him not to go.

Something was wrong. Henri started beating his fist on the dashboard. The car wouldn’t start. About that time, Austin heard a catcall from the dorm next door. What’s the matter, Frenchy; can’t you get the car started? There was an explosion of laughter, and an object bounced on the pavement and skidded against the curb. Austin walked over and picked up the black object, recognizing immediately the familiar shape of a distributor’s rotor. The brass contact tab was broken off. He realized it would require a special order to replace it.

Thank God, he muttered under his breath. Those bastards probably saved someone’s life.

The next two hours were a nightmare for Austin. Henri begged and pleaded for Austin’s car keys. When Henri became belligerent, Austin threatened to call security.

Henri didn’t eat for the next two days. Austin didn’t go to class the following Monday so he could stay with a now-exhausted Henri. Henri’s aunt called, and he ignored her. She told Austin that she was at the hospital and would be over to see Henri as soon as she could. Henri’s father arrived from Paris that evening, and she would bring him with her.

Henri’s female admirers were waiting downstairs. Most were grieving to one degree or another. This didn’t help the resentful attitudes of Henri’s male peers. Even with Henri’s tragedy, compassion in the dorm was almost nonexistent. For the few that expressed some sympathy toward Austin, the majority ignored them.

Later that day, Austin went to the campus spa to pick up lunch in the hope that Henri would eat. When he returned twenty minutes later, Henri was gone. So were the keys to his car that he had hidden in a shoe. That was the last time Austin saw him.

As they reached the end of the pier, Karl leaned against the rail with his back to the light breeze and motioned toward the bench in front of him. You’ve been quiet since we left the restaurant. Why don’t you sit down Aus while I tell you the rest of the story.

I don’t know if I want to hear it—if I need to be sitting down, mused Austin, sitting on the cool metal bench and facing Karl.

Did you ever wonder why the FBI searched your room at school?

You mean after Henri left? asked Austin, continuing without waiting for an explanation. Not really. I thought they were involved because Henri was a foreign national.

Did you ever wonder why the local police didn’t question you or search the room?

I was a little curious, but I figured it was out of their jurisdiction. I thought the locals were told to butt out by the feds. As far as searching our room, they never found anything I didn’t know about except a couple of condoms Henri had hidden in an empty tobacco can. As far as what was legal, I was told the search was standard operating procedure for all foreign nationals. Do you know something I don’t? demanded Austin.

Without answering his question, Karl continued, Do you remember my bed and that poster of John Wayne that was hanging over it? The one you wouldn’t let me take down?

Sure. It was the only thing left in the room that belonged to Henri. I told you how much Henri liked…

Austin stopped and looked hard at Karl, who now had his eyebrows arched, waiting for Austin to unravel the mystery.

You’re not suggesting—forget it, Karl. You’re way off base. There’s no way possible! he said as he rose from the bench. Jabbing his hands in his pockets, he paced over to the rail of the pier and back. No, Karl, it would be impossible. My god, Vietnam is on the other side of the world! I can’t believe the CIA would suspect Henri—unless you convinced them! Austin started to chuckle and then laugh. Then he suddenly stopped and frowned at Karl. Why, you son of a bitch, that’s the reason you tracked me down.

Aus, listen to me. I know it sounds bizarre, but think about it! Six foot Caucasian, two six guns, cowboy hat, speaks French—too many similarities.

Karl, I don’t believe you. I would hate to think our government would waste money on a wild goose chase like this. Besides, he didn’t wear a cowboy hat but a Panamanian and is six foot three! Offered Austin, vainly seeking a misidentification.

I wish I were kidding. Your old roommate’s physical and emotional character fits this guy’s MO like a glove.

"I don’t get it. How can you go on with just a few coincidental facts? There must be dozens of suspects who fit your cowboy’s description. Anybody can buy two six guns. Who was that World War II general that had pearl handles on his guns? General Patton?

Ivory grips, corrected Karl.

What do you have against Henri? asked Austin with a frown. You didn’t even know him! Your people are barking up the wrong tree!

I’m afraid not, Aus. They know Marquet’s our man, and they have proof. That’s the reason I’m out here in the middle of nowhere talking to you. Your friend is the prime suspect to being the Saigon Cowboy, as they’re calling him. Now if you’ll sit down and listen, I’ll tell you what I know.

