Tucker's Last Stand (36 page)

Rufus made no comment. He told of the events of that morning.

It had been one hell of a meeting, Rufus said, using an expletive he used perhaps once a year, and never during Lent. “General Khanh, Colonel Yen, Maxwell Taylor, and me. General Khanh is being his most obnoxious self. His slippery hold on the government has prompted him to exhibitions of great assertiveness. He is taking the position that what happens to Tucker is the business of the government of South Vietnam, that the government of South Vietnam, ‘please remember, Mr. Ambassador,' is an independent state. That the government of South Vietnam is of course very grateful for the critically important aid being given by the United States, but is also aware that the United States is giving this aid to the government of South Vietnam to further United States interests, and United States interests are currently being served primarily by the sacrifice of South Vietnamese lives because the government of the United States, while acknowledging theoretical responsibility for guarding its allies against aggression, is not willing to do what the government of South Vietnam has been urging it to do, what the government of South Vietnam itself wishes to do, namely to declare war against the aggressor and carry the war to the aggressor's hearth. Et cetera, et cetera.”

“I get the picture, Rufus. So what does Khanh want to do with Tucker?”

“What he
wants
to do is to torture him for information on exactly what went on in Savannakhet. That is what he truly wants to do, to say nothing of Colonel Yen.”

“How'd you handle that?”

“I didn't. But Max Taylor did. Pretty impressively. He said, ‘General, the answer is: One, no. You may not manhandle an American official here on military duty. And my second comment is, two, are you aware that you would be attempting to get information from an American who has won the Congressional Medal of Honor for conspicuous bravery?'”

“Did it work?”

“I'm not absolutely sure, to tell you the truth. Because General Khanh went back to a point which is not altogether frivolous. Namely that Tucker has committed treason against the government of South Vietnam. And that it is exclusively the right of the government of South Vietnam to decide how to handle traitors no matter what their nationality.”

“I hate to say it, but legally I think he's right, isn't he?”

“Yes. He is right. We will need to lean on the dependence of the South Vietnamese government on the United States. The argument went on more than two hours.”

“What was General Taylor pressing for?”

“He wants Tucker taken by the South Vietnamese to the airfield—in shackles; Max Taylor said that would be all right—and placed in one of our military planes, which will take him to Hawaii, and from then on he's our problem.”

“Reaction?”

“Out of the question, et cetera, et cetera. And then heavy emphasis on their right to be briefed about the probable military damage done by acquainting the enemy with the secrets of Igloo White.

“They reached a point where there simply wasn't anything to be said that hadn't already been said, so they agreed to meet again tonight at ten
P.M.
But—but, we got one small concession from them. You will be permitted to talk to him. I told the general, and Colonel Yen, that you were an important influence on him, that you might get from him cooperation of the kind he isn't willing to give us … the whole line. They have nothing to lose by giving this one indication that they are being reasonable. So—you are to be at the Kham Chi Hoa prison at exactly nine
P.M
.”

“I know what I have to do before then.” Blackford looked at his watch. “Rufus, I've got to find Lao Dai but I don't have her address. Your people have been tailing her—”

“Blackford. She has left the city. While waiting for you I went myself to her apartment. She was not there. I went to her school. She hadn't shown up this morning. Back to the apartment, and dug up a neighbor who said she had left in an automobile with three bags at eleven this morning. She's flown.”

“Goddamn.” He thought for a moment. “But Tucker has no reason to know anything on this score, does he? He doesn't even know that you spotted her as a spy before he did. He doesn't know that you've been onto her for a week.”

“I've thought about it. I don't know whether Colonel Yen threw Lao Dai at him. We don't even know how the North Vietnamese agent who met with Tucker at Savannakhet got those photographs. Tucker told Colonel Yen he didn't give away the photographs, that he didn't even have his Igloo folder with him. He may have been lying, but we opened up the hotel safe and got out Tucker's briefcase, broke into it, and his folder is sitting there. Of course, he could have photographed the folder and taken the photographs with him and simply lied to us. I just don't think so.”

