Code Name: C.I.N.D.E.R.: Counter-Intelligence Narcotics Detection Enforcement and Regulation

By Jack Edward Barrett

Jonathan St. Honore is a federal narcotics agent living a nightmare within the dark walls of a Saigon prison. He has been convicted of murdering a crewman after he intercepted a fishing boat he suspected was smuggling opium into the country that instead turned out to be pure gold.

Even as he is ruthlessly tortured, Jonathan refuses to reveal where he has hidden what everyone believes to be narcotics worth millions of dollars. As a result, he is left behind to rot in prison at wars end. As time passes, the CIA and an influential senator on track to become the next president of the United States finally step in to help. As a spectacular rescue mission unfolds that leaves five grisly murders in its wake and instigates an attack that threatens to ignite World War III, now only time will tell if both Jonathan and the vast fortune will finally be liberated or if he will die in prison.

Code Name: C.I.N.D.E.R. shares a thrilling tale of the intrigue, murder, and greed that unfolds after an American holding an enormous secret is left in Vietnam at the close of the war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532042492

Jack Edward Barrett

Jack Edward Barrett was born in Los Angeles and hails from a long line of police officers. He is a veteran of the Korean War and served in Vietnam with the US State Department. Barrett has written for television and magazines and published his first book in 2015 following his retirement after thirty-five years as a private investigator. He currently lives in Morro Bay, California.

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PROLOGUE

Doc Tho Prison, Saigon

Wednesday, August 15, 1973

1015 Hrs.

The air was close and putrid in the windowless interrogation cell that had iron rings embedded in the thick stone walls and a heavy metal door on oiled hinges that rendered the room virtually soundproof. The only furniture in the room was a straight-back chair in one corner and a coiled garden hose in another. An unshaded bulb suspended from the ceiling provided the only light. One could almost hear the tortured screams that must have accompanied the rancid stench of urine and vomit and stale sweat that permeated the room.

The routine was always the same, only the time of day varied. Every three days for more than a month, barely time for his wounds to scab over, the same two guards came to escort him to the interrogation cell where the commandant would be waiting for him. One was a very large, powerfully built man who wore a perpetual scowl and never spoke. The other guard, whose duty it was to wield the bamboo cane, was no more than a boy. The guards flanked him as they made their way along the dank corridor lined with dungeon-like cells with the forlorn faces peering at them through rusty bars as they made their way toward the far end of the cell block.

The distance from his cell to the end of the corridor was no more than a hundred feet. But in the few minutes it took them to cover it, time seemed to stand still for Jonathan St. Honore as the details came flooding back over him; the sampan they had commandeered that night, his total shock when he discovered the cargo was not narcotics as he expected to find and dump overboard, but so valuable that he had hidden it in the abandoned church on the wharf until he could figure out what to do with it. His arrest and conviction on a trumped-up murder charge had shocked him again. But the final blow had been dealt when the unthinkable happened and he had been left behind when the Americans pulled out.

Moments later he was stripped naked and was panting with anticipation and fear. He was shackled to the concrete floor that contained a grated drain at its sloping center. The muscles in his neck and back cramped as the split-bamboo truncheon slammed down with a loud crack, making tiny cuts in his already scarred flesh. Jonathan silently counted the blows. He always counted. It helped to distract him from the pain and to calculate when it would end.

The questions were always the same: Where have you hidden the boxes? How many boxes were there? Why don’t you save yourself and confess? When he denied any knowledge of the boxes, the colonel would nod to the youngest guard with the cane, light a cigarette, and watch as the beating began in earnest. He was always struck between ten and fifteen times with the stiff bamboo cane. He had learned to avoid certain words and actions that tended to raise the number of blows he received. Throwing up on either of the guards or the colonel was one of these. And the sure-to-provoke curse of insulting one’s mother was generally good for a solid kick to the rib cage.

Jonathan judged that they were about halfway through this session, unless he said or did something that prolonged it. The bamboo came down with a sharp crack against his back and he involuntarily wrenched against the ropes that bound his wrists to the iron rings imbedded in the floor. He could feel the blood oozing down his back and clenched his jaw against the pain to keep from crying out. Ironically, that seemed to be one of the things they liked the most; for him to physically show pain. And when he did, they punished him for it even more.

His sandy-colored hair was streaked with dark bands of stale sweat, infested with lice and caked blood. It was long and matted from his months of solitary confinement. There was no water in his cell for bathing, the only furnishings an open bucket that served as a toilet and the straw mat on the floor. Jonathan tried to focus on the guards in the room, but his eyes had already begun to glaze and they were no more than halfway through the session. They would systematically work their way down his sweat-drenched body from his shoulders to the bottoms of his feet, which caused the most severe pain, then it would be over.

Until the next time.

Today, however, when he had been hustled into the cell, the colonel had been there as usual, but seemed more impatient than usual as he barked orders at the two guards. Jonathan could see him in the corner of the room where he sat by the door, and caught the scowl on his round, ruddy face. Then he was suddenly seized by the back of his head and wrenched backward by the larger of the two guards as Col. Dho came to stand over him. He was holding a hard-rubber cudgel in one gloved hand and striking the opposite end of it into the palm of the other.

I am growing impatient with you, Mr. CIA man. Are you ready to tell me what you have done with the shipment of opium you took from the boat? The Vietnamese officer stared down into his face, taking his measure of defiance.

I’ve already told you, colonel, over and over. I don’t know what you’re talking about. There were no boxes, no drugs, just a few medical supplies; aspirin and bandages, antibiotics, I think. Stuff like that. That’s all I—

The truncheon the colonel was holding suddenly came crashing down hard against the left side of Jonathan’s face. He heard, more than felt, the bone in his cheek give way.

