The Spy from Place Saint-Sulpice: A Novel

By Barry Michael Broman

CIA intelligence officer Rick Blayne must use all his skills—and charm—to achieve his mission of infiltrating émigré Cambodian factions in the center of international intrigue, Paris.

Richard “Rick” Blayne has a mission. One of the CIA’s top expert on Cambodia, who escaped the country’s fall to the Khmer Rouge and has monitored the ensuing genocide from Thailand ever since, he has been sent to Paris to further the CIA’s plan to infiltrate the Cambodian resistance to the Hanoi-controlled puppet government in Phnom Penh.

Arriving in the middle of a Parisian summer, Rick feels out of place and uncertain if he can handle the assignment. Vying factions seek to form a guerrilla force. As he establishes contact with old Cambodian friends in both the factions vying to control the resistance, he is drawn into an operation to recruit a Russian diplomat serving in Paris.

With the help of a Thai fashion designer serving as an access agent, Rick, under the guidance of Sasha—a seasoned CIA Soviet “head hunter” and deputy chief of Paris station—moves the operation forward at a time of great upheaval and change for the Soviet Union.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Casemate
• Release date: Apr 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9781636241777

Barry Michael Broman

Barry Broman was a teenage photographer for the Associated Press in Southeast Asia, then a Marine Corps infantry officer in combat in Vietnam before spending a quarter century as a “head-hunter” with dozens of recruits for the Clandestine Service in operations around the world. Mr. Broman received a BA in Political Science in 1967 followed by an MA in Southeast Asian Studies a year later. A lifelong photographer and traveler he has published many articles and books.

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Chapter 1

It was unseasonably hot for early July as the afternoon sun beat down on the Place de la Concorde. A short, attractive, clean-shaven man in a dark pinstripe suit waited at the entrance to the Concorde Metro station. He was perspiring. The wool suit was not for summer wear, but it was the best suit he owned. While he waited, he admired the scenery around him. At the center of the Place stood the Luxor obelisk, a gift from Egypt to France, positioned near the spot where King Louis XVI died at the guillotine in 1791. Heavy fighting had taken place here in 1944 as the Allies liberated Paris, the bullet pock marks on the walls bearing silent testament to the violence.

What occupied Richard Rick Blayne on this day, July 4, 1985, was not the city’s violent history. He had just been assigned to the American embassy in Paris and flown across the Atlantic the night before so that he could attend the Fourth of July celebration at the residence of the American ambassador. He was suffering from a mild case of jet lag and the Paris heat. But mainly, Rick was worried, wondering if a Paris posting was what he really wanted. He was a specialist on Cambodia and Thailand. Now he was in Paris, a fish out of water with an assignment thrust upon him that he didn’t know if he could handle. What have I gotten myself into? he thought as he wiped beads of sweat from his forehead.

Out of the Metro station, emerging between a spattering of meandering noisy tourists with cameras and maps, appeared another man, in a summer business suit. He joined Rick and smiled as they shook hands warmly. The taller man sported a well-trimmed mustache and wore his long black wavy hair nicely coiffed. He was Lucas Foley, Luke to his friends and a senior first secretary in the political section of the US embassy in Paris. Luke and Rick were in their late thirties and had served together in Cambodia until it fell to the Khmer Rouge in 1975.

It is not quite correct to say they both were diplomats; Foley certainly was. He was a career State Department Foreign Service officer who already had a distinguished record of postings, including Vietnam and tours in Morocco and Senegal, before arriving for embassy duty in Paris a year earlier. Blayne, however, was actually an officer of the Clandestine Service of the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), soon to be operating under diplomatic cover in the embassy’s political section. Despite the usual wariness and territorialism between their parent organizations, the two trusted each other and were close personal friends. Blayne’s arrival in France the day before was purposely designed so that he could attend the Independence Day fête. This was an ideal place to meet people with whom he’d soon be working and, in some cases, recruiting.

