The TEARS OF AUTUMN

Charles McCarry


The explanation struck like a bell in
Christopher's mind. He knew who had
arranged the death of the President . . .
His mind worked tidily, sorting out the
evidence he would need to illustrate the
truth. Christopher hadn't yet discovered the
details--how the money was handled or
whether money was necessary, how they
found the assassin and perfected his will to
kill . . . Putting faces to his theory was a
matter of professional routine. He knew
where to go, which men to contact. He
thought he might very well be killed.

Also in Arrow by Charles McCarry


THE BETTER ANGELS
THE BRIDE OF THE WILDERNESS

THE LAST SUPPER

THE MIERNIK DOSSIER

THE SECRET LOVERS

	THE

TEARS OF AUTUMN


Charles McCarry


ARROW BOOKS


Arrow Books Limited
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA

An imprint of Random Century Group


London Melbourne Sydney Auckland

Johannesburg and agencies throughout

the world


First published in Great Britain by Hutchinson 1975

Coronet edition 1976

Arrow edition 1984

Reprinted 1989

© Charles McCarry 1975


This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall
not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired
out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior
consent in any form of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed on the
subsequent purchaser


Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Courier International Ltd, Tiptree, Essex

ISBN 0 09 934670 2

For Mother

To the living, one owes consideration;
to the dead, only the truth.


-VOLTAIRE

(Lettres sur Oedipe)


,*


\ "

"The Pentagon's secret study of the Vietnam war discloses
that President Kennedy knew and approved of plans for the
military coup d'etat that overthrew President Ngo Dinh Diem
in 1963

" 'Our complicity in his overthrow heightened our responsibilities
and our commitments' in Vietnam, the study
finds. ..."


--the pentagon papers, as published by The New York Times


one


Paul Christopher had been loved by two women who could not
understand why he had stopped writing poetry. Cathy, his wife,
imagined that some earlier girl had poisoned his gift. She became hysterical in bed, believing that she could draw the secret
out of his body and into her own, as venom is sucked from a
snakebite. Christopher did not try to tell her the truth; she had
no right to know it and could not have understood it. Cathy
wanted nothing except a poem about herself. She wanted to
watch their lovemaking in a sonnet. Christopher could not
write it. She punished him with lovers and went back to America.

Now his new girl had found, in a flea market on the Ponte
Sisto, the book of verses he had published fifteen years earlier,
before he became a spy Christopher read her letter in the

3

Bangkok airport; her headlong sentences, covering the crisp
airmail sheet, were like a photograph of her face. She made him
smile. His flight was called over the loudspeaker in Thai; he
waited for the English announcement before he moved toward
the door, so that no one who might be watching him should
guess that he understood the local language. His girl was waiting
in Rome, changed by her discovery that he had once been
able to describe what he felt.

Christopher walked across the scorched tarmac into the
cool American airplane. He didn't smile at the stewardess; his
teeth were black with the charcoal he had chewed to cure his
diarrhea. He had been traveling down the coast of Asia for three
weeks, and he had spent the last night of his journey in Bangkok
with a man he knew was going to die. The man was a Vietnamese
named Luong. He thought Christopher's name was
Crawford.

They had met in the evening, when it was cool enough to
remain outside, and walked together along the river while
Luong delivered his report. Later, at a restaurant, the two of
them ate Thai food, drank champagne, and talked in French
about the future. Just before dawn, Christopher gave his agent
money to pay for the girl, quiet and smooth as a child, who sat
down beside Luong and placed her small hand in his lap. Luong
smiled, closed his eyes, and ran his fingertips over the flowered
material of the girl's dress and onto the skin of her neck. "No
difference, silk and silk," he said. "Can you loan me some baht?"
Christopher handed Luong two dirty Thai bank notes. Luong,
his face reddened by drink, started to leave with the girl, then
came back to Christopher. "Is it true that these girls will dance
on your spine before making love?" he asked. Christopher nodded
and gave him another hundred-iwftf note.

Christopher paid the bartender and left. He walked
through the city with its smell of waste: dead vegetation, open
drains, untreated diseases of the skin. The people who slept in
the streets were awakening as the sun, coming up on the flat
horizon, flashed into the city like light through the lens of a
camera. A leper, opening his eyes and seeing a white man,

pher his sores. Christopher gave him a coin and

he reached the river, he hired a boatman to take him
ing market. He had three hours to kill before going
Ht. It was cooler on the river, and he was just another him among dozens who had risen early to be paddled
inning naked boys standing in die roiled waters and I boats filled with odorless flowers and lovely fruits
> taste. He bought some limes and shared them with .

-> Sf'

*#

Ight before, in the toilet of a bar, Luong had put his
it on a receipt for the money Christopher brought to
.monthly stipend. While Luong cleaned the ink off his
H4th whiskey from the glass he had carried with him into
|^ Christopher showed him th^ envelope. It was filled
;S&*s francs, new blue hundred-franc notes. "I'd better
fhtt till morning," Christopher said. Luong, who always
d the night with a girl, nodded. They agreed on a plan for -**-~l in the morning, checking their watches to be sure
showed the same time.

, as Luong slept, Christopher took the envelope out of
pocket. He put the stamp pad inside with the money, they it, and dropped it over the side of the boat. The white
"' grow twisted in the moving brown water of the Chao
and disappeared.

topher smiled at his own gesture. It was not likely that
Would understand the message. He trusted Christopher,
knew, of course, that agents were sometimes sacrificed,
:%e did not consider himself an agent. He did things for
ipher and Christopher did things for him: though Chris-was
white and Luong was brown, they had the same
This money," he asked once, "it's good money, from

Íil»_	flM ^"11 . .	I	1 . asked MY	» V		1.1


'but Christopher, throwing ten thousand francs in secret
fc*to a tropical river, did not really believe that the Viet-PP*
would understand that the loss of the money meant the
íflí Christopher's protection. It was more likely that he'd


think there had been a mistake, that Christopher would come
back, as he had always done. Luong would go back to Saigon
and die.
Christopher was in no danger. If the secret police in Saigon
interrogated Luong before they killed him, he would speak
about a blond American named Crawford who believed in social
justice and spoke unaccented French. Christopher had
what no American is supposed to have, an ear for languages. He
registered everything he heard, sense and tone, so that he understood
even Oriental languages he had never studied after
hearing them spoken for a few days. This trick was the fossil of
his talent for poetry.

"Luong can vomit all over the floor about you," said Wolowicz,
the man from the station in Saigon. "The Vietnamese
are never going to believe that an American can speak French
the way you do. They'll figure some Frenchman has been passing
himself off to Luong as an American, and well be off the
hook."
"At Luong's expense. There's no reason to let him be arrested.
You know they don't have any evidence he's tied up
with the VC. He's not."
Wolkowicz put bread in his mouth and softened it with a
sip of wine so he could chew it. Wolkowicz was self-conscious
about his fake teeth, but not for any cosmetic reason: his own
teeth had been pulled by a Japanese interrogator in Burma
during the Second World War, and there was a belief in the
profession that a man who had been tortured, and stood up
under it, could not afterward be trusted. He would know too
well what to expect.
"Since when do facts make any difference?" Wolkowicz
asked. "There's nothing you can do about this, Christopher."
"Luong is in Bangkok, waiting to meet me. I can tell him
to stay there."
"What good would that do? Nhu told us he was going to
grab Luong because he wanted to see if we'd warn him. If we
do, Nhu will know we've been running Luong. We don't need
that. We have enough trouble with the bastard without giving


j$!y

i'«H >

iA* him-

^



him>

'ii
7 *

/'
iK

him proof that Luong and that noisy little political party of his
"feave an American case officer."

"They'll kill him," Christopher said.

"Theyll kill him in Bangkok if they have to. We can't sal-'
vage him without blowing you and the whole political operation.
One agent isn't worth it."

"Do me a favor, will you? Call him by his name. He's not

an abstraction. He's five feet six inches tall, twenty-nine years

old, married, three children, a university graduate. For three

' years he's done everything he's been asked to do. We got him

bto this."

"All right, so he's flesh and blood," Wolkowicz said. "He
proved that when he struck out in Vientiane last month."

"He's not supposed to be an FI operator. He's paid to act,
not to steal information. Luong was not the only one who
couldn't find out what Do Minh Kha was doing in Vientiane in
September."

"Action is what I wanted from Luong. He's supposed to be
a boyhood chum of Do's. He should have walked in on him, like
I suggested."

"Barney, Do would have shot him. He's a chief of section
of the North Vietnamese intelligence service. Do you think he
doesn't know who Luong works for?"

"I don't know what Do knows," Wolkowicz said. "I know
Luong struck out on me."

"Luong reported what he saw--Do and the girl, constantly
together for three days. At least he brought you back photographs."

"With no identification of the girl. Very useful."

Wolkowicz called for the check. They were sitting at a table at the Cercle Sportif. "Do you notice anything unusual about
that girl in the white bikini?" he asked.

Christopher looked at a French girl who had just pulled
herself out of the pool. She was wringing the water out of her
long bleached hair, and her body curved like a dancer's. "No,"
he said.

"She has no navel. Look again."

It was true. The girl's belly was smooth except for a thin

white surgical scar that ran through her tan into the waist of her
bathing suit.
"She had an umbilical hernia," said Wolkowicz, "so she
asked them to remove it when she had a cesarean. The clever
Vietnamese just removed her belly button altogether."
The waiter went away with the signed chit.
"Christopher," said Wolkowicz, "you're a conscientious
officer, everybody knows that. But Luong is not your child. He's
an agent. Go to Bangkok. Meet him. Give him his pay. Wipe his
eyes. But leave well enough alone."
"You mean let Nhu have him."
"Nhu may not live forever," said Wolkowicz.

On the airplane in Bangkok, a stewardess handed Christopher
a hot towel. Stewardesses disliked him. He had no sexual
thoughts about them; combed and odorless, in their uniforms,
they seemed as artificial as airline food and drink. He had been
in nine countries in twenty days, flying in and out of climates
and time zones, changing languages and his name at each landing.
His appetites and his emotions were suspended.
The jet turned over the city. Sunlight flashed on a pagoda
that quivered on the brown plain like a column of crystal; Christopher
knew that the pagoda was faced with broken blue china
saucers, smashed in the hold of an English sailing ship by a
storm a century before. He stood up when the seat-belt warning
went out and removed his jacket. The jacket was wool because
he was flying into a cold climate, and it was clammy with sweat.
It was the last day of October, 1963, and it would be chilly in
Paris, where he was going to make his report
Christopher organized his mind, sorting out what he had
learned and what he had done in the past twenty days. When
he closed his eyes, he saw the girl who had no navel beside the
pool in Saigon, the brown girl he had bought in Bangkok for
Luong, and finally the girl in Rome who was waiting with his
book of poems to make love to him.

Desire is not a thing that stops with death,
but joins the corpse and fetus breath to breath.. . .

Christopher remembered what he had written well
, but not so well as he remembered what had made him
His grandfather's death had given him his first poem,
; quatrains in Tennyson's voice. The old man, lying in a
[ with the tubes removed from his arms so that he might a in his own time, thought that he was in a railroad station;
- ran for his train he met his friends, and they were young
"Mae Foster! Your cheeks are as red as the rose! . . . I You're wearing the white dress I always loved!" Chris-r's
last poem was written in his own voice after he slept him a girl whose brother, who trusted Christopher as Luong him had died for nothing. She sobbed all through the act
After the girl had gone to sleep, Christopher wrote a sonnet
?IWd left it beside her; rhyme and meter came as easily to him 'ft ate technique of sex, and had as little to do with love. This
happened in Geneva, on a night when snow had fallen, so that
iSfUle gray city under its winter clouds gave off a little light. I Christopher, as he stepped off the curb, was nearly hit by a car.
The incident did not frighten him. It interrupted his behavior,
fts a slight electric shock will cause a schizophrenic to cross over a in the mind from one personality to another. He saw what his
poems had become: another part of his cover, a way of beautifying
what he did. He went back to the bedroom of the sleeping
' girl and burned what he had written. She found the ashes when
she woke, and knowing what they were because Christopher
had written her other poems, considered them more romantic
than the sonnet.

"Do you wish to sleep?" the stewardess asked.
"No," said Christopher. "Give me a large whiskey."

2

Christopher walked out of the Aérogare they Invalides, under
the bare elms along the Seine. Autumn chill, smelling of wet
-' > pavement and the river, went through his clothes and dried the
sweat on his spine. He walked across the Pont Alexandre-in,
where he had once kissed his wife and tasted the orange she had
eaten. The winged horses on the roof of the Grand Palais were
black against the electric glow above the city. "The French do
have the courage of their vulgarity," Cathy had said when, as
a bride, she had first seen these colossal bronze animals trying
to fly away with the ugliest building in France.

There were two policemen on the bridge. Each carried a
submachine gun under his cape. Christopher walked by them
and waited until he was in the shadows at the other end of the
bridge before checking again to see that he was not being followed.
Christopher knew Paris better than any city in America.
He had learned to speak French in Paris, had written his book
of poems and discovered how to take girls to bed there, but he
no longer loved it. More, even, than most places in the world,
Paris was a city where his nationality was deplored and his
profession was despised; he could not stay there long without
being watched.

Near the Madeleine, Christopher went into a cafe, bought
a jeton, and called his case officer. When Tom Webster answered,
Christopher heard the click of the poor equipment the
French used to tap Webster's telephone. The volume of their
speech faded and increased as the recording machine in the
vault under the Invalides pulled power out of the line.

"Tom? Calisher here."

They spoke in English because Webster did not understand
French easily; he was slightly deaf, and he had learned Arabic
as a young officer. The effort, Webster said, had been so great
that it had destroyed his capacity to learn any other foreign
tongue.

"I'm staying with Margaret tonight," Christopher said.

"Then you've got better things to do than come over for a
drink," Webster said.

Christopher smiled. Webster's tone of voice told him that
he was proud of this quick-witted reply; he thought it made the
conversation sound natural. Webster paused, sorting out with
an almost audible effort the simple code they used on the telephone.

"Let's have lunch," he said at last. "Tomorrow, one o'clock
at the Taillevent. I know you like the lobster there."

, Christopher said, and hung up. By the time he had
the stairs and ordered a beer at the bar, he had over-pie
smile Webster's voice had brought to his lips. Webster
ÍfkQt very good at telephone codes. After seven years, he a that any name beginning with a C was Christopher's
phone name. He was able to remember that "Margaret"
Ifae euphemism for the safe house in the rue Bonaparte to
' Christopher carried a key. It was the time-and-place
' . that confused him. Christopher had spent many hours
alone in expensive restaurants like a disconsolate social
because Webster was never sure whether to add or
: seven hours from the time stated over the telephone
* meeting. Lunch at the Taillevent at one o'clock meant
Jeer at Webster'; apartment at eight o'clock. on In other ways, Webster was a skillful professional. When he
fc still in his twenties, he had saved a kingdom in the Near
ppt by penetrating a revolutionary organization and turning it
iinst itself, so that the terrorists murdered each other instead
their monarch. him king he saved was still his friend. Like all
od intelligence officers, Webster knew how to form friend-Ips
and use the friends he made. No human action surprised air or touched his emotions.

? Webster and Christopher needed to make no allowances
Jar one another. They lived in a world where all personal se-,'Jpets
were known. They had been investigated before they
!%ere employed; everything that could be remembered and
I'Mpeated about them was on file, the truth along with the gossip
«tod the lies. Gossip and lies were valuable: much can be under-jpatood
about a man by the untruths that are told about him. Once
fe § year, on the anniversary of their employment, they submitted
| to a lie detector test. The machine measured their breathing, pounds the sweat on their palms, their blood pressure and pulse, and ; it knew whether they had stolen money from the government,
. submitted to homosexual advances, been doubled by the oppo-|
sition, committed adultery. The test was called the "flutter." I They would ask of a new man, "Has he been fluttered?" If the
| answer was no, the man was told nothing, not even the true
name of t»i« case officer.

To Webster, the flutter was the ordeal of brotherhood. He
believed that those who went through it were cold in their
minds, trained to observe and report but never to judge. They
looked for flaws in men and were never surprised to find them:
the polygraph had taught them so much about themselves-- taught them that guilt can be read on human skin with a meter --that they knew what all men were.

They had no politics. They had no morals, except among
themselves. They lied to everyone except their government,
even to their children and the women they entered, about their
purposes and their work. Yet they cared about nothing but the
truth. They would corrupt men, suborn women, steal, remove
governments to obtain the truth, cleansed of rationalization and
every other modifier. To one another, they spoke only the truth.
Their friendships were deeper than marriage. They needed
each other's trust as other men needed love.

Webster recited these things to Christopher when he was
far gone in drink. They were true enough. Webster, a phlegmatic
man, had tears in his eyes; he had lost a young American
in Accra. The boy had been shot by members of the Ghanaian
service, who thought murder was the way in which secret
agents dealt with their enemies. "What that kid really liked
about this life is what we all like," Christopher said. "It's like
living in a book for boys." Webster was outraged; he leaped at
Christopher. "But he died! How many have you seen die? I can
name them for you." Christopher gave his old friend another
drink. "No need; I remember," he said. "But, Tom, be honest.
If it had been you those black amateurs shot, what would have
been your last thought?" Webster shook his head to clear the
whiskey from his voice: "I'd laugh. It would be such a goddamn
joke of a death." Christopher lifted his glass. "Absent friends,'*
he said.

Webster was short and muscular. He had once held the
shot-put record at Yale. He wore the clothes he had had in
college, fifteen years before, and shoes he had inherited from
his father that were a half size too small for him. Though he was
homely and had no luck with women, he was amused by Christopher's
good looks and the way girls came to him. "I'm the

; you keep in your attic," he told Christopher. "Each him sin, I get another wart."
pher, finishing his beer, remembered this and
I aloud as in his mind he saw Webster as clearly as in life.
' took away his glass and didn't ask if he wanted
'drink.

a the safe house, an apartment on the sixth floor of an old
; behind the Ecole they Beaux-Arts, Christopher ate the
had been left in the refrigerator for him, took a a, and sat down at a portable typewriter. He worked
' on his report until he heard the morning traffic moving him quais along the Seine. He wrote nothing about Luong, a to include the receipt for the money he had thrown into a. He burned his notes and the typewriter ribbon and I the ashes down the toilet.
placing the typed report inside the pillowcase, he a to bed and slept for twelve hours. He dreamed that his
^standing with the light behind her in a room in Madrid
he had slept with another girl, told him that she had him birth; even asleep, his mind knew that he had no child,
I he ended the dream.

; Tom Webster's apartment in the avenue Hoche had once
to a member of the Bonapartean nobility. Its salon
1 the taste of the marquis and his descendants. Carya
with broken noses stood at the corners of the ceiling; rosy him picnicked on the grassy banks of a painted brook that
, along the wainscoting.
'Tom makes fun of the decor," said Sybille, his wife. "But
lly, in his heart of hearts, he thinks it's trés luxe." "There's no need for all that before the other guests come," to said. "Paul knows that the chief decoration in all our
; is my scrotum, which you nailed to the wall years and him ago, Sybille."
"Does Paul know that?" Sybille asked. "But then he'strained to notice everything, isn't he? Paul, Tom is always so
glad to see you. He tells me in bed that you're absolutely the
best in the whole company. In bed--what is the significance of
that, do you suppose?"
Sybille Webster was a quick woman who liked to pretend
that she was married to a slow man. Her fine face was more
beautiful in photographs than in life. There were pictures of her
in every room, and these were an embarrassment to her; she
cleared away the frames when she invited strangers into the
house. Webster married her thinking that he would want sex
with no one else for the rest of his life, and he still gazed through
his glasses at his wife as if she were, at all times, whirling about
the room in a ballet costume. It was he who had taken the
photographs.
Christopher took the drink Sybille had made for him and
kissed her on the cheek. He handed his report to Webster.
"Read the first two contact reports, if you have a minute," he
said. "You may want to send something tonight."
"Why are you so good at the work, Paul?" asked Sybille.
"Do you know?"
"People trust him," Webster said.
"Do they? Wouldn't you think that word would get
around?"
"Oh, I think it has, Sybille," Christopher said. "You notice
that Tom never leaves us alone."
"He's been that way ever since he started to flag," Sybille
said. "That was, oh, the fourth day of our honeymoon. He took
me to New York--the Astor Hotel. I was just a simple virgin
from Tidewater Virginia. So many memories. Tom used to go
to the Astor when he was a soldier and meet interesting people
in the bar."
Sybille, sitting on the arm of Christopher's chair with her
legs crossed, pointed a finger at Webster, who never gave any
sign that he heard the things she said about him.
Webster tapped the report. "This is hotter than a firecracker,"
he said. "Do you think Diem and Nhu are really in
touch with the North?"

' not? They sure as hell don't trust Washington any-

at
was Nhu like at the party?"
lite. I didn't ask him to his face what he was planning.
: didn't like that."
Wolkowicz. All he wants to do is clean out was-

Pell,
he's expected to know everything that happens in a," Christopher said. "He doesn't see any sense in the
; I do, running people like Luong. It upsets the police him In a way, he's being logical. What good is building demo institutions to Wolkowicz? Diem and Nhu don't like it, know who's doing it."
a about Luong?" Webster asked. He drained his glass I it out to Sybille to be refilled,
tiu is going to pick him up and kill him. They'll torture him little first for appearances' sake."
stared at Christopher for a second, then took off
> and rubbed his eyes. "Did you warn him off?"
|^I was instructed not to," Christopher said, on Webster put his glasses back on his nose and resumed read-k
Sybille brought them another drink. "It surely is difficult I not to overhear some of the things you two say to each
she said. "Paul, do you want to play tennis with me ?"
"I'm going to Rome tonight."
him Sybille raised her hands in protest. "But dinner!" she cried.
Christopher told her that his plane didn't leave until two
: morning, and Sybille went on with what she wanted to a as if he had not spoken to her. He wondered how Webster
id a way to propose to her; Sybille sometimes answered
him a day or a week after they had been asked.
"You don't know what a coup you're going to witness," she
'Tom has invited Dennis Foley, the President's right-l
man. And I remembered that Harry McKinney is out of him, so I asked his lovely wife, Peggy, who thinks she's the

counselor to the embassy instead of her husband. Peggy
thought that about herself even when we were at Sweet Briar
together. It's going to be a treat, Paul."
Webster put Christopher's report into his briefcase and
locked it. "Foley's brother and I used to put the shot together,"
he said. "The brother's all right. I don't know this
one."
"You've been to lots of meetings with him all week," Sybille
said. "The entire embassy has been meeting with him. Foley
came to Paris to tell de Gaulle who's really running the world.
President Kennedy thought he ought to know--only de Gaulle
won't give Foley an appointment. Wonderful JFK! Oh, that
man is so sexy. He squeezed this little hand when he was here
with the First Lady and I said, 'I, too, think you're absolutely
irresistible, Mr. President.'"
"What did he say to you, Sybille?"
"He said, 'How nice to see you,' and sort of flung me down
the reception line toward Jackie. Then she said the same thing
and flung me again. They shake hands like a couple of black
belts."
Webster grasped Sybille's chin. "Sybille," he said, "let's not
have any of this Southern-belle chatter when Foley gets here.
He doesn't know you."
"Oh, we're all going to be very respectful, Tom. I do think
this administration has raised the whole tone of American life. Why, Peggy McKinney has been reading Proust in the original
French and learning the names of all those new African countries.
She says the people of Zimbabwe want rice and respect.
I always thought they wanted money."
"Sybille, how about making this your last martini?" Webster
said.
"I have to do something while you and Paul talk about
betrayal and torture."
"We don't enjoy it," Webster said.
"Oh," said Sybille, "I think it makes you happy enough."

is Foley, arriving with Peggy McKinney, did not have
Ejir of a man who expected to have a good time. He nodded a "** 3 and to Christopher when he was introduced, but did
to shake hands. Foley was a bony man who had played
til in college, and he had still the manner, self-aware
faintly contemptuous, of the athlete. He had a habit of
jiing his own body as he talked, running a hand over the
$1 of stiff black hair on the back of his head, unstrapping his
; gold watch and massaging his wrist. His eyes, pale blue
tiny irises, looked beyond the person with whom he was
«rsing. His face, which changed color rather than expres-when
he was pleased or annoyed by something that was
to him, was roughened by acne scars. Foley wore a two-i
suit with a tin PT-109 clasp on a Sulka tie. Like President
_dy, he drank daiquiris without sugar and smoked long,
, cigars. He had been talking to Peggy McKinney when he
led, and he moved her across the vast room, away from the r$y to continue the conversation. As Sybille and Christopher
bed, Peggy lit Foley's cigar for him with a table lighter.
^"Observe his gestures, listen to his voice," Sybille said.
|'s turning into a JFK. All these New Frontier people are like a» have you noticed? It must be some royal virus. him closer him «re to the throne, the worse the infection. Poor Peggy
"limey--see how she's trying to get everything just right?
: over here in Paris, all she can do is read Proust and take touch football. She plays left end in the Bois de Boulogne
Bry Sunday."

^Across the room, Foley nodded brusquely, as if Peggy had
Id him everything he was interested in hearing. He brought
fe empty glass to Sybille.

g-;( "Ibis is quite a place," Foley said. "How did you find it?" >,.. "Oh, the French have this idea that Americans will rent Itching," Sybille replied.

;..' Foley's glance ran like an adder's tongue over Sybille's face
p body, and a corner of his mouth lifted, as if he were reject-Ife
a sexual invitation. "I'll bet you're the wittiest woman in

Paris," he said. "I'd like some soda water. Just plain, with an ice
cube."

Sybille took his glass and went to the bar. Foley turned to
Christopher. "Webster tells me you're just back from Saigon,"
he said.

"Yes."

"I understand you talked to Diem and his brother."

"I saw them at a reception Nhu gave. It was more a matter
of overhearing what they said to others."

Foley took the glass Sybille handed to him and turned his
back on her. "I've read some of your stuff in the magazine," he
said. "I had a feeling you were holding back. Don't you write
everything you know?"

"Usually. I don't write what I don't know."

"Look, let's cut the crap. I've got eyes--you work with
Webster."

"Do I?"

"I can confirm it in thirty seconds if I have to. You're fresh
from Saigon. You seem to circulate at pretty high levels out
there. I'd like to hear your reactions. If they're worth it, 111 pass
them on to the boss when I see him tomorrow."

The others overheard. Webster fell silent and put a cold
pipe between his teeth. Peggy McKinney's face, as smooth as an
ingenue's, was suddenly alight with curiosity; though she saw
his name listed in the front of a great magazine and read his
articles, she had never believed Christopher's cover story.

"The Americans are talking to themselves," Christopher
said. "The Vietnamese say that the U.S. is working up to a coup
to remove the Ngos."

"We know that the ruling family, and Nhu and his wife
especially, are rabidly anti-American. What about that?"

Christopher shrugged.

"You think the U.S. government can work with a man like
Diem?" Foley asked.