Liar! the officer bellowed at him. I am tired of your stupid lies! I demand to know what you’ve done with those boxes.

Stunned and nearly paralyzed, Jonathan could only stare back at him in silent disbelief. He had never been stuck this hard before, or in the face.

Momentarily enraged, Col. Dho brought the club down even harder a second time, and watched the American’s eyes flicker close to unconsciousness as the deep indentation the heavy baton had left on the side of his face turned a sickening scarlet color, spouting blood everywhere, and then slowly turned a dark purple as the ruptured blood vessels and capillaries in his face clogged, then collapsed.

The searing pain that exploded behind his eyes momentarily blinded him. He tried to cry out, to scream at the horror of the pain, but the blow had knocked all the air out of him, making it impossible to breathe. They had never struck him in the face before or with anything except the bamboo cane that made a sound that was more frightening than painful. But the thought that he no longer knew what to expect caused a shockwave of panic to flash through him. He heard the sickening crack when the bone in his face shattered from the impact. Through the swirl of blinding pain and the coppery taste of blood that was trickling down his throat, something from his survival training came flooding over him as he fought against the darkness that was beginning to close in around him:

The enemy expects you to endure the pain.

If you do not…you will die.

In spite of the blanket of shock that now covered him like a death shroud, he had somehow endured. But they had never hurt him this badly, never like this. Jonathan’s mind was clouded with a mixture of fear and pain, but he was still borderline conscious, his brain muddled yet functioning. The entire left side of his face had gone numb, his head was throbbing badly, and he sensed more than felt the swelling. But he could still think and he was terrified at the thought of not knowing what to expect. They had broken their routine. But why? What had happened? Had they found the boxes? Most of all, why were they trying to kill him?

All of these questions and a thousand more were spinning around in Jonathan’s tortured mind. To keep from strangling on his own blood and saliva, he spit out a thick clot from his swollen mouth into the floor drain and stared up at the barrel-chested officer. Col. Dho glared down at him, assessing the damage he had just done to the prisoner’s once handsome face, which was now bloated and changing to a sickening, purplish color as he measured his resistance with a critical eye. The colonel nodded, pleased with both.

On the colonel’s left, stood the younger of the two Vietnamese policemen who had curiously developed a connection with Jonathan without so much as a word ever being spoken. Jonathan knew from the furtive glances that passed between them that the young man took no pleasure in his task.

I am sure you think you are being very brave, Mr. St. Honore. Although, at the moment, you are no doubt having a little trouble thinking at all, the senior Vietnamese officer said in mannered English. But you have no idea of what I have planned for you if you do not tell me what you have done with those cases. Under other circumstances I would be curious to know more about your training. I have had these little talks with others in the past but never someone from your Counter Intelligence Agency. But I will find out what I wish to know in the end. There is a flaw in your story somewhere. There always is. However, I must confess in your case I am not quite sure what it is as yet, but I will find out. Please believe me, I always do.

Jonathan glared at the stout man whose breath smelled of stale garlic. The swelling had spread to the entire left side of his face and had closed his eye, turning it into a puffy slit; the throbbing in his head working its way beyond the deadened nerve endings, pounding in his chest like a trip-hammer to the rhythm of his beating heart.

Col. Dho leaned in closer and said, I am sure you are wondering why the intensity of our little talks has increased. Actually, it is quite simple. The war will end any day now, and then it will be too late, all of this unpleasantness will have gone for nothing. And be totally unnecessary if you would just tell me where the boxes are.

I—I’ve told you, over and over. I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jonathan croaked. God, look what you’ve done to me. Don’t you think I would tell you I did? There—were—no—boxes. Just medical supplies." He painfully shook his head. His bloated tongue and swollen lips slurring his speech, his one-eyed vision making him dizzy.

Why do you still persist? This is a grave mistake on your part, the colonel said, no longer able to contain his frustration. I am afraid you do not understand how important it is for you to tell us want we want to know. I can guarantee that I will eventually find out. You will tell me. If not today, then when I come back tomorrow or the next day. But I promise, you will tell me. Do you understand what I am saying?

I—I, yes, I understand, Jonathan nodded, the left side of his head completely numb, the other half on fire. His entire body was withering in pain, the concrete floor around him covered with his blood.

Col. Dho Tran Phan frowned at the weak acknowledgement, removed a package of Marlboros from his shirt pocket and shook one out. The heavyset policeman behind him quickly produced a light and the colonel blew out a long, gray cloud of smoke, his eyes never leaving Jonathan’s swollen face. Unhappily, I am not sure you do at all, my American friend. But how could you? As I said, I am afraid we are running out of time. And I now intend to make this very clear to you.

Why not just take my word for a change? Jonathan managed through clenched teeth. Then, deciding that the best defense was a good offense he said, I’m in prison, for God’s sake. I’m not exactly going anywhere. You’ve just beat the living shit out of me, and I’ve told you everything I told them at the trial. There was nothing onboard except the medical supplies.

Medical supplies, you say? His voice on the verge of shouting. Hardly, my friend. They did not believe you in court and I do not believe you now. I am in possession of certain information that tells quite a different story. The colonel saw the flicker of doubt and frustration in the prisoner’s swollen face. Oh, yes, we have many friends, even among the VC. And why not? The country will soon be united again. I have been assured that there were over one hundred cases of Asian Gold on the sampan you scuttled; cases of pure, uncut opium. After throwing the crew overboard, you somehow managed to off-load that cargo before sinking the boat in the harbor. Unfortunately for you, one of them drowned in their panic to reach shore.

