Prince of Peace (37 page)

It was some months before Michael's assignment to Vietnam came through. Archbishop Thuc, of course, opposed having an American watchdog in his front yard, and he tried every way he could to get Spellman to change his mind. O'Shea had his reservations too. Was Michael seasoned enough? Would he walk with the roll of the place? But Spellman liked the idea and he liked having a priest who impressed the people at State. Michael arrived in Vietnam in January of 1962. He took up residence in the cathedral rectory in Saigon, but he had almost no contact with Archbishop Thuc from the very beginning. The first surprise was that the archbishop lived not at the cathedral but at Freedom Palace on Tu Do Street with his brothers. The second surprise was that his fellow priests had apparently been ordered to cooperate with Michael to the minimum, and beyond that to have nothing to do with him. He made the round of orphanages, refugee centers and hospitals that were being supported by the CRS. The European and American volunteers welcomed him, but Vietnamese relief workers, including nuns and priests, reacted as if he'd come to spy on them. In a way, he admitted to himself with a certain shame, it was true.

In Saigon he depended more than he'd have wanted on the Americans at the embassy for orientation. But, hell, the Vietnamese would hardly talk to him. And for some reason, John Howe didn't seem that anxious to school Michael in the local realities either. When they finally did get together, perhaps a month after Michael's arrival, it wasn't for a tour of AID projects or for briefings even. It was for tennis. Howe suggested it. Michael demurred. He didn't have a racket. It wasn't his game, really, he said. Howe insisted; he had two rackets. Michael knew the type. He liked to take on inferior partners now and then just to demonstrate the difference between pretty good and first rate, but what he said was, "If you're going to be in Saigon, you'll have to take it up. Everything important happens at the Cercle Sportif."

The Cercle Sportif was the high-walled colonial-era tennis and swimming club that the French planters had built for themselves. Its glory days were past, but it was still the nearest thing to an elegant spa in Saigon, and the remaining French elite now shared it with select Vietnamese, European and American diplomats and, lately, to everyone's chagrin, the news photographers and reporters who were coming to Saigon in ever greater numbers.

Michael met Howe at the front gate and was immediately embarrassed. Howe was decked out, scrupulously, in tennis whites. Michael was wearing black canvas basketball shoes, plaid Bermuda shorts and a blue sport shirt. He'd been afraid of this. Howe didn't flinch as they shook hands. Howe handed Michael his extra racket, and, as he followed him into the compound, Michael felt like Goofy the Dog.

To the right were the tennis courts, half a dozen of them, all clay, brilliant orange, and all in use. Other players sat at tables on the terraced lawn, watching. Everyone was dressed in white. To the left was a large swimming pool. Michael's eye went immediately to a pair of bikini-clad
colonistes
who sat on the near edge talking loudly in French. There were Vietnamese women, also in bikinis, less voluptuously endowed, but with long gleaming black hair that they displayed by tossing their heads. Beyond the pool was the awning-covered café leading into the
maison.
Men in white linen suits sat at tables with tall drinks in front of them, watching the
jeunes filies en fleur.

Howe led the way toward the courts. "We're up," he said, as a doubles match ended. Michael felt a rush of anxiety as he unbolted the racket brace. Tennis was one of the games seminarians mastered, but he'd never played anyone in white before. Suddenly he realized he had no standards. How good had the guys in the sem been? How good was he? Michael had an athlete's pride. He did not want to be humiliated. It was bad enough that when he passed the players who were leaving the court they cast disapproving glances at his shoes. When he looked down he saw that the tread of his soles, a pattern of circles and triangles, was clearly imprinted in the clay. Oh, Christ!

During the warm-up hitting, when the spectators sized up newcomers, Michael's timing, naturally, was completely off. He missed shot after shot or sent them looping into adjoining courts. Howe had the smooth, steady stroke of someone who'd had his lessons early; by comparison Michael was a flailer. He knew he was already the perfect image of a fool. The perfect image, in
this
world, he thought, of a Catholic priest.