"Maybe not. He wants to stop the war and get us out of
there. His brother is talking to the North. They have relatives
in Hanoi, and Ho and Diem know each other from the old
days."

it is beautiful. Do you think we can countenance their him Ho Chi Minh behind our backs?"
a had begun to move across the room toward Foley a. Foley moved a step closer to Christopher, as
nt anyone stepping between them. a asked for our help," he said. "We've committed our
1 You suggest that we stand by, tolerate corruption and a what amounts to Fascism, and let the whole project go
t^the drain?"
had know that it would make much difference, except him of American domestic politics." it's face had gone red. He tapped Christopher's chest him blunt forefinger.
him freedom of a people is involved," he said, "and that's it is involved. If you think we're holding on in Vietnam him We're afraid of losing the next election, you don't know
Fa lot about John F. Kennedy or the men around him."
('we got no answer to that, Mr. Foley."
put a hand on Foley's arm. "Sybille says dinner is
'he said.
' continued to stare into Christopher's face. "What do
: we do out there?" he asked. "Nothing?"
' Christopher answered, "that's the best thing

Cell, buddy, that's not the style any longer."
' put his glass into Webster's hand and strode into the
; room with Sybille and Peggy McKinney trailing after

At dinner, Foley's mood improved. He entertained Sybille him right and Peggy McKinney on his left with stories about him President.
"There are dogs and kids, great books and great paintings
I good music all over the White House," he said. "It's human
him, the way it must have been under Franklin Roosevelt. If
at to see the boss, I just go in. You know you'll come out
of there with a decision. The door is wide open on the world.
He's likely to pick up the phone and call some little twirt way
down the ladder in the Labor Department. Imagine, you're
forty and gray-faced, wearing a suit from Robert Hall, and for
fifteen years you haven't even been able to get an office with
a window. Then--ring and 'Mr. Snodgrass, this is the President.
What the hell are you doing about migrant workers today?' It
stirs up the tired blood." Foley looked around the table at the
smiles of his listeners.

"The bureaucracy can use a little of that, believe me," said
Peggy McKinney. "God, how we've needed to bring brains and
style back into the government. The embassy just crackles with
ideas and energy. De I'audace, et encore de I'audace--that's
what the foreign policy of a great nation should be."

"Christopher was just telling me the opposite," Foley said.

"Oh? Well, so many of Tom's friends have to be cautious."

"What do you mean by that?" Sybille asked, with her elbow
on the table and her wineglass held against her cheek.

"Oh, Sybille, come along now. We all know about Tom's
friends," Peggy McKinney said. "Is it true," she asked Foley,
"that the President putts when he thinks? I mean, does he really
get out his putter and knock golf balls around the Oval Office?
I think that's so lovely, do say it's true. I just devour all this
gossipy stuff. You really don't have to humor me."

"I don't mind. I've just spent a week listening to Couve de
Murville. Believe me, you're a welcome change," Foley said.
"Yes, the boss putts occasionally. He'll do it at the damnedest
times. The other day a couple of us came in with a recommendation.
It was serious stuff. A decision had to be made--the kind
of decision that would drive me, for instance, into agony. But
his mind is like crystal. He's right on top of everything. He knew
the situation--felt it, if you will, better than any of us. We gave
him some new information. He absorbed it. We gave him the
options. He didn't say a word at first. He got up, grabbed his
putter, lined up a shot, and tapped it across the rug. We all
watched the ball roll. Somehow--this will sound corny, but it's
true--we all suddenly saw that golf ball as the symbol of the fate
of a nation. Not a very big nation, not our nation, but a nation.

«traight into the cup. 'Okay,' said the boss. 'Go.'

a been another like him."

JWaed to Christopher. "Paul has just seen a presi
Vietnam," she said. "A little president. Do tell,

'-ty Peggy. "Diem or Ziem, or whatever his name grow."

srested," Foley said.

% not much to tell," Christopher said. "I stood by
ilked to somebody else. Or, rather, listened. The
ftras an American."
> that?" Foley asked.

'-' Wendell. He's a Republican from California."
about him," Foley said. "What poison is he spread-
i\


ft think you want to hear it, Mr. Foley."
p1! do," Foley said.

a may not like this," Christopher said. "Wendell hates
'^e. He said Kennedy ran a dishonest, dishonorable
in 1960--lying about a missile gap that didn't exist
ting a USIA report that was supposed to show Amerie
abroad was at an all-time low."
,„„18 have to have some excuse," Foley said. "What him.>-
dell
told Nhu that Kennedy wasn't elected President
was. He claimed there's evidence that votes were stolinois
and a couple of other states where there was a
feall difference in the popular vote. The Democrats are
White House by fraud, according to Wendell. He was
iumstantial, citing numbers and precincts to Nhu."
}y McKinney beat her fist on Sybille's tablecloth. "I've
heard such slander," she cried. 'That man's passport
to be taken away from him! I mean, Christ. ..."
" iy unwrapped a cigar. "What did Nhu say to all that?"

L

othing. I had a feeling he'd heard it all before."
ggy McKinney opened her mouth to speak. Foiey laid a
. on her arm. "People like Wendell and Nhu don't count,"

he said. "Power counts--and the right people are in power. 11
think we'll stay in power for quite a while." He grinned for the
first time all evening, and sipped his wine. "In fact, if I can use
one of the Republicans' more famous phrases, I think Mr. Nixon no
can look forward to at least twenty years of treason."
"Wit is back in the White House," said Peggy McKinney him
with tears of laughter in her eyes. "Let's drink to that."

6

Sybille led her guests into the salon for coffee. Peggy
McKinney stood with Foley, her feet placed at right angles like
a model's. She wore a pink Chanel suit, pearls, and a half-dozen
golden bracelets on her right wrist. With her thin, nervous body
and her bold features, she might have been taken for a Frenchwoman
who had affairs. That, she told Foley, was the impression
she had cultivated until the last election; the Kennedys had
made her want to be an American again.
Tom Webster had said nothing during dinner. The evening
had been spoiled for him by outsiders. Christopher operated all
the time on hostile ground; in every country but his own he was
a criminal. Outsiders, who did not know how fast betrayal traveled,
could do him harm, perhaps even kill him, by knowing his
name and speaking it at a cocktail party. Tonight Webster had
entrusted Christopher's identity to two people who had no
right to know it. He put his hand on Christopher's shoulder and
began to speak.
He never got the words out. The doorbell rang and Webster
went to answer it, closing the door behind him so that no
other stranger could catch a glimpse of Christopher. The others
went on talking; Christopher heard Webster speaking English
in the hall.
When he came back, he held a perforated embassy envelope
in his hand. He opened it and read the cable it contained.
"Wonderful," Webster said in a flat tone. "There's been a
coup d'etat in Saigon. Some generals have seized power. The
Saigon station says the coup has succeeded."
: about Diem and Nhu?" Foley asked. He took the
íte cable out of Webster's hand and read it. Peggy
, not cleared to read secret traffic, stepped back dis-é gazed at Foley and her eyes danced.
; knows," Webster said. "The ambassador talked to
I offered him asylum, but he didn't accept." him * dead man," Christopher said.
!y handed the cable back to Webster. His face was ex-

a
watched Sybille put her coflee cup down, very
the table. She sat in a corner of the sofa and looked
window. Christopher, remembering the anecdote
golf ball that symbolized a nation, stared at Foley, but
itial assistant did not glance his way.
Webster went to answer the ringing telephone. When
his hair was disheveled. "Diem is dead," he said.
They were shot by a young officer in the back of an
personnel carrier."
aid," said Peggy McKinney.
let out a long breath through his nose and made a
gesture, as if to drive home a point.
McKinney, flushed and smiling, took five small run-toward
the middle of the room. Planting her sharp
the carpet, legs apart, she said, "All together, folks-- cheers!"
ing her thin arm, bracelets jangling, she cried, "Hip, himI" She repeated the cheer three times. No one joined

bille put a fist to her mouth; Tom Webster fumbled for
ket comb and ran it through his hair. ^Paul," Peggy cried, pointing a long finger. "Did you do $ III bet you did, you sly spy--you were just out there in
ffalse mustache."
"No," Christopher said. "I didn't do it and I don't know
»did. I hope it really was the Vietnamese."
"Oh, come on," Peggy said.
I,'"Peggy, I'm going to tell you once more. I didn't know
anything about this, and I want that to be clear to you. Don't
give me credit for murder, if you don't mind."
"Murder?" said Peggy. "Surgery."
"Jesus Christ," Sybille said. "Excuse me." She left the room.
"Did I say something?" Peggy asked, touching Foley's
sleeve. "You'd think Sybille would be a little tougher, considering
Tom's line of work."
"I guess Sybille's got the idea that assassination is foul
work," Christopher said.
"Well, she can shed tears for both of us," Peggy said. "What
happened tonight--what's the date? November 1,1963--may
show the world that the United States is going to take the
initiative for a change. Cod knows they need to wake up to the
reality of power in this world."
"You think assassination is the way to wake them up?"
"Oh, Paul, come on--a petty Asiatic dictator and a secret-police
chief."
Christopher said, "Well, I have a plane to catch."
Peggy shook hands with him. Foley stayed where he was,
across the room, looking Christopher up and down as if he
wanted to remember every detail of his appearance.
In the hall, Webster helped Christopher into his raincoat.
"There's one thing about this," he said. "Luong should be all
right."
"Maybe," Christopher said. "I don't think they'd have had
time to take him with them."
Sybille came into the hall on tiptoe. She put her arms
around Christopher. "Sorry I fled, love," she said. "I've reached
the age where everything reminds me of something that happened
in the past. Wherever we go, it's corpse after corpse.
Cod, how I hate death and politics."

Christopher walked up the shallow hill to the Etoile and
found a taxi. The streets shone with rain. No one else was out
walking. His mouth was dry with the metallic aftertaste of wine.
He closed his eyes and tried not to hear the whine of the taxi's
tires: he did not want to use any of his senses. In his mind, as

a clear photograph projected on a screen, he saw
, framed in russet hair and filled with belief. He had
tit, his first in three weeks: it was a memory of the
'skin.

two

1

They were in Molly's bed when she asked him about his poems.
She lay on an elbow, her lips a little swollen, a strip of yellow
sunlight running through her hair and across her cheek.
"Why didn't you ever tell me about your poetry?" Molly
asked. " 'How odd,' I thought, when I saw the traditional slim
volume, all covered with coffee stains, lying in a barrow on the
Ponte Sisto. 'Here's a chap with my lover's name who writes
poetry.' Then I read them, and it was your voice, you infamous
wretch."
"I think I'd like dinner at Dal Bolognese tonight," Christopher
said.
"Ah, things of the flesh and things of the spirit. Such an odd
combination in an American. I want to know what you were
like when you wrote those verses."
was she like, the girl in the sonnets?"
Molly--that was fifteen years ago. I invented her." e you the man of her dreams?"
didn't like me at all, and when the book was published
.me even less. She said people would think she wasn't

; you loved her."
Was crazy about her."
" a was her name? Tell."
ey."

ley? Jesus--didn't that discourage you?"
. right, what was the name of your first love?"
, ul Christopher," Molly said. "That much is true. But
pod he has deceived me with a bird named Shirley. Paul,
ipoems are so good. I'm bloody jealous. Why don't you

£that now, instead of doing journalism?"
lost the touch."
didn't you tell me?"
Because it didn't matter." a matters. What else haven't you told me?"
Juite a lot, Molly."

jjpVe often thought so. Paul, I wish you'd talk." I talk all the time. We agree that Red China should be in
nited Nations. I ask you about Australia and your girlhood him outback. I explore your reasons for hating kangaroos. I
I your body."

folly kissed him and raised his hand to her breast. "Yes, all
, hut you never go deep. I dream about you, I see you in
past, I see you in Kuala Lumpur and in the Congo when rre away. But you never speak--you're making me invent
, as you invented that girl."
"What do you want to know?"
, >"What is the worst wound you have ever suffered?"
"Ah, Molly--I'm bulletproof."

"You're covered with scars. Please tell me, Paul. I'll not ask I'll another question, ever."
Christopher sat up in bed, moving his body away from

Molly's, and pulled the sheet over both of them. "All right," he
said. "Cathy could not bear to be alone. Her life, our marriage,
took place in bed. She was a hungry lover, not graceful as you
are. She needed sex, she'd scream and wail. Once we were
thrown out of a hotel in Spain--they thought we were using
whips. I knew she slept with men when I was away. I had no
rule about it--it was her body, she could use it as she wished.
She thought that showed a lack of love. She'd never believe I
couldn't feel sexual jealousy."
"I believe it," Molly said.


Cathy had not been content to let their marriage die. She
set out to kill it. Christopher realized soon after he met her that
he had never been so aroused by a female; his desire for her
showed him a part of his nature he had not known to exist; he
was seized by a biological force that had nothing to do with the
mind, and he was driven to have her as, he supposed, a father
would be seized by the instinct to kill the man who attacked his
child. Cathy was a lovely girl with elongated gray eyes like a
cat's, perfect teeth, a straight nose, a lithe, frank body. She had
been sent to college, and then to Europe to study languages and
art, but she did nothing. She had superstitions, but no ideas; she
had learned to play the piano and talk and wear clothes. She was
beautiful and wanted to be nothing else. "What do you want?"
Christopher asked her as they walked along a beach in Spain.
"Not what other girls want--I'm not domestic. No children, no
career. I want, Paul, a perfect union with a man."

Cathy believed that she was different from all other human
beings. Christopher was the first man in whom she had
confided; she thought he was more like her in mind and soul
than anyone else could be. When at last they went to bed, she
was rapturous. But her passion was all she had. She had no skill
as a lover and could not learn.

After a time she sensed that this was the trouble. Cathy
wanted to satisfy Christopher. He wanted to reassure her. They
made love constantly, in bed, in the car. She would meet him
at the airport naked under a raincoat, and remove the coat as
they drove home, pulling the wheel so that he would turn into

js at Ostía Antica, where they would lie behind the «tones of an old wall, shuddering on the cold earth in a
JJecause she was an American and his wife, he told her
is work--the nature of his profession, not its details. She pounds hat he kept more from her than official secrets--that
id not forget some other woman whose name he
Jt reveal. She begged him to write about her. "You won't
5 what you are," she said. "That's all I want."
ristopher loved to look at her. He bought her jewels and
and read to her. After a time, they lived in public as
|Stt possible. They went to bullfights in Madrid, to the
| in London, they had restaurants they always went to
yorite drinks. Cathy loved to eat wild boar at Da Mario
;Via della Vite, she liked to sit up late on the sidewalk at
jjfs, drinking Negronis.

ten Christopher was away, she would ride through
on summer nights in his convertible with the top down. a, while he was in Africa, she met an Italian actor. After
ifopher came back, she kept up the affair. She found other
it She went back to the actor. She would come home to
ftopher, still wet, and want to make love. Christopher on the Italian--he took Dexedrine and it made him violent,
tas a Maoist who hated America; Cathy, who looked like a
It an American film, was something he wanted to spoil. ?inally Cathy decided to break off with the actor. She had
ime things at his apartment, dresses, jewelry, books. When
arrived, in the afternoon, she found him waiting with a
sn of his friends, all Italian except for a couple of Scandina-!
girls. They were drinking spumante. The actor pulled into the apartment and threw her into the center of the I room. He had arranged the furniture so that the chairs all around the walls, like a theater in the round. While his
ids watched, the actor beat her with his fists. He punched
' breasts, smashed her face. It went on for a long time--her him and the bones in her cheeks were broken, some of her it were knocked out.

Cathy went downstairs to a coffee bar and called Christor.
When he got to her, her face was a mass of blood. Her hair

was soaked with blood. She had vomited on her clothes. She
wore only one shoe. Christopher took her to the hospital. The
car was open. "Put up the top," she kept saying, "put up the
top."

"I see," Molly said.
"Do you? Outside the hospital, I kissed her mouth. She was
blinded by blood. I was enough like her by then that I would
have pulled off her clothes right there, but they came out with
a stretcher."

That evening, seated at Doney's while the crowd drifted by
on the Via Veneto, they read the papers. Christopher saw, for
the first time, photographs of the dead bodies of the Ngo brothers.
Diem's corpse was closer to the camera, and a broad streak
of blood ran from the wound in his temple over his cheek.
"What happens to your piece on Diem now?" Molly asked.
"I don't know. I cabled the magazine. They may want a fix,
or they may not run it. They wanted something unflattering,
but that may not seem appropriate to them now."
"You saw him?"
"Only for a few minutes. It's odd, you know, but no one
knows anything about him, really. He was sealed up in his
family, never talked to strangers. All the stuff about him in the
papers was science fiction."
Piero Cremona, wearing a perfectly pressed tan suit and a
silk scarf around his neck, came out of the crowd, lifting his
hand in greeting.
"The famous American correspondent is back from-- where was it this time, Paul?"
Christopher shook hands. "How's the world's best-dressed
Communist?" he said.
Cremona ran the fingernails of both hands down the breast
of his jacket, making the silk whistle. "The true revolutionary
blends into his environment," Cremona said. "In the jungles of

would wear the branches of trees. Here, this is my
>."

ona wrote political articles for L'Unitá, the Commuaper.
He signed his pieces with the nom de guerre he
: as a partisan,-everyone
but the police had forgotten
Cremona was born with. Christopher avoided Ameriers,
and Americans generally, in Rome, but he had grow a lot of Italians when he was learning the language. „ reported on them or carried out any intelligence
in Italy; it was his rule never to operate in the country him lived.

lona sat down with Christopher and Molly. He tapped
,paper photograph of the dead Vietnamese. "The im-eagle
devours its young, eh?" he said,
hat the line this week, Piero?"
. the obvious truth, Paul. Read my piece tomorrow.
I've just come from the typewriter." him is it so obvious? Corriere delta Sera says the trigger
id by a South Vietnamese lieutenant."
, and the junta in Saigon says Diem and Nhu commit-ide,"
Cremona said. "Everyone knew it was going to
you have a man of action in the White House now. I
1 it weeks ago. A handful of dollars, a head full of
Madame Nhu, when she was here last month, predicted

*ell, if you're right, it ought to be a very good thing for
lutíon."

best, dear Paul, the best. Ah, you capitalist-imperial-:
so adept at fulfilling the predictions of Lenin. You are
for your own doom. Up to now, you've been growling in
Ilina like a caged tiger. Now you must bleed, Paul. There chaos--generals cannot run a government in a civil war.
;«rmy has always been a joke, now their country will be \ The U.S. Marines will land--they must. You're commit,
>w to playing a bad hand." 'Last time I saw you, you were telling me that Diem and
feWere a couple of Nazis."

"They were--but they were no joke," Cremona said.
"Well, I must leave you. Molly, why does a beautiful girl like you
consort with this running dog of Wall Street?"
"Our relationship is not political," Molly said.

They had made love all afternoon. While Christopher took
a shower, Molly wrote five hundred words on Italian fashions for
the Australian weekly she represented in Rome. Christopher
found her at the typewriter, naked, with her glasses slipping
down her nose and a yellow pencil clenched in her teeth, when
he came out of the bathroom.
"Tripe," she mumbled. Molly wanted to live the life she
thought he led, interviewing foreign ministers and film directors
for a great American magazine. She kept all his articles, and
would have typed them if he let her. Christopher did not want
a secretary or a wife. He had hired Molly as an assistant two
years before, to have someone in his office while he was away.
It was important to his cover that someone answer the telephone
and collect the mail. He kept nothing in the office, or
anywhere else, that would connect him to his work as an agent.
Molly could discover nothing.
Molly, who talked so beautifully, wrote badly, and she had
never had an editor who knew enough about English to punish
her for it. She asked too many questions when she interviewed;
she had not learned to let her sources talk and betray themselves.
Mostly she did stories about Italians, who liked the fiat
accent she used to speak their language, and tried to seduce
her. She had beautiful legs and a soft way of smiling that made
men want her.
Christopher had realized that he wanted her to stay with
him after they had gone to bed for the first time. They had
eaten lunch together on the first warm day of the year in the
Piazza Navona. Molly had tied a scarf under her chin, and her
bright hair was hidden. When Christopher spoke to her she
searched his face, as though for some hint that he was mocking
her. She spoke English with a public school accent, but when
she talked Italian to the waiter her Australian intonations were
audible.
a gray sweater and a pleated skirt like a school-topher
thought she was ashamed of her clothes,
uned of her Australian accent. He wanted to ask found when he talked to her; he thought she must
4 bad love a£Fair. Her eyes were flecked with copper,
she peeled a mandarine he saw that she had lovely,
ids,

|irf mischief, because she was so shy, he said, "Would
$0 make love?" Molly replied, touching the corner of
j& with a napkin, "Yes, I think I would."
liter knew that Christopher slept with Molly. He sent him in for a background investigation without mentioning
was Christopher's mistress. "Do you want to read the
" --«r asked when it came back from Canberra. "No,"
said. "She seems to be okay," Webster said. "If you him with a foreigner, an Australian is as clean as you can
aid not live together; Molly kept her own small apart-i
didn't like the bed at his place, where Cathy had


a walked to the restaurant through the Borghese Gar-ly
did not hold his arm; she never touched him in
Streetlights glowed in the branches of the trees. They
on the Pincio and looked out over the dark city.
Vre too late for the sunset," Molly said. x dinner, they drank coffee in the Piazza del Popolo.
does smell of coffee in the winter," Molly said. "Have
*ver mentioned that to me?"

"" grinned at him. Christopher loved the scent of Rome, a of dust and cooking and bitter coffee. When he had
; enough wine, he described the aroma of the city to
„,r , and they tried to separate the odors. ííMolly had caught him in the middle of a thought. He didn't Of to leave her, but she mistook what she saw in his face.
k-**You don't much like being loved, do you?" Molly said.
': Christopher stopped himself from touching her. "I'm going the States next week," he said.
"For how long?"

"A week, ten days."
"Will you be coming back to Rome, or going on?"
'To Rome. Maybe we can go someplace together."
Molly read his face again. "We're already here," she said.

David Patchen came to the safe house in Q Street at three
o'clock in the morning. He was white with fatigue, and the glass
of scotch Christopher gave him trembled in his hand. He drank
it and poured another before he spoke.
"Dennis Foley wants your balls for breakfast," he said.
As a seventeen-year-old Marine on Okinawa, Patchen had
been wounded by grenade fragments. The left side of his face
was paralyzed. He walked with a limp. One of his eyes had been
frozen open and he had learned not to blink the other; he wore
a black eye patch when he slept. Patchen had no gestures. He
was so still, like a hunting animal lying on the branch of a tree,
that people would cough in nervous relief when finally he
moved, and they saw that he limped.
Christopher was Patchen's only friend. They met in a naval
hospital in the last days of the war and played chess together.
While Patchen was still in a wheelchair, they were mustered
with a handful ago other wounded men to be decorated by a
visiting admiral. Afterward, as Christopher pushed Patchen
along a path planted with oleanders, Patchen unpinned the
Silver Star from his bathrobe and threw it into the bushes. Both
men were younger sons who had grown up in families in which
an older brother was the preferred child. They were contemptuous
of human beings who needed admiration.
Later, they had been roommates at Harvard. Another Harvard
man, a few years older, took them to dinner at Lockeber's
in the spring of their senior year. He ordered Pouillyumé with the oysters and Médoc with the roast lamb, and
afterward, in his room at the Parker House, recruited them for
intelligence work. Neither man hesitated; they understood that
what the recruiter was offering them was a lifetime of inviolable
privacy.

«ise people who had seen him remembered his
Patchen remained in Washington. He was a natural
rator; he absorbed written material at a glance and got anything. He knew the names and pseudonyms,
Dgraphs and the operative weakness of every agent a by Americans everywhere in the world. Patchen
st any of them, and none of them knew he existed, but
ted their lives, forming them into a global sub-society
become what it was, and remained so, at his pleasure,
turned gray when he was thirty, possibly from the pain
pbunds. At thirty-five he was outranked by only four men
> American intelligence community, ïferistopher had gone into the field almost at once. It was
nt that his book of poems gave him reality and an excuse
Snywhere. He began to write magazine articles after the
~ "oriety of his poems dissipated.

a met once or twice a year in Washington. Patchen's
; gone, like Cathy Christopher. Patchen and Christo-saw
changes in one another, but the changes were physir
minds were as they had always been. They believed
ect as a force in the world and understood that it could 4 I only in secret. They knew, because they had spent their
doing it, that it was possible to break open the human
"fence and find the dry truth hidden at its center. Their
had taught them that the truth, once discovered, was the of little use: men denied what they had done, forgot I they had believed, and made the same mistakes over and
again. Patchen and Christopher were valuable because
/had learned how to predict and use the mistakes of others.
'"Foley ordered me to destroy any report you'd filed on that
Nry of Carson Wendell's about the 1960 election," Patchen .J. "I told him there was no report."

*	"Did he believe that?"

'' "Of course not. He's got the idea we run a gossip mill. You
|y have to write something, so he can burn it in his ashtray."
Christopher smiled.

*	"He wanted you fired," Patchen said. "The Director put a
, wdwritten note in your file explaining that you were responding to a direct request for information and had no political
motive."

"Does Foley believe that?"

"How could he? He lives on loyalty to one man, the President.
He's had no experience with coldhearted bastards like
you. No one but us can see that information is just information.
Foley thinks you're an enemy if you don't agree with everything
the President does, one hundred percent."

"So now everyone agrees with assassination?"

Patchen lifted his bad leg, using both hands, and crossed it
over the other one. "Foley thought you were being emotional,"
he said. "I could kick Tom Webster's ass for bringing you two
together."

"That doesn't answer the question."

Patchen hesitated. It was not like Christopher to ask for
information he didn't need to have.

"The outfit had nothing to do with what happened to Diem
and Nhu," he said.

"Foley didn't seem very surprised at the news."

"I can't explain Foley, or what he does," Patchen said.

Patchen opened his briefcase with a snap; he had had
enough of this subject. He handed Christopher a newspaper
clipping, the obituary of an Asian political figure who had died
the week before of a heart attack.

"Did you see this? It isn't often that an agent dies of natural
causes."

Christopher read the obituary. It said that the Asian would
be remembered by history for three things: his autobiography,
which made the world aware of the struggle of a whole people
through the description of the author's own life; the Manifesto of
1955, which had influenced political thought and action
throughout the Third World; and the statesman's success in
driving Communists out of the political life of his country.

"Not even a chuckle?" Patchen asked.

Christopher shook his head. It was a convention that
agents, even after they were dead, were called by their code
names, never by their own. The Asian's pseudonym had been
"Ripsaw."

Itkuch of Ripsaw's autobiography actually happened

" Patchen asked.

OÍthe anecdotes were true as he told them to me.

tt the parts where he had deep, deep thoughts. The
i-of 19551 wrote on a plane, going down from Japan,
("universal text--I'd done things like it before for some
*?ans. There just happened to be a guy from the Times

when Ripsaw issued it, so it got publicity."

a you think it's funny, the way the Times is always ixi you, and it doesn't know you exist?"
;*s what newspapers are for."
''to explain the real world."
re is no real world, David."

ien smiled at the irony. He took back the clipping and
briefcase. He sat for a long moment with his good eye
1 a hand over the other one, sipping from his glass of
, He took his hand away from his face and stared at

grow.

been thinking about you," he said. "I got out your file
it; you've been through a lot in twelve years. You're
,, air humor, Paul. I've seen it happen to others who stay
field too long, do too much." w"n what happen?"