In case you don’t remember, colonel, there’s a war on and that was my job, Jonathan managed to grunt and made a gurgling sound in his throat as he tried not to choke on the mixture of blood and saliva he was forced to swallow. And how was I supposed to know they couldn’t swim. He coughed and tried to take a deeper breath. His head felt as big as an inflated weather balloon. If you think there was narcotics onboard, why didn’t you have your people dive on the wreck and check it out?

Col. Dho, who was in charge of the military prison, chuckled at the irony and puffed on his cigarette. Do not take me for a fool, Mr. CIA man? Of course we dove on the wreck and found the medical supplies. We also found that a large part of the hold was completely empty. Large enough, shall we say, to accommodate the missing cases you deny were onboard. The VC would never risk such a dangerous voyage through enemy territory for a few boxes of bandages and iodine.

Did it…ever occur to you, Jonathan croaked, faltering with the pain before going on, if the missing cases were aboard, that they may have been off-loaded somewhere else before the boat started up river? Jonathan said, his swollen tongue slurring his speech badly.

Well, my friend, it appears that we are wasting time. So, we agree to disagree. However, it was something he had not considered before and cursed his own negligence under his breath. We know that it was your partner who scuttled the sampan after you disposed of the cargo, of course. And the crewman was killed. Being set to prison, you must feel quite betrayed by your own people. The colonel crushed out the cigarette butt under his polished boot as he stood up.

The murder charge was phony, and you know it as well as I do. We’re at war, for chrissake. His voice sounded like his mouth was full of cotton. I was doing my job. I demand to see the U.S. Ambassador.

Col. Dho laughed tiredly, almost to himself. I doubt he is still here. You Americans have been fleeing the city like rats from a sinking ship for days. And if he is? Well, he would not even come to your trial. I doubt that he would find the time to visit you in prison. The colonel sighed. Why don’t you just tell us what you have done with our property and all this unpleasantness will be over with. Once we recover the cases, I will drive you to the embassy myself?

Jonathan swallowed to clear his throat from the goo that was filling his mouth from his broken face. I’ve already told you, colonel, he managed to mumble almost unintelligibly through the pain. There were no cases when I boarded that boat. If there were, they were taken off before it ever got here.

I think it is quite safe to assume that you know there were more than a hundred cases of narcotics on board, my friend, worth a king’s ransom on the open market. Which is exactly why they are missing, is it not? The reason you disposed of them? But they can do you no possible good. Tell me what you did with them and let’s put an end to all of this.

Jonathan’s head was swimming, his breathing turned shallow, and he was afraid of chocking to death on his own vomit if he passed out. Talk to Spinher, to Lt. Jones. He knew he was groaning, not wanting to show his pain, but unable to hide it. He will tell you the same thing.

Oh, the cases were on board, Mr. St. Honore, and you took them. Somehow, I doubt that even your comrade from naval intelligence knows what you have done with them. For your information, since you have been in prison, he has been court-martialed by your military. And, I am informed, dishonorably discharged at the same time your government turned you over to our civilian courts. He was somewhat luckier than you and recently deported. So you see, you are my only link now. The sooner you realize this, the sooner your pain will end. I will find out, Mr. St. Honore, even if it means your life, believe me, the colonel said with a cool but determined anger in his voice.

Then where would you be? He gargled on a mixture of blood and saliva and tried to laugh, but the broken bones in his face cut deeper into the soft, lacerated tissue in his mouth and his words came out little more than a groan.

The colonel’s features hardened into a death mask as he nodded to the young policeman nearest him. The man handed over the bamboo truncheon, and with a sweeping kick of his foot, sent Jonathan sprawling on his back.

His bound hands were roughly yanked over his head and quickly secured to an iron ring in the floor behind him. When this was done, the two policemen securely tied ropes around his legs just below the knee and threaded the loose ends through other rings in the walls on either side of him and pulled them tight. He was now spread-eagled, the colonel towering over him, the bamboo cane held in both hands across his thighs. I want you to understand something, Mr. St. Honore, he began slowly, glaring down at him. I must find that shipment at all cost. Millions are at stake, and it is out of my hands now. It goes far above any personal avarice, even beyond your life. So tell me, for the last time, what have you done with the cases?

Jonathan silently glared up at him, confused, sure that he was about to die, or wish that he had.

After a long moment Col. Dho said, Very well then, you are forcing me to do something I had hoped we might avoid.

The colonel squatted down beside Jonathan now, his arms resting on the knees of his smartly pressed uniform trousers, and he held the bamboo truncheon so that the American could see it clearly. His dark eyes were as cold as two chestnut-colored stones at the bottom of a glacier spring.

The war is over, the Vietnamese began slowly. It is also plain to see that for some reason you fail to understand exactly just how badly I must have the missing cases. His voice went even lower, almost a whisper now, meant only for Jonathan’s ears. We are all struggling to come out of these bad times as best we can.

"You mean with the most you can," Jonathan spat, his words gargling meaninglessly in his own blood.

Unfortunately, either by accident, or a sense of duty, or by your own stupidity, you have become involved with forces much greater than you realize, even with all of your resources.

Jonathan was more alarmed now than he had ever been during any of the other interrogation sessions, and the dank stench of his own sweat-soaked body caught in his flared nostrils like the scent of dead meat. The heat in the small cell was oppressive and it closed in around him, mixing with his fear, threatening to suffocate him.

The colonel’s face softened slightly, his voice almost avuncular, as he bent closer. "You do know, prisoner. Furthermore, because I know you do, I want you listen to me very carefully. I want you to understand exactly what is going to happen to you that will make you remember what you have done with the property I seek."