Luke Foley was a natural for Paris. He was educated at l’École Jeannine Manuel, an elite high school in France that he attended thanks to his father, a Boston architect with deep pockets and an abiding love for Paris. From there Luke went on to MIT, and spoke fluent French and Cambodian. He had established a reputation as a skilled, savvy diplomat known for resolving difficult and sensitive situations. Paris could present many such situations. The government was in the hands of President François Mitterrand, a socialist, with four communists in his cabinet. President Ronald Reagan, a conservative hard-liner, appointed as ambassador his close friend and fellow Republican Ethan Rangecroft—an Ivy League patrician and a banker with impeccable European experience and connections. The Cold War was ongoing, and Paris, as always, was a city of intrigue. It may be called the City of Love or the City of Lights, but it was also a playground for spies in the dark.

A more questionable choice for France, Blayne was a seasoned Indochina hand with a specialty in recruiting spies. He had experience in Vietnam in the Marine Corps and postings with the Agency in Cambodia and Thailand. His French was sufficient for Cambodia, but his best foreign languages were Thai and Khmer. He earned accolades for running sensitive agents and keeping a level head in dangerous and unpredictable wartime conditions. A lengthy posting to Bangkok after the fall of Cambodia gave Rick more opportunities to work with the nascent Cambodian resistance. This familiarity with the two main rebel groups, both of which had headquarters in France, made the Paris assignment ideal. The largest resistance group—the Khmer People’s National Liberation Front (KPNLF)—was led by a former Cambodian prime minister, Son Sann, and was composed of republican Cambodians. The other group was the royalist faction known by its French acronym (FUNCINPEC) and led by the mercurial Prince Norodom Sihanouk.

America was slowly coming out of its disaster in Vietnam and the added miseries of Cambodia and Laos. President Ronald Reagan wanted to make the Cold War warmer by supporting anti-communist regimes around the world. The Cambodian resistance was one of these. Rick was tapped by director of Central Intelligence William Casey to make this happen.

Blayne’s CIA mentor, Alexander Sasha Bauer, was the deputy chief of Paris station and had arranged Rick’s posting personally after meeting with CIA Director Bill Casey. This raised expectations for what the Indochina expert should achieve. Casey wanted him to develop close unofficial ties with the resistance and identify leaders prepared to return to Cambodia and oust the communist regime, the People’s Republic of Kampuchea (PRK), and align Cambodia with the West. It was a tall order and placed Rick on the hot seat.

As Rick and Luke strolled through stifling heat toward the ambassador’s residence on the chic Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore behind the chancery on Place de la Concorde, Luke said, Let’s get a drink to fortify us for the festivities. They ducked into the historic, five-star Hôtel de Crillon, found a quiet table in the cool and slightly darkened polished cherrywood bar off the main lobby, and ordered two cold beers. They had not seen one another since they evacuated Phnom Penh on April 12, 1975 in U.S. Marine Corps helicopters. Refusing a beer glass offered by the waiter, Rick sipped his beer from the bottle with relish and turned to his friend. So how do you like Paris, Luke?

I like it fine. It’s no Phnom Penh, the Foreign Service officer said with a sarcastic smile. There are no incoming rockets, no malaria, and no power outages. But it’s okay. You’re going to be the embassy’s Asia watcher. The ambassador has approved it. Sasha wants me to make some introductions to you at the party. The ambassador has invited two thousand of his best friends to the shindig and has paid all the expenses, out of his pocket. You know some of the Khmer resistance people from Phnom Penh or Bangkok, but Paris is where the decisions are made. Some of those resistance leaders will be there.

It’s like old times. You, me, and Sasha, Rick said. How’s the Gray Fox doing?

Better than ever, I’m told, Lucas said after he finished half of his beer in one strong pull. Not being a spook, I don’t know for sure. But everyone from the ambassador on down says Sasha is in his element. The man knows France and the Soviet Union. It looks to me like he is having the time of his life. I think he has been waiting for you to help the Cambodians get into fighting shape.