éssional fatigue. I believe, in the case of Christians, it's
"religious melancholy. Do you play with the thought of
tí Out? I know you like to be with this girl Molly." bmetimes I play with the thought. I'm tired of the travel,
*e or twice a year I meet someone I'd rather not lie to."
lolly wouldn't be enough for you, you know, any more
ipetry was, or your wife. You say there's no real world, a there is one, it consists of you and maybe a dozen a operators like you on both sides. You ought to be in-pted."
"Maybe I am."

*No. Your agents are intoxicated. Foley is intoxicated.
tVwhy you don't like him--you know how easily you could
him if he was a foreigner." him "Well, I'm going back out. I have to meet Spendthrift in

Léopoldville later this week, and after that I "Want I
left of the network in Vietnam."
"Who knows?" Patchen said. "You m»y» ^\ sphere improved in Saigon. The embassy's
bounce and optimism."
"I'll bet. Do you think the Foleys have au*iy j<j
going to happen to them out there?"
Patchen stood up. When he spoke, he tunned |
of his face toward Christopher. "They're a íiiinny I
said. "They're bright. They believe in actio«a, and «|
seemed refreshing. But they're almost totally* in
have about as much experience as you and I r*a*di
recruited, and there's no way to season them-"ÍTiey
|
White House and opened the safe, and the p*>*wer I
ered took their breath away. 'Christ, let's use it!'] does corrupt. They think they can do anything THA
anyone in the world, and there'll be no con*e*qu
"But there always are."
"You know that," Patchen said. "For those who him
the corpse, there's no way of knowing."

On his way out of America, Christopher ssto
fork to have lunch with the managing editor «of his I'll
The man was fascinated with the internal polittics of I
zine. In his eyes, Christopher was a good writenr who J|
six articles a year according to his contract.
Christopher had been offered the contract! aft^l
profiles of a dozen foreign statesmen whom no < oth*^|
had been able to interview. It was good cover, but ttjj
security problem; Christopher could not be ïrev'
editors.
The Director called the chairman of the boaard off
zine; the two old men had been at Princetonn f>8
Director explained that Christopher was an inteellté rive in addition to being a writer. It was arranged'
pher's salary, twenty thousand dollars a year, wcouK*

screet w#»y ago the favorite charity of the chairman of the
. He either saw no reason to inform the editor of the

ine of Ghrij ;opher's connection with the government, or

about it It him any case, no one at the magazine had ever

toed a susp cion of Christopher.
ec managing editor drank three martinis before lunch.

him Christopher he had thrown away his profile of Ngo
Diem. 1

**My eyes glared over," he said. "Diem was boring enough
he was aliva. Who's going to read about a dead dinosaur?
'him no American angle."

[* asked Christopher to write five thousand words on the
Pope.


' iristopher, alone, sat in a sidewalk cafe in LeopoldviUe.
grown too dark to read, and the book he had brought
him lay closed on the table. Its pages, like Christopher's and the tablecloth, were swollen with moisture.
Phree gaunt adolescent boys ran among the tables of the
Two of them carried armloads of wood, and the third
.bed a piece of meat. It appeared to be the ribs of a large
al and it had begun to spoil; Christopher smelled its rancid ^ The boys crouched by a mimosa tree a few yards from the «and started a fire. The flames burst upward, licking the bole »tree, silhouetting the thin boys, who threw the meat into
Ere and danced away from its heat.
iThe child who had been carrying the meat darted away
ft his friends and came to Christopher's table, giggling as he
?He was a leper. He snatched Christopher's unfinished botf
beer from the table and ran away, hugging it against his
it with a fingerless hand. Back at the fire, he and his compan
passed the bottle from mouth to mouth.
.«"Christopher paid the impassive waiter and walked away. a unlighted streets were deserted except for an occasional
^golese, asleep in the dirt. By day, the concrete buildings,
pted white or rose or pale blue like the Belgian sky, showed


tropical sores and lesions. Now they were dark shapes, too geometrical
to be natural, but emitting no more light than the
forest that lay a few hundred yards away. Christopher walked
in the middle of the street, to avoid the doorways. When he
looked back, he saw the faint reflection of the fire in the high
branches of the tree by the cafe.
It was too dark to see the river, but he could hear it. A
power launch passed, showing no lights, and Christopher heard
the canoes rattling at their moorings in its wake. He walked
along the bank until he saw the outlines of a river steamer; it
had once been white and its blunt stern was clearly visible
against the sky. Christopher, leaning against a piling, waited
until he saw a tall man go aboard the steamer. Then Christopher
climbed the gangplank, crossed the deck, and went down
a ladder into the interior of the boat. A candle burned in a
stateroom at the end of a narrow gangway, and Christopher
walked toward its nervous light. He heard Nsango behind him,
and stopped.
"My friend," Nsango said.
Christopher turned around. The black, wearing the khaki
shorts and torn singlet of a workman, embraced him. He took
Christopher's hand in his own dry fingers and led him to the
stateroom.
"I'm sorry to make you wait," Nsango said. "Did you come
every night?"
"Yes," Christopher said. "Four times, but I never saw the
light."
Nsango laughed. "I was in the bush. I was waiting, too. But
I knew you would come back tonight. I saw you in the cafe,
reading your book."
"Yes, I saw you across the boulevard."
"Ah, what eyes!" Nsango spoke rapid French at the back of
his throat, with many extra sounds as if his own language
struggled to reveal itself. "Well, what news?"
"The Congolese think you're in Angola. Someone told the
Portuguese you were camping along the frontier, and they told
the police."

ug for me there?"
hing the crossing points."
go the other way." He laughed again.
you explain this journey?" him in the camp that political organization was
, villages I know about. They probably think I no somewhere."

going on in Katanga?" Christopher asked. a quiet, my friend. I lose five or six men a week--
to their villages."
tell them to go?"
iy"B wait for me there. They don't like the new

5-^
«re new foreigners?"

* ft Chinese have all gone away. They took their
ade men bulletproof with them. But now we have him of them are black men."
ing tike a native, Nsango. Who are they?" him guffawed. "They fell from the sky on great white
. Oh, we were frightened!" to had seen this man, who had the best political
Africa, trembling in fear because he believed a
entered his body as he slept; he felt it devouring his
a maggot. Christopher had brought a juju man from
Coast and he removed the spirit, sending it into the
the man who had cursed Nsango. Christopher had
~~ juju man fifty ounces of gold for his work. He and
1 used the sorcerer again to carry out an operation
. would result in Nsango's becoming, in time, the
«Binister of his country. They failed, and Nsango had
tack into the forest. Christopher knew he would never
Jut again, and Nsango, despite his diploma from the Sorftnd
his name that was known throughout the world, soil
.enchantment and blamed it for his bad luck. Nsango was
pnvever, afraid of foreigners.

Phey're Cubans," he told Christopher. "Three blacks, four a," He removed a stained envelope from the pocket of his

shorts and handed it over. Inside was a roll of film and a sheet
of paper on which the names the Cubans used were written in
Nsango's neat missionary-school hand.
"When did they come?" Christopher asked.
"Maybe a month ago. First there was this one." Nsango
pointed at the sheet of paper. "'Manuel. He speaks good French.
Then the others a few days afterward."
"How did they find you?"
"I suppose the Chinese told them."
"What do they want?"
"A revolution. They talk even more than the Chinese--we
have meetings all the time. The men like it, there's a lot of beer,
and they brought some very good guns."
"How many?"
"Ah, my friend, not so many. Some mortars. Not enough
ammunition."
"Are they issuing the weapons to your men?"
"No, they're like the Chinese were at first. We must make
our own weapons to make our own revolution. Spears and
stones--Mao's teachings. We killed a South African for them-- the capitalists have that mercenary camp still outside Elisabeth-ville.
We ambushed a jeep, the whites were drunk. One got
away--he had a machine pistol, so we didn't chase him."
"Are you going back?"
"Yes, I'm the leader. We need the guns. The Cubans won't
stay forever."
"Nsango, I think you're taking a chance."
"It's better than prison. What do they say about me in the
papers?"
"In Léopoldville, nothing. But I see your name written on
walls all over town: everyone believes you're alive. In Brussels,
that your movement still is dangerous, and that you are more
so."
"What would you do about these Cubans?"
"Let them stay," Christopher said. "It's better to have
someone you know than to wait for someone you don't know to
show up."
Nsango picked up the candle and held it next to Christo-
: he could watch his expression as he answered
igo always asked,
think I have no chance?" fjuy that. I can't help you--you have the wrong

4 '

ter all, I win, you'll be my friend, and your friends
;me to remember past favors?"
|%hat they'll expect," Christopher said. "They're
listíc."

When will you come back?"
know. If you want to see me, send a postcard. The
»elephants if it's urgent. I'll use a postcard with a
pe John. I'll come to Elisabethville on the sixth day k*~~"k, ten o'clock at night. I don't think you should

ville again--at least, not to meet me." to took a key out of his pocket and gave it to
it box 217, Banque de Haute Katanga, Elisaie
said. "In case you need it, there's a ticket to
ihousand dollars, and a passport with a visa for Alg
Camerounian passport, so don't go there." they {good would I be to the movement, or to you, in
Nsango said. "The old soldiers' home for revolution «a good would you be dead?" Christopher asked.


ïr Hitchcock knocked on the door of Christopher's air at six in the morning. He was the son of missionaries,
fead spent his childhood in the Congo; he worked in the
g, slept in the afternoon, and drank through the night,
abyterian father had taught him to make no concessions
limate and Hitchcock never went out in the sun without
and a tie and a Panama hat.

Bther made more converts than anyone in Kasai provííitchcock
once told Christopher. "He thanked God for
Igon the Presbyterians. Then he learned, after about five
4 that it was because he sweated like a hog butcher in his

black suits and his celluloid collars. The Congolese thought he
smelled like a human being--the other missionaries, who wore |
shorts and took baths, smelled dead to them. That's what whites no
are called in the Lingala language--the dead."
Hitchcock read the cable Christopher had drafted in long-1
hand after his meeting with Nsango. "What's the film?" he
asked.
"As I said in the cable, pictures of the Cubans. Also photographs
of some of their documents."
"Spendthrift took those?"
"Yes," Christopher said. "I gave him a camera in the old
days."
"Spendthrift" was Nsango's pseudonym; Hitchcock was a
careful professional who believed even the Congolese might
have microphones planted in hotel rooms.
"I'll get this off this morning," Hitchcock said. "The Cubans
are news to me. Do you believe it?"
"Weil, there are the photographs. And Spendthrift has
never lied to us, despite our lack of reciprocity in that department."
"You really thought we should have backed him all the
way, didn't you?"
"Yes. He was better than any of the alternatives."
"Wrong tribe. Wrong time."
"He didn't take it personally," Christopher said. "He believes
he's going to be running this country someday, and so do
a lot of other people. His relationship with me is political money
in the bank."
"Funny, isn't it?" Hitchcock said. "You recoil in horror
from giving any of these people guns--that's the main reason
Spendthrift struck out in '61. But if the world gets blown up, the
bomb will be made with uranium and cobalt dug out of the
Shinkolobwe by some black living in the Bronze Age."
"It won't be Spendthrift who drops the bomb."
"Or gets blown up by it. How were things in Washington?"
"Ecstatic," Christopher said. "The crisis managers are
flying out to Saigon by the hundreds."

hope they take along a few of the ones we've got

|p does your plane go?"

$fc tonight."

ant to come out tathe house for dinner?" Hitch1
send your scoop, manage a crisis or two, and

rfto." on
Jived on the outskirts of Léopoldville in a large
At still belonged to a Belgian trader. The Belgian I after Lumumba's troops raped his wife during
1960. Hitchcock's houseboys, three stocky men
hysterically when he berated them in Lingala,
le ones who had worked for the Belgian and
Kw to the drunken troops. One of the boys came
sned living room with a bottle of gin on a silver
it down and trotted across the him floor, leaving the
ts of his bare feet behind him. "Ice, glasses, tonic a Hitchcock screamed. "We don't drink the stuff
ottle, Antoine!"

ck's wife flinched at the boy's wild laugh. She was A with thinning gray hair; as Christopher watched
ted the cloth of her dress away from her body and
elded Kleenex between her breasts. "It's the con-ration,
it drives you mad," she said. Her damp skin it shine, as though discontent had burned away its

_,ck drank six glasses of gin and tonic before dinner,
served cold soup and a large grilled river fish whose
sh was slightly bloody along the spine. "Do you en
iJced food, Paul?" Theresa Hitchcock asked. "The
.defeated by the electric stove. We're all defeated."
ed brightly and pushed her limp hair away from her
I "You'll excuse me? I have a headache." She went up him.

him sending her home," Hitchcock said. "She can't cope
I don't know who can. My mother went mad as a hatter, grow. The old man told her to pray, but she thought the
natives were going to gang her at any moment. Actually, they!
think white women are repulsive--like fish bellies."

Hitchcock had escaped from God and the Congo when he|
was eighteen, on the last freighter to cross the southern Atlantic
before the Germans began to torpedo Belgian ships. His parent
were buried in Kasai, in the red dirt of their churchyard. Hitch-1
cock had studied German and Russian. "My idea," he toldl
Christopher, "was to spend my life in cold climates. Whoever!
would have thought the Congo would become one of the hinges!
of American foreign policy? I grew up thinking uranium was]
good for curing cancer."

In his mind, Hitchcock still lived in cold climates. He sat at I
the table with the remains of the fish congealing on his plate,!
and sweat blackening the armpits of his seersucker suit, and I
talked about Berlin. He had been a famous operative there in I
the postwar years. Hitchcock liked to deal with Germans--they |
were always on time and they liked to be trained.

"You get to Zurich, don't you?" he asked Christopher. I
'There's a guy there you ought to know--you can't forget his I
name. Dieter Dimpel. I bought him a watch store in 1950--told |
'em it was owed to old Dieter. So he's out of it. But go see him."

"I will," Christopher said. "I use up a lot of watches."

"Listen, Paul. Dieter is a midget--I mean he's a real I
midget. He's one meter, twenty-five centimeters high. Comes I
from Munich. Walks like Goring--he's got a big imaginary body I
he carries around with him. He used to sweep up in the beer I
halls. Knew Hitler in the old days, when the Fuhrer would!
come in in his trench coat and mumble about taking over the I
world. They wouldn't let Dieter into the party because he was!
a freak, right? So Dieter goes to a forger and has a party card I
made. He gets himself an armband with a swastika on it and!
goes to all the Nazi rallies. Around 1943, some storm trooper!
grabs him. The forger had asked Dieter what number he I
wanted on his card. Dieter said, 'Oh, make it 555--that's easy|
to remember.' Unfortunately, 555 is the number of Adolf Hitler's
party card. The storm trooper was nothing compared to I
the Gestapo when they got hold of Dieter. Forged credentials! I
A freak saying he's a Nazi! Using the Fuhrer*s party number! [

a goes to Dachau. He's resourceful as hell, he
. He escapes five days before the Americans east. The Russians grab him. Dieter is a bit
two years on the Dachau diet, so he tells the
Nazi. They put him in a camp. Well, of course
through the wire and heads west again.
him up in Berlin in late '46--he's sweeping up in
jam, wearing tiny lederhosen. Dieter is a bitter
knows he's smarter than Hitler, but he's only four
wants revenge against the world. Good agent

time we were trying to figure some way to get into
ters of a certain occupying power. No way to do
every door, bars on every window, bells and sirens
jver the place. Miller was running the Berlin base
was full of stories of the good old prewar days in they used to sneak into the German ambasm
in Washington and come back with samples of
lie hair.

thought he was the world's champion burglar, but
think of a way to crack the GRU. However, / had
uited him by giving a whore a few marks to pre-dn't
live without him. I gave him a cyanide pill to
Bow ring--Krauts don't think you're serious unless
a a cyanide pill.

I Dieter trained in rope climbing, in judo, I turned
I acrobat. Dieter was a very strong midget. I put him
iourse in clandestine entrance. Safecracking, photog
infrared, the works. After six months, he was the
ir in Germany. Then, one dark and moonless night,
$a down the chimney with a camera. Dieter came out
p» on the second floor, cracked every safe in the place,
fcphed everything, put it all back, and came out the
fc*gain. For three years Dieter went down the chimney
(tenth and did his work. Never left even a finger print.
: him all over the place, doing the same. He got more
B-any
agent in the history of Berlin. » night, Dieter was shooting some agents' reports and

one of their colonels came in, working late. He turned on 1
lights, and here was this sooty midget with a camera and ,
infrared light set up in his office and the safe spilling all over a
floor. Dieter whipped out his gun and shot the Russian rig
between the eyes. He dropped everything but the camera on went up the chimney like a rocket.
"I'm waiting in the next street. Lights go on, sirens go <
soldiers start coming out the windows. Dieter spent twenfr
four hours hanging on to his rope inside the chimney--th
couldn't find him, he couldn't come down. Next night,
sneaked over the roof and got away. Still had the camera, 1
he forgot his rope and they found it, so that ended that,
wouldn't have forgotten the rope, but all he could think ab
was taking a leak. The human element"

"How's he like the watch business?" Christopher asked.:
"Okay, I guess. It pays for the girls. He takes pictures him
them--he's a white-socks fetishist. Tell him you're a friend <
Major Johnson. Old Dieter Dimpel. If you want to use a him impression code, give him the number of his party card, and Hitler'J --555. He'll reply with the date of his arrest, June 4, 1943."
Hitchcock listened happily to Christopher's laughter,
mean it," he said, "look Dieter up. He's useful." Telling THA
story had made him feel better; despite all he had had to dr
he was alert and smiling.
He drove Christopher to the airport. They shook hands in
the dark interior of the car. "I'd go in with you for a farewell]
drink, but Theresa worries at night," Hitchcock said. "Ch
how they change--had you noticed that, Paul?"

November is a rainy month on the Congolese coast, and
Christopher was soaked when he entered the airport building!
after struggling through the crowd of porters between the curtj
and the entrance. In the ticket line an Englishman was havir
a violent argument with the airlines clerk, a laughing Congoles
who told him that he had no record of his reservation.
"You'll bloody well hear about this!" the Englishman said' passenger to London, and the booking was
«go."

se waved his hand in the Englishman's face. ^iÉway--you have no reservation."
or did his bag onto the scale and handed the clerk
clerk removed the five-hundred-franc note from
It in his breast pocket with the rest of his bribes,

iher's boarding pass, and tagged his baggage.

delay in the flight?" Christopher asked.

je will never be late!" said the clerk with an-
'a^


to took his passport out of his pocket, marked the
his visa was stamped with his boarding pass, and 1 the passport control. A young Belgian priest
dstor radio stepped in front of him. He tapped him green passport with his finger.
>HHa American?"
Ither."
^President has been shot."

a Kennedy--he's dead. Listen." him up his radio. A Frenchman's voice on Radio him was reading the news from Dallas. It was nine
Congo, two o'clock in Dallas. The news was still tin.

to went back to the ticket counter and lifted the
me. He dialed the American embassy. The duty
hot say hello. He picked up the phone and said, "Yes,
resident Kennedy has been assassinated. The vice-is
safe. The President is dead. We have no details,
up now." Christopher hung up the phone, nodded
ed clerk, and walked toward the passport control,
.opher never forgot anything. The tone of his moth
the smell of a leper in Addis Ababa, the telephone
of the embassy in Kabul, the looks of a man killed by
Berlin as he crossed the street to meet him moved
iy through his mind. Now he thought of nothing. He
, the windows and looked out through the rain at the

glistening jets drawn up on the tarmac. He felt a hand on his \ arm; the priest was beside him again.
"There's nothing more on the radio," the priest said.
"They're playing music. Do you go to Brussels?"
"No, Rome."
"You're crying. Would you like to pray with me?"
"No, Father. I don't believe."
"It's a frightful thing."
Christopher thought the priest was talking about his rejection
of faith. "For some," he said.
"For all. President Kennedy was a great man. That death ;
should come like that to him--he was like a young prince."
"Yes, it's a great shock."
"You must have loved your President."
"I love my country," Christopher said.
"It's the same thing, perhaps."
'Ten minutes ago I wouldn't have said so, Father. Now I
think you're right."

It was dawn when Christopher arrived in Rome. He bought
the newspapers and read them in the deserted waiting room at
Fiumicino while he waited for his call to Paris to go through.
Sybille answered the Websters' phone.
'Tom's at the embassy," she said. "They've been up all |
night. We all have."
'Tell him I'm home if he wants me."
"I will. God, Paul, how I'm feeling this!"
"Yes," Christopher said. "The next time you see your friend |
Peggy, ask her what she thinks of assassination now."

l,v

three

him

r«w the truth at dawn on the tenth day after the Ay. He woke shivering with cold and covered
iblankets that had slipped to the floor during the a crowed on the hillside above Siena, and as he him the open window of their hotel room, the town in the growing light from burnt umber to rose. him first sunlight, two figures in black hurried across a him die edge of a woods. These Italian Burners going
to work triggered Christopher's memory. Once a men in black moving at a trot along the fringe of
I an American in a flowered shirt lying in the weak §$ght with the back of his head blown away.
nation struck like a bell in Christopher's mind. I who had arranged the death of the President.All his life, Christopher's unconscious had released in
and he had learned to trust this trick of his mind. He often 1
what men had done before they confessed their acts to I (Cathy had thought him a fortune-teller. He had somehn
been able to see her lovers in her gestures--she would untie no
scarf and pull the silk through her fist with a smile and Chris
pher would see her lifting her breast toward a stranger's lip "Did you see me, did you see me?" she would gasp. It excib
Cathy to know she could walk through the gates of <
pher's mind. She believed in dark powers.)

Christopher knew that this gift, which grew stronger as 1
grew older, was only a kind of logic. His senses received eve
thing, he forgot nothing. Experience and information joined him
the brain to provide explanations. It was like writing the him
draft of a poem: words formed on the page without
through the conscious mind.

Now, as he stood by the open window, he heard the pli
being made for Kennedy's murder. He saw the messages 1
passed, saw the look in the eyes of the conspirators, watched THA
tension flow out of their faces when news of success was brou
to them. He felt their sense of triumph like an electrical <
between them. He himself had been a part of such scenes <
enough. He wondered why it had taken him so long to realiz
the truth.

Christopher had seen many men die for politics, and
knew that politics was merely the excuse their murderers him
Men killed not for an idea but because they could not live will a personal injury. Now he made the simple connection betwe
the injury and the President's violent death. He understood thfi|
motive perfectly. He wondered if the murderers had I
that the death of Kennedy would drive the very memory '
their existence out of the consciousness of the world.

Because they were who they were, the killers might have
escaped suspicion forever. Christopher felt no anger,
wanted no revenge. The life he had led had burned away sue
feelings. He did not blame the murderers for what they
done. They had repaid an insult. He was only surprised
they had been able to do it so quickly. He would have expecte

to choose a moment, such as Inauguraftuniliation
would have been more intense. --Taething to do with the stars; they would

an operation very carefully,
.tidily, sorting out the evidence he would
truth. Christopher hadn't yet discovered
the money was handled or whether money
W they found the assassin and perfected his
SUld not have told him their reasons, or who
rhave been easy to convince him that nothing
t they had the power to rescue him. Christo-what
had happened and why it had been
g faces to his theory was a matter of profes-knew
where to go, which men to contact. He
. very well be killed.

;.:,irljfp

raod Molly had been together in Siena for three
Chosen the hotel: the Palazzo Ravizza, built by a in die seventeenth century and now restored
tourists. Molly loved the cold floors, the white-i
the carved black furniture, the curtained bed.
"*9t him use the electricity; she bought candles in
ey went to sleep with tongues of light all around

a dead garden behind the hotel; they ate break-ting
heavy sweaters under their coats. At night
. was scented with the white truffles she'd had for
jp dined at a restaurant where the waiter brought
Isket heaped with truffles to their table: he would
iOocler Molly's nose one after the other until she
* one she wanted. They ate pasta with truffles,
llten, truffle soup. "The taste penetrates the brain," on "Even you are beginning to taste like a truffle, Paul." Íght before, as they walked across the brown dish of a del Campo, Molly began to sing in the dark. "Come
this had been her favorite song ever since she had
.fleet musician sing it at the table of an American
a sidewalk restaurant in Rome; the wife, gray-haired

and wrinkled, wearing clothes that looked ridiculous in Italy,]
had wept with happiness, though she could not understand <
words.
When Molly began to sing, Christopher let go of her hand]
and stopped where he stood. She walked onward a few step
then turned and ceased singing in the middle of a phrase. Sh
smiled and lifted a hand in apology. "Am I making too mu
racket?" she asked.
"No," Christopher said. "I just realized that I love you."
Molly stood absolutely still, the smile still on her lips, ]
hand still raised, the sleeve of her coat pulled away from THA
bare skin of her wrist.
"Paul," she said, whispering as though she thought a wh
per might make him understand her better. "Paul, it's all rig
to be happy."
In the morning, at the open window, Christopher remen
bered the look and sound of her and he realized, with a <
of surprise, that he wanted his own life to continue.

They had lost a week in Rome before going to Siena.1 he reached his apartment on the day after Kennedy's a impression, after the long taxi ride from the airport, he found
telephone ringing. It was Tom Webster; he made no effort I
deceive the recording devices that monitored internatio
calls out of France.
"I don't know what you can do about this in Rome," We
ster said. "But there's total priority on this problem. This '
wald was a defector to the Soviet Union. He was in Russia fro
1959 until June, 1962. The Russians are going crazy. They *
pect SAC over Moscow any minute. They keep telling everyo
they didn't do it."
"I believe them," Christopher said. "Why would they?"
"I know. But it's a possibility that has to be consider
Headquarters wants maximum information from every point« the world. Who do you know down there, or anywhere,
might know something about this rotten bastard?"

t'4i


"" me to tell you over the phone?"
if

all the names. There's no one in this town,
of people who'd just be guessing." it that journalist?"
repeat the line, whatever it is. I can't believe
Tom. Not with a man like Oswald. If I were the
think it was an attempt to put the blame on them.



n worry about that," Webster said. "Our job is to never we can and find out what we can. Anything.
Try the journalist--you never know."

one' Tier met Piero Cremona in the Galleria Colonna.

ad was playing waltzes as usual, and the music
na angry.

* he said. "There should be no music today."
her was exhausted. He had not changed the
we on the flight from Leopoldville, and his shirt sweat he had shed in the Congo. There was a
On every table in the cafe, and a photograph of the
tent on every front page.
,do you feel, my friend?" Cremona asked.
K know, Piero."