There was neither pleasure nor disdain in his face as he continued. "In a moment, I will strike you with all my power in your genitals with this stick. If not immediately, in a very short while, you will find it to be very persuasive, even for a man of your stature and obvious training. However, if your karma is good, your testicles will not burst. I have seen the bloated sacks of others filled with puss and maggots, split open like a rotten melon after several days of pure agony. But either way, I assure you, in a day or two merely the thought of wearing clothing below the waist will send a spasm of anguish through you such as you never before experienced. That is precisely what I want you to think about when you regain consciousness, if you have not already strangled on your own vomit. In which case, it will no longer matter to either of us. You will be dead, and I will have lost my artistic touch, as they say. But I promise you one thing, if you survive, you will live in total fear of the day when I will come for you again. When that time finally arrives, prisoner, when I finally do, that is when you will willingly tell me everything I wish to know."

Jonathan glared at him, paralyzed with fear as he frantically worked his mouth to form the words that would set him free of this hideous nightmare. But nothing came out. He was silently shouting the answers his tormentor wanted to hear. The Priest! he screamed. The old church on the wharf! he shouted. But only a frightened garble of gibberish came out of his distorted mouth.

The colonel misread his contorted face and the choking sounds as a growl of defiance, instead of the death rattle it actually was. "Parlez-vous Francais, Monsieur Sainte Honore?" Col. Dho asked pleasantly, his French perfect.

Jonathan could only shake his head.

"C’est dommage, monsieur," the colonel smiled. A pity. Sometimes I think the only decent legacy the French left us was their lovely language. I actually prefer it to my own.

A cold sweat streaked down Jonathan’s naked body, glistening in the close, heavy atmosphere of the interrogation room. His breath had become the quick shallow panting of a cornered animal fighting for its life, and his eyes widened with panic as the colonel raised the stick over his head.

"Un…" Counting in French, the colonel brought the stick down solidly between Jonathan’s spread legs with all his might.

Aahhh! Jonathan screamed in agony, gagging on blood and partially digested rice gruel he’d had for breakfast as the first blow struck with lightening shock. The white-hot pain was unbelievable, his mind rejecting what his tortured body knew was true and could not deny. He saw the madman was raising the stick again and fought desperately to regain his voice to scream that he would tell him. Only stop! Please! In the name of—"

Duex…!

As the second blow found its mark, his contorted body bolted against the ropes. Screaming that he would tell him everything as his lungs filled with blood, Jonathan coughed up a bright, frothy mixture that made intelligible words impossible. When he was able to catch his breath, he screamed again for him to stop, but his unintelligible shrieking was more like the faded roar of a dying animal.

"Trios…!" The stick fell, harder than before. Blood gushed from his crotch, drenching the floor beneath him. Jonathan’s entire body went rigid, uncontrollably arching with spasms of excruciating pain. The colonel raised the truncheon high above his head and brought it down again with full force.

"Quate…!" The sturdy bamboo cane fell heavily, crushing his penis and left testicle at the same time he voided his bladder. Again the bamboo was raised on high. Jonathan’s one good eye flared, his head flung from side-to-side, his body struggling against the ropes that held him fast, silently screaming in rage and agony.

"Cinq…!" The heavy bamboo slammed down into his crotch for the final time. One raw and bleeding testicle gaped at the tear in his scrotum, the other already the size of a Gipsy’s crystal ball.

His core had erupted into searing flames as the volcano of horrifying pain exploded in his groin and gushed throughout every fiber in his body like a river of molten lava. A blissful veil of darkness began to creep over him, dulling the agony that was flooding through every fiber of his body. He let go of all conscious thought, gasped for air through the mixture of blood and foul vomit that was suffocating him, turning his naked body a cadaverous shade of gray as one of the guards turned the garden hose on him, washing his corrupted body fluids down the drain. With a final spasm, he twitched pathetically against his bonds, the acrid odor of urine joined by that of rancid feces choked the stifling air of the small cell.

For the first time since his arrival at Doc Tho prison, Jonathan St. Honore realized that it was here that he would die.

And he did not care.

PART ONE

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Vietnam

The Philippines

CHAPTER ONE

Doc Tho Prison, Saigon

Tuesday, April 15, 1975

0815 Hrs.

C ol. Tran Phan Dho searched through the large brass ring of keys until he located the one with tangs the size of an eagle’s talons that fit the ancient upright floor safe. It had stood in the corner of his office for over a hundred year, since the early days of French colonialism when what was now Doc Tho prison had been part of a large tobacco plantation. Hurriedly, he inserted the oddly shaped key into the lock in the middle of the tarnished, four-spoke, brass wheel in the center of the heavy door, turned it until he heard the worn tumblers fall into place with a dull clunk as they lined up. He noticed his hand was trembling as he turned the wheel to retract the eight well-oiled locking bolts and slowly pulled open the heavy door on its greased hinges.

The sounds of war had grown curiously silent over the past twenty-four hours. The shelling had been advancing steadily for three solid days, until it had suddenly stopped altogether during the night. A curse on all fornicating Americans, he thought bitterly, who had been fleeing the city by the thousands in boats and by helicopter from the roof of their embassy for days now. If his latest information was correct, which had arrived only minutes before by telephone, regular-army soldiers of the communist-controlled government in the north with the help of traitorous local Viet Cong guerrilla units, were already flowing into the outskirts of the city at this very minute; the South Vietnam ARVN soldiers running before them like frightened dogs with nowhere to go.

Cowards! he cursed through clenched teeth, and hurriedly picked up one of the small, solid-gold bars to read again the embossed inscription forged into each of them as if to reassure him of their authenticity: CREDIT SUISSE, 10g., FINE GOLD, 999.9. Across the bottom the stamped serial number read: 623016.