Rick nodded at his friend and finished his beer. Things have improved a lot on the Cambodian border in the past few years, he said. I was getting tired of those long rides to Aranyaprathet to debrief refugees and cross-border agents, write it up on the trip back to Bangkok, and do it all over again the next week. It’s a big change but I’m looking forward to my first posting outside Asia and appreciate your help in getting me started.

You’re lucky you weren’t here last year, Lucas intoned. The Reagans—POTUS and FLOTUS—came to town along with Maggie Thatcher for the fortieth anniversary of D-Day. Bill Casey was along to see his old OSS buddies. The town was inundated with hundreds of self-important strap hangers from the White House. They bought up most of the booze at the embassy store and generally pissed everybody off. At the ambassador’s urging, Reagan apologized to the embassy staffers who took part in the event. The First Lady of the United States had her hands full with Madame Mitterrand. The word is Madame Mitterrand has been screwing a French communist who was captured with Che Guevara in Bolivia but lived to tell the tale. I was embassy liaison at the formal lunch for Nancy, which tested my diplomatic skills. I earned my White House cufflinks that day.

Lucas took another swig of his beer and continued, Sasha asked me to introduce you to Son Sann today. He is our best bet as the leader of the republican faction of the Cambodian resistance. Prince Sihanouk runs the royalist faction. He has been trying hard to get back into our good graces since he joined the Khmer Rouge in 1970 after being ousted by his own government. You will have fun with the Khmer in Paris. Some of them are very good guys, and a bigger bunch are ‘so-so’ guys. He waggled his hand up and down as he said this. A few of them are worthless and may be sell-outs. He shook his head. Of course, I don’t have to tell you any of this. With your experience, you know these landmines better than me. You’ve got your work cut out for you. But what do I know? Sasha will give you your marching orders. Better you than me. I’m up to my belly button with the French. Who would have thought that we would get more done with a right-wing POTUS and a French socialist than we ever did with the right-wing de Gaulle crowd? He shrugged.

Sorry Luke, I’m still a little tired from yesterday morning’s flight in from Dulles, Rick said. I had breakfast with Sasha this morning and he told me to stick close to you today. Sasha had official embassy business cards made for me. Have one. With a smirk, Rick opened his jacket, and removed a card from his left inside pocket. Bowing his head submissively, he lowered his eyes and offered it with both hands to Lucas.

Lucas pursed his lips as if he had sucked a lemon. He raised an eyebrow, looked at the card, and said in an amused voice, First Secretary? Is that correct?

Feigning embarrassment, Rick replied, Yeah, I got lucky making a cold pitch to a hard target. I got my GS-14 early and the diplomatic title that comes with it. I expect I am the junior first secretary and you are the most senior. Is that right?

Right, as usual. Congratulations on the promotion, Lucas said, pocketing the card. A little rank will help with the Khmer. With me and the ambassador in your corner, things look bright. But seriously Rick, he said with concerned eyes and a flat voice, If you step on your dick, even a little, especially with our buddies in the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire—the French internal security service, or DST—all bets are off."

The two friends nodded to each other and checked the time. It was getting late, and without having to say it, they decided against another beer. Lucas was already thinking about the introductions he must make at the party. As he paid the bill, ignoring Rick’s smiling objection, he said, You are going to love this house, possibly the best ambassador’s residence anywhere. Rangecroft is a good guy for a political appointee. He knows France and being on a first name basis with the President is always helpful.

Built 1855, the ambassador’s residence at 41, rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore, around the corner from the chancery, was a magnificent mansion with an interesting history. Baron Edmond de Rothschild, the banker, purchased it in the nineteenth century. When the Rothschilds decamped for Switzerland in World War II, the mansion became a German Luftwaffe officers’ club. The American government bought the house in 1948, and it became the ambassador’s residence in 1972.