"Hericans kill whole countries and it doesn't bother
na said. "But for America to be wounded--ah!" oy the spectacle?"	'

him tapped his coffee cup with a spoon. "No, I detest
, "Politics is politics. Life is We. I hate Washington
r--they don't understand misery. They don't know
; into the mind of most of mankind, they think
Jal suffering, which is at the center of everyone's
America's--does not matter. But Americans are difvidual
Americans. I saw them come into Italy in
'an enemy country. They were alive, those soldiers,
„ Wanted everyone else to be alive, too. They handed
|H»ey screwed the girls, they got drunk. I've never
ffeow they were. There is a goodness in your people,

Paul. I'm very sad for them today. Maybe even / think THA
should be one country in the world where suffering is not ]
milled to exist."
"I expected you to tell me that this assassination is a sn
thing, compared to Hiroshima."
"No," Cremona said. "This is no small thing. Nothing is on terrible as to kill a symbol. The Japanese were Japanese,-wh a hundred thousand of them were vaporized by the aton
bomb, very few considered that anything important had 1
pened to the human race. They were yellow creatures,
death of a hundred thousand Englishmen, maybe even a hu
dred thousand Italians, would have been different."
"Only the death of white men matters?" Christopher:
"To Christians, yes. Do you think the whole Northen
Hemisphere would be in a spasm of mourning if some brov
president had been shot through the brain? This murdered him
is an American. If a madman can kill an American presiden
then what is certain? 'Ah,' the miserable of the world will say|
'it's not possible, after all, to bribe history.' Everyone thou
America could do it."
"You think Oswald is a madman?"
"Of course."
"It seems he's a Communist," Christopher said.
"Oh, Paul--you? You know what a Communist is. This him
is a sick romantic. They didn't want him in the Soviet Unio
they didn't want him anywhere."
"Have you found anyone who knows anything about him?'
"Everyone knows all about him. He occurs everywhen
sometimes he acts."
"What do the Russians say?"
"They'd kill him if they could," Cremona said. "I had him
drink with Klimenko, the Tass man, last night. They're vei
angry."
"And very scared."
"Yes--and who can blame them?" Cremona drew a mu
room cloud in the air with a quick movement of his hands.

'was dead when Christopher met Nguyen Kim on
Steps. Descending the stairway, he saw Kim speak
nese girl by the fountain in the center of the
a. They were nodding vigorously in the Viet-.;,
and the tones of their language, like minor chords
Complicated instrument, drifted through the noisy
ire.

iher kept walking, hoping to pass by without being
; Kim saw him, said a hurried good-bye to the girl,
to greet him. A camera jounced against Kim's chest
I over the cobblestones, dodging among the green

med around the fountain.
he cried, "Paul, babyl"

I learned to speak show-business English at UCLA;
liter's degree in communications. He and Christot
often in Saigon. Kim knew Christopher as a jour-Jiad
acted as an unofficial press agent for his cousins,
it was he who had taken Christopher to Ngo Dinh
^"m.

_ with Lê Xuan," he said. "Madame Nhu to you.
the press for her. It's like handling a kissing con-jjjïeper." s'did you land that job?"

out with the Nhu children when they left the
it was one of the daughters I was just talking to."
pointed at the girl. She walked through the crowd
Vietnamese men and got into a curtained limousine.
iy anything," Kim said. "Those guys have got guns."
;|old Christopher he had been looking for him for days
jjjd if Christopher was free for lunch. Molly was waiting
"""urant. Christopher hesitated, then asked Kim to join
ïre was no reason why Kim and Molly should not meet
pher could explain how he knew the man.
lot has happened since you left Saigon," Kim said.

"What will happen to your article about Diem? Did rewrite it?"
"Yes, but the magazine will never use it," Christopher him
"They've forgotten everything since the assassination."
"I suppose they have. You mean the Kennedy impression."
Christopher frowned; he did not understand at once wh
Kim meant. Then he remembered the murders of Diem him
Nhu. "Yes. The others seem a long time ago," he said. "I sorry about your president, Kim."
"And I about yours," said Kim. "Death comes alike to the |
high and the low."
They found Molly waiting in the restaurant. She had re-1
versed an emerald ring Christopher had given her, as she al-j ways did when she waited alone for him in Rome, so that it no
looked like a wedding band.
"What will I call you?" she asked Nguyen. "I can't say'
Nguyen properly."
"Call me Kim. I like it better. There are millions, and I do
mean millions, of Nguyens in my country. My family are the Nguyêns, of course--my ancestor was the original Nguyen Kim,
king of southern Vietnam. Bao Dai, the last royal ruler in my
country, was a cousin of mine. So was Ngo Dinh Diem, who
supplanted Bao Dai. I have a complicated family history, sweetheart,
but I'm a simple man. So call me Kim. Let's have a
bourbon on the rocks to start with."
Molly saw Christopher smiling at Kim. "You didn't tell me
we were going to lunch with mod royalty," she said.
Nguyen raised his hands in protest. "Not I," he said. "I'm
only a poor exile, hiding in Rome. I hope Paul still has his
expense account. Until I can get to Beirut, I'm dead broke."
"Beirut?" Christopher asked.
"I have certain resources there, in a bank. We have learned
to look to the future in my family."
"You seem to have had a bad time of it lately," Molly said.
"Is Madame Nhu still in Rome?"
"Until tomorrow. Then she and the children go to Paris. I
don't know why, but the French are pleased to have them."
been with them here?" Christopher asked, air. I've been arranging her press interviews.
|o have one? For you, Paul, only two thousand

sand. Do you get many takers?"
of Frenchmen, some obscure fellow from an
Jy paper in Geneva. They never print the
ts them to print."
those?" Christopher asked.
," Kim said. "Last week the truth frightened
'-. it's in bad taste."
> is this truth?"

knows and nobody will print--that Diem
killed by you Americans. It really is incredible
. government controls the press."
lings with the press corps in Saigon had left him
of American reporters. "Intellectual sluts," he a , whores, sycophants." Kim liked bourbon whis
had drunk a lot of it on Christopher's last night in
Bk had unburdened himself. They had gone to the
|j Paprika for dinner; at the next table a group of
espondents predicted to each other the downfall
months ago those jokers thought Diem was the
_ because I told them so," Kim said. "This year
to Diem because of what some kid in the American him them. You can have them the same way you can rf him girls in California--put your hand between their
tpll 'em you love 'em. They don't have minds--they
Itoris between their ears."

he poured wine into Christopher's glass. "Did you
": the other Ngo brother?" Kim asked. "Ngo Dinh Can
tyrant and torturer, Molly sweetheart. He used to
1 Vietnam."
:d he was in jail."
. Hoa prison, where the French used to crush yellow
. You know how Can got there? He went to the Ameriulate
in Hue and asked for asylum. The Americans
him over to the generals. I'd say Can has about a month

to live. No doubt CBS will film the firing squad, so the world can
see what happens to people who don't cooperate with the
Americans."

"You're talking to an American, you know," Molly said.

"I know. That's the wonderful thing about them. They
don't mind being insulted." Kim reached across the table and
punched Christopher on the biceps. "Well," he said, "I guess
you've got a big story in the States now. Are you working on it?"

"No, I haven't even heard from the magazine. The people
who were in Dallas are the only ones who are writing this
week."

"It's a great tragedy when a leader dies like that," Kim said.
"There's no sense in it. A people just falls to its knees. Even the
Americans--even you, I'll bet, Paul. It's a blow that strikes every
person in the country."

"In the world, I should have thought," Molly said.

"Yes, I saw in the paper that Khrushchev cried," Kim said.
"No one hates a murdered man if he's an American. These
Kennedys were the real royalty of the modern age--too bad
their reign was so brief."

They began to eat their spaghetti. This is pretty good,"
Kim said. "I taste eggs and smoked pork. There should be more
pepper in it"

Christopher said, "I must say you seem pretty cheerful,
Kim, for a man without a country."

"Oh, 111 get by," Kim said. "We lose the country every once
in a while, but we always get it back. We know a secret, Paul
--in the end, nobodv really wants Vietnam but us. All the rest
of you have to learn that the hard way."

"Do you really think either branch of your family will ever
get back in power?"

"Who knows?" Kim said. "Kings never come back, that's
for sure. But the Ngos--that's another matter. They're very
hard people."

"Yes," Christopher said. "But they're dead."

"Diem and Nhu are dead. Would you say the Kennedys are
finished because the one who happened to be President has
been shot?"

pher said.

the Kennedys and the Ngos always recover.
_s out all the bad memories. The Ngos have two

* him

two families really comparable?" Molly asked

Kennedys are in America."

'esrence does that make?" Kim asked.

he safe there."

fly dear!" said Kim. "John Kennedy's funeral is

'» -him

the work of a lunatic," Molly said.
Will you now tell me that the assassination of
11 was the work of sane men?"
now anything about that," Molly said,
offended to have the two assassinations com-i$aid.
"Why should grief belong only to the Kenne-Americans?" wouldn't. But, forgive me, Kennedy's death was more

him**

Ipolitik in such a beautiful young girl. Really, we
«>ple have no chance against you--even your
: in terms of power relationships."
its don't?" Christopher said. "Didn't you just men-i
called Madame Nhu?"

been drinking a great deal of wine. When the
bt the second course, he asked for another liter,
flushed and his voice vibrated. The conversation

3 is a remarkable woman," he said. "She is more
Ngos. I'll tell you a little family history. She comes
tást family, a very important family called Tran.
felt that she was the least favorite child--she fought
' mother and father, she hardly tolerates her sister.
4 Nhu when she was sixteen. She became a Catholic
Vist, she was imprisoned by the Viet Minh, she found only real power for any human being is in a family for its principles. In the confusion of the Japanese
I in '45, one of her husband's brothers was killed by

Ho Chi Minh; Ho apologized to Diem and offered him half of
his power, but Diem refused. Ho had killed his brother. Even
Diem's country was not so important as that. Diem and Nhu
triumphed, they fell--Lê Xuan saw all that happen. She has not
lost heart, she knows the family goes on. There are many, many
members of that family. She is one of them as she was never one
of her own family. It means everything to her. She believes the
family will rise again. She knows its strength."

Christopher watched Kim as he spoke. The Vietnamese
had ceased eating; he pushed back his plate and poured more
wine. He was speaking in a low, hard voice, his eyes fixed on
Molly's. He seemed to have forgotten Christopher was there,
and Christopher was content to let him go on.

"Its strength?" Molly said. "It's a family in ruins, hated in
its own country, despised in the world, with its leaders destroyed
by their own soldiers."

"So it would seem," Kim said. "It's good for the Ngos if the
world believes that--especially now. That is part of their power,
the insults of their enemies."

"I don't see any power there--I'm sorry," Molly said. She
was angry.

"Oh, the Ngos have power," Kim said. "They're a force of
nature. You can't understand it, Molly, but they're a greal
family. They forget nothing, they forgive nothing. Do you understand
French? Its cracheront de leurs tombes."

Kim's speech had begun to blur. He shook his head violently,
his small face was deeply flushed. Christopher knew the
signs; Kim's capacity for alcohol was small, and he would soon
need to go to sleep.

"Your Kennedys are not powerful in themselves," Kim
said. "They live in a powerful country, that's all. They were
working with their hands, unable to read, when the Nguyêns
were kings of the land, and the Ngos were already wise men."

The waiter brought the bill. Kim handed it to Christopher
without looking at it. He wiped his face with his napkin, and
folded it carefully before putting it down at the table. He patted
Molly'-hand
and pushed his chair back across the floor; the

with a clatter behind him, but Kim did not look

red his camera to his eye. "Smile," he said. "I want a
of this most wonderful lunch." He took four photo-iricldy.
He nodded, and walked out of the restaurant,
avoiding the chairs around the empty tables.
' watched him go. She closed her eyes for a moment,
ed at Christopher, it is a bitter little man," she said. "What was that bit in

cmcheront de leurs tombes," Christopher translated
pould spit out of their graves.'"

if,
I

fy they went to Siena. Christopher wanted to be in a
». For a week he thought of nothing but Molly. They
trough the old town with its thin campanile and its
i*hat were the color of dry earth. The afternoons
Id and they lay in bed, reading a novel aloud to one
ley drank hot chocolate with sweet Italian brandy in
ike each other often in the night. Afterward, Molly a heavy hair away from her face and looked down,
So Christopher's face. She fed the cats that gathered 1 in the cafes. Christopher loved her so intensely that
move in his own body.

Molly who liked to sleep with the window open.
Wd wakened Christopher on the last day in Siena,
«gain that Molly slept with her lips parted, so that
I to be smiling over the day she had just lived
Ijfpftu only a few seconds after he had covered her and
flhair that he went to the window, looked out, and
Wt it was that Nguyen Kim, who looked like a brown
IW to him in the restaurant in Rome.
'"" a went downstairs and booked one seat on an a from Rome to the United States.

four

him

Patchen listened to Christopher's theory without speaking.
They sat close together, away from the walls, in a sitting room
at the Statler Hotel in Washington. Christopher had refused to
use a safe house: they were equipped with microphones and
tape machines. Even in the hotel room, he had turned on the
television and the radio at full volume. Patchen's face was very
close to Christopher's. The blue flicker of the television screen
reflected in Patchen's glasses.
Patchen said, "Of course. Why didn't anyone else see it?"
"There's no evidence yet. It's just a feeling."
"It's obvious. No one else had a motive. All the other theories
leave that out. No one had a strong enough motive--except
these people."
"It looks like a perfect operation," Christopher said. "Ittie to string everything together. They'll have
: security. Maybe only two or three people know-- I no way of being sure who they are."
him think they killed Oswald?"
f1 Christopher said. "If I'm right about how they han
ft would have been wasteful. He didn't know who
. They must have told him they'd get him out after
set him up as a hero under a fake identity. He I believed that."
a said, "They had to find somebody Oswald would
le he already knew."
>did he know? Nobody. All they needed was someone her; the contact had to have bona fides. Probably
: of some kind."
show did they know about Oswald?"
	went looking. He must have been in a lot of card
said. "They had to have an American gun-
	a
nut would do it--no professional killer is going to
President of the United States. Gangsters are too

' much have you put together?"
the probabilities--but it's clear enough why they him the operation," Christopher said. 'The psychology him questioned. They believed Kennedy had done this he did or not doesn't matter. The way
, they couldn't do anything but kill Kennedy in re-l«n
imperative with them--insult for insult, blood for

it's come back to that. How did they run the operation?"
had everything they needed," Christopher said.
I security. They had all the money they needed, and
ntacts all over the world. All they lacked was the

	could they know Oswald would do it?"
> was easy enough to understand."
	had no time to assess him. What if he turned them

' would have killed him," Christopher said. "He wasunstable. But I think they were confident he'd try it, and that
he'd succeed."

"They needed confidence, if they thought they could get
away with it," Patchen said.

"David, they've gotten away with it. No one even suspects
them."

"Yes. Killing Kennedy made everyone forget they even
existed."

"I'll bet that surprised them. They're going to be tough—
they'll never believe we didn't think of them right away. They
must imagine we've got a thousand men working on them right
now."

"They don't know how dumb we can be," Patchen said.

Patchen massaged his bad leg, aware of the pain in it again.
"No one is going to thank you for this, you know."

Christopher shrugged.

"Do you want to be assigned to this—do it yourself?"

"Yes."

"I don't know it'll be possible. We'll have to tell the White
House, and the lia. in hasn't changed. It's still Foley. Johnson
kept him on, with all the others."

"Who else can go? Who can you tell, even inside the
outfit?"

Patchen rose and limped to the window; he bent the slats
of the Venetian blind and looked down at the traffic on K Street.
The back of his suit was a mass of wrinkles, and he looked as if
he had not slept for a long time. He expelled his breath; it was
almost a laugh that he uttered.

" The dog it was that died,'" he said.

He touched Christopher's shoulder and pointed at the telephone.
After Patchen had closed the door behind him, Christopher
turned off the television and the radio. Molly's face, asleep
and faintly smiling, flickered in his mind like the bleached electronic
pictures in the mirrors of Patchen's eyeglasses. He sat
down and waited for the phone to ring.


again after dark in Patchen's living room. The tjf house still bore traces of Patchen's wife: a dying y& furniture. There were no photographs, no letters
pd, no odor of food and soap. The signs that anyone
" * love in Patchen's house were disappearing.
Foley sat on the sofa with his long legs stretched
Grief had made him listless. The mannerisms Chris-noticed
in Paris were gone. Foley dressed as care-re,
and he still wore the PT-109 clasp on his black
but he had the look of a man who has been told that
his health or his wife. What he had thought himself
to the past.

« met, I think," Patchen said.
looked at Christopher without interest. "I haven't him," he said. "Your people called to say you had
>r die White House and we ought to take you seri--1" „, a glanced at Patchen. "Who's been told?" he

a
tor. He decided that the White House had to be
Kt once. No one else will be told without presidential

they
»gi*e you twenty minutes," Foley said.
Jbgdier remained standing. "Ill have to give it to you
ifoley," he said. "It has to do with the assassination of
i?Xennedy."

jr gritted his teeth and started to get up. 'Take him to
^"Vi people," he said. "That's the proper channel." him sensitive for that," Patchen said. "I know this is

11 think you should listen. You can reject what Chris
to say after you've heard it, and you won't hear from grow
, relaxed his grip on the arms of the chair. "All right,"

'red at the floor as Christopher began to speak. After first sentence, his eyes snapped upward and fastened on Christopher's face. Christopher actually saw the
pupils dilate, so that Foley's pale eyes changed color and darkened,
as if his brain had commanded them to stop admitting
light. Foley wore such an expression of pain that Christopher
wanted to look away. It took Christopher, trained to report in
clean sentences, very little time to summarize what he believed.
Foley went on staring into Christopher's eyes, but when he
spoke, he spoke to Patchen. "It's insane," he said.
"No," Patchen replied. "It's logical."
"It's grotesque," Foley said; his voice had lost timbre, and
he put a hand to his neck and cleared his throat. He began to
cough, and in-the midst of the spasm lit a cigar.
"It's grotesque," he repeated. "John Fitzgerald Kennedy
and these people do not belong in the same order of nature."
"Nevertheless," Christopher said, "the possibility is there."
"How is it there--even the possibility?" Foley asked hotly.
"How did they do it, how did they organize it? Give me the
scenario."
"These things are less difficult than you think," Christopher
said. "Tradecraft is a simple art."
"What is a simple art?" Foley asked.
'Tradecraft," Patchen explained. 'It's jargon for the technique
and practice of espionage. Go on, Paul."
"This is all speculation, Foley, and I like speculation even
less than you seem to," Christopher said. "Bear with me for a
minute."
"All right," Foley said.
"They needed an opportunity, and they knew it would
come. American Presidents show themselves in public under
security arrangements that are the laughingstock of the world.
In addition to opportunity, they needed an assassin."
"So they reached into Dallas and picked out a psychotic like
Oswald?" Foley said, his voice rising. "Come off it, Christopher."
"If I'm right, yes--they reached into Dallas and picked out
Oswald," Christopher said. "His psychosis was the handle they
had on him."

tics can't be trusted to function," Foley said, and
, without surprise, again felt the man's stubborn

to what he was being told.

him he functioned very well," Christopher said. "You

to be sane to pull a trigger. You tell an agent who

him with something, as Oswald was obsessed with his
nee and the power of others, something that wiO

him to act out of the logic of his insanity."

what did they tell Oswald?"

'a know yet. I would have told him that I was a Soviet
,e officer, and that we'd been watching him benevo-years,
here and when he was in Russia, knowing that
pable of a great act that would change history. That te fitted in with his fantasy."
' looked at his watch. "Half my time is gone," he said
Why does it have to be a conspiracy? Why can't Os
just done it for his own insane reasons?"
* thing, and again it's speculation, but it fits in with the
-was it fits in with standard clandestine practice,"

tr said. "Oswald killed the President with a rifle.

tool of an agent, not the weapon of a lunatic. Every

adent who has been killed or wounded by an assassin

kitted or wounded by a pistol--Lincoln, Garfield,

a. Both Roosevelts were attacked with pistols. Gandhi

': with a pistol. Nuts like to smell their victims. Oswald

him, and he left it behind like a professional and walked

he'd been a real professional, instead of something

for one-time use, he would have got away."

topher was still standing. He had taken care to speak

, voice. He looked down at Foley, who had closed his

'íhe was massaging the bridge of his nose to advertise

him.

like to talk to you, Patchen," Foley said.
said nothing more to Christopher and did not look at

Patchen walked Christopher to the door. Foley was still
sprawled in the chair with his hand to his face when Patchen
returned.
"Get me a glass of water," he said.
When Patchen handed him the glass, Foley put it on the
table beside him and opened his eyes; his pupils were still dark,
as if bruised.
"How well do you know this Christopher?" Foley asked.
"We've known each other for twenty years," Patchen said.
"We came into the outfit on the same day. I've backstopped his
operations for more than ten years."
"Then you can't be very objective."
"You can check my assessment of Christopher with anyone
eke who knows his work," Patchen said. "Three things: first,
he's intelligent and entirely unsentimental. Second, he will go
to any lengths to get at the truth, he never gives up. Third, he
is not subject to fear."
"Everyone is subject to fear."
"No. Hell walk into anything."
"Then he's crazy," Foley said.
"In that respect, maybe. But it makes him very valuable."
"This theory of his is as full of holes as a Swiss cheese--you
know that, don't you?"
"I thought enough of it to bring you over here to listen to
it," Patchen said. "The theory, as a theory with no hard facts to
support it, is sound enough."
"Is it? In what way, exactly?"
"He's right about two things. They had a motive, and they
had the skill and the experience to bring off an operation of this
kind."
Foley leaped to his feet. Standing over Patchen, he pointed
a finger at his face. "Let's get this straight once and for all," he
said. "They had no goddamn motive. None."
Patchen's unblinking eyes did not change expression "We
both know they did, Dennis," he said.
Foley's face was closed and angry. Patchen knew why, he

I that Foley, who had defended the living President
; power of his mind, did not regard loyalty as some-stopped
with death. Foley had stood next to the
; of the United States, believing that everyone ought
as Foley did. He wanted to believe that only a
would kill such a man as Kennedy had been; he I world to believe it.
i't have any son of a bitch saying that what happened him Dallas was a punishment," Foley said. He breathed
[ want this matter dropped, right here and now," he him Christopher back to wherever he comes from. Drop

i't think this should be brought to the attention of
at?--two lines on a sheet of paper."
left's not worth his time. If there is anything on paper, wasn't think you grasp the implications of what this nut him get us to believe."
a the implications," Patchen said. "All of them. So does
?."
>	else is he going to go to with this?"
»»

> sure of that?" him in secret, Foley. He doesn't talk to anyone but

a told me he never gives up," Foley said. "What if him not to give up on this, then what?" him hell solve it, one way or another. He knows every-rld,
and he's a very senior officer. He requires no Noel's what we call a singleton--he operates alone, goes
(«pleases."
>	you'd better bring him back here and put him be-i
nice, safe desk," Foley said.
him shook his head. "No. He'd resign. He doesn't need
I well known as a journalist in the outside world as he
it in ours." i'll you're telling me is that you have no control over

him not telling you that. Control is not necessary. Hefeels about the outfit the way you felt about John Kennedy.
He'd do nothing to harm us, or the country. Of course, his idea
of what's harmful to the United States might not be the same
as yours."
Foley stared at Patchen, and then Patchen saw an idea
being born behind Foley's eyes.
"Has Christopher ever been like this before--hooked on
something?" Foley asked.
"Lots of times. He's usually been right."
"He's usually been right, or he's usually come up with data
that supported his theory?"
"It's the same thing," Patchen said.
"It's not. When was the last time he saw a psychiatrist?
Don't you have regular psychiatric controls on guys like him?"
"Psychiatric controls? When a man breaks down, we take
care of him, that's all."
Foley said, "I've seen this guy twice. Both times he's been
compulsive about something. It could be a pattern."
Again Patchen said nothing. A pulse was beating in Foley's
temple; Patchen watched that.
"Christopher may have done great things in the past," Foley
said. "I don't doubt it for a minute. But how long has he been
out there--ten years, twelve? He's showing it. He needs a rest,
David. You must have a quiet place where he can recuperate."
Patchen showed no surprise because he felt none. Foley, a
much larger man, stood over him, giving off an odor of cologne
and whiskey. Patchen understood how a woman about to be
fondled by a man she does not want must feel. Foley, crude and
emotional, seemed to him a ridiculous figure. Patchen's lips
parted in a smile.
"Why don't you put that suggestion in writing," he said,
"and channel it to me through the Director?"
Foley departed, leaving his glass of water untasted. Ordering
Patchen to fetch it for him had been a way of emphasizing
the difference in their ranks. In Foley's place, Patchen would
have made the gesture at the end of the conversation, not at the
beginning.

Christopher came back into the house, Patchen
| tape recording of his conversation with Foley. Neioid
anything; the listening devices in Patchen "him living fe voice-activated transmitters that could not be
iff. They put on their coats and went outside.
bars must still be open," Patchen said. "Let's walk,
tteer."

were alone on the sidewalk, and when they reached
jut Avenue the broad street was empty of cars, though L~ttic traffic signals went on working: the lights

red along its whole steep length, like cards falling

(filer's hand.

now?" Christopher said.

et. The problem is, Foley believes you. He doesn't

theory proved."

him willing to drop it?"

jrse. If the White House doesn't want it, we won't

it would have been nice if we'd got some Texan
Foley to talk to," Christopher said,
^answer might have been the same. If the truth is
|e truth will come out. Nobody wants that--not even

iHtttow lots of truths that never come out, David."

on this scale. This couldn't be hidden. It would
lie name of the dead President. It would stand foreign
(its head."

' were in front of a bar, and Patchen started toward its
&'s stop outside a minute," Christopher said "You
git's involved here, David. If these politicians never
At happened, they'll do it again."
^They will."

one don't think that's worth preventing?" «wasn't think it's possible to prevent it, Paul. You have a
I think the truth will make men free. But it only makes
pry. They believe what suits them, they do what they

want to do, just like the slobs we're going to find lined up at the
bar in there. Human beings are a defective species, my friend.
Accept it."
"But don't you want to know?"
"Sure I do--I even say we should know, that we're doing
damage to the outfit, not to say the country, if we don't pursue
this to the end. But we don't run operations against the United
States government."
"Foley is not the United States government."
"Foley would say you're talking treason."
"I'd say that's pretty melodramatic," Christopher said. "We
were told from the beginning that our job is to keep the water
clean. We feed the politicians information, they do what they
want with it. But we don't doctor the information to suit political
purposes, much less the emotional purposes of a short-timer
like Dennis Foley. What Foley wants from us is a kind of treason
--his illusions are more important than the truth."
"That's what I just got through telling you."
"We don't seem to be understanding each other very well,
David. Would it help, do you think, if we spoke German?"
"Paul, you really are an arrogant bastard," Patchen said.
"Your whole career has been a series of moral lessons for the
rest of us. you won't use a gun. you won't betray an agent. You won't give support to a regime that tortures political prisoners,
you won't countenance a coup against the Ngos, even though
you've done more than anyone else to create a political opposition
to them. Only your means justify the end. People have
been telling me for years that you're more trouble than you're
worth, and I'm beginning to see the point."
Patchen's voice did not change its tone; he might have
been reading aloud from a newspaper.
"I guess I'm lucky to have had you as a protector," Christopher
said.
"I can't protect you from these people. You're out in the
open now, and they sure don't like the look of you."
"Foley's an amateur."
"We would have said the same thing about Lee Harvey
Oswald."