Pushing aside the mounds of neatly stacked, and now nearly worthless, ten-thousand piastre notes, he felt some strange satisfaction that seemed to emanate from the tiny gold bars and began to load the several hundred or so of them into the sturdy attaché case that he had acquired for this very purpose. On the one hand, he took pride in his professionalism that had caused him to secretly turn a good portion of the prison’s paper money into Swiss gold. On the other, however, he berated himself for not having started sooner than he had. The piastre was already of little value. Not more than a week ago, the exchange rate had skyrocketed from its normal ten thousand to one American dollar to a deflated one-hundred thousand to one, if you could get even that. Today, who could tell? You would probably need a wheelbarrow to carry enough paper money to buy a cabbage.

And all because of the cowardly, dung-eating Americans had deserted them! He was ruined! What in the name of all fornicating gods did they expect him to do? Sit here and continue to run this miserable prison until those revolutionary fanatics from Hanoi marched in? The thought was so absurd, he laughed mirthlessly to himself. But it was the guttural, bitter laugh of a dying man. They would probably shoot him with his own gun.

Before sweeping the last of the small gold bars—worth millions on today’s market—into the stout leather case, he put half a dozen of them into the pocket of his pressed uniform shirt where they weighed heavily, and then closed and locked the case, straining to place it under his desk where it was close at hand but out of sight. He unholstered the 9mm Beretta semi-automatic he had acquired from the American armory at MACV headquarters and partially slid the receiver back, making sure there was a live round in the chamber before resetting the safety and returning the pistol to its holster.

When he was finished, Col. Dho sat down heavily in his chair and tried to clear his mind of the chaos that had been going on all around him since before dawn. The early morning session with the American had started an unfortunate series of events that were to prove disastrous as the day wore on. There had been a small chance the prisoner would tell him what he wanted to know when he applied the brutal interrogation techniques that morning. Although, unless he could come up with a reasonable plan for getting the shipment of narcotics that was worth more than a king’s ransom out of the country, the information would do him little good now. Still, all had not been lost. As soon as the news spread that the war would soon be over, his own people here at the prison would flee their posts like rats from a sinking ship, leaving no one to guard the prisoners who would then also be free to leave. But the American would not be among them. Even if he survived his injuries, by the time he was well enough to travel, it would be too late. Not only was he in a foreign country with nowhere to go, but by that time the prison would be overrun. When they discovered who he was, they would keep him secluded right where he was until they could figure out what to do with him. That part of the plan he had not yet worked out. First, he had to find a way to keep him alive, and he cursed his own stupidity for thinking he still had several days before the end of open hostilities, and for unleashing on the American prisoner the mountain of frustration that had been building in him for weeks.

At the moment, however, he had more pressing problems at hand. Some of his people had already deserted their posts, tearing off their uniforms once they were outside the walls as they ran for the cover of the jungle, heading for the homes and families they could only hope were still there. The rest would surely be gone by nightfall, as he would be. Except for Ahn, his orderly and personal assistant; someone he liked personally and trusted. Everyone knew that the captain was loyal to a fault and would never disobey a direct order, even at the cost of his own life. When he had issued his shoot to kill order a few days before, it had put an immediate stop to any further blatantly treasonous desertions, knowing that Ahn would see to it that his orders were carried out to the letter. Thus, he had been able to maintain an uneasy discipline. But for how long? Not even he knew the answer. Hopefully, however, long enough for him to avoid capture by the north. When he left for the city today to attend the meeting at headquarters, he had no intention of returning. Once in the city, it would be a simple matter of buying his way into the American Embassy where the helicopters had for days been ferrying all Americans and other high-ranking Vietnamese officials offshore to waiting warships; or perhaps even through the security gates at Tan Son Nhut airport, where he could bribe his way aboard one of the departing military or civilian aircraft.

Once again, he prided himself on having the wisdom to convert most the prison’s assets. Even at fifty-cents-on-the-dollar that he had been forced to accept on the black market to protect his anonymity, he still had a fortune under his desk. All he had to do now was to get it and himself out of the country without being arrested and summarily shot for treason. There were still one or two loose ends that needed his attention, but he would finally be free to go anywhere in the world he chose, even to make plans for his eventual return to recover the king’s ransom the American had so cleverly hidden away. With that much money at stake, he knew that almost anything was possible.

There was a soft rapping at the door before it clicked open without awaiting permission. His young aide stood in the opening. Excuse me, colonel—

Dho’s mind snapped back to the present and he looked up to see Capt. Ahn staring at him. Cautiously, he used his toe to slide the heavy satchel farther back under the desk. What is it, Ahn?

The door swung wider. I just heard from headquarters in Saigon regarding the American. They said we will have to deal with his medical problems as best we can. There are no doctors available to send out. They didn’t say so, but apparently the city’s under evacuation, the young officer said, worry clouding his face.

More rumors, Ahn? the colonel chided his subordinate. He knew it was out of fear and outright panic that the headquarters staff had not announced the fact that they would be able to hold out for only a few more days at best until total defeat in the form of unconditional surrender came crashing down on them. They were already evacuating as many high-ranking government and military officials as possible, leaving the lower ranks and the less influential to fend for themselves as best they could. He also knew that many of those who did not get out in the next few days would be slaughtered like animals until the North had time to declare a general amnesty and put an end to the carnage.

I could possibly find someone at the Catholic hospital, Ahn offered. But the way things are in the city, it’s doubtful anyone would risk leaving the protection of the hospital.

I would rather argue with the devil himself than with one of those nuns, Dho said in frustration. He thought for a moment, recalling the elderly Chinese man the police had arrested recently and placed in his custody. We may already have a doctor right here in Doc Tho. Do you recall the Chinese who was arrested at the airport a few days ago?

Ahn looked surprised. Yes, sir, Dr. Tok, I believe. He just walked into the office a few minutes ago, demanding to see you. I told him you were busy, naturally. Are you still going into the city?