On this muggy July late afternoon, Ambassador Rangecroft’s guests would celebrate the independence of the United States, a landmark event in which France had played a pivotal role. As Rick and Luke climbed the steps to the front door, they noticed the trompe l’oeil painted on the west wall of a building facing the courtyard. The painting showed the interior of the ambassador’s residence, and in a window could be seen an American space shuttle making a slow descent. Artsy and impressive, the message was clear. Passing through the main room of the residence, the men were treated to some of the finest French impressionist art along with a couple of original pieces done by Whistler and Homer, all thanks to the Art in Embassy program that allowed great art from American collections to be lent out to ambassadors’ residences worldwide. Paris, it seemed, got the pick of the litter.

Stepping onto the spacious grounds that accommodated the throng of guests, Luke noticed a tethered hot air balloon taking center stage as invitees great and small lined up for a chance to ride above the crowd for a unique peek at the Champs-Élysées. American beer, wine, and spirits flowed, along with hot dogs, hamburgers and other lesser American culinary gifts to the world. Luke guided Rick around the gala event. His first move was to introduce Rick to the ambassador.

Luke and Rick hovered near the ambassador, who was greeting guests in the receiving line. Clearly a pro, Rangecroft was conversing in fluent French, laughing, and handshaking as if everyone he met was the most important person to arrive. The ambassador nodded to Luke, who brought Rick forward. Allowing his wife to continue greeting guests on her own, the ambassador stepped away from the line,

I am told you were in the Corps, the ambassador said to Rick as he shook his hand firmly.

I was sir. How about you?

I was an Airdale in the Korean War. Flew Corsairs off the Oriskany in support of the 1st Marine Division, Rangecroft replied, a tall, lanky fellow with streaks of silver at his temples. The ideal former Marine aviator and U.S. ambassador. Who were you with? he inquired affably.

I was a grunt with the 5th Marines west of Da Nang in ’69, Rick answered. If you had stayed in the Corps, sir, you could have been supporting us in an F-4 Phantom. Except you probably would have been the wing commander.

At that point, the ambassador noticed the growing line of people waiting to wish him a happy Independence Day and said, Let’s continue this conversation later over a beer in a slop chute of my choosing.

Any time Mr. Ambassador, said Rick as Luke led him away.

That went well, Luke said. I never knew our millionaire ambassador was a Jarhead.

Luke then guided Rick, drink in hand, to a group of Asian gentlemen. One was Son Sann, a former prime minister of Cambodia and leader of the KPNLF. Luke knew the gaunt and austere elder statesman well and made the introduction in French. Son Sann smiled with his mouth, but not his eyes as he shook hands limply and welcomed Rick to Paris. My men speak highly of you, Monsieur Blayne, the quiet economist said in French. I look forward to our next meeting.

Also in the group and next to be introduced was a portly gentleman with equally fluent French who turned out to be Mom Rachawong Damrong Chakrabandu, the Thai ambassador. The Mom Rachawong title identified Damrong as a grandson of a king. Rick made his greeting in Rachasap, the royal language used when dealing with senior members of the royal family. Rick knew only a few words of the arcane language, but they were the right few. The ambassador was delighted and turned to Luke. Why didn’t you tell me that the State Department taught Rachasap?

We don’t, Your Excellency, Luke replied. Rick picked it up serving in Bangkok.

The ambassador exchanged cards with Rick and said, We will meet again, and soon.

Later, alone in his hotel room, Rick’s concerns resurfaced. He had watched Lucas work the crowd in the ambassador’s garden, laughing, giving hearty handshakes or hugs, complimenting outfits worn, calling people by their first names, leaning in to listen to a message or a witticism and quietly whispering his response, speaking fluent French, and shifting seamlessly into Khmer when the need arose. His friend was in his element at the fête, and it was impressive. Luke made valuable introductions that got Rick off on the right foot; the party was an operational success. He envied Luke’s level of ease in his practice of diplomacy and saw that his work was cut out for him. Langley clearly had confidence in Rick and the mission before him. He wished he shared that confidence. Why did I let Sasha talk me into this assignment?