Proof? I need proof! demanded Austin as he walked over to the rail, shaking his head and staring down between the pier’s planks at the swells rolling in. White barnacles on the pilings gleamed with each passing wave, like the mouth of a giant creature, as the lamplight from above flickered through the piers deck.

Austin turned and looked at Karl. How could you even think it might be Henri? The only thing you knew about him was what I told you and a few newspaper articles you read that I had saved in our room. Frankly, it pisses me off that you have convinced these jerks you work for to spend our country’s money and my time chasing poor Henri. What the hell would you have done if you were in France and some son of a bitch raped your sisters, killed one, and caused your father to have a heart attack? Austin could see that Karl was starting to pale from anger.

Hold it, Aus! demanded Karl, holding up two hands. You’ve got it all wrong. I had nothing to do with fingering your buddy Henri. The information that surfaced in Vietnam leaves little doubt that Marquet is our man.

After a pensive pause, Karl continued, Austin, I really wish we could prove differently, but everything points to him. You said you were with him when he bought those guns, the forty-five-caliber revolvers. It’s in the FBI report. Think about it!

What does that prove? argued Austin as he sat down on the bench and shivered, not sure if it was the cool breeze or his subconscious telling him something. After taking a deep breath, he looked up at Karl. I know you take your job seriously, and I’m sorry if I blew up at you, but I just can’t believe it. His mind raced back ten years and tried to overcome his resistance to put together facts that could tie Henri to all this.

Austin remembered the day he spent with Henri in Syracuse looking for a cowboy hat. They went to every downtown clothing store that looked like it might have what Henri wanted. He wouldn’t settle for anything but authentic Western clothing. Austin had never seen anyone so obsessed with the American West and cowboys.

It was almost four o’clock before they found the hat he was looking for in a pawnshop off South Salina Street. The shop owner said some dude had stopped in after the state fair and pawned his rodeo gear. It seems he lost all his money gambling and needed money to return home. He never came back to pay off the loan and pick up his gear. Henri was ecstatic and bought it all, including a pair of mildewed leather chaps. The hat turned out to be too small and the shop owner said he would throw in a Panama hat that fit just right. Henri was so excited he would have bought the saddle if it hadn’t already been sold.

The shop owner said he had a pair of six guns that went with the outfit but couldn’t sell them. It was against the law without a permit. After a little pleading, the owner brought one of the guns out for Henri to look at. It was a single-action Colt revolver with ironwood grips.

Austin recalled the light in Henri’s eyes when he examined the gun. He wanted those guns, and Austin knew he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He always said that everything had a price, and he had the money. Not wanting to become a part of anything illegal, Austin returned to the car. Ten minutes later, Henri emerged, smiled, and winked at him. Two days later, Henri had the guns, along with the holsters and belt with slots for twenty-four bullets. Austin refused to let Henri keep the guns in the room, and they ended up locked in the trunk of Henri’s car. He only saw them once when the two of them went to an abandoned stone quarry east of the city and shot two boxes of ammo.

Austin took a deep breath and looked up at Karl. I’m sorry you think I’m so defensive about Henri. You said you didn’t tell your people about him. I don’t understand the connection. If you didn’t tell them, how did they connect him to this so-called Saigon Cowboy?

The connection was through the two six guns.

I don’t want to sound naïve, but just because he bought a pair of six guns and speaks French doesn’t mean he’s your cowboy, does it?

Karl’s pause made Austin’s umbrage rise again. What the hell did you do, tell your CIA buddies you had a prime suspect because of that? Not to mention finding a way to get to Vietnam. Austin could see that he had hit a nerve again.

Look, Aus. I don’t need to take this crap. You’ll understand where I’m coming from when you hear all the facts. Now calm down. I know he was your best friend, and I can understand your feelings, but I also know what he did to that judge in Syracuse—and you, of all people, know he’s quite capable of killing. Have you forgotten the ambush in the courthouse parking lot in Syracuse?

Karl was right, thought Austin. Henri did kill that judge. Shot him four times with one of the guns he bought. It had been almost a week after Henri left the school when campus security and two detectives came to his room. The detectives said they were following up on Austin’s car registration. They told him it was identified by witnesses at a shooting that afternoon near the county courthouse.