Yes, he said, equally surprised that the man he had just been thinking about had shown up in the office. I will see him, outside though. Not in here. He stood up to follow the young officer into the outer office, caught his roving eye on the partially open door of the safe and the untidy mounds of paper money that filled all of one large shelf. At the same time, he noticed a corner of the heavy satchel under his desk. He could trust no one now, he thought, keeping his wits about him. Not even Ahn. His entire future was in that case. On second thought, perhaps it would be better to show him in, he said, and casually swung the heavy iron door of the safe closed, as if it was in his way, and began shuffling through some papers on his desk, looking for the report on Dr. Tok he remembered seeing a few days ago and had only casually perused.

Ah, colonel?

Col. Dho glanced up, resting his elbow on the holstered automatic pistol on his belt. What is it, Ahn?

Colonel…pardon me, sir, but is it true that the war is lost? That the Americans are pulling out for good? It was obvious that the young officer felt disloyal for even suggesting such a seditious possibility.

No, of course not! That is ridiculous, Ahn. Where did you hear such a rumor?

Sorry, sir. I know it’s just a rumor. Someone at headquarters said it might be true. Some of the staff here at the prison wanted me to ask, he said uneasily.

Col. Dho frowned. You don’t suppose for a moment that our American friends, who have faithfully supported us all these years, would desert us now?

They say the VC are taking no prisoners and will not rest until every ARVN solider is dead in retaliation for the American’s bombing of the Hanoi; that they will fight to the death until every American has been driven out just as the French were.

Do you believe that, Ahn? That such a backward government in the North could defeat the mightiest nation on earth?

For a moment Ahn considered mentioning that the backward government he spoke of also had the full military and economic support of China, another very powerful country, but this was hardly the time. They say the fighting has already reached the outskirts of Saigon.

More propaganda, Ahn, from the naysayers among us. It is no doubt due to the negotiations that have been going on for months now. That is exactly what those traitors want everybody to believe. But it is not true. However, if you are that concerned about some stupid rumor, when I go to headquarters this afternoon I will make certain inquiries if it will make you feel any better.

It’s not me, sir. It’s my family. I am not afraid for myself.

Yes-yes, of course not. A good soldier like you? he assured him, growing impatient with him just the same, but also feeling a pang of guilt at the same time. He knew Ahn had a wife and two small children and an elderly mother-in-law who depended on him, and wondered if he could somehow help the man without compromising his own plans. But what could he do? The weight of the gold bars in his shirt pocket answered his question. So, he would leave the country with a fraction less then he intended, but leaving a powerful friend in place for the time when he returned, providing the man survived. He knew many would not. He also knew that his apparent gesture of gratitude was more self-serving than an act of charity and may well turn out to be a stroke of genius on his part.

Col. Dho cleared his throat and said, See that my jeep is ready when I finish with the doctor. I won’t need a driver for this trip. I will be staying in the city for the night. It is not good to drive after dark. He looked the younger man directly in the eye now; a gesture that was by its very nature an act of dominance. There is one more thing, Ahn…

Yes, colonel? The man visibly winced under his superior’s gaze.

Col. Dho’s fingers fumbled in his shirt pocket for a moment and retrieved two of the small, solid gold ingots that would soon be worth a hundred times more once the war was over, and would all but assure his aide and his family’s survival in the hell and chaos that was about to overtake the entire country. He held them out to the young officer who had served him so well, and would very possibly serve him again in the future, dropping them heavily into his out-stretched palm.

Ahn’s eyes instantly became huge orbs of dismay as he stared at the fortune he held in his trembling hand and tried to breathe, but his lungs refused to obey, his entire body frozen in disbelief. He knew exactly what the small gold bars meant; that he would live, that his family would survive.

I hope to convince this doctor outside to remain here at Doc Tho for a while to care for the American. I want you to look after them both until I either return or send word otherwise. See that they come to no harm.

The young soldier could not speak, only nod his understanding. And now, if you please, my friend, tuck those away before anyone sees them and cuts your throat for them. And send that damn Chinaman in. And not to worry, Ahn. You and your family will be fine. Everything will be fine.

CHAPTER TWO

W hen Dr. Tok Chow-sen entered Col. Dho’s office it was early afternoon of a particularly pleasant spring day. The oppressing heat of summer was not expected for several more weeks and the drenching, tropical rains of the monsoon season had yet to follow, providing its blessed relief.

It was a time of year that Dr. Tok enjoyed most; one of the many pleasures in his long life that he was sure to miss when he finally joined his ancestors. And if it happened to please all gods great and small, he would soon celebrate his first one hundred years on this earth. As his birthday approached, death was something that was increasingly on his mind lately. He was not sure what to attribute his longevity or hardy countenance. Although he had never been particularly religious, the older he became the more he gave thanks to whatever powers who controlled such matters. He was wise enough to know, however, that understanding many of the mysteries of the universe, the anomaly of what held the stars in place, for example, one of his personal favorites, was an impossible task for the likes of the human brain. Now that he was about to celebrate a full century of life, he found it curious how he had become preoccupied with such thoughts.

Dr. Tok, this is a coincidence. I was just going over your file, Col. Dho said in the less officious dialect of the South and glanced at the report again. I must say I had no idea; PhD, M.D., Rhodes Scholar, professor emeritus from Heidelberg and Peking Schools of Surgery and Tropical Diseases. His brow kicked up even further as he read on. Nobel Laureate no less for your research in plastic surgery. He rose from behind his desk and indicated a straight-back chair in front of it. Sit down, please. What is it I can do for you?