Chapter 2

The next morning, Rick reported the events of the reception to Sasha. He had avoided Sasha at the ambassador’s reception as Sasha was widely known as CIA and Rick needed to preserve his State Department cover, thin though it was. Sasha greeted Rick warmly and sat him down for a long chat. Thin and urbane, with salt and pepper hair that he wore slicked back, Sasha lived up to his nickname, the Gray Fox. His people were Volga Germans brought to Russia by Catherine the Great in the eighteenth century. They prospered until the Bolsheviks took power in 1917 and the Bauers decamped for Paris. His high cheek bones suggested a Tatar somewhere in his lineage.

Rick emphasized the great help Luke had rendered in making introductions to the ambassador, senior Cambodians, and various other diplomats. He was off and running.

Welcome to Paris, Richard. It took me a lot of time and effort to get you here. This posting may be a stretch for you, but I think you are ready. Don’t prove me wrong.

I’m happy to be here, Sasha, and hope to justify your faith in me. This is a long way from Cambodia and Thailand.

Paris may be the most beautiful city in the world and the home of great food, but if I have my way, you will not have much leisure time to find out.

Rick smiled. A little Sasha humor. He never changes.

"Your task will not be easy. Your Agency affiliation will not be declared to the French intelligence services, but their Cambodian spies will certainly let them know what you are doing so you must be very careful. Watch your tradecraft. Not Moscow rules, but almost. I don’t want you to get kicked out by the French if they find you spying in their sandbox. He paused, leveling his gaze at Rick.

The ambassador is probably happier to have you here than is our chief of station, Alastair Biddle, Sasha continued. Get prepared, you are going to meet Biddle next. He tried to quash your Paris assignment and it was only with the personal involvement of Director Casey that you are here. He isn’t a big fan of East Asia Division, but he knows that Bill Casey wants you here to work the Cambodia target. Biddle is a mandarin of Europe Division and doesn’t like us East Asia guys on his turf. Moreover, he wants to keep our good relations with the French services, especially the DST, their FBI.

Alexander Bauer was something of a legend in the Clandestine Service. He was the consummate field officer and openly disdainful of senior chair-bound pencil pushers on the seventh floor of CIA headquarters in Langley. Bauer’s career advanced fast due to successful field work, including one recruitment during a Moscow posting that earned him the Intelligence Star. He did not always play by the book. Rick tried to emulate him.

Rick, Sasha said, there are three kinds of Americans living in Paris: those who love it, those who hate it, and those who hate it but say they love it. The biggest group is probably the third. It is an easy city to visit but a hard city to live in. You will find that out when you need a plumber on a Sunday night. It might take a week. But you have three things going for you: Lucas is here, and it is rare for a Foreign Service officer to go out of his way to help a spook. I put that down to our time together in Cambodia. Second, you have me covering your back, and third, you are a good officer and a lucky officer. Usually, you make your own luck, and it has always been there when you needed it. As Napoleon is supposed to have said, ‘Give me a lucky general.’ That’s you, except for the general part. Come on, it’s time to meet the Old Man.

As the two men left Sasha’s office and headed down the narrow hallway towards the station chief’s office, Sasha said quietly, That’s what we call Biddle around here, more or less affectionately. He is an affable Philadelphia Brahmin from old money, and the tie he is wearing is from Princeton. He is intelligent, deserves his position, and takes care of his people. But he can be difficult, so be at your diplomatic best this morning.

Sasha and Rick were escorted into the main office by an attractive, thirty-something woman, Peggy Ann, the front office secretary, who worked for both Sasha and the Old Man. She wore a fashionable sky-blue suit ensemble with matching low-heeled shoes. Peggy Ann, a Boston lady, was young for her senior assignment. She bantered casually with Sasha and displayed a sense of humor sadly missing in many of her peers.

Mr. Biddle stood behind his desk and greeted Rick with courtesy and Ivy League charm. He was a handsome man, probably an athlete in his youth. He was in his fifties with thinning hair and an expanding waistline. After a few minutes of small talk, Sasha took his leave. As soon as the door closed behind him, the Old Man dropped the friendly veneer and spoke brusquely to Rick. I don’t know exactly why you received this posting, Mr. Blayne, but I did not seek it and do not approve it. Paris station does not need another East Asia officer, especially one who is not declared to the French. We are making great progress in our relations with the French, something that has not happened for years. Your presence could throw a spanner in the works. Langley tells me that you are needed here to help develop contacts with the Cambodian resistance. I read your file. You have a good record and I respect that. But you are on a short leash here, Mr. Blayne. Don’t make me complain to Langley and pull strings to get you sent home. One mistake and you are gone. Do I make myself clear?