“You think—?”

“I think probably Lao Dai photographed them at some moment of opportunity. Of which,” Rufus looked down, his lips in that fatalistic configuration Blackford knew well, “I am sure she had many.”

Blackford did not eat dinner. Instead he walked toward the prison, a half hour away. He arrived early, at 8:30, and entered a Vietnamese restaurant on the corner of the street opposite. He then ordered a bowl of rice and soup. He fiddled with it. His mind was reeling, and he knew that he must do his best to be persuasive. To
persuade
Tucker. He feared for his arsenal of arguments.

At 8:55 he was at the gate. He had carefully straightened his tie. He was wearing a light gabardine suit. He must be the essence of formality with the prison officials.

Inside, he was beckoned into a private room, and there rubbed down so thoroughly he wondered for a moment whether they would next demand a strip search.

He had six cigars in a pouch. “Why so many?” the captain asked.

“I work best when I am smoking. And as Colonel Yen no doubt has told you, I am here to do very important work on his behalf and on behalf of General Khanh.” The captain gave him back his matches.

He was taken to the meeting room and told to sit down. Instead, Blackford turned and walked back toward the corridor.

“What is the matter?” the captain asked, clearly alarmed.

“I have been authorized to talk privately with Major Montana. I am a representative of the government of the United States, and I decline to carry out my instructions in a room”—he pointed to the meeting room, traversing his finger from one end of it to another—“that is obviously wired for sound. I shall return to my quarters and wait until I hear again from Colonel Yen.”

There was a hurried consultation between the captain and an adjutant who had said nothing during the proceedings. They spoke hastily in Vietnamese. The captain turned to Blackford: “Where would you consent to meet with the prisoner?”

“In your office,” Blackford said.

There was a pause. “Very well. Follow me.”

It was a pleasant, workmanlike office, with a large desk, a small conference table, and two armchairs. The captain walked over to his desk, picked up a few loose papers, tinkered with the telephone, and went out. Blackford was left alone. He looked at his watch. It was 9:15. In five minutes the door opened. Tucker came in. He was shackled, but the guards shut the door behind him, and they were alone.

The two men stared at each other. Tucker breathed heavily, but said nothing. Blackford's voice was hoarse when he said, motioning to an armchair, “We may as well sit down.”

Tucker did so.

“I did manage to get you this.” He drew out the packet of cigars.

Tucker's face softened. He cleared his throat. “Don't mind if I do. You didn't bring an electric razor, I suppose? Funny, all the fieldwork I've done, I still don't like to go without shaving.” He leaned over to draw in the flame Blackford held out. It was awkward, having to lift both hands to hold his cigar to his lips. Finally he had it lit.

“No. Sorry, no razor. Maybe next time. I wasn't sure I could get away with the cigars.”

“They've fed me. But goddamn, Black, there's almost no daylight in that cell. And none at night. Not one fucking watt of light. You know something, remember I told you I was on the
Enola Gay
on the Hiroshima run, my job to keep my eyes on the bomb's metabolism? I had to lie down a total of five and a half hours each way, half of it with the bomb as my bedmate, half the time by myself, on the return leg, in the dark, except for those little red lights for reading the gauges. That was the only other time I was where I couldn't read a book, unless you count some of those foxholes in Korea.”

He smiled as he drew on his cigar, and without hesitating went on, “I know why you're here, Black. I mean, I knew you'd come and visit me just to be a nice guy, but you're obviously here 'cause you were sent here, and that would be to find out what I was doing with the North Vietnamese guys, and you know something, Black, pal, you're not going to find out. Because nobody's going to find out. What I did would be undone if anybody found out. So that's it, and I hope we can talk about other things. Because … otherwise, there's nothing to talk about.”

Blackford knew that was it. He said nothing.

And then, exhaling evenly, Tucker said, “What time is it exactly. Black? They took away my watch.”

“It's twenty to ten.”