It took him most of the first set, which went all too quickly, to realize what was wrong. He'd played his tennis on all-purpose seminary courts, asphalt, never clay. On asphalt the ball sizzled, skipping across the surface, and Michael had developed a style that depended on speed and power. But the ball positively died on clay, and slow, careful moves, accurate placement and finesse were what counted. Michael consciously adjusted, and began to play better. He lost the second set, but not as badly. And by the third he realized that the spectators who'd dismissed their match earlier were watching intently. Michael matched Howe point for point and in the eighth game broke his serve. He won 6–4. When they shook hands at the net, Michael realized that Howe was shocked. Howe was embarrassed.

When they left the court, attendants had to come to repair the damage Michael's shoes had done.

They crossed the terraced lawn, went by the pool and took a table in the café under the awning. They complimented each other on the game. Howe said they were well matched and should play regularly. Michael promised to get the right shoes and they both laughed. They ordered drinks. Howe asked the waiter to bring them towels.

"So how has it been going, Father?"

Michael shrugged. "Pretty good. I've been learning my way around. We have a new center in Bien Hoa. I've been trying to help with that."

"Good." Howe smiled formally, then he wiped perspiration from his face and glanced around. Where were the damn towels?

Michael said, "I'm sorry I haven't been able to arrange your meeting with the archbishop. He hasn't even deigned to see me yet. I wouldn't say he's overjoyed at my being here."

Howe nodded. "He's no dummy. He knows you're one guy who could cause him trouble."

The waiter delivered the towels before Michael answered. He wanted to say, I didn't come here to cause anybody trouble. He didn't like the way Howe took it for granted that he shared his disdain for the archbishop.

They wiped their faces and their necks.

Michael said, "I visited an orphanage in Can Lo where the nuns and priests sleep on stone floors so that the children can have the beds."

Howe looked up at him sharply. "Why do you tell me that?" Michael shrugged. "I was moved by it. There are dedicated priests and nuns in this country."

"I know that." Howe stared at Michael, making it obvious that he did not want his criticism of Thuc and Diem and Nhu reduced to primitive anti-Catholicism. "Hey, look," he said, "we can go around in circles, me saying the Catholics are bad, you saying they're good. So what? You know what my problem is. It's a Buddhist country."

The waiter interrupted again, this time with their drinks. Howe thanked him easily. Unlike Michael, he took the man's servility for granted.

When the waiter left, Michael leaned toward Howe. "Look, Catholics may be the minority here but they're in power not because of some conspiracy but because they're educated, they have Western values, and they appreciate what Communism can do to a country. I don't think it matters a damn how many province chiefs are Catholics. The question is, are they doing their job? The way I read recent history, I think they are."

Howe pushed the sugar bowl aside. "Can I give you a slightly different version of that history?"

Michael stared at him, sipped his lemonade, waited. He wanted Howe to quit beating around the bush with him. He knew they would never be friends until they could speak with each other frankly. And Michael admitted, he wanted to be friends with this man.

Howe nodded. "First, about this crap that Diem rescued the Catholics in the North from the Red Devil murders. Pure bull, Father."

"Wait a minute, Howe. What about that day in August, we saw those people with missing ears? You were the one who told me what their crime was, hearing Mass."

Howe waved his hand dismissively. "I was telling you what the people said, what they believed had happened. But it probably wasn't true."

"How do you know that?"

Howe worked at breaking up the sugar cubes in his tea. The ice was melted and he snapped his fingers at the Vietnamese waiter and barked several Vietnamese phrases at him. He waited for the boy to return with the ice. The interruption had the effect of defusing the challenge that had been implicit in Michael's question. While dropping a few cubes in Michael's drink as well, he said, "Because I know a guy who brags that he made that story up himself. An American. An Agency man who ran a string of 'black propaganda' agents whose job was to spread rumors like that among the Catholic population, to feed their panic. The Viet Minh were perfectly capable of mutilating people, but their targets were collaborators, not Catholics. There was no poetry to it—an ear because of the Mass you'd heard. That came from the CIA. I've heard that some of those agents carried out atrocities themselves, to frighten the people into running."

"But why? Who cared if the Catholics stayed or moved?"