At first Austin was stunned when he thought it was Henri who might have been shot. He explained what had happened the week before and had not seen his car since. He told them he hadn’t reported it missing because Henri was a good friend and he still had his car here. At first they were going to take him downtown to the police station, but Austin pleaded with them to let him stay. They asked for a picture of Henri, and he gave them the only one he had—the two of them sitting in Henri’s Porsche that his sister Nicole had taken. One of the detectives went downstairs to call the station while the other detective inundated him with questions. The only helpful information he could give them was Henri’s aunt’s name and address in Poughkeepsie.

The other detective returned and told him he was off the hook for now. He still might have to report to the police station later that day. He was not to leave the campus without reporting to them first. It wasn’t until the evening’s news that he heard the whole story. The media reported the incident had happened after the assailant’s father had died from a heart attack, apparently resulting from an argument in the courthouse. The man who had the heart attack was Charles Marquet, Henri’s father.

The two detectives returned the next day and asked more questions, including girls Henri had dated. They said they had a very dangerous fugitive on the loose and to report any telephone calls or other messages from Marquet. Austin had agreed to be fully cooperative. Henri’s car was towed away that afternoon and impounded.

Several days later, Austin walked into his dorm room to find one of the detectives he had met earlier and another man going through all of Henri’s and his belongings. The detectives then identified themselves as FBI agents. No amount of protesting would stop them until they had searched everything. They wouldn’t say what they were looking for and insisted Austin come with them for questioning downtown.

The questioning lasted several hours and involved looking at a number of pictures of men that Austin had never seen before. Several weeks later, Austin was visited by one of the agents who said that Henri had been spotted in Quebec, Canada, with several suspects thought to be associated with the French Separatist Movement. He wanted to know if Henri ever talked about a relative or friend that lived there. Austin told him no. That was the last he heard of Henri or the FBI. Austin’s car was never recovered. Henri’s aunt eventually recovered Henri’s car from police impoundment along with his personal belongings.

Karl cupped his hands to light a cigarette in the light wind. He studied Austin, who was obviously troubled and confused by having old wounds opened. He remembered how depressed he would become while they were in school when anyone brought up the story of what had happened to Henri, but especially his sister, Marie.

Karl had always suspected that Austin felt he had an obligation to protect her. A picture of her that had belonged to Henri remained in Austin’s dresser. He told Karl that he had tried repeatedly to talk to her on the telephone but never succeeded. He had asked her aunt if he could visit and was always told, In due time.

Before Karl moved in with Austin that fall semester, Marie had disappeared from the face of the earth. Her aunt couldn’t explain her disappearance but seemed strangely unemotional about it. When he called again, two weeks later, she too had left Poughkeepsie without a forwarding address.

Aus, will you give me a chance to explain how all this came to a head without interrupting me? It’s rather detailed but essential to understand in order to believe all this.

Austin leaned back on the bench and sighed. Okay. You’ve got the floor.

Thank you. Remember me telling you about the two agents that were shot near Saigon? he asked, waiting for a nod from Austin to ensure his attention. "When they removed the bullets from them, they identified them as three forty-five-caliber slugs and five nine millimeters. The nine millimeters were from our friend’s helpers, and naturally the forty-fives must have been from Marquet, alias the Cowboy.

Now, continued Karl, remember me telling you that the driver heard French spoken by the Cowboy? Well, Interpol was alerted to provide our Saigon office with a list of Frenchmen that were known to have worked for or had been sympathetic toward the Hanoi government. They already had a small list from the South Vietnamese and were shocked when they saw what Interpol provided. They gave them names of every Frenchman who had even been slightly suspected of abetting communists in Vietnam, all the way back to World War II.

Wait a minute, Karl, interrupted Austin. Aren’t you confused? The way I understand, it was the French who fought the Vietnamese communists and lost at Dien Bien Bleu… whatever.

Dien Bien Phu, corrected Karl. "It was the French military that locked horns with the Vietnamese uprising. The majority of the Vietnamese who fought had no interest in communism, only a means of getting away from French colonial rule that had been around for almost a hundred years. And many second-generation French were sympathetic toward their cause. The Vietnamese were like the early Americans who wanted independence from England, and a lot of French helped us then. At any rate, when our people reviewed this mostly antiquated file from Interpol, no particular name popped up that looked interesting to them or to the Saigon police,