Perfectly, answered Rick, using his best Marine Corps voice. What an asshole, Rick thought. This just gets better and better.

Sitting forward in his chair and beginning to open and peruse other files on his desk, Biddle said without making eye contact, You will answer to Mr. Bauer. Good luck with the Cambodians. Leave the French alone. That will be all.

Sasha told Rick to take a few days to walk the Left Bank to get a feel for the city, see the sights, become acclimated, find places to buy food and supplies, and learn the Metro system. Trained to assume someone was always watching or listening, Rick behaved accordingly as he explored his surroundings. Camera around his neck, tourist map in hand, Rick strolled along Saint Germain Boulevard past the sixth-century Abbaye de Saint-Germain-des-Prés and took photos of Les Deux Magots across the street. Once a haunt of Hemingway and Camus, it was a favorite hangout for the literary and political crowd. He continued down the winding, narrow streets to the Seine. He spent time browsing the book stalls along the river and bought a pair of Daumier reproductions that he knew his father would love. Rick also used his tradecraft and kept an eye out for surveillance. The DST was great at their work and could be watching him, but he detected no surveillance … at least, not yet.

During his time getting to know Paris, Rick hit the streets wearing light clothes to beat the heat. One day, he wore a white linen shirt and tan cotton chinos, topped by his old and battered Marine Corps bush hat and Marine Corps aviation dark glasses. He sought out a wine bar recommended by Sasha called L’Ecluse on the river near Place Saint-Michel. He arrived at noon, early for lunch, and found himself alone in the small establishment that served only Bordeaux wines, mostly by the glass, and a small selection of food to accompany the wine.

Rick started with a glass of Sauternes to accompany a healthy tranche of fresh foie gras, the perfect pairing of two great creations of French cuisine and viniculture. His mind began to wander, and he realized he was enjoying himself. He only wished he had someone to share his nice experience with. That would come later, he hoped. Breaking his reverie, the waiter arrived with a plate of thinly sliced beef carpaccio with a glass of Château Gloria from the Medoc.

After this leisurely lunch, Rick made his way along Boulevard Saint Germain, still discreetly checking for a tail. At rue de Tournon, he turned right and stopped off in the Marché Saint-Germain, one of the few old-style daily markets in the city. He was heading to his new apartment that the embassy had slotted him after he made it known he wanted to be in the 6th arrondissement near the Luxembourg Gardens and not in the dull and expensive 16th arrondissement where most of the American diplomats resided.

His apartment was in Place Saint-Sulpice, a short walk from Boulevard Saint-Germain and a shorter walk to the Luxembourg Palace, home of the French senate since the nineteenth century, and the spacious gardens which had a running track around its perimeter. His large living space looked out on the seventeenth-century Saint-Sulpice church, the second largest in Paris after Notre Dame cathedral. He also had a small deck that allowed him to sit outside, weather permitting. Rick’s rent was covered by the embassy, and his CIA expense account for entertaining was generous. If things turned sour, he was covered by diplomatic immunity. His fully restored and renovated apartment was in an old, yet elegant, building. The Peru-born concierge told him that the French film star Catherine Deneuve lived nearby.

Rick continued to be concerned over his status as an Agency officer. In Cambodia and Thailand, he had been declared. Now he was undeclared to the French intelligence services. He would have to live under his cover as a political officer in the embassy and conduct his clandestine activities very carefully. In Paris, the rules of espionage were simple: recruitment of French citizens was not allowed. If the CIA were caught breaking the rules, the offending officers were usually questioned and then kicked out, formally declared persona non grata, or PNG, and told never to return. And in matters