"Think about it. Who was better known in the rectories of New York than in the villages of South Vietnam? Diem, the George Washington of Southeast Asia. But who the hell in this country ever heard of George Washington? When his people needed him most, fighting the French, he was living the high life in Spellman's seminary, giving tennis lessons to you guys." Howe grinned, but only for a moment. "Diem's power base was in Washington, not Saigon. And only one group could change that for him. The Catholics in the North. They could become his base. So he had to attract them south, or drive them there, like cattle. Hence the U.S. Navy. Hence Doctor Dooley. Hence Cardinal Spellman, all portraying the Ngos as the rescuers of the refugees, when the case was just the opposite. That migration of a million people was the great CIA success, of the decade, better even than the coups in Iran and Guatemala."

Michael sipped his drink. "I'm a little slow, John, aren't I? You're with the Agency, of course."

Howe shook his head. "Not on your life, Father. Their manipulation of your Church and your Churchmen is not only cynical but stupid, doomed to fail. Catholicism will never be anything here but a vestige of colonialism, and colonialism is dead. I don't think the CIA knows that yet."

Michael smiled awkwardly. The sweeping, and compelling, indictment of his Church embarrassed him, but he was not prepared to acknowledge this. "So remind me. Why was it you wanted yet another Catholic priest over here?"

Howe did not answer him.

Michael pressed. "You said, if I recall, that you wanted communication, but you haven't asked me anything about the local church. You said you wanted a meeting with Thuc, but obviously you regard him as one of the Borgias. What the hell do you want, John? Why am I here?"

Howe only stared back. Suddenly the man's inaccessibility infuriated Michael. Then he saw it. "Good God, you think I'll come around, don't you? I'll see it like you do, and I'll make my report to Spellman, whom you hold in contempt in every way but one. He's still the key to controlling Diem."

Howe laughed. "'Controlling Diem!' Everybody is controlling Diem—Spellman, Kennedy, Nhu, Madame Nhu." He stopped abruptly and pointed to the far tennis court. "See that guy over there, playing doubles? That's our esteemed ambassador. His partner is the CIA chief of mission. They're playing against two guys out from Washington who are supposed 'to appraise the current situation.' Everything depends on what those men say. Oh, sure, Nhu makes them nervous, but he's paid to. He makes Diem look good by comparison. They never talk to anyone—forgive me, Father, for the theme!—but Catholics. And you know what else? They never leave Saigon. So Diem controls them. He controls Kennedy. He controls us."

"I leave Saigon, John," Michael said with bravado, "and no one controls me."

"Good for you." Howe stood up. Had he said that snidely? Michael thought so until he added somberly, "It is important that you see what's happening. That's all I wanted. That's why I hoped you'd come."

Howe gathered his rackets and turned to lead the way out.

At that moment a good-looking American woman approached him. She was wearing whites and carrying a racket of her own. "Jack," she called.

He opened his arms as she came to him, and without a thought they embraced and kissed blatantly. She might have been his lover, but, if so, Michael sensed, not his only one. Nor was he hers. She said, "Play with me. My partner didn't show."

Howe said, "Who was your partner?"

"Annie."

Howe winked at Michael. "Well, in that case..." As long as it wasn't a rival. He turned to Michael. "This is Sally Doubleday, Father. Sally writes for
Newsweek.
This is Father Maguire, Sally. He's with Church Relief."

Michael and the woman shook hands. She eyed him boldly, but he expected that. Now he was glad he wasn't wearing whites. He wasn't just another dashing correspondent or Foreign Service dandy. He never liked being different except when he saw how it piqued a pretty woman's interest. What really piqued that, of course, was her realization that he wasn't on the make.

She looked back at him once as Howe went off with her. Michael watched them both, but it was the change in Howe he was aware of. He was so much more relaxed suddenly, jovial, even, and high-spirited. Obviously Michael had an inhibiting effect on the man, and he regretted it. They would remain strangers. When Michael realized that Howe hadn't followed through on his suggestion that they play tennis again, he felt put down. Should he have let the bastard win? Was this a country club? Was Michael Maguire a ball boy?

He left the Cercle Sportif, knowing he wouldn't return, and angry because of it. But then he chastised himself. He wasn't in Vietnam to improve his social standing.