Dr. Tok bowed his head in politeness. Good afternoon, colonel. Thank you for seeing me. I trust the beauty of this fine spring day will brighten your own, he said, using the same Southern dialect and taking the offered chair. I am anxious to continue my journey and wondered if you’d had the time to review my case, complete your investigation and determine that I am not the nefarious person you thought me to be. His peasant’s tunic and trousers were spotlessly white with roomy sleeves into which the Chinese tucked his hands, his skin as thin as tissue paper, translucent as aged porcelain. His beard and mustache were long and wispy in true Manchu style, yet only lightly streaked with gray. The hair at the back of his head was pulled into a traditional queue and partially hidden beneath a four-pointed walking cap of black silk. He was the picture of a Mandarin peasant displaced in a world that was not of his making.

Would you care for a cigarette? Col. Dho offered an ornate box from the desk top. Russian Sobranie. Quite strong.

Ah, yes. Actually manufactured in England nowadays from the traditional Russian recipe I believe. It was one of the countless bits of trivia he had accumulated over the past century. He accepted one of the slender cigarettes and ran its length beneath his sensitive nostrils, savoring the blend of aromatic flavors. Personally, I have come to prefer English Ovals, but this will do nicely, thank you. He produced a slender, long-stemmed, ivory pipe from within one of his sleeves stained with age, broke the cigarette paper and emptied the tobacco into the bowl before holding it up for the flame the colonel offered. It was not until he had blown out a cloud of gray smoke that he glanced up. His intelligent, Oriental eyes alert as he studied the colonel over the top of the rimless spectacles that adorned the end of his puggish nose. Thank you, sir, he said, his Vietnamese flawless with a slight Northern lilt.

Col. Dho returned to his chair and sat down heavily. He picked up the police report again and continued to skim the highlighted parts. It says here that you are personally acquainted with Chairman Ho and several other prominent revolutionaries.

At my age, colonel, one gets to know many people of different persuasions. I am a scientist and a teacher. I personally have no politics.

"So I see. But my interest was more directed at Chairman Ho, if you are Comrades, as you socialist refer to yourselves."

"We studied together at one time, although I am much older than he, and became friends. I was on my way to Europe from Beijing when I stopped to see him on a personal matter before coming here to Saigon, since there are no longer any connecting flights to Paris out of Hanoi. When the colonel continued to peruse the report and did not acknowledge him, Tok added, As I am sure you are aware, when I arrived here I was summarily arrested as I was boarding the airplane at Tan Son Nhut and accused of being a spy of all things. An absurd accusation given my reputation; a calling that has taken me all over the globe where I am considered a Citizen of the World by many governments and heads of state. Notwithstanding, of course, the few unenlightened officials one encounters from time to time."

The colonel’s icy smile masked his sudden flash of annoyance. He was sure he had been called many things behind his back, but never unenlightened and certainly not to his face. His forearm rested menacingly on the butt of the holstered pistol on his belt as he considered where to put the bullet should he decide to change the plans he had in mind for the egotistical doctor. He struggled briefly with his temper and disregarded the veiled insult for the moment and said, "Such talk, particularly from a self-proclaimed Citizen of the World, could get you shot in times like these."

It was the frozen death mask staring back at him from across the desk that caused Tok to blanch at the threat of being shot to death, and a benign expression suddenly replaced the one of self-confidence and false bravado that he had been wearing just moments before. What was he thinking? He was in prison! Accused of spying in the middle of a deadly war! Even more stupidly, he had just insulted some madman he had never met before who held the power of life and death over him, believing that his reputation would protect him from such maniacs. Sometimes he wondered how he had managed to live this long.

Tok forced his eyes open and said, Yes, colonel. Now that you put it like that, I’m quite sure that under the present circumstances I could be summarily dispatched. He hesitated, choosing his words more carefully now. Although, you may wish to consider that it would be a waste of a perfectly good bullet on an old man who has apparently not learned to control his most disrespectful tongue in spite of his advanced age. I humbly ask your pardon.

Col. Dho noted the quick retreat with approval and decided that it was all the apology he was likely to get from the old man if he were to save any face at all. "Your arrest was a formality under the circumstances. However, perhaps not as unreasonable as you might think. Not only did you walk into our country unannounced, but in the company of a group of suspected Viet Cong terrorists according to your arrest report."

Again, my apologies in that regard, colonel. However, as you are aware, there isn’t exactly train service between Hanoi and Saigon, and there was no discussion of politics when I was offered an escort.

The officer glanced up from the paper he was reading. You say your business with Ho was personal?

Yes. I have already told your people this, over and over, Tok said mildly, his tone more respectful now. But, yes, it was personal.

Col. Dho silently eyed him for a moment, waiting for him to continue. When he did not, he said, So, now you can tell me what your business was—personally.

Dr. Toc shifted irritably in his chair, yet careful to keep it from his face. I do not mind telling you that I am searching for a benefactor to assist me in building a research center and hospital devoted to the reconstructive surgery needed following the care and treatment of many tropical diseases such as Hansen’s disease, an area in which I have some expertise. He thought of expounding on his reputation in the highly specialized field, but held his tongue. However, since Dr. Ho is preoccupied with the war at the moment, he was regrettably unable to assist me and referred me to an acquaintance of his in Paris who has the means and may be interested in such a project. The letter of introduction was among my belongings when I was taken into custody. You must have it.

Col. Dho nodded. He vaguely recalled seeing it among his papers. After reviewing the doctor’s entire file, there were several documents he did not fully understand. What had been clear, he had to admit, was that the man was almost certainly not a spy and, in the strictest sense of the word, was a humanitarian of sorts with some very influential connections. I’m sure you are aware that the war will soon be over, doctor. Probably within the next few days.