: he was operating against other amateurs." a had professional advice."
; think so."
I a young girl came out of the bar, holding hands, him the doorway for a moment, looking up and down
a taxi.
>, you tried the Cantina d'ltalia, up the street?"
1 Christopher, in a louder voice. "I think it's the a restaurant in the world, outside of Italy."
walked by Christopher and Patchen and him street to the taxi stand in front of the Mayflower. him you're not going to be able to go out under our
ben said. "Foley will have been on the phone to a. It won't be permitted."
I do it on my own."
die."
(always a possibility."
jm let a moment pass before he answered. "You really
yjo you?" he said,
["care. Less than some, I guess. I've never liked the
rw **

you going to handle it?" him really want to know?"
L want to understand what happens to you."
a find out very quickly or not at all," Christopher
have to walk in on them and tell them what I think,
(^ the reaction. I think they may want it to be known."
Ut to be known?"
: about it. If no one knows, what was the point

him absorbed this idea, then nodded his head, a you in the morning," he said. "If you live, and if you I back inside, it can be arranged. Foley won't last him Lyndon Johnson."
* bar's going to close. Let's go in."
him had one more thing to say. Christopher was sur-Ivns unlike Patchen to be the one who prolonged a

"It takes about a month to inform everyone in the field of
a resignation," he said. "I won't hurry it. You may want to talk
to the people in the stations."
"Yes, there may be a question or two I'd want to ask."
"If you need support in any kind of an emergency, you
know they'll give it to you. We'll justify it later."
Christopher smiled at him. "You shouldn't be saying these
things. What if I'm tortured?"
Patchen waved away the pleasantry. "Speaking of that, I
wouldn't rely too much on Wolkowicz. He and Foley are
friends. him White House took an interest in Wolkowicz's career
after the Bay of Pigs."
"Took an interest in his career?"
Patchen exhaled his dry laugh. "Wolkowicz was their idea
of what a master spy should be. They all read those paperback
books about secret agents. Wolkowicz carries guns and talks like
a gangster. They were talking about Castro in one of the planning
sessions--what to do with him after Cuba was liberated.
Wolkowicz took out his revolver, removed a cartridge from the
cylinder, and rolled the bullet across the table. In the Cabinet
Room. That was when his star began to rise."
Patchen opened the door for Christopher. "Now let me
buy you one last beer," he said.

Foley had not intended to return the phone call. When he
saw the message on his desk he didn't recognize the name of
the man who had called him.
"He's a Green Beret captain," Foley's secretary explained.
"He's on his way to Vietnam. He said his sister is a friend of
yours. Her name is Peggy McKinney."
Foley frowned and crumpled the slip on which the message
was written.
"He said you and his sister met in Paris."
Foley remembered. He handed his secretary the ball of
paper. "Set up an appointment for him today," he said. "Here."
He put a plain sheet of paper in his own typewriter and
a the letter he wanted Peggy McKinney's brother a him. Then he phoned a man at the Pentagon and him have the captain assigned to an army intelligence him on Saigon.

.(
a the captain appeared in Foley's office, he stood at him front of the desk. Foley, in shirtsleeves, grinned at

him, Captain," he said. "What can I do for you?"
(t*t want to intrude on you--Peggy just asked me to
[ say hello."
1 you did. Peggy's terrific."
was about twenty-five, dark and fine-strung

' Foley said, "it was right in this office that an
I you was ordered to take the message to Garcia." him those days are over, sir."
p're not," Foley said. "I have a job for you. You are him what I'm asking you to do with anyone, not even a. I've informed the right person in the office of
F of Staff. You and he and I, and we alone, are to
: this. Is that clear?"
I gave him a sealed letter for Wolkowicz and told him him wanted him to do when he reached Vietnam. He a photograph of Christopher; he had had to call the
I himself in order to obtain it. I name is Paul Christopher, but he'll probably be
Look at the picture and give it back to me." him channel shall I use to report?"
wasn't report. If you do the job, I'll know it. And,
il.won't forget you."
írt want anything for this," the captain said. "Sir, I
it Kennedy."
' you did, son," Foley said.

five


Christopher st<xxj on t|,e 5^ of g,e Galleria Borghese and
watched HoQy ws^ across the park with the pine trees behind
her. She had spent the morning at the zoo while he wrote his
profile of the Pope, and she carried a bag of peanuts in her hand.
She wanted to look at Canova's nude Pauline Bonaparte
and the Caravaggios before lunch. "Just those two things, Paul,"
she said at sne made their plans. "You needn't look so suspicious.
Molly could spend hours looking at painting and sculpture.
There are museum guards all over Europe who think
you're in loye with them, the way you hang about," Christopher
told her. "Tf,en you know?» Molly said. "Chaps with sore feet
in dusty uniforms ma](e me go ajj fanny."

Do yoj, jove me> now tnat yOU acjmjt ijt for my mind or for ', my body?" Mony had ^^ when he returned from Washing8



to could not separate the two. When he entered
himself grasped not so much by her flesh as by her
If. Naked, she was as comic as a child; that was what
id him the first time he had her. He had imagined
iiild be a solemn lover, but she laughed when she
tegs, as if pleasure were a joke she played on life. him into each other's face when they made love, smilckling.
3 she came toward him, holding her hair in the
wind, he felt a smile pulling at his face, and when
, he laughed. Christopher had a strange loud laugh
Jd not control; strangers turned their heads when it

L
lolly said, "I've just come from feeding a poor caged

you."

the museum closed at two o'clock, they walked to a

..and because it was Thursday, ate gnocchi and boldered
a spiced pear and said, "Why does food seem
when one's having a love affair? If I ate this much ' innocence, I'd weigh two hundred pounds."
she had come back from Siena, she had moved into
snt; she bought vases and filled them with roses and
She put his books in alphabetical order, noveb on
.helves, poetry on another, general works on a third,
said she had driven Cathy's ghost out of Christo-.
"Did you really not mind the way she put horns on
asked.

1 minded, until I saw her reason," Christopher said. him more about my life than you do, Molly. Cathy was
woman. Maybe she wanted an existence that was as
'she thought mine to be. It wasn't love, but it was the
luld do, to go down the way she thought I was going." a were in bed, with Molly's candles burning on all the
lie room. "I know nothing about your life--are you all
i^when you're away?" she asked,
'to was, but when I was younger I had a tendency to
!y>" Christopher said. "I'd return from Lagos, still seeing the lepers catching coins in their mouths like dogs because
their fingers had fallen off, and I'd betray a certain sadness.
Cathy thought she knew another reason for my mood."
Molly lay still in the moving light. "Black girls?" she asked
"That was the least of it," Christopher replied.

"It must have been your bloody silence," Molly said. "Have no
you any love for me when you're away, or does it start when you
see me and end when your plane takes off?"
Christopher took a candle off the bedside table and held it him
up so that both their faces were in the light. "If I love you,
Molly, it's because you've never been with me in all those
places," he said. "I won't tell you, I won't take you. That part of it isn't life."
A tear ran down her cheek. He had never seen her cry no
before.
"I never thought there was any love in you at all," she said,
"and now that you say there is, I want it all."
He blew out the candle. Molly drew his arm around her
body, put her wet face in the hollow of his neck, and went
to sleep.

2

The following morning, Molly came back from the post
office with Patchen's letter. Christopher looked at the sterile
envelope with his name and address typed on it and knew the
sender: the characters that fell on the left side of the typewriter
keyboard were fainter than the others. Once, as a joke, he had
advised Patchen to get an electric machine to conceal these
traces that his letters were typed by a man with one arm weaker
than the other. He sent Molly out of the room and opened the
envelope. On a sheet of cheap paper were typed two lines from ;
one of Christopher's old poems.

Death fell breathless behind us in our war-struck youth,
and winning that race, we lost our chance at truth.

sthis, Patchen had typed: "PSRunner/22XI63/UBS

ite was unsigned. Christopher put it in his pocket,
hone, and made a reservation on the noon plane to


ipher was not known at the Union de Banques
Jeneva, but they were used to strangers there. He
that he wished to discuss a numbered account, and
«him into an office where a bald Swiss sat behind a bare
: banks have a churchly atmosphere; Christopher the furnishings in the bald man's office that he was «nt of a bishop. him man rose from a chair with a him back and shook hands, but did not smile. > is a numbered account here for me, recently
"'eve," Christopher said,
state the number and the name, please?
263," Christopher said, "and the name is P. S.

iC

moment." The bald man unlocked a file and ex-"--i
card; he centered it on the polished surface of

him and looked expectantly at Christopher, him require a signature?" Christopher asked,
sieur. Our instructions are to pay on demand, but
lish the second of two lines of verse."
_..ier quoted the line from Patchen's letter,
order," the bald banker said. "Do you wish to make
«IT

iis the current balance?"

(Hit of $100,000 has been made--that is, Swiss francs
You may have any amount, in either currency." a give me twenty-five thousand dollars in hundred-and
five thousand Swiss francs in hundred-franc
*v

nker wrote on a form and pressed a bell. In a mosenger
returned with two long buff envelopes. The
mted the money rapidly, sealed the envelopes,
d them to Christopher. "Your balance is now

$73,865.74," he said. "When you call for more funds, you may .
come directly to this office without asking the huissier. It's more no
discreet."
Christopher nodded and put the envelopes in his breast
pocket. Outside in the rue du Rhone he saw a man in a tweed
Brooks Brothers overcoat limping through the crowd and
thought for an instant that it might be Patchen. His letter bore
a Swiss postmark, so he might have carried the cash to Geneva
himself. Christopher followed the limping man for a block or
two before he got a clear glimpse of his face, which was whole
and handsome.
At a garage near the railroad station, Christopher rented a
car with French license plates. There were no identity controls
at the French frontier for motor traffic. The weather in northern
Europe was already turning bad, and he drove over the Jura
through fog and sleet. He did not want to leave any traces of
himself on paper in France, so he did not stop at a hotel. He
drove all night and arrived in Paris before the morning traffic
had begun to move. He parked the car behind the horse barns
at Longcharr,, him and slept for three hours in the back seat. When
he awoke, he touched the envelopes with Patchen's money in
them.

It took Christopher half the day to learn the telephone
number of Nguyen Kim.
"Are you still bumming meals?" Christopher asked, when
Kirn came on the noisy line.
They arranged to meet at Fouquet's. Christopher filled the
gas tank and spent three hours circling the block until he found no
a parking place on the Champs-Elysees in front of the cafe.
Kim drank two large bourbons at Fouquet's and two more no
at La Coupole after they had driven through Montmartre and no
doubled back across the Seine bridges. Kim did not know the |
city, and the long ride with many detours down side streets did no
not surprise him. When they reached the restaurant, they were]
alone; as they pulled away from Fouquet's, Christopher
r-view mirror, the two men who were following
ried around the corner to get a taxi while the him Christopher's rented Peugeot vanishing into a him just like it toward the place de la Concorde.
I oysters. For an Asian, he was an adventurous looked uncomfortable when he saw before him
meat of a dozen Spéciales in their gnarled
lemon over the oysters, and putting one
, opened his eyes wide and chewed. "They have I said, and sprinkled pepper over the ones remain-

*Christopher
said, "Let me see if I have this straight. a Vietnamese family called the toe consists of all on or female, who claim a common ancestry back
; into the past, and forward three generations
Is that right?"
I chewing, frowned. "Say it in French," he said.
translated.
him said, "That's it. Then there are the chi and the
rrt parts of the system."
is the important unit, is it? Those are people a line of descent from eldest son to eldest son."
: who belong to a chi think so. How do you know

pi sure I do, that's why I'm checking. What's a phai?" > can be lots of phai in a family. That's people who
1 from younger sons." him belong to a chi on one side and a phai on the

one «veryone does. I'm a chi on the Nguyen side and a
>Ngoside."
|pbout, say, Diem and Nhu--where did they fit in?" him both younger sons," Nguyen said. The eldest
the one I told you was killed in '45 by Ho's

categories mean anything in the modern

your ass they do," Kim said. "What counts iswhere you rank in the family If the Nguyen kings had held on
for another four hundred years, I'd be a prince of the blood
royal. Nobody forgets that."
"Where do you rank in the Ngo family?"
"Way down--lower than Diem and Nhu did, even."
'They couldn't have ranked so low."
"Well, no, they didn't. They were listened to, and they
contributed a lot to the family wealth in one way or another.
But as far as the Truong toe was concerned, they were just a
couple of kids who spoke French."
"The Truong toe?" Christopher said. "Who's that?"

'The head of the family. He's the oldest man of the main
line of eldest sons. I guess maybe he was their great-uncle."
"What's his name?"
Kim chewed another oyster and gave Christopher a bright
drunken look, filled with wariness. "Ngo," he said.
"Ngo what?"
"That's for me to Ngo and you to find out," Kim said, and
coughed violently on the oyster that laughter had driven into
his nose.
When he recovered, he wiped tears from his eyes and
asked, "What do you want to know all this stuff for, anyway?"
"After we had lunch in Rome, I thought I might go back out
to Saigon and do a piece on the Ngo family. You made them
sound interesting."
"Well, they're not. They mostly sit around in dark little
houses, eating smelly stuff and talking about the past."
"I find it hard to believe that this guy--the Truong toe?-- could run the lives of men like Diem and Nhu," Christopher
said.
"In politics, no. In the family, yes. He's the one closest to
everyone's ancestors--very important stuff with us."
"He's in touch with everybody in the family?"
"Sure--that's all he has to do in life. Whenever there's a
problem in the family, he settles it. Consults the ancestors, you
know, and comes up with the answer. His house is the headquarters
of the toe."

F you're a militant Catholic, like Diem or Nhu--do
' about ancestor worship?" a a glass of wine to his lips with his right hand. With I a gesture, palm upward, then downward, and
ows. He swallowed his wine and said, "It isn't a a ancestor worship versus Jesus Christ Our Lord. I
you in Rome how strong the family is with us. a to picture a group of people to whom all the dead
(back forever, and all the living ones, including the I going to be born from now to forever, are all with him time. That's the Vietnamese family." a to write something about this."
I you? You'd better do it on some other family. The
: a little anti-American right now."
I be a good chance for them to make a point or
said. "I've got twenty million readers."
iers wouldn't know a Truong toe from a third him after you told them. Paul, you're shitting me. I him got something up your sleeve. You think about that a rid of some of this wine."
watched Kim's progress through the loud res
Webster, sitting at a table against the wall, put
her nose and winked at him. Tom Webster »Vietnamese go into the toilet, then walked over to it is table with his napkin clutched in his hand.
him said. "How's every little thing?"
>Tom."
him friend of yours passed through a couple of days
: a message for you."
, now? What was it?"
.bit complicated. Why don't you come over for a him you ditch the little fellow?"
(it. It may be late."
nodded and went back to his table. When Kim changed to red wine, him you been to Beirut yet?" Christopher asked.
him replied, "I've decided to live oy my wits for a

while. I keep busy selling interviews with Madame Nhu. You'r
still not interested?"

"Not really, Kim. I know what she's going to say--and him
not publishable."

"You want to do a story about the Ngo family wit]
talking to her? No way you could do it--you're too white, \ all that blond hair and your big feet in wing tips. They wouldn't
say a word to you."

Christopher shrugged. "I thought you might help out."

"I don't work there anymore."

"But you work, Kim. I'm not thinking of your doing him
thing for free."

Kim put down his wineglass and drew a short finger deli-j
cately around its rim. Christopher was reminded of the
banker in Geneva, counting money. "Well," Kim said, "any|
thing for the homeland. What seems reasonable to you?"

"A fair exchange. You give me ten good names--thel
Truong toe and whoever else you think might talk to me. I'd go no
to two hundred a name."

Kim shook his head. "You'd have to use my name to get in|
the door," he said. "I wouldn't want you to do that."

"Then give me some other name--there must be someone!
I can pretend to know. By the time they check, I'll be out of the asked
country."

"Give me a piece of paper," Kim said. He pushed his plate no
aside and wrote rapidly with Christopher's pen, holding it bH
tween his second and third fingers. "I've given you addresses,]
too--the one with the asterisk is the Truong toe."

Christopher glanced at the list. "Who are the others?"

"Men to be careful of, Paul. I mean it. I think I know what]
you're after."

Kim laughed suddenly, staring into Christopher's eyeH
"Oh, this ought to be funny, Paul. You want a name to use <* asked
a reference, eh?" He leaned forward and beckoned Christopbtf |
closer. 'Tell them you know Lê Thu," he said.

"Lê Thu? That's a girl's name, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes, sometimes," Kim said. "Not always, though. i*J

him remember that? Believe me, that name will open

paid the bill. Outside, the cafe awnings were
it a hard winter rain. Kim fastened the button at the
i's-hair overcoat. "Jesus," he said, "I don't won
are all screwed up, coming from a climate like

1 together to the taxi rank at the corner of the
1A tart standing against the wall of a building him held over her head gave Christopher a miser-l
cried, "Au secours!" I to inspect the girl. "How much?" he asked her

' she replied, "service non compris." away with a look of contempt. "A hundred ?"
him called after him, "Seventy-five, it's raining."
fltóní," Kim said.
a stepped under the awning of a darkened shop.
I Kim an envelope.
I francs," he said. "You're doing better than
: you don't have to stand out in die weather."
I the envelope in his hand, then stuffed it into
jhof his coat His hair had been parted by the rain and
I face was wet.
a bigger thrill," Kim said. "Remember the
Hhu."

let Kim walk alone to the taxi. When the cab
lit, he went into the Dome and ordered a hot rum. was gone, and the harp-backed straw chairs, but
of the customers had not changed. A boy in a a stared contemptuously at Christopher's suit and
' held his girl's hand and pressed down hard with his

thumbnail on each of her knuckles in turn, watching withi
small smile as pain c*"ossed her face.
Christopher watched the street. When he saw Tom
Sybille Webster get «*<> a taxi, he paid his bill and wal
around the corner to t"6 Metro.

Webster opened the door before Christopher rang the 1
"How's Kim, the P.R-genius?"
he asked.
"About the same," Christopher said. "Are we going to |
here, or do you want to go someplace else?"
"Wherever we go on a night like this, we'll be surrounded!
by four walls. Sybille ^an^ to say good-night to you-or good-1 bye, or whatever."
Sybille had taken off her stockings when she came in from
the rain, and she stood in front of the fireplace with her skirt
lifted high on her freckled legs.
"Hello, cookie," she said. "Why are you in this terrible town
when you could be in *ne sun?"
Christopher kissed her. 'To see you for the last time--we
can't go on meeting this way, Sybille."
"That's what David Patchen told me the other night. Oh,
I realized I hated him when he sat right there with his eyes
propped open like a bad statue's and said, 'By the way, Christopher's
resigned,'" Sybille said. "As a conversationalist he's a blowgun--Paul, I know he's your best friend, but every time he
comes here he has some bit of news, tipped with curare, that
he fires into my poor flesh. Why does he come? Why doesn't he
stay in Washington and stroke his computers?"
Webster handed his wife a glass of brandy. "We'll still see
Paul," he said. "Blame him--he's the one who resigned, after
all."
"I'd rather blame David Patchen," Sybille said. "Besides, it
will never be the same. We can't assume Paul knows the same
secrets as we do anymore. I've seen people go outside--they
have the same faces as before, but they change. Little by little,
what made them nice leaks out of them."
Sybille drank her cognac. "Oh, well," she said. "I'm going
to bed like a good professional wife, so you two can have your
one of dark confidences. Are you sleeping here to-
F"1


\ if that's all right."

where--I'll put some towels out for you. Well
a &te morning." Sybille put a hand to his cheek and I'm. "It's raining all over the world," she said. a filled their glasses again. They stood together by
mg at Sybille's noises in the back of the apartment,
bedroom door closed and Webster brought a sealed
lit of his pocket and handed it to Christopher. There
Itation on the note and no signature:

Itt wanted something on Oswald's movements before Dal-
j?t


> was in New Orleans from 24 April to 25 September,
ÍÉ at insignificant jobs. He passed out leaflets for something
the "Fair Play for Cuba Committee." air 25 September, for no apparent reason, he went to Mexico him bus, arriving there on the morning of 27 September. He
I at the Hotel Commercio ($1.28 a day), air the twenty-seventh, he went twice to the Cuban embassy
Once to the Soviet embassy to apply for visas; said he wanted
"Tim to Russia, transiting through Havana. He was turned
*t both places, and had a loud argument with the Cuban
1 At the Soviet embassy he spoke with Yatskov and Kos.
, both KGB types under consular cover. ; Between 27 September and 1 October, he remained in MexSty,
but there is no information about his movements on three days. He returned to Dallas, arriving 3 October, and
it to work at the Texas Book Depository on 16 October. # He'd had the rifle for some time--bought it under a false
lee, "A. Hidell," on 13 March, by mail order.
;" On 1 November, he rented P.O. Box 6225, Terminal Annex,


After our little dance on the sidewalk, I began to think about a you'd said. Maybe we're the ones with illusions, but it wasn't matter. See what you can do; if you succeed, I'd like to
, about it. But that's up to you.

The money in Geneva represents less than the total of your

agazine salary over the past five years. We never found a way

> give it to charity (something about accounting regulations), so

been lying in a safe all this time. I found a way to give it back

to you as 9. "termination bonus." As long as we call it that, it him
to be okay. There's more if you need it.
I wish I could arrange a nobler gesture. It's not possible. I do 1
advise you to stay out of this country for a while. Your highly!
placed friend won't be in "power" forever, but while he is, you I
might as well realize you have no one here who can help you. He'i ]
serious about the strairjacket.
I've told Tom about your "resignation," to prevent his send-1
ing me cables asking where you are. Hell keep it to himself, even ]
if asked directly. He knows nothing else, and shouldn't.
Goodbye.

Christopher read the first part of the note again to memoize
it, and dropped it in the fire. Webster said, "What's all
this about, Paul?"
"A word of farewell from David."
Webster brushed aside Christopher's reply with a motion
of his hand. "I mean, what brought this on so suddenly?"
'Tom, it's not so sudden. You get tired of the life. I've been
hanging around alone in hotel rooms in central Africa and Afghanistan
ever since I got out of college. I don't want to do it
anymore."
"It's not too convenient for the rest of us, you know. There
are twenty-six principal agents in eighteen different countries
out there who won't talk to anyone but you."
"They'll get along. Ninety percent of what they do, they do
out of their own resources. They aren't photographing documents,
they're running political movements. I've held their
hands for a long time--let them go on alone."
Webster sat down heavily. "I'm not used to operating
against you, Paul, and I don't like to do it. I think this smelb
very, very funny. Patchen doesn't give a shit about your agents,
either. He wouldn't discuss handing them over to somebody
else. It's like he expects you back after a short vacation."
"I won't be back, Tom. David knows that."
"Then what's he waiting for? He doesn't want word of your
leaving to get around, isn't that right?"
"You read Patchen's mind if you want to. I've never bee» no
able to do it. What do you mean by operating against me?"
to get you to open up," Webster said. "Sybille may
have changed, but I don't. We've never lied to each

*

_. let's not start now."
tight, I'll tell you the truth. I don't think you're out. I
I and David have got something going. You went to
ton without even telling us. I didn't know you'd been tii Patchen showed up on the doorstep day before

^w

en I went to Washington, it seemed the thing to do,

perry I didn't tell you--but I go a lot of places without
Hi, when I pay for my own ticket."
uou fly home at your own expense, resign, make plans
'up in Rome for the rest of your life with that Aus've
got, right?" Webster said. "And a week later I
in La Coupole, with Nguyen Kim, with no French ttx closer than wherever you lost it. The French are
Bee ten pots of glue, all the time. You're telling me
£ a night off so you two could eat oysters and gossip
I times?"

a, I'm not telling you that--you're making it up."
II, I'm not making this up. Kim has run just over two
ollars through the Banque Sadak in Beirut in the last
He's got couriers going every which way."
ikln't mention that to me," Christopher said.
French have got him bugged. We couldn't get mikes
ecause there's always someone in the house, so we're
ing the French wires."

Jopher laughed. "I'll bet the French are going to like a-
'
won't find out. We're not going to find out a hell of
ling to tapes. We need someone next to Kim--like
you're an outsider. I'm not telling you any more."
Q guess," Christopher said. "You think they're talking
-put us back in, and we'll let you in after we get rid
fankee devils."

' "'be. But it may just be business. Kim's in touch with a
_ctory in Marseilles."

"Why? They've got more opium in Vietnam than they no
know what to do with."

"I don't know--maybe he's buying technology. If Kim can
process it himself instead of shipping it raw, he'll make fifty, a
hundred times the profit."

"Do you really think they're serious about the heroin business?"

"Kim sure as hell is," Webster said. "He puts in all his time
on it, night and day. He wants to buy a factory. I'm certain of
it." '

Christopher grinned. "Were you in touch with your wire
man today?"

"Yeah-How'd
you enjoy your beer at Fouquet's?"

"Okay. You had nobody behind me after I left"

"Didn't ff I shrck * bleeper under the left rear fender of
your fucking Peugeot, buddy."

Webster was filled with sly pride. He showed Christopher
a rigid middle finger and poured himself another cognac.

"That'll teach me to believe in coincidence," Christopher
said.

"You just aren't used to operating against a professional
service," Webster said. "You're not going to explain a goddamn
thing, are you?"

"Tom, there's nothing to explain. If you think I'm not out,
you're wrong. I'm through. I don't work for you people any
longer."

Webster took off his glasses. He was a young man, but there
were heavy pouches beneath his eyes and broken veins under
the skin of his face. "Okay, Paul," he said, "111 say this--next to
Sybille, you're the most sensitive human being I know. You
don't think for a minute that I believe any of this. Patchen sat
right here and told me to help you any way I could and to keep
my mouth shut about it That seemed a little unusual to me."

"If I need any help, 111 let you know," Christopher said.
"One thing--have you picked up anything on the audio you
have on Kim about somebody called Lê Thu?"

Webster thought, and shook his head. "I don't recall, but
I've got some tog» in my briefcase. Hold on." He looked through

1 sheets. "No, nothing in these, Who's he sup-

ft
a she--Lê is a female indicator in Vietnamese
f-Le Xuan, for Mrs. Nhu. It was a name Kim men-IE
he were playing a practical joke on me. Maybe he

a it through for a name check, if you want."
pher said. "Don't do that. I'm not entitled to
You've got to start remembering I'm a private

that in mind," Webster said. "Go to bed."

	rose while it was still dark. He left a note for I kitchen table and went down the carpeted stairs.
I courtyard of the apartment building he encounebster's
concierge. She was collecting the garbage,
her wizened face, narrowing her eyes in the
her morning cigarette. Her squint of suspicion it a smile.
travel, don't they?" she said.
	rapped softly on the lid of one of the concier-!
cans. "It's the age of the airplane--everybody can
him," he said.
I woman grinned. "But some have to take off early,

pher gave her a ten-franc note, and she trotted a him through the rain to open the heavy door to the

;, found a cafe filled with workmen and a few pallid I girls sat at the tables by the window, talking about
1 movies with the kindness and generosity they have
tier. He was reminded of Webster; like him, the him aging too quickly, and they placed the same value on
> knew the things that they had learned. They under another's fatigue.
Christopher had two cups of coffee and went out into the
rain again. By the time he had walked to Montparnasse, the rain
had stopped and Paris was filled with its winter light, a dull
atmosphere of mother-of-pearl. There was no one in the street
behind the Select where he had parked his car. He felt inside
the left rear fender until he found the transmitter Webster had
put there. It was attached with a strong adhesive, and Christopher
broke a fingernail prying it loose. He stuck it under the
tailgate of a truck with Nice license plates.
Christopher headed north, toward Brussels. He reached
the airport there by noon. In the tax-free shop he bought Molly
a ring shaped like a cobra with rubies for eyes. That afternoon
in the sunlight in Piazza del Popolo, he watched her slip it on
her finger.
"A stealthy gift," she said. "What lovely surprise have you
in store for me next?"
"I'm going to the Far East tomorrow," Christopher said.
"Christ. You just got back from there."
"I promise to love you the whole time I'm gone," Christopher
said.
Molly removed the ring and put it on the table between
them.
"Don't mock me in daylight with the things I say in the
dark," she said. "One day I'm going to leave you alone in bed,
Paul, and tell you nothing when I return except that I love you.
You'll find the reassurance means quite a lot."

six

1

one led him down one final dark street. This quarter of him all but silent, but Christopher knew it by day, and
persisted in the heavy air, like rifle shots in the hours
ish. He met the girl in a bar on To Do Street. He
" she might be seventeen. She spoke no French; her him were Cochinese dialect and soldier English.
get is Honey," she told Christopher. "It rhymes with

tied him up an outside staircase, tapping his arm so that
I see the boy sleeping on the landing outside her door him over the curled body.
him Christopher told her what he wanted, she did not ask
"You're not a bad man?" she said. Christopher said

that he was not, and she believed him at once, as if no one had
ever lied to her.
Christopher gave her money and she turned around modestly
and tucked it away somewhere under her dress. As frail as
a child's wrist, she sat on the bed and wove her hair into a long
black braid.
"Maybe I can go visit my mother while you stay here," she
said, speaking as quickly as the thought crossed her face.
"No," Christopher said, "I want you to be here, so that you
can say I'm with you and deal with the people--I speak no
Vietnamese."
Honey finished her braid and pulled her dress over her
head. She wore narrow pants printed with bright northern flowers,
daisies or black-eyed susans; her skin was almost the color
of the dyed blossoms.
Christopher smiled at her, and she drew in her breath to
make her breasts larger. "You change your mind?" she asked.
"No," Christopher said, "I just want you to be my sister for
a few days, and not bring anyone else to this room."
She pulled a mat from under the bed and unrolled it on the
floor. "Then I better sleep down here, brother," she said. She
lay down on her back, drew her braid over her shoulder, and
grasping it in both small hands, went to sleep.
Christopher covered her with a sheet and lay down on the
bed. Honey had lighted a joss stick; its scent mingled with the
stench that poured through the window like dust with sunlight.
She made no noise as she slept. Christopher turned on his side
and closed his eyes.
The girl had no papers, she had told him; therefore she had
no existence, and if he came and went in the dark, they should
both be safe enough. Heat, as palpable as the odors in the room,
closed around his body.

2

Before it was light, Christopher started walking through
die city again. He lost himself twice in cluttered dead-end

but he found Luong's house before the sun had wak-anyone.
Luong's wife, wearing a Western bathrobe that was too big
|er, answered his knock. She did not know him, and fright
(fed in her eyes.

"Tell Luong that Crawford is here," Christopher said in
fch.
rCraww-ford?" she said.

jtfi

on Christopher repeated the name. "We're friends," he said.
pShe left the door ajar and Christopher stepped inside the
ik. A very young child sat up on a mat in the next room and mA silently at him. Christopher winked at the child; he could a tell its sex. Luong's wife, fully clothed, came and gathered
UK Christopher heard her speaking softly in another room,
I a moment saw her go by the window, with all three of
I; children following behind her. Her hair was loose, and as
Nndked she reached behind her with both hands and fas-pd
it with a clip.

; "How did you find my house?" Luong asked.
^Christopher handed him an envelope. "I'm sorry I didn't
|you in Bangkok. You'll need this." no, "I waited three days," Luong said. "When I thought it was
*ess, I came back." He did not ask for an explanation; he was

>A

him, As they drank tea, sunlight filled the room. Luong had been

!h abroad. His parlor was furnished with Western sofas and
rs, and alpine scenes hung on the walls. The shrine of his
"ators, visible in a corner of an adjoining room, was crowded
, cheap colored glasses filled with wax in which small flames
ed on bits of cotton wick.

/*Do you know anything of a person called Le ThuP" Chris-ber
asked.
Luong searched his mind. "Is Le the family name or a given

acT
**I don't know. I hadn't thought it might be a family name.

Burned it was a woman's name."

«' The Le were kings of this part of Vietnam before the

Nguyen," Luong said. "It's a common family name, both in the
North and the South."
'This Lê Thu has some connection, I don't know what, with
the Ngo family."
"The Ngos are not very accessible these days. They're in
mourning, you understand. And they're learning to be careful
again, like everyone else."
"Can you find out the connection? But ask with care,
Luong--it may be that opium is involved."
"I'll try. It may not be the sort of thing you can pay for."
"I need to know who this person is, and where, and what
is the connection to the Ngo family."
"Where are you staying?"
"I'll come here tomorrow, just before dawn. If you want
me before then, write the time and the English word airborne above the urinal at the Pussycat Night Club on To Do Street.
Do you know it?"
Luong smiled. "I know it. Be careful what you sleep with
from that place--they're all country girls and they don't know
about precautions."
"We speak a great deal about precautions to each other,
Luong."
"Well, it's a time to be careful. Why are you still asking
about the Ngos? The important ones are dead, or gone away."
"This is a different matter. They still exist, as a family."
"Oh, yes," Luong said. "Everywhere. They buried a lot of
money--and a lot of democratic elements too."
Luong's remark was not meant as a joke. On his home
ground, when he was working, he was a serious man. That was
what had earned him the Thai girl Christopher had bought for
him in Bangkok, and his house in Saigon, on a street where
flowers grew beside the dirt walks.
"What are people saying about the Ngos since Diem and
Nhu died?"
"That their luck ran out. In Vietnam, that's always the
explanation. We have no political analysts, only superstitions
and fortunetellers."

fStod killers." íes, we've always had a good cheap supply of those."
you think you have some sort of personal luck that him you alive, Luong?"
F course. Everyone believes that. Even some foreigners lit, but not you yourself. I saw that in you from the first
believe in nothing except the force of human intelli-Isn't
that so?"
E doubt even that"
I thought so. But there are other forces. One waits, and a
; it's like water, soft and yielding, but also possessing a power." Luong smiled.
' Christopher said. "What's your lucky number,

; hesitated. "Eleven." him it come up lately?"
fes. Nhu wanted to kill me, you know. There were men
[here for me while I was with you in Bangkok. But Diem him died while I was away, on November 1--the first day
S eleventh month, an eleven and a one, three elevens if you
I from front and back."
: was Diem's number?"
it's well known. Seven, double seven. He came to
on July 7, as you may know, too."
him the number go on working after death?"
**I suppose so," Luong said. "Any combination of sevens him be good for Diem's spirit."
Could it make sense to honor his memory on a day seven him after his death, or fourteen days, or twenty-one?"
*Oh yes," Luong said. 'Triple seven, twenty-one, would be a very auspicious.... But you're toying with our superstif
*No, I try to understand these things. It isn't necessary to '. in them to know they exist, even that they exert what
i«all force."
"Well, perhaps one wouldn't call such passive things a

"What, then?"
Luong searched his mind for the French word. "An elegance,"
he said.

No one in the tropics expects to see a white man at sunrise.
Christopher did not live by the clock but by the rhythm of the
place in which he found himself. In hot countries he moved on
his targets in the cool of the morning. They were always surprised
to see him. As he walked down Luong's street under the
stunted flowering trees, he received startled glances even from
the children.
A few blocks away he found a taxi with its driver asleep in
a patch of shade. He woke him and gave him the Truong toe's
address.
The Truong toe's house was sealed. Shutters were fastened,
doors locked. The house stood in a small park, and as Christopher
walked among the flower beds and the palms it seemed
to him that the noise of life parted at the gate and flowed around
the walls of the garden. The babble of voices and the whine of
scooter engines that filled the streets on all four sides of the
narrow house were deadened. Christopher knew the noise was
absorbed by the trees and the high wall cloaked with vines, but
he thought, all the same, of the passive forces Luong had spoken
about
No one answered his knock. He stepped back and looked
upward at the blank windows, then walked around the corner
of the house to a terrace where bougainvillea grew over a trellis.
Heavy iron lawn furniture, curlicued and painted white, was
arranged in the shade; green mold crept up the legs of the
chairs, designed to stand on a lawn beside the Loire. French
doors opened on the terrace. Christopher saw someone in white
robes move quickly across the room within. An entire wall was
taken up by an ancestor's shrine. Photographs of the dead and
candle flames reflected in the panes of the terrace doors. The
person inside was lighting a thicket of joss sticks on the shrine.
Christopher knocked again, and his fist rattled the glass.
him figure turned around; be saw it was a young woman
at the back of the room and stared at him. He
I again, and drawing out his voice in the elongated tones
tunan who has lived long in Asia, called, "Mademoill
oous plait!" The girl came to the glass door, held up
, and shook her head violently.
rattled the door handle and spoke in a loud
t>"A word with you, mademoiselle."
topened the door and, using the to form, said, "Shut up.
him is closed."
: know, and I understand," Christopher said. "But I've
I die way from Paris to see the Truong toe." Noel's not receiving visitors."
have an important message for him. It concerns his

I girl let breath burst from her nostrils. "This family?"
I incredulously, looking at the color of Christopher's

fes--truly it's very important to the Truong toe." him are you? Have you a card?" him card. But give him this."
wrote on a page of his notebook, tore it out,
I it to the girl. She folded the note without reading
I her eyes, and closed the door again, turning the key
Hock. She pointed a finger toward the front of the house, I went around to the main door. Fifteen minutes passed him it opened. The girl, striding in her ao dai like a French
led him through odors of fish sauce, furniture polish, him smoke down a narrow hall to a room filled with books,
the blinds so that strips of light ran across the
I tile floor, and left him alone.
|the Truong toe let Christopher wait for a long time. When
in, he wore Vietnamese dress, white to signify his
Without shaking hands, he sat down, holding the
from Christopher's notebook between his thumb and
"Why do you bring me this message?" he asked. him wished to meet you. I thought you would want to have
Imformatíon."
"Well, then?"
"Your nephew, Ngo Tan Khoi, was garrotted after he entered
his car in the parking lot of the casino at Divonne-lesains,
on March 8,1958," Christopher said. "He was buried that
same night in the bottom of an open grave in the town of Gex,
eight kilometers away. A woman named Marie-Thérêse Hecuet,
for whom the grave had been prepared, was buried in it
on March 9."
"By whom was he killed?"
"Not by your enemies. He was mistaken for a heroin dealer
named Hoang Tan Khoi by the people who killed him. Your
relative and the heroin dealer had the same given names and
they were both Vietnamese."
"Who were these people?"
Christopher gave him the names of the French gangsters.
"Machelon is dead," he said. "Gaboni is still in business; if one
wishes to hire him, one leaves one half of a thousand-franc note
in an envelope with the doorman of the Russian restaurant in
the rue de Passy, in Paris. Gaboni will appear on the following
Monday, at ten o'clock, in the public toilet on the Champs-Elysées,
near the place Clemenceau."
"How do you have this information?"
"I had it from Machelon."
"Of what interest is it to me?"
"You now have it, in any case. I thank you for seeing me.
Goodbye."
Christopher uncrossed his legs and gripped the arms of his
chair, as if to rise.
The Truong toe handed Christopher the notebook page. It
was a gesture to establish trust; he was returning the evidence.
"And you are what--a policeman? You speak like a Frenchman,
but you don't have the manners of the French."
"I'm not a policeman. This is a personal matter--I greatly
admired the late Ngo Dinh Diem. I knew him slightly. When
he was murdered, I wished to express my sympathies."
"You choose a bizarre method."
Christopher put the page of the notebook in his pocket. "If

' who killed Diem and his brother, I would tell you that,"
isaid.
The Truong toe moved his hand and let it fall back in his
"How did you know of me?"
"I made inquiries. Your existence is not a secret. The
I boy in France--he was a member of the Ngo chi, was he
air

The Truong toe opened his eyes. There was nothing in-itary
about his expression of surprise; he wished Christo
to understand that he respected his knowledge.
"Yes," the Truong toe said. "We had hoped he wasn't dead,
: of course there was no other explanation."
Christopher looked into the flat face of the Truong toe; the
I skin stretched over the bones of his head like the ruined I of a china plate recovered from the ashes of a burned
. The old man had the light behind him, so even the faint
I he allowed himself could not always be seen.
"It did not matter to the parents," Christopher asked, "that one was a Communist and an agent of Ho Chi Minh?"
"One accepts what a son becomes in politics. There is no
tee."
"I would be glad," Christopher said, "if you could tell me
; about President Diem. I met him only twice, but I
: him a great man."
The Truong toe folded his hands. "Many thought him a
:," he said. "He was not much loved outside Vietnam,
in his own country, many never understood him. He wasn't the gift of the popular gesture. He once said that it was
sible for him to feel guilt."
"Yes," Christopher said. " 'He who loves the world as his 1 may be entrusted with the empire.""
"Lao-tzu. You're a surprising man."
"One may read as one wishes. Do you believe President him loved his world, which was Vietnam, as he loved his own ?"
"They were the same," the Truong toe said. "And now the I is dead and the other is dismembered,"

"The family is partly in the North, partly in the South. Is
it dismembered?"
"No, the family is one."
"And acts as one?"
"In matters that concern the oneness of the family, when
it can. But it is weak, compared to the apparatus of the state and
the weapons of the world."
"So are all families," Christopher said. "When the American
President was killed, as Diem had been killed, I wondered
if the members of his family had any thoughts about your
family."
"Because we had similar sorrows? I would be surprised. We
live far away, in a weak country."
"The assassinations came close together--only twenty-one
days, three weeks, separated them."
"The Americans live in another world," the Truong toe
said. "How can they compare their situation with ours? We
cannot touch such beings. Perhaps time will touch them."
Christopher stood up. "When you communicate with Ngo
Tan Khoi's parents," he said, "tell them I am sorry to have
brought such news--and to have brought it so late."
The Truong toe, his hands folded in his white lap, called out
a phrase in Vietnamese. The young woman reappeared and led
Christopher to the door.
"What's your name?" Christopher asked.
She gave him a contemptuous glance and remained silent.
"If you want to be worthy of the Truong toe, you must learn
to hide your feelings," Christopher said.
She opened the door and dropped her eyes, as if looking at
the color of his skin offended her.
Christopher walked through the muffled atmosphere of the
garden. Two Vietnamese in European clothes lounged by the
gate. Christopher saw the outline of revolver butts under the
thin white stuff of their identical shirts. The men watched him
get into his waiting taxi, then one of them crossed the street to
use the telephone in a shop.
Christopher told the driver to take him to the Continental
Palace Hotel. He walked past the desk and up the stairs. It was

iy in the morning, and the maids were not yet
found an unlocked room from which the luggage had
wed. Closing the door behind him, he sat down on
bed and used the telephone to call Wolkowicz.


wicz imagined that he was stalked by murderous
Íe carried a heavy revolver in a shoulder holster and
itetol strapped to the calf of his leg. A young Marine it a submachine gun drove Wolkowicz to work in the
ad home again in a Mercedes with armored doors and
if windows. Wolkowicz's villa was surrounded by a
waB, and the house itself had been fitted with steel
shutters. There were submachine guns, steel helmets,
ests in every closet.

topher rang the bell and saw Wolkowicz's eye at the
. In the dark hall, Wolkowicz worked clumsily to refasts
and locks with his left hand. He carried a pistol in
land and a newborn pig under his arm. him just about to feed the snake," Wolkowicz said. "Have
you want one."

topher made himself a gin and tonic with big clear ice air Wolkowicz's American refrigerator. , where the hell are you?" Wolkowicz said. "Come on,

haven't got all night	He hides during the day, half

I can't find him."

' owicz shifted the pig to his left hand and replaced the
'in his shoulder holster. He got down on his knees and
Itnder the furniture. "There you are, you son of a bitch," \ "Come on out."

f*oung python glided from beneath the sofa and lifted its rid. The pig squirmed sleepily in Wolkowicz's arms,
[have to dope the pig, otherwise the house gets wrecked
chase," Wolkowicz said. "I gave this one a Miltown in a
ffceer. He's feeling no pain."
""-^re'd you get the snake?" Christopher asked.

om Penh," Wolkowicz said. "I had to go over to see

Pete. The Cambodians run around with pythons draped around'
their necks. This is a nice one--I bought him from a taxi driver.
He had him on the seat beside him. The problem is getting food
for him. You don't have to feed him often, but he'll only eat live
stuff. He likes chickens, but I can't stand the noise."
Wolkowicz put the pig on the floor and sat down heavily
beside Christopher on the sofa. "You ever seen this done?" he
asked. "It's kind of interesting."
The snake watched the pig fixedly. The drugged pig
seemed surprised that it was unable to run; it gave a faint squeal
and staggered toward the sofa. Wolkowicz gave it back to the
python. With much slower movements than Christopher had
expected, the snake attacked, wrapping itself around the pig's
small body. The pig struggled briefly, then subsided, uttering a
series of thin squeals like a baby drifting to sleep. Its head
thumped on the floor.
"Look at die snake's eyes," Wolkowicz said. "This is the
only time they change expression--he gets dreamy while he's
squeezing."
It took the python a long time to swallow the pig's limp
body. Toward the end, when only the pink rump still showed
in the snake's widened jaws, the python reached around with
its tail and pushed the pig into its throat.
"Hell sleep for days now," Wolkowicz said "I never knew
they used their tails like that--it's pretty interesting."
"You enjoy having him around the house?"
"I make sure I know where he is before I go to sleep-snakes
are good pets. They've got dry, very smooth skin, like the
local girls," Wolkowicz said, grinning. He grasped the snake's
tail and pulled it across the floor and into a closet.
When he came back he said, "I heard you took a little heat
in Washington."
"Oh, how did you hear that?"
"I got a personal letter from a guy. The way I read it, you're
not supposed to be operating out here anymore."
"That's why I wanted to see you, to tell you I'm not operating.
All appearances to the contrary, I'm now just an honest
reporter, trying to make a living."
jpj why you showed up at the Truong toe's at five
morning, is it?"
; a piece on the Ngos. I thought the Truong toe
him person to talk to."
, Well, what do you want from me?"
Don Wolfe is out here."
him right. He reported in last week." him to talk to him."
[ him up, he's around."
opher smiled. "I just wanted to go through channels, a for you. I thought you might like to be present." had have to be present. He works for me, as you men-

iless,"
Christopher said. "If he's living next door,
I if you'd call him over now. I don't plan to hang him very long."
cz pursed his lips. "You're out, aren't you?" he
en didn't bother to inform anybody, but news trav
out, Barney."
vhat's in this for me?"
[run into anything, I'll let you have it."
ll'd better," Wolkowicz said, "or you'll never get into
qtry again. You believe that?"
eve it."
ay," Wolkowicz said. A short-range transceiver had
ling on the coffee table while they spoke. Wolkowicz
up the microphone and spoke into it.
do you talk German on the radio?" Christopher

kowicz put his hand, covered with stiff black hair, over
ophone, as if it were a telephone receiver. "Wolfe can't
erokee," he said.

him Wolfe wore sagging Bermuda shorts, a T-shirt, and a
I seersucker jacket.
know the illustrious Christopher?" Wolkowicz said.
anything he wants to know."
Wolkowicz picked up a heavy attache case and his radio*
and went out of the room. Wolfe removed his jacket, revealing asked
a revolver in a shoulder holster. "Station regulations, we never no
go out without a gat," he said. "You don't believe in firearms,,
do you?"
"I always thought somebody might take it away from me
and shove it down my throat," Christopher said.
"What can I do for you?"
"A lot, I hope. When did you leave Mexico City?"
"Let's see, this is December 15.1 left on December 2--four
days at headquarters to learn all about Vietnamese culture,
then right out here."
"David Patchen says you worked on the Oswald thing
down there."
"That's right."
"Are these dates right?" Christopher recited Oswald's
movements in Mexico City.
"I think so. I haven't got your flawless memory."
"Who talked to the people at the Soviet embassy?"
"From our shop? I did."
"How were they?"
"The Russians? Scared shitless. There was a lot of pressure
on them, you know. We had SAC in the air, and you have to
admit it looked awfully funny--Oswald a onetime defector,
chatting with the KGB in a foreign capital only a few weeks
before he shot Kennedy. They were feeling the pressure."
"Well, that passed."
"I think we were a little hysterical ourselves--the Russians
don't do things like that anymore. They're trying to be respectable,
like us," Wolfe said. "When Ruby killed Oswald, everything
settled down overnight. That was a real gift, from the
Sovs'point of view."
"Did you have any surveillance on Oswald while he was in
town?"
"No, why would we? You know what the manpower problems
are. He was just a jerk who went to Russia once."
"Oswald was in Mexico City from September 27 to October
1."
^September 30, really. He left early in the morning
, by bus." I was in town during those three days?"
back his eyes. "Jesus, half the human race. him mean?"
through in that time who interested you?
' agents, I mean."
not Americans. I don't know if I can him all, in the time frame. The Mexico City airport on where they all change for Moscow, Peking, and him know." Írixmt Hanoi?"
him Vietnamese? There weren't any. Does that nar
for you?"
Vietnamese. A third-country white man, who a been to Vietnam very recently, or was on his way

I his eyes, reached under his T-shirt, scratched
Behest.
was only one fellow like that," he said. "Manuel
I* his passport name. He uses Manuel Ruiz, Manuel
ays Manuel, though. He's a protege of Che's." him is he now?"
a in touch, Paul. If you find out, it'll be helpful. He's I fighter, he goes out and surveys revolutionary
Guevara. He's been in Bolivia and Colombia, even
surfaced for about two months this year--mid
mid-October. Then he went to ground, as they say, Noel's seen him since. He's not in Cuba." him in Vietnam in that period?"
Wolfe said. "In Hanoi from early September to I end of the month. I remember his coming through him Chilean passport. We got a photo of him from Mexi-
at
the airport."
[ after that?"
to saw him again. As I said, he pulled the chain on him sipped his drink. "Does one ask what all this is in aid

Wolfe spoke like an Englishman and in colder climate» wore suits that he ordered by mail from a tailor in London.
"Nothing, probably," Christopher said. "I'm just curioui
about the whole incident."
Wolfe nodded. "How's your bride?" he asked.
"Cathy? We've been divorced for three years."
"Have you? I guess I haven't seen you for quite a while.
Your loss is somebody's gain--I always fancied that girl, Paul."
"Yes, she had a way about her," Christopher said. "Have
you seen Wolkowicz's python do his act?"
Wolfe gave a high giggle. "Are you changing the subject or
telling me the secrets of your bedroom?" he asked.
"Thanks for the dope," Christopher said.
"That's all right," Wolfe said. "Mexico can give you the
exact dates and the Cuban's photograph the next time you get
down there."
"I think I may already have a picture of him somewhere."
"Do you? Tell them that in Mexico. They love it when you
chaps fly in and save the world over a long weekend."
Christopher smiled. "So does Wolkowicz. We're admired
wherever we go."

Christopher left Wolkowicz's house the way he had come,
through the walled gardens of the foreigners' compound. There
was no moon, and only a few weak stars broke the black surface
of the sky.
When he emerged into a quiet street, he was still alone. He
didn't understand it; by now the Truong toe's men or the secret
police should have picked him up. He walked for a mile or more
on side streets, doubling back and wandering into cul-de-sacs a*
if he were lost, but there was no one behind him. Finally it*
turned and walked straight toward the glow and racket of T*
Do Street.
In the Pussycat Night Club, Honey sat on the lap of him
Special Forces master sergeant. She wore his green beret on tbej
back of her head and drank from a bottle of champagne.
forearm, covered with tattoos, encircled her. a finished a bitter beer at the bar and walked across ' saw him and pointed a derisive thumb at the I face was buried in the hair at the back of her
winked at her. She wore the sergeant's
I ribbons on her dress, and she inflated her chest as
> the night before and giggled again. \ urinal, Luong had written 1230 Airborne. Chris
on his thumb and wiped out the message; the blue
: stained the ridges of his thumbprint, and he went
' bar and scrubbed it off with beer and his handker-

'
put her hands on the bar beside him and said, "You him tonight?"
watching the sergeant in the mirror, said, a Very late. Don't let the sergeant fall asleep."
I face, like that of a bride in a photographer's shop him fixed in innocence.

took Christopher's arm and led him through his I to the bedroom. A picture of Christ, vermilion
; through a white winding sheet, hung over the
had seen the original in Saint Peter's, a good to meet here," Luong said. "My wife wonders
grow

i't go out at night."
. But carefully. I have something about this name, Lê

was tired; he moved so that his back was him head of the bed.
wasn't put a person to the name yet," Luong said, "but
; about it--it startled some of the people I

I them? Why?"
c perhaps there is no person, that this is a false name
5 you expected that. Lê, as you know, comes from her. It means, or suggests, 'tears.' Thu means 'au-fc
Vietnamese--therefore, 'the tears of autumn.'"
Christopher nodded. "As Lê Xuan--Madame Nhu's him --means the tears of spring."
"Exactly. I asked a man who takes messages into the <
tryside if he had ever heard the name. His reaction was ir
ing. He said nothing, as if he were thinking, and then sometl
connected in his memory. He advised me to forget the him
and left me."
"Did you go on asking after that?"
"No. I had already asked others. There is a man I might sect!
but he's not in Saigon. He's in a village on the way to Bien Ho
I had no reason to go today, but perhaps tomorrow I can drivil
there. We have a party cell in the village--he has not been unfriendly."
"Who is he?"
"He was a Catholic priest when the French were here.!
They thought he was running with the Viet Minh and they]
tortured him. They say he's a eunuch. He still lives in the church
and wears priest's clothes."
"Does he still run with the Communists?"
Luong shrugged. "Who knows? He's a remote connection a
the Ngos--his grandfather married one of their women while
the Catholics were still in the North."
"Would he talk to me?"
"Not for money. Maybe for curiosity. There's talk about you 1
--you went to see the Truong toe, I hear. They've been asking
about a man who must be you. They think you're French, despite
your looks."
"They haven't tried to contact me," Christopher said.
"They cant find you in any of the places you should be."
"And if I talk to this priest?"
"Then they'll find you."
"He reports to them?"
"He's their relative, my friend. You're » foreigner," Luonl
said. "There's a way to deal with him, Crawford. He's doing
some business with opium--a lot more of the stuff has bee» moving in the last few weeks, I hear."
"Moving? How?"

it VC are bringing it in from Cambodia, and from Laos,
[trail. I hear that the principal storage place is under
1*8 church--there are VC tunnels running under the
' control that part of the countryside.'* him he is still running with the Communists?"
; business with them. He's buying. He has a great
it's said, very suddenly. He never had any

Ip would one deal with him? Offer to buy? Threaten to

wasn't make threats," Luong said.
me where he can be found, exactly."
; drew a map on a page of Christopher's notebook,
fthe roads to the village. He drew a row of X*s along the
, "Ambushes at all these places recently," he said. On
|l»age he sketched the village, showing the church and I'll where the priest lived. Christopher studied the pages
then ripped them out of the notebook and
| them back to Luong. "What's his name?** he asked.
him whites he uses the French style,** Luong said *7ean-^Ho."
stood up. Fatigue ran through his body like a
. "Where can I get a car without papers?"
' You're going out there at night?"
, I can get back before daylight"
[ gave him the name of a garage. "There's one more
5 can ask tonight about the name," he said. "I don't want a here again--have you a place in the city?"
a, so as not to say it aloud, wrote the address of
|i room and sketched the entrance. He looked at his
«TB be back at five o'clock in the morning," he said
|eome after it's light"
I have anything by five o'clock, 111 come," Luong said
shook hands with him. "One more thing--if
I means the tears of autumn as a name, how do you say » ordinary way?
I Vietnamese? Nuoc mat rniui thu."

"It's more poetic in French."
Luong smiled. "You hear music in the language you know,"
he said.

6

The car was a Citroen with only thirty thousand kilometers
on the odometer. Its soft fabric cushions and the air suspension
took some of the ache out of Christopher's back and legs. There
was a checkpoint at the Thi Nghe Canal bridge where the
highway joined the avenue leading into Saigon; a young guard
took the thousand-piaster note clipped to Christopher's press
card and waved him through.
The Citroen made very little noise apart from the grip of
its tires on the tar road. Christopher turned off the headlights,
and by the time he was far enough away from Saigon to be in
danger, he saw well enough in the starlight to drive as fast as
the car would go. His eye followed the road through the trees
and the low bushes, and the paddies shining in the darkness like
coins. He saw no movement He didn't think that anyone would
expect to see a darkened car moving at 150 kilometers an hour,
or be able to hit it with gunfire.
On the dirt track leading into the village, Christopher went
more slowly, but still dust blew in the open windows and coated
the interior of the car. The church was a small building standing
by itself beyond the huts that lined the principal street. Light
from the altar candles leaked through its thin walk. Inside,
there were a few long benches with their ends lying in deep
shadow. Like Patchen's house in Washington, the church was a
place in which nothing involving human emotion had happened
in a long time.
Christopher knocked, loudly, on the door behind the altar.
The priest opened the door at once; behind him, the tiny room
in which he lived was lit by a kerosine lantern. He wore a
cassock, unbuttoned at the top so that his neck and his bony
chest showed. Christopher heard a soft noise and saw a woman
sitting upright on a plank bed; she turned her eyes aside and

a with her back against the wall at the far side of

sorry to disturb you, Father," Christopher said. "I
help."
> little priest threw back his head and looked Christo
the eye. "It's very late," he said. "It's very dangerous,
him no army patrols at this time of night." a I understand, but it was important that I see you. You
: HO?"
I you are what--a Frenchman?" I priest fumbled with the tiny burtons on his cassock. He
I twitch; his cheek moved, causing the right eye to
I close like a caged owl's. Christopher had never seen
I with such an affliction. Remembering what Luong
I him about the priest's experiences with French inter
Christopher said, "Father, I'm an American."
You don't look or sound it, if I may pay you that

, Fm something of an outcast," Christopher said. "I
I very little in America as an adult, so I haven't kept him my countrymen's manners."
ii're an outcast--or a pariah?"
the two, for the tone being--like yourself, Fa-spriest
still stood in the doorway of his room, with the
; woman behind him. His twitch became more ache
placed a hand, ropy with age, over his cheek. ÍW
you," Christopher said. Tour relatives the Ngos
; enough to tolerate an unfrocked priest who dealt
enemy and used his church for cover. Perhaps you him of service to them in small ways. But the new regime
^tolerant. How long do you think you'll last here?" I priest called out a phrase in Vietnamese. His woman him in a box and brought him an envelope filled with
(powder. He turned his head away and snuffled heroin
nostrils. In a moment his cheek quietened, and he

gestured Christopher to follow him. They sat down together on
a bench near the altar.
"The regime makes a great deal of noise in the daylight,"
the priest said. "As you see, their soldiers are very quiet at
night."
"That's fine for those who live only at night, like the Vietong
combatants. For those who wish to utilize the whole clock,
it's inconvenient. When next you send a message to Kim in
Paris, tell him to change banks. The Banque Sadak in Beirut is
leaky."
The priest's twitch had stopped altogether. The heroin had
had an effect and also, Christopher saw, it was not the present
that drove the man's nerves out of the control, but a memory
of the past. He put his hands in the sleeves of his soutane and
gazed at Christopher.
"I've heard something about you, I think," he said. "You
have a great deal of information."
"I have an appetite for it. Father, I have no curiosity about
your traffic in opium or in politics. It's your affair. But it's the
sort of thing, if it were to come to the wrong ears, that could
send you to prison again. Where did the French put you?"
"Chi Hoa Prison."
"You have a relative there now--Ngo Dinh Can."
"Thanks to the Americans, yes. Thanks to them, I have no
doubt Can's jailers have more modern equipment than mine
did--the French are poor mechanics. They used field telephones,
water, even their boots."
"Yes--and Can is guarded by Vietnamese, not Frenchmen,"
Christopher said. "That makes a difference."
"I suppose so. What is it you want?"
"I want to talk to you about a certain Lê Thu."
Like a man picking up a teacup to show that his hand does
not tremble, the priest moved his eyes slowly from Christopher's
face to the dusty altar and back again. "I know no one
named Lê Thu," he said.
"My Vietnamese is very poor," Christopher said. "The
name means 'the tears of autumn,' does it not?"

come here to discuss Vietnamese names and their
from archaic Chinese? I'm not an expert." a, I've given you some information, voluntarily. Per-_J
give you more--I have an idea that your business
is important. If you go on taking heroin, you'll soon to your family or your movement, and if the regime
I you, die drug certainly will. You will have had a ^-erience of its effects when you go to your grave, him are a political man as well as a member of the Ngo
act that you'll smile to think of the American sol-doomed
to be ruined like yourself. They'll be very very stupid."

'have a morbid imagination."
learned to understand revenge," Christopher said,
"nt to know I want to know for myself, not for any him government, or any other person. I understand
.t_a't believe that, but it's true."
?what is it you want to know?"
''* a me tell you what you get in return. Silence. I'll tell
; in Saigon, not in Washington, not in Paris--what
ming with heroin." »0t? Do you care nothing for your countrymen?"
9Mt I'll be truthful once again. They wouldn't believe
^erestimate you. They think you haven't the intelli
resources, and they think they are too strong for
.iduals and as a nation."
they are weaker than I thought."
y're not weak," Christopher said. "They just don't
weak can strike at them. The senses travel very
ban enormous body as America's. Men like you can
yon cannot kill such a large organism. That's your

it is it you want to know in return for your silence, .yet on philosophy?"

things," Christopher said. "First, is Lê Thu the code Operation that was carried out on November 22 in and, how was the message transmitted from Saigon

to the North, and then to the man who recruited the American
assassin? Third, what is the name of your relative in the intelligence
service of North Vietnam who recruited the man who,
in turn, activated Oswald?"

The priest sniffed; the drug had fixed a smile on his face,
and his body rocked slightly as if in rhythm with the movement
of the heroin through his .bloodstream.

"You're very direct," he said. "You must not be afraid of
consequences."

"I'm careful of them. You've read detective stories, I suppose?
The blackmailer always arranges that his information will
pass into other hands if he is killed."

"You've told me it would not be believed."

"Not by any American you know about, or can conceive of.
There are others who would believe it, and I advise you not to
have contempt for them. As your recent success has taught you,
contempt is a mistake."

"Ah--it's for these people that you want this information?"

"No, for myself. It's an intellectual challenge--I'm accused
of believing that everything can be discovered and understood."

"If you already understand, or think you do, then why insist
on discovery?"

"Before I realized what the heroin was for, I imagined that
you had had revenge enough," Christopher said. "So one discovers
something new every day."

The priest's He was awakening again. His blinking eye
seemed to register Christopher as an automatic camera freezes
the motions of an athlete.

"Do you want me to give you the information, assuming
that it exists and that I know it?" he asked. "Or do you merely
want us--me--to know that you have this idee fixe?"

"Have you the information?"

"No."

Christopher stood up. "Then I'll be in plain view all day
tomorrow in Saigon. If anyone wishes to talk to me, I'll be
available."

Christopher walked rapidly out of the church. He checked

of the Citroen for wires and looked at the motor and
~---:age with a flashlight. There was no sign of explo-her
had seen the woman go through a trapdoor its room after she had given him his heroin, but the
would be out on patrol, and unless some of them
; along the dirt track that led to the highway, they
have had time to get back. He turned the car around him out of the village.

«ray to Saigon, Christopher saw shapes move in the
beside the road, a hundred yards ahead of the car. He
a die headlights, bathing three armed men in their the of them threw his arm in a floppy pajama sleeve
I eyes. Christopher turned off the lights and blew the
the rear-view mirror he saw muzzle flashes, like the
of a gas stove. There were no tracers; that gave him
Be. Rounds struck the road behind the car and ahead
inone hit the Citroen before it went around the next
Mng with a sigh on its suspension, the steering wheel
tt in his hands.


Christopher entered the city, the red sun touched a
cirrus clouds on the eastern horizon. He looked at his
id, remembering Luong, realized mat he was late. He I the shapes of buildings in the increasing light. The
. ere still empty. There was the taste of dust in his mouth
eyes burned from the strain of driving in the dark; he I headlight switch and followed the yellow puddle of
, beams through the grid of Saigon's streets. He packed
ftve blocks from Honey's room, locked it, and walked the
the way.

the mouth of the alley, he met two Vietnamese. They
(Uiged their white shirts for darker ones, but he recog-*"
. The men, walking rapidly, stopped when they saw
' hurried by. Christopher turned around and watched
jjpear into another alley;'a motor scooter whined
iits rider shifting gears very rapidly.

Christopher climbed the stairs. The air smelled fresh, as if
there had been rain in the night, and the sunrise washed across
the roofs of the quarter. The boy was asleep again on the landing
outside Honey's room, sprawled on his back with one
trouser leg pulled upward on his hairless calf.

Stepping over the sleeping figure, Christopher looked
down. It was Luong, his eyes staring, his black hair blown forward
as if by the wind. Christopher kneeled and touched his
skin. It was still warm; there was a black stain on his trousers
where his bladder had emptied.

Christopher pushed back Luong's hair and saw the small
blue hole on his smooth forehead. "He's not your child," he
heard Wolkowicz say. Christopher laid his palm on Luong's
cheek and closed the eyes and the slack lips with his thumb and
forefinger.

He opened the door. The Special Forces sergeant, wearing
an identification bracelet with a delicate gold chain on his thick
wrist, lay on his back with Honey in his arms. Her narrow body
with its row of knobs along the spine rested easily on the sergeant's
chest; she had left her hair unbraided. They were
breathing together softly. Luong's killers must have used a silenced
gun.

Christopher knelt beside Luong again and looked through
his pockets. There was nothing for him there, or in the dead
man's clenched hands. He was not surprised; no agent had ever
spoken a last message to Christopher before he died.


8


Christopher started the Citroen without checking it for
bombs and wondered if the tension on his wrist when he turned
the key might be the last sensation his brain would ever register.
But the warm engine started normally, and he drove to the
post office, where there were coin telephones. He called Wolkowicz
and told him what had happened.

"Tell someone to get there fast, before the people in the
neighborhood wake up and dump the body," Christopher said20



: difference does it make?" Wolkowicz said. "He was
ey won't investigate, they'll just close his file."
; as they get the body. He has a wife."
tit, 111 put out a call, but don't expect any answers i'll Vietnamese--if they went around solving murders in
: they'd never get anything else done."
thanked him. "That's okay," Wolkowicz said. 1 things turn out, isn't it? If he'd come back from him month when he was supposed to, and they'd shot
, his widow would've gotten a pension. But this sure
1 like death in line of duty."
does, after it happens," Christopher said.

him lobby of the Continental Palace half a dozen foreign-s
and Frenchmen, waited in two docile groups for a minibus to the airport. Christopher had not slept for
hours or changed his clothes for forty-eight. The him stared curiously at his rumpled suit and unshaven no he could tell by their clothes and the way in which
I impatience had twisted their faces that they lived in »They were not used to seeing dirt on a white man, and
ithem.
him metis behind the reception desk, who had his father's
, nose and his mother's small bones and almond eyes, him to Christopher as a matter of course. He said he
, When Christopher replied in French, the metis |ft registration card across the desk and took a key from "Piece d'identité?" Christopher handed him his a passport, and the clerk gave back a resentful look-- I lost his first bribe of the day through trickery.
her sent the bellboy forfhe suitcase he had left at a office. He shaved and took a bath; the tepid water
I from the tap, rusty and smelling faintly of the river. He a and wrote a letter to Patchen. Using the English sec-a
Collins French-English pocket dictionary, he con-I
the words he had written into groups of numbers corre-|
to the page, line, and column where they were found

in the book. It was not a satisfactory dictionary for use in a book'
code; heroin did not appear, and he had to render the word at
"next-stage morphine derivative." He might as well have been
writing in German, he thought. Christopher burned the paper
on which he had written his draft, and put the thin sheet covered
with rows of numbers into an envelope with an American
airmail stamp already affixed. He did not address the envelope.
Before he went to sleep, Christopher took no precautions
apart from the useless one of locking die door. Precautions
would serve no purpose. If Luong had been killed as a warning,
Christopher himself would not be killed until whoever was
running the assassins decided that Christopher had not taken
the warning. The two men could have killed Christopher easily
enough in the alley when they met him face to face. Or, if they
wished to be artistic, they could have shot him after letting him
discover Luong's body. The killers had no distinguishing features,
they looked like any other young Vietnamese sharing a
motor scooter and looking for a way to make a little money out
of the war.
Each time Christopher began to dream, he reached into
that part of his mind and stopped the pictures. Nevertheless, he
saw the man run down in Berlin again, and a youth in Algiers
with a bullet coming out his back in a plume of blood as if he
had thrown a glass of wine over his shoulder, and Luong's
photograph on a grave marker with a bright sacred heart glowing
on his chest. While the Truong toe drank tea, Jean-Baptiste
Ho showed Christopher pictures of all the Ngo dead, arranged
among candles in die room in Siena where he had repeated to
Molly that he loved her. Touching Christopher's arm as if he
were an old friend, die priest said, "It would be beautiful to die
of disgust, but you will not."

9

When Christopher awoke, he went to die American
embassy and mailed his letter to Patchen, scribbling die false
name and die post-office-box number in Washington across the
envelope at die moment he dropped die envelope in die box.
would reassure Patchen to see that the message had
Ugh the U.S. mail only. It was undecipherable with-pk
that was the key to the code, but ciphers are
og in themselves.

Crowd of foreigners on the terrace of the Continental 1'' ú reminded Christopher of travelers on the deck of
rything that interested them lay inside the rails; the a, as alike as gulls, went by on the sidewalk, locked
ge that made no sense to white men. Christopher
Americans he knew, all of them journalists. He sat at ', end of the terrace with his back to their table and
$ vermouth cassis. In the street, ordinary women in ao trousers and bar girls in miniskirts that spoiled the
' their slender bodies were out walking; a rawboned air girl carrying an armload of packages strode through
vd, whistling a love song, her hair swinging,
istopher waited. Dark had fallen, and most of the peoe
terrace had gone inside to have dinner, when the girl ; le had changed out of her white gown into a linen suit,
tangled necklace of pearls at her throat and her heavy
fled on her neck.

6 paused in the doorway, saw Christopher, and walked I to his table. She took the bamboo chair opposite Chris
sitting on its edge with her spine straight. She wore a
tolet scent, and Christopher thought of Honey's bikini
1 with foreign flowers she had never seen. Christopher speak again, except to summon the waiter; he let the girl
her own Coca-Cola.

it is curious," she said, "this was the very first place I
1 for you. I'm glad you're so easy to find."
rrhere aren't many places in Saigon to look for a for-ier,"
Christopher said. "I'm a little surprised that the
»g toe sent you--I had an idea he'd send a male relative." The girl wrapped a paper napkin around the sweating glass
Baiter had set before her. "I detest ice»" she said. "It makes
.feel no cooler to swallow these freezing drinks."
' She smiled and lifted the glass; her gestures, like her face,
fee softer outside the Truong toe's house. She had the fine

features of the Vietnamese young; her fresh skin was lighter
than Honey's. She had had a better diet: the bones of her neck
were covered with smooth flesh and her hair shone with health.
Her small ears, pierced by the golden earrings of an engaged
girl, were almost transparent.
"My uncle was impressed with you," she said. "He wasn't
pleased that I had been rude to you."
"Neither was I. Perhaps we can come to the point. I'm a
little tired, and very hungry."
"You'repay me my rudeness, I see. You have the right.
There's been death in our family, as you know, and it's difficult
sometimes to remember one's manners. I'm exhausted with
condolences--everyone comes to the Truong toe's house, and
I'm tired of all the sadness."
"I understood. It's not important."
"My uncle would like to talk to you again."
"Would he? I have nothing more to teU him about your
cousin."
"He knows that, but he would like to meet with you. What's
your Christian name? We can't go on calling each other 'monsieur'
and 'mademoiselle.' I am called Nicole, in French."
"Nicole? And in Vietnamese?"
She smiled. "Nicole is easier. And you?"
"Paul."
"Lake the angry saint. I've always liked that name." She
spoke French like a Parisian, with a studied musical!ty that paid
compliments to the language. She was not speaking to him in
the same way as before. Like an educated Frenchwoman, she
had two voices: her natural speech for ordinary business, and a
sweeter tone when she wished to be charming.
"I'd be glad to see the Truong tec again," Christopher said.
"Has he a time and place in mind?"
"He asked me to bring you to him."
"That's kind, but I know the way."
"He's not at home tonight--we'd have to go to another
place, and I'm not sure you could find it. It's in Cholon, and the
streets are not easy there."

it. I have a car--but really I must eat before we go.
; since yesterday."
reached across the table and lifted Christopher's
: at his watch. "It's only eight--we have time," she

; the meal Nicole talked about France. "I was edu-ilong
there, all of us were whose families had enough I she said. "I think in French even now--it really is the
of logic. I separate people into French categories, a or not intelligent. Everything is so simple in French, I the difference between things."
1 do you feel in French as well?" Christopher asked.
, no--a Vietnamese feels in Vietnamese. French is a
!rof the mind--Vietnamese, of the blood." him sound like Diem--what was he to you, an uncle?" on of cousin. Why should I sound like him? He hardly
air

5 spoke enough," Christopher said. "Is this mystical idea
nationhood something the mandarin class has 1 You're the only ones who speak of it."
' would you know? You can only speak to people who
French."
it's true, and you all have this tendency to dramatize I side of your nature. You take such pleasure in
; outsiders with your national mystery, as if it were
; hidden, but in plain sight."
I what, in your opinion, is that mystery?"
P'pride in your murders. It's not a quality that's confined him. There's a tribe in Ghana that believes no one dies
I death--when a man dies, they use magic to find who
has killed him, and by what spell. Then the dead
Ison is given his father's sandals. When he grows big
»to wear them, he kills his father's murderer. Eventually,
, he too is killed in revenge. It goes on, generation after

him think the Vietnamese question is as simple as that?"
think the human question is as simple as that, Nicole.

Intellectual systems are developed to justify the exchange of
death; the system of the Ghanaian tribe is as sensible as Christianity
or your own family's sense of aristocracy, or what the
Americans call the dignity of the individual. In Germany, two
thousand years of Christian teaching produced the SS. In Vietnam,
two thousand years of colonialism produced this slaughter of peasants Ho Chi Minh calls a revolution and Diem never put
a name to. It required only a hundred years of technology to
produce the Hiroshima bomb. All achieved the same results-murder
without guilt."
Nicole put down her knife and fork and leaned back in her
chair, peering at Christopher as if his words had formed a frame
around him. "You believe in nothing, then," she said.
"I believe in consequences," Christopher replied.

seven


him

was alive at night. The Chinese were everywhere,
; in the street to eat rice, moving quickly through the
Lvoices and loudspeaker music on errands, exchanging
money. Christopher drove the Citroen through the
[ crowd; pedestrians banged on the thin metal hood to let

that they were there,
ife'd do better to walk," Nicole said.

opher parked the car; the gray Simca that had fol-Í
them from the hotel stopped a block behind. Two Viet-,
shorter than the Chinese who filled the street, got out I Simca and vanished into the crowd.
4icole led Christopher through a series of alleys; the mob
and finally disappeared altogether as they entered a
dirt street lined with the windowless walls of ware27
houses. Nicole opened a door that squealed across a concrete
floor and grasped Christopher's wrist, guiding him along a walkway
past piles of crates.

They went down a stairway and through a passage with
dank earthen walls. Streams of rats whimpered around their
feet in the darkness. At the end of the tunnel they climbed
another stairway and Nicole rapped at a door. They were let
into a dark hall that smelted of incense by a young Chinese. He
opened another door, let them go through, and closed it behind
them.

The Truong toe, dressed like a peasant in pajamas, sat on
a divan; die priest, Jean-Baptiste, crouched on a mat on the
floor, with his legs crossed under him and his feet clasped in his
hands. Nicole knelt, poured three cups of tea, and handed them
to the men. She and the Truong toe spoke to one another in
Vietnamese. Christopher understood most of what they said;
the Truong toe merely wanted to know if Christopher had
come willingly. "He has no fear," the priest said, "there must
be a reason why." Nicole left the room.

Christopher, leaving his tea untouched, faced the two old
men. He supposed they might be sixty, but it was impossible to
tell with Asians; one year they were fresh with youth, and the
next their skulls came through their flesh as if their corpses
were eager to escape into the grave.

"I'm glad to see you safe," the Truong toe said. "You take
chances, going about at night as you do."

"He takes certain precautions, I'm sure," the priest said.
"Your car is quite all right?"

The priest sniffed loudly and scratched his ribs. His eyes
and his voice were clear, and his tic was quiet.

"Last night you asked my cousin, here, certain questions,"
the Truong toe said. "I am intrigued to know your purpose."

"It's simple. I hope for answers."

"He has none. Nor do I."

"Then there's no purpose in my being here," Christopher
said.

"You didn't tell me that you knew my relative Nguyen
Kim."

'a seera important

you left my house, I tried to puzzle out why you had

him me of the death of young Khoi. It made no sense.

I you wished to make yourself known to me in a way

. ensure that I'd remember you."
Idea seems to have succeeded," Christopher said. He
«cup on the table.

*ve certainly shown us that you are very direct Are
* Tg against time?"

why," asked the priest, "do you behave like a man
amble disease? Really, it's very stupid to go about
. you do and showing yourself as you do unless you care far your life."

be direct again," Christopher said. "I hoped to shock
> speaking about the things I mentioned to you."
"We shocked us," die Truong toe said. He paused, as if
to say something rude. "If you are right in what you him must expect that we will kill you. Why, then, come
st

"' me ask you this: why waste a gesture, like Nicole in

It?"

bu know her."

on must know I'd have come in answer to a telephone
5*note."

1 you must know that such things leave traces. An him dining at the Continental with a Vietnamese girl
no trace. It's the sport of the times."
'ere those your men who followed us across the river?"
her asked.

. Truong toe's eye sockets were filled with shadow;
.he turned his face toward Christopher, he showed as little
-
in as an animal. "Now you waste a gesture," he said, me explain something to you," Christopher said.
: I said to you about Diem was honest--I thought him a
man in his way and I regret his death. I would tell you
lkffledhim,iflknew."
[fate priest was scratching his skin now with great violence,

as if he was glad heroin had given him this evidence that his
nerves were alive. "And in exchange for this worthy intention,"
he said, "all you want is for us to confess the murder of an
American President and a plan to destroy the American army
with heroin."

"Briefly, yes."

"Then you're a fool. What do you think this is--« film? We
tell you everything, you escape with the truth, the world is
saved. I believe you're insane."

"Then you should be frightened," Christopher said. "We're
alone in this room. You are old. Even if I have no weapon, which
is illogical, I could kill you both with my hands before anyone
came. You don't seem to be afraid of that."

The Truong toe moved his face into the light. "Nothing is
gained by this," he said. "Why exchange these threats?"

"It's useless," Christopher said. "I want to ask you a question.
If I'm right, and your family arranged such a colossal revenge
as the murder of Kennedy, what is the point of keeping
it a secret?"

The priest threw his arms wide and began to speak; the tic
was moving in his cheek again. He subsided when the Truong
toe raised his palm. The Truong toe kept his eyes fastened on
Christopher's face.

The Truong toe said, "Go on."

"You are the head of the family," Christopher said. "What
do you want for it?"

"That it should continue," the Truong toe replied.

"No--that it should rule. You had power when Diem and
Nhu were killed, and Can was put into prison. How long did it
take you to achieve that? The whole length of the family's life.
Are you content to wait another hundred generations for another
Diem?"

The Truong toe made a brusque movement of his fingers,
as if to summon the words from Christopher's mouth.

"If you kill a man for revenge, and he does not know why
he died, and no one knows," Christopher said, "then what have
you accomplished? Your own emotional release--and what use is that?"

priest began to reply, but the Truong toe silenced him

)ther gesture.

him what you mean," the Truong toe said.

mean you have everything to gain and nothing imporose
by letting yourselves be identified as the assassins of

&y."

priest had begun to sweat and tremble. He reached him pocket with a fluttering hand and produced an en-of
heroin. With his eyes fixed on Christopher, he drew
ite powder into his nose. After a moment he was quiet

* Truong toe returned his attention to Christopher.

: certainly a novel idea," he said, his dry lips opening in

smile.

:*s logical," Christopher said. 'To complete the act, you

discovered. There may be a certain elegance in killing

erican President with ignominy--using a man who ap-
0	be
a lunatic so that the assassination will be regarded
; of random madness. But it accomplishes nothing."
ccomplishes nothing? The man is dead."

at not his policies. When Diem was killed, he and Nhu
,<lesperate to end American influence in Vietnam. They
O chance. But you do. Let it be known that Kennedy was
pi Dallas in revenge for the death of Diem and Nhu, and
,f>tirfU be such revulsion in the United States against VietUtt
you won't see an American face in your country, or
%erican ship in your harbors, for a generation to come."
jjte Truong toe flicked open his clenched hand as if releas-
bird
into flight. "You'd give this country to the Commu-
;&

?hy not?" Christopher said. "Diem and Nhu were pre-Edo
so. At least the Communists are Vietnamese. Some
are members of your family."
Truong toe relaxed on his divan, steepled his fingers,
id their ends together. The priest spoke to him in rapid
'mese. Christopher watched the Truong toe's impassive him and the priest's face, one side of it as unreadable as the

1	toe's and the other side in spasm. "Kill him tonight, in

the street, anywhere," the priest was saying. "No, he can do no
harm," the Truong toe replied. Christopher realized the old
man knew he understood Vietnamese.

"Mr. Christopher," said the Truong toe, speaking the name
for the first time, "I'm curious--how did you come to hear the
name Lê Thu?"

"Nguyen Kim mentioned it. He seemed to think it would
be a great joke to use it as an introduction to you."

"And you thought it had great significance--that it symbolized
this assassination you think we carried out?"

"I didn't know," Christopher said. "That was one of my
questions."

"You've translated the name, I understand. It means 'the
tears of autumn.'"

"Yes--if it's a code name it's poetic, but insecure."

"And you wish to know the name of our relative in the
North Vietnamese intelligence service?"

"Yes."

"That is all you require to prove our guilt, and rid our
country of the Americans, who, as you suggest, will destroy it
for reasons of their own policy?"

"Yes."

As Christopher and the Truong toe spoke to each other,
they smiled--more broadly with each question and answer.
After hearing Christopher's final reply, the Truong toe laughed,
a string of dry barks like the cough of a man who has swallowed
smoke. His laughter was a compliment. Only a clandestine
mind like Christopher's, free from values and concerned with
nothing but the results of action, could have conceived the
proposal Christopher had just made. The Truong toe had the
same sort of mind. He was delighted to encounter another brain
so like his own.

"We've heard a good deal about you since yesterday, Mr.
Christopher," he said. "It all seems to be true. This really is a
most clever provocation. I have no idea what purpose your
masters think it will serve, but you may give them my answer.
It is this: your hypothesis is absurd. How could we touch a
Kennedy? They live in another dimension of power."

_der requires very little power."
no, no. Mr. Christopher, Lê Thu is just a name. You it in vain for any relative of ours who is a secret agent him Minh's. We accepted the death of Ngo Dinh Diem
Dinh Nhu--we are weak, Mr. Christopher. How could

What you think we've done?"

ttistopher rose. "Very well," he said. "Ill go on with my

. at bravado," the priest said. "You want what--admirau're
mad--I'm more convinced of it than before." Truong toe stood and took Christopher's cold teacup
Is hand and he drank from it with a smile. Christopher a touched the tea. "You are not lacking in caution," the
E toe said. "I have something to give you." a reached into a pocket of his pajamas and brought out
envelope. Christopher opened the flap and looked at the
graph it contained.

. was a picture of Molly, smiling into the camera in sur*
lock of her hair drawn tight between her thumb and
Tger. Half of Christopher's face showed in the photo-It
was the picture Nguyen Kim had taken in Rome after
id had lunch together.

Truong toe looked steadily into Christopher's eyes,
may have that print," he said. "I believe Kim has the

it"

puistopher felt a stab of panic. The Truong toe watched favour» in Christopher's face. He bowed slightly. His brown tfaowed like shined leather through his thin hair.


Í6 one interfered with Christopher as he left. The Truong
'' "ved no surprise when Christopher opened the door into
.--it of the house instead of going back through the dark-warehouse.
moved through small rooms that smelled of burnt joss
iking. There were no windows, only a streak of lamplight
through a series of doors leading to the front of the house.

Christopher moved quickly through the dim rooms; there was
almost no furniture, nor any sign of Nicole or any other Vietnamese.
In one of the rooms a withered Chinese woman sat in
a large wing chair, staring at an oil lamp that burned on a low
table in front of her; she paid no attention to Christopher.
He heard the noise of the street on the other side of a door,
and opened it. Stepping into the crowd, he was borne along
through the choked street until it opened into a larger thoroughfare.
He searched the horizon for the glow of Saigon's
lights. Finding his direction, he set off for the place where he
had parked the car.
The crowd, mostly Chinese, was still very think but he
stood head and shoulders above it, so that he could see into its
depths. One side of the street was lighted by shop fronts; the
other, running along the blank backs of godowns, lay in deep
shadow.
He saw the first Vietnamese with his face in the full light
of an open doorway; his expression had not changed since
morning. Christopher looked for the other, and when he did
not see him at once, knew that he must be behind him.
He turned around and saw that the crowd had parted. The
second Vietnamese stood with his feet apart, poised like a diver
on the balls of his feet. He was lifting a pistol with a steady
sweep of his arm, wrist locked, both eyes open, mouth relaxed.
Christopher recognized the technique. He leapt sideways toward
the darkened half of the street. The gunman moved his
arm instead of his whole body, and lost his aim. Two soft-nosed
bullets hit the wall to Christopher's right. Two more rounds
gouged shallow holes in the concrete. The gunman ducked
behind the parked car, expecting return fire.
Across the street, the Vietnamese Christopher had seen
first had a revolver in his hand; he was motioning people out of
his way. The crowd made no special noise; people moved away
from him in both directions to make room for the shooting.
Christopher ran back the way he had come, past the parked car
with the gunman hiding behind it. The crowd did not see him
coming until he was well within it, running with his knees bent

his bead bowed so that he was not much taller than the
I people who surrounded him.

Christopher looked behind him. One of the Vietnamese
running after him at an easy trot, his long pistol held against ' favour, his head turning alertly from side to side. Christopher I other man move in the shadows by the warehouses. The
Vietnamese moved well as a team, like terriers used to
Stag together. The crowd drifted toward the lighted half of
street.

/Pushing bodies aside, Christopher plunged through the
I of an apothecary's shop. A young Chinese looked up in her, then shouted in anger as Christopher went through a a curtain at the back of the store. A family of Chinese sat
a low table, playing cards. Christopher walked over the
, scattering the cards, and into another room. A window
open in one wall. Christopher climbed through it, scrap-is
back on the sash. He fell into a space between two him. The ground was littered with broken glass, and the
[ was so narrow that there was no room for his shoulders,
oved through it sideways as quickly as he could toward a
of light at its end.

"tie of the men who had killed Luong stuck his head out
indow, braced his pistol against the sash, and took careful
Christopher turned his face toward the gunman, threw his
into the air, gave a loud wordless roar that scraped the skin
> throat, and fell to his knees. The gun wavered as a spot felt flame blinked at the muzzle. Christopher did not hear
Mind go by, and he thought it might have struck him. He
to pain.

He staggered into a bright street and saw a canal shining
he end of it. A young Chinese grasped his arm roughly and
ed suspiciously into his face. Christopher smiled at him and
pk him under the chin with the heel of his open hand; the
ÍS light body was lifted into the air by the blow, and he
ted in the opposite gutter with his neck twisted. A knot of
Hese gathered around Christopher, shouting angrily, and
twed him as he walked rapidly away.

The Citroen was parked in the shadows in the next block.
Christopher headed for it, pushing the chattering Chinese
roughly out of his way. There was no sign of the two gunmen.
He was fifty yards from the car when two of the Chinese, young
men with angry faces, realized that it belonged to Christopher.
They broke out of the crowd and ran ahead. One of them
opened a knife and knelt to slash the tires. The other darted
around the Citroen, still screaming in a hoarse voice. He
snatched at the door handle, and as the door began to swing
open, Christopher remembered that he had locked it.
He fell to the ground with his arms around the two people
closest to him. Afterward, he thought that he remembered the
flash of the explosion lighting the flat face of the Chinese boy
and the blast lifting the boy's thick black hair so that it stood on
end. The noise was a long time coming. Before he heard the
explosion, like the slap of a heavy howitzer, he saw the whole
body of the car swell like a balloon full of water. The glass blew
out and one door cut through the crowd like a great black knife.
Concussion sent blood gushing out of his nose. He could
hear nothing except a high ringing in his ears. All around him,
mouths opened in noiseless screams of terror. He lay where he
was with his eyes open.
In a few moments a policeman wearing a lacquered American
helmet liner leaned over him and spoke. Christopher
pointed to his ears and said, "I'm deaf." He heard nothing of his
own voice but felt its movement over his tongue. The policeman
pulled him to his feet and led him toward the end of the
street. He would have been killed by the fire truck that roared
up behind them if the policeman had not pulled him out of the
way.

"All I have to do is say the word and they'll slap a murder
charge on you," Wolkowicz said. "Ten witnesses saw you break
that Chinese kid's neck."
The Vietnamese police major had withdrawn when Wol-

rived. Christopher's passport and a sheaf of Polaroid
: of the bombed Citroen were spread over the top
liceman's gray metal desk. Wolkowicz's face was
I by the strong fluorescent light in the ceiling, his beard him usual against his pallor. Christopher's hearing was
but his ears still rang, and Wolkowicz's voice
(thin.
tapped on the desk with the edge of Christo-,
"You'd better hear me," he said. "These guys him two or three years just deciding if there's a case against
111 be eating rice and spoiled fish three times a day, and him little chat with the juge d'instruction whenever he
I to remember you're in jail. Believe me, it can go on for
him,

: do you want?**
story," Wolkowicz said "What in hell was that all
If our car blown up and five innocent bystanders killed,
in an alley, shots fired at you in the middle of a
, What do you think you're doing, for Christ's sake?"
looked around at the metal furniture, the
; fluorescent lights, the air conditioner on the window-seems
to be a lot of American equipment in this
; he said.
('re not going to talk here. I just want to know if you're him bullshit me again if I take you out of here."
opher made a gesture. Wolkowicz pressed a button
telephone. When the major returned, Wolkowicz
I with him back into the corridor. Christopher watched him the half-open door, talking quietly and nodding.
) major came into the office. "There's one more formal-i
said, gesturing for Christopher to follow him.
opher went with him down the hall and into another a Honey, wearing her silk ao dai, sat on a scarred bench
empty office. Her joints were locked in fright--fists
, neck rigid.
this the American?" the major asked in Vietnamese.
nodded stiffly.

"Look at him," the major said.
Honey turned her head, a quick movement like that of a
child forced to look at a corpse, and nodded again.
In the corridor, the major tapped Christopher's sleeve. "I believe you knew Vuong Van Luong," he said. "I believe you
know he's dead."
"Yes."
"The girl saw you searching the body. You woke her when
you came into the room--she believes you killed this Luong."
"She's not a very intelligent girl, major."
"No. But she has the power of speech, Mr. Christopher. We
have her statement, and we'll keep her with us for the time
being."
"I understand," Christopher said.
"I hope you do, Mr. Christopher. It can be very inconvenient
for you if the police decide to take an interest in you. One
violent death, and you can maintain that you're a victim of
circumstances. But there have been six in less than twenty-four
hours. Even in Saigon, that's too many."
The major was carrying a dossier. He held it up so that
Christopher could see his name written on its cover. "You've formed a great many friendships here," he said. "Your passport
will be returned to you at midnight today at the airport. You are
already booked on the UTA flight to Paris. Don't miss the plane,
Mr. Christopher."

The Continental Hotel was only a short distance from the
police station in To Do Street. Wolkowicz sent his Marine
driver to fetch Christopher's suitcase from his room and pay the
bill. They waited in the car, the windows rolled up, until the
driver returned.
At Wolkowicz's villa, Christopher threw away his bloodstained
shirt and washed his face. The police doctor had painted
the small cuts on his arms and chest and told him that his right
eardrum had been ruptured by the explosion. He ripped the
adhesive bandage from his cheek and looked at the cut on his
face. His head ached. He took four of Wolkowicz's aspirin.

villa was icy; Wolkowicz kept the air conditioning
so that his snake would sleep. In the living room,
: gave Christopher a glass of bourbon and motioned him a chair. him," he said. "It's gut-spilling time."
told him where he had been. He described the
i-Baptiste Ho's church, and his meeting with the
; toe. He did not tell Wolkowicz what had been said, him describe the movement of opium into Ho's church,
this guy who tried to shoot you," Wolkowicz

I's been taught either by us or by someone who learned
"shoot a pistol from us," Christopher said. "When I
id, he was in a crouch, bringing the pistol up, wrist a locked, both eyes open, not using the sights. He fired him at a time in the prescribed manner. He's trained."
very well trained," Wolkowicz said. "How many
I he miss you?"
rounds that I know of, but I jumped off to the side. wasn't expect that. He didn't shift his feet, just swung his
> he lost his stance. And then, I was in a crowd and it was

described his flight through the apothecary him kid in the street must have thought I was a burglar a came out of that crack in the wall" he said. "I hit him him him let go of my arm."
these things mean something to you," Wolkowicz
| was bullshitting you about your killing him--all he's got I busted teeth and maybe a slipped disc or two in his

Eknow. I saw him get up."
I then the car blew up while you were still half a block him it," Wolkowicz said. "I don't understand that."
' wired the door on the driver's side. A Chinese kid
I and yanked it open--he wanted to do me some dam
priest saw me check under the hood when I was out a night. You have to open the door to open the hood."

"The cops think there must have been a kilo of plastique in the car. I guess you're immortal, just like Patchen's always
said."
"I was surprised that they were so public about it--why not
wait until I was asleep in the hotel?"
"Maybe they thought you'd done enough talking. What did
you say to them, anyway?"
Christopher's hearing continued tb clear; when Wolkowicz
shook his glass, he heard the ice cubes rattle.
"They're doing something with heroin," Christopher said.
"Jean-Baptiste Ho is an addict, but for some reason his church
is the depot. That country is VC-controlled. They bring in the
raw opium from Laos, Cambodia--wherever it's grown. Luong
told me there's a tunnel complex under the village. They keep
it there. It's crazy, but that's the way they're doing it. They store
it under the church."
"Did you confirm any of this?"
"The tunnels, yes. I saw the priest's woman disappear
through the floor."
"Opium isn't heroin."
"Tom Webster thinks they're trying to buy the technology
in Marseilles. Have you seen that traffic?"
"Yeah, I read the cables--two million bucks through Lebanon.
But why take all the risk?"
"They figure they're going to have a big market in-country
pretty soon," Christopher said. "The Yanks are coming."
"That's speculation--garbage," Wolkowicz said.
Christopher shrugged. "Okay, Barney."
"What's their objective? They've got enough money not to
have to take chances like that."
"What chances? Jean-Baptiste is a member of the family-he's
not going to talk," Christopher said. "If the police or the
ARVN come smelling around, they'll see them coming ten
miles away. They can blow those tunnels in thirty seconds."
"Thanks to you, they're probably moving the stuff out right
now."
"Maybe. It doesn't matter. They'll do it some way--they're
not in it to make a profit," Christopher said. "They want to send
1 junkies back to the States when all this is over.
^ purpose."
ricz tossed melting ice from his glass into his mouth
1 it "Why?" he asked.
' think we killed Diem and Nhu," Christopher said.
: we ought to pay for that." ricz walked across the room and came back with a a ice cubes and a bottle of bourbon. He dropped ice him and filled them with whiskey. Handing Christo-'
the dark-brown drinks, Wolkowicz beckoned him
I walked out of the house. The garden was surfaced
, so that Wolkowicz could hear footsteps approach
night. In the center of the garden was its only orna-of
flowers surrounding an aviary. Wolkowicz
the cage and made kissing noises at the sleeping

: to come out in the daylight and have a look," I of these birds are really pretty--they don't sing
, though."
her sipped bourbon; his hands were steadier than
: in the first hour or two after the explosion. a that we're in the open air, how about coming clean?"
isaid.
I the only man I know who goes outside to get away him bugs," Christopher said.
: you told the Truong toe and the priest more than
I me," Wolkowicz said. "I thought maybe you'd feel
mind if we could talk in the open."
9*t care where we talk. Even next to the birdcage. I've
; I can."
K, it's your ass. But I know you're on to something him racket--just remember that. I know. I'm going him like a sheet of flypaper, Christopher." I glad of your company, after tonight." ïcz took Christopher's arm and walked him over
; gravel to the back of the garden. "I'm going to
ething I'm sure you know, Christopher," he said. "I him you and I never liked your operations. That's basic.
However, you've been around for a long time and I fee! I've got
an obligation to you--do you understand?"

"Perfectly, Barney. Spit it out."

"I've heard some things about you behind Mothers
back. There's a certain guy in the White House you had
some problems with--you follow me?"

Christopher nodded in the dark. Wolkowicz rattled the ice
cubes in his glass after each sentence.

"Well, this guy sent me a letter. A Green Beret captain
carried it out to me from Washington. In the letter he says
you're around the bend with a crazy idea about something that
could have dangerous consequences to national security. What
he was asking was this: if you showed up out here, would I get
in your way."

"And have you been getting in my way, Barney?"

"No. Who the fuck is he to tell me what to do in a letter
delivered outside channels? However, remember the Green
Beret."

"What about him?"

"Well, they're gung-ho sons of bitches. And they're amateurs.
They're setting up all kinds of networks around here. You
said the guy who shot at you looked like he'd had training. What
kind of a handgun did he use--did you notice?"

Christopher thought for a moment. "It was a 33. automatic
with a long barrel and a silencer--a Colt Woodsman or maybe
the Hi-Standard that looks almost the same. The rounds didn't
ricochet, they gouged big hunks out of the concrete like heavier
ammunition when they hit, so I could have been wrong."

"Mercury in the bullets," Wolkowicz said. "Didn't you
think it was funny the Truong toe would try to shoot you and
blow you up, all on the same night?"

"I thought it was thorough of him."

Wolkowicz rattled his ice. "It's not a pretty thought," he
said "But I think you ought to consider the possibility that
you've got people coming at you from two directions."

"You're telling me that Americans are trying to do me in?"

"If they are, maybe it's a case of too much zeal. Soldiers
have a way of giving a hundred and ten percent--look at Die* ;

him lieutenant who shot them thought he was a hero. him supposed to happen to them, the way I understood

ay you understood it, Barney?" 1 what the traffic said--stand back and watch. We
carrying messages between the ambassador and
generals in the plot, but that was all. There was
of bloodshed. I guess they couldn't face it in
I could have told the dumb bastards what

{didn't you?"
now why. I wasn't allowed to do anything, why ' anything? The amateurs were running the show."
' Christopher said.
;happened to you tonight was more amateur stuff-- I'll a crowded street, chasing you through houses full of
lil'll do what I can to shut these guys off--not that I him going to admit anything. That captain is just a kid.
Washington probably told him just what he told me
itopher's way. The kid misunderstood--but that's
> be much help to you if you end up like Luong, with
brains."
: was no amateur bomb."
|tWolkowicz said. "I'd say that part of it was real life." to put his hand in his pocket and touched the ', of the photograph the Truong toe had given him.
B, as perfect as Cathy's had once been, moved over
|of his memory. He knew they would kill her if they needed the lesson.
: are you going to do?" Wolkowicz said. "The cops
|jout of the country in twenty-four hours."
pher looked at the green dial of his watch. "It's two
ling now," he said. "I'll make the deadline." > darkness, Wolkowicz was chewing ice. "We'll miss
I," he said.

Luong lay in his coffin with a bunch of bananas on his chest
to confuse the appetite of the Celestial Dog, devourer of the
entrails of the dead. A ring of candles burned around the edge
of the coffin, and an oil lamp smoked beneath it. A child of ten,
Luong's eldest son, stood at his father's feet, welcoming mourners.
He wore a straw headpiece and a robe of white gauze,
covered with patches to show his wretchedness. Christopher
bowed to the corpse and gave the child an envelope filled with
piasters, two bottles of Veuve Cliquot, and a satin banderole on
which was written a compliment to the dead man.
"I was your father's friend," Christopher said.
"Tho spoke about you," the boy said. "I remember your
visit."
In death, Luong had been given another name, Tho, and
no member of his family would call him by his own name again.
Probably they had never done so when he was alive. A Vietnamese's
name is used only by officials and foreigners; those
who know him call him by nicknames or a number that fixes his
position in the family, so as not to provoke evil spirits.
Luong's son placed Christopher's gifts with the others on
a low table beside the altar at the end of the coffin. No attempt
had been made to conceal the bullet wound in Luong's forehead;
his relatives had put rice in his mouth, and a white grain
of it was visible between his lips. In his best clothes, Luong
looked not much older than his son. Luong had been dead for
a full day, and the weeping had ceased; his wife, wearing
patched gauze like her children, sat in a group of women with
a white veil covering her face.
Musicians played at the end of the room, and male relatives
with white mourning bands tied around their foreheads were
drinking and laughing at jokes. They stared at Christopher; who
stood alone by Luong's coffin, and went on with their loud
conversation. Luong's widow made no sign that she saw him.
When he turned away from the corpse, an old woman approached
and gave him a bowl of food. He thanked her in
Vietnamese and she bowed.

ate the food. Guests continued to arrive,
; into the small house and filling it with a babble of
1 laughter. Luong's picture of Christ with a burning
[ been brought out of the bedroom and hung beside a a of Buddha on the wall nearest the coffin.
him detached himself from the group of male relatives I toward Christopher with a cup of rice wine in either
: gave one of the cups to Christopher, him are my brother's friend Crawford," he said.
, I'm sorry for your family's sadness," Christopher re
speak Vietnamese."
' badly," Christopher said in French. "You are Tho's
* You look a great deal alike."
, I am older by five years. My name is Phuoc."
[don't want to intrude here. I only wished to pay my
, I knew your brother well."
I	thank you for the gifts you brought," Phuoc said. "You
»liked that sort of champagne. I told him often it would
L" Phuoc looked into Christopher's face and gave
áve high-pitched laugh. "The burial is tomorrow--will
a
111 be gone tomorrow. But my thoughts will be

opher finished his rice wine. Phuoc handed him his
"Drink it," he said. "I have no use for it. Perhaps Tho
I1	am a cu si--not quite a monk and, my brother always a quite a man. I observe the five interdictions of Buddha:
him no alcohol, no tobacco, no theft, no killing."
Fes, he spoke about you. I believe he admired you very

1 he? Tho lived without interdictions of any kind, ex
he never betrayed a friend."
at I have known for a long time," Christopher said.
' much money did you bring?" Phuoc asked. It was a
K^question among Vietnamese, who were always asking
the details of their salaries and bank accounts. I are 175,000 piasters in the envelope."
"Very generous. In dollars or piasters?"

"In piasters--it's an odd stun, but it equals five thousand
dollars."

"Piasters will be less embarrassing," Phuoc said. "It will be
a great help to his widow. She must stay indoors for two years,
as you know. She worries about the children--Tho insisted on
expensive schools."

"He was right in that, of course."

"He was right in most things. He put money away, I believe
more than a million piasters. My brother expected to die young,
he often told me so. His was not the sort of life that lasts very
long in a country as troubled as ours."

"He lived his life with courage, at any rate."

Phuoc laughed again, opening his eyes and his mouth wide
and letting shrill notes escape from his throat; it was a mannerism
of grief.

"For your friendship and your money, you should have
something in return," Phuoc said. "Come with me for a moment."

He led Christopher down the hall and into his dead brother's
bedroom. Closing the door behind them, he went to the
window and looked out, then leaned his back against the wall.
Incense burned on the dresser in front of a photograph of
Luong.

"My brother was going to meet you when he died," Phuoc
said. "Did you know that?"

"Yes. I found his body."

"Did he speak to you?"

"That doesn't happen," Christopher said. "He died instantaneously
--you saw his wound."

"Can you tell me anything more about his death?"

"I saw the men who killed him. They walked past me as I
entered the street where he lay. I did not, of course, know then
what had happened."

"Would you know them again?"

"I saw them again. They shot at me." Christopher gave
Luong's brother a description of the two men. "Both times they
were in Cholon. I'd look for them, if I were looking, around

Boulevard. They'll have money to spend, and
they'd go to spend it."

: absorbed the information. "Have you any idea what a wished to tell you?"
I asked him to find a person named Lê Thu. Before
'out for the last time, he told me he had one more
question--nothing more than that." I'll he went to his death for you?"
, * Christopher said.

him did not laugh again. "My brother always did as he
do. It wasn't your fault. He thought highly of you. As a, I know where he went."

topher waited. When Phuoc did not speak again, he
uld your brother have wished you to tell me?"
: I think so," Phuoc said. "You paid, after all. He went
-' --e named Yu Lung. You know the name? Yu Lung
, astrologer and geomancer. He knows the stars
rest very well--it's a gift as well as a science. Very
. Yu Lung serves the famous in secret, he won't deal the men."

: you. Where is Yu Lung's house?"
ilon, near the Tat Canal, by the racetrack. Ask any-house
is poor outside, rich inside--he's a Chinese."
topher rose, hesitated, held out his hand. Phuoc
, tightly and, holding it for a long moment, threw back
imd laughed again. "Luong--Tho should have asked
about his own future, eh? Instead of asking questions aww-ford. Do you know what the Vietnamese name «?"

;evity."

, my brother will be dead for a long time," Phuoc said.
«Iso Una word for a coffin mat's purchased well in ad-tdeath.
We thank you again for the money."


ricz had given Christopher a car and a driver. "It'll him trouble," Wolkowicz said. "You don't seem to care


who knows where you go, and I can't spare three men to sur-veille
you until you get on the plane tonight."
"Who's the driver?"
"Pong's his name. He's a Thai, so he's disinterested. He'll
take you where you want to go and wait outside--but don't go
off and leave him. I'm responsible to the cops until you get out
of the country."
The car was an air-conditioned Chevrolet with a two-way
radio and local license tags. Pong was flicking dust from the
waxed hood with a feather duster when Christopher emerged
from Luong's house. Under the tail of his long silk shirt, Pong
wore a heavy revolver. One of Wolkowicz's Swedish submachine
guns was clipped under the dashboard, with three extra
magazines stowed in polyethylene pouches tacked to the door.
"Pong's got a reputation around town," Wolkowicz had said.
"These people fear the Thais, and they couldn't be more careful
of old Pong if we painted shark's teeth and a crazy eyeball on
him, like a surplus B-26."
Pong put his feather whisk in the trunk of the car and sat
quietly with his hands on the steering wheel until Christopher
told him where to go. Then he moved off, turning the car into
traffic as a good dancer would swing a woman onto a ballroom
floor. He was a competent man.
All during the morning, while he was looking at Luong in
his coffin and talking to Phuoc, Christopher had controlled the
impulse to touch the photograph the Truong toe had given him.
Now he reached into the breast pocket of his coat and brought
out the picture of Molly. He looked at his watch; he could not
be in Rome in less than thirty-six hours. It was useless to send
a telegram. Molly wasn't trained, she wouldn't know how to hide, she would think the cable was a joke. Christopher was not
used to feeling emotion; he was