“The warder tipped me off an hour ago. You see, he's a Catholic, and saw the bio on me they must have got from the embassy, shows I went to a Catholic school as a boy. What he told me, in case I wanted to say some prayers before then, was: They're going to shoot me at ten
P.M
.”

Blackford shot up. His eyes narrowed. He turned and lunged for the telephone on the captain's desk.

The dial had been padlocked.

He went across the room to the door. It would not open. He banged on it. There was no answer. He was white with rage. In desperation he turned to Tucker.

“It's a scare tactic! Hell, at ten they're meeting, the big cheeses. General Khanh, Colonel Yen, Maxwell Taylor, Rufus—to talk about you! We're trying to get you on a transport to Hawaii!”

“Maybe. Maybe a fake execution. Though something tells me it ain't that, ol' buddy. But you know, Black, what I want, don't you? And I just hope, I just pray—yes, I prayed about it—that you've been to see Lao Dai. I just had a feeling you would. Did you?”

Blackford said, “Yes, Tucker, I did, went there late this afternoon. Of course I didn't tell her where you were. All I said was that I was a little surprised you weren't back from your hunting trip and I wondered whether she had heard from you.”

“She was really worried?”

“Yes, she was. She said she guessed you had decided to stay on another couple of days. She … she said how much she loves you.”

“She was
really
worried about my still being in Thailand?”

“Terribly worried.”

Tucker Montana got up and smashed his manacled wrists against the desk lamp, breaking it into fragments. The glass brought blood on his right wrist. He closed his eyes, and a single tear appeared. He spoke in a whisper.…

“You didn't see her, Black. And she knows I left the inn, because I telephoned her before leaving the airport. She said she would meet my flight. I been thinking, thinking about … the photographs. I'm a goddamned genius in some ways but not too smart in others. I put it all together, one possible explanation. And now I know.” The tears were streaming down his cheeks. Blackford embraced him.

The door was pulled wide. Four men with rifles. A fifth with pistol in hand, which he pointed at Blackford.

“Do not move, Mr. Oakes.”

The four men went to Tucker Montana and led him out. The captain, his pistol still pointed, backed out of the room. The door slammed shut. Blackford could hear the heavy lock being closed.

Blackford closed his eyes. Minutes later he heard the fusillade. And, after a short silence, the final pistol shot.

39

November 8, 1964

Saigon, South Vietnam

The dignitaries were served tea. They occupied the elaborately appointed office of the Prime Minister, at Gia Long Palace. There was five minutes of small talk. The atmosphere had calmed down. Then General Khanh addressed his guests.

“Gentlemen, perhaps we have other business than what—divided us this morning? I hope so, because on the matter of Major Montana, the necessary judicial formalities having been attended to”—he looked down at his watch—“the traitor was executed five minutes ago.”

Maxwell Taylor stood up, his eyes flashing. He looked witheringly at General Khanh, and at Colonel Yen. Yen was smiling. General Taylor walked without a word to the door. Rufus followed him out.

40

November 8, 1964

Saigon, South Vietnam

Rufus reached the safe house just before midnight. He was not surprised to find Blackford sitting there. The apartment was appropriately utilitarian, as though quickly furnished for a transient client: service-duty furniture, desk, coffee table, prints of pretty young Vietnamese girls with parasols walking down the beach. There was a whiskey glass on the table, but it was still filled.

Rufus turned away, looking absentmindedly at the bookshelf. Blackford heard the quiet voice.

“There isn't anything to say, Blackford. Nothing.”

“No, Rufus, nothing. That shit. Those shits.”

“It's their country.”

“Yes. And—as the saying goes—they can keep it.”

“I'm sure I know what you are thinking.” Rufus sat down in the armchair opposite. “Is your mind made up?”

“Yes. I'm checking out. I'll be leaving tomorrow.”

Rufus spoke very softly. “Tucker was wrong, you know.”

“He was wrong, Rufus, about letting the girl get those pictures, yes. About talking to her—and to them. The pictures were only valuable because he had invented what was in them. But, Rufus, I don't think he was wrong on the big point.”