The erudite Chinese hesitated for a moment, contemplating the change of subject and a subtle but obvious change in the officer’s attitude along with the harshness that had been in his face just a moment before. I really have no idea, colonel, but from what little I have seen, I agree. I’m afraid that I have little interest in war, aside from the regrettable loss of life on both sides. One would think that after thousands of years, civilization as a whole would have progressed beyond such brutality and depravity. However, as I have already stated, I am strictly apolitical. I am a scientist who needs to be in Paris at the moment, not sitting in a Saigon jail. I have a hospital to build and I need to find the financing to do that.

Col. Dho’s intuition that he may be able to bribe the doctor had been surprisingly accurate. All that was left now was to find out how much of a bribe it would take. Which brings us to another point, he said after a moment. I may have an interesting proposition for you. By this time you are probably aware that we have an American in camp.

Dr. Tok held his gaze, his ears perked with mild interest as he puffed on his tobacco-stained pipe, his expression stoic. He wondered what the American prisoner had to do with this? He had heard rumors that the man had been badly tortured. Again, the curse of war, he thought, and reminded himself that he must be very cautious in dealing with Col. Dho. Only rumors, he said finally. Still, it seems to be common knowledge. The entire camp is talking about him. Is it true that he was tried and convicted of murder? A strange accusation during time of war, don’t you think?

It is more about some information he refuses to divulge. However, such matters do not concern you. Col. Dho continued to study the older man. What may interest you, is that it happens to be the same information that I seek. Unfortunately, during the interrogation session this morning it appears that we may have been slightly overzealous with the end of the war so near. And without proper medical attention it appears that he may not survive. We also find ourselves without a doctor to help prevent such a regrettable circumstance.

Forgive my humble curiosity, Tok said, rubbing one of his throbbing temples to soothe the headache he had developed. But if that is the case, why was the man nearly beaten to death?

The intent was to merely to insure that he answer our questions when we came for him again. But now? With your friends from Hanoi at the door, I am afraid our time has run out and we are forced to make a slight change in plans. The problem is, finding someone to keep him alive in the meantime and nurse him back to health. Someone such as yourself, doctor.

Oh, my… The old man’s brow rose. Surely there is someone who could look after him, in the city perhaps. I am a surgeon and a teacher. I have not practiced general medicine in over thirty years. I have no instruments, no—

You are missing the point here, Dr. Tok, the colonel interrupted sharply; his tight smile menacing. I have already advised my superiors of our needs. However, with the end of the war emanate as it is, most of our headquarters personnel have already taken their leave in order to save themselves. That includes all medical personnel as well. You are our last hope, so to speak. And as you have already testified, certainly qualified for the job.

Dr. Tok considered this for a moment, thoughtfully pulling on his pipe, his right arm resting comfortably on the wooden arm of the hard chair he was sitting in. I presume you refer to the evacuation, that people are fleeing the city. Which also means that a government friendly to my country of birth will soon be replacing yours. Which in turn means that I should very soon be on my way to Paris a free man.

For a change, it seems the rumors are true. A large band of local VC guerrillas and two full divisions from the People’s Army are approaching from the north. It’s only a matter of time. The end will come by tomorrow, the day after at the latest. They will certainly take the airport first. Stop everything coming in or out by air. Our ARVN forces can not contain them.

And the Americans have already withdrawn their soldiers, a fact that had shocked the world. Dr. Tok pulled at his wispy beard in thought.

The few remaining are being evacuated as fast as they can. They are being ferried by helicopter and motor launch out to ships waiting at the mouth of the Mekong River.

Tok considered this for a moment. Then they will no doubt be here shortly to collect their injured countryman. And you do not wish him to die before they arrive, correct?

Not entirely, the colonel said, his thin smile caused by the doctor’s naiveté. I would not be surprised if the Americans did not come for him at all.

The old man’s eyes narrowed as he nodded in thought, his face a Confucian mask concealing his surprise. He tapped out the bowl of his pipe into an ashtray on the desk, and blew a puff of air through the yellowed ivory stem before tucking it securely back into his sleeve. Forgive my skepticism, but may I inquire why you think this? He is an American. I cannot imagine them leaving their own behind.

Some things are not necessary for you to know, doctor. Such information could be dangerous. It would be to your benefit if you do not trouble yourself with such matters.

My curiosity goes only to the order of things, colonel, and perspective. Nothing more.

I was speaking of your personal safety, of course. However, if you insist. The middle-aged military officer suspected that if the good doctor was nearly as clever as he claimed to be old, it would be difficult to deceive him for long. Within a few minutes of meeting him, he had decided the best way to deal with the old man was to be direct, as open as possible, if not completely forthcoming. He turned his attention back to the prisoner. In the course of his misguided duties, the American has apparently confiscated a shipment of cargo that, under normal conditions, would automatically become government property. It is some very valuable property that he was somehow able to dispose of before his arrest and now refuses to reveal its whereabouts.

May I ask what these misguided duties were?

He was a narcotics agent believed to be working for their Central Intelligence Agency, Dho waited for the expected nod before he continued. "To be quite frank with you, now that there will no longer be a government to claim rightful ownership of the missing cargo, I have decided to recover it for myself. What I need from you is to keep the American alive until I can find out where he has hidden it and make arrangements to get it out of the country. In return for your valuable services, I am more than happy to share with you. Perhaps, even finance this hospital you spoke of."

Tok thought for a moment, then said, I must confess that you challenge my curiosity, colonel. Not that I necessarily agree with your sense of ethics. However, it is true that your present government will soon cease to exist, which could raise a substantial question of ownership I suppose. The spoils of war, as it were. He pulled at his stringy beard, then his already severely slanted eyes narrowed even more. "Under the circumstances, however, while you have not said exactly what it is you would be sharing, the whole idea seems quite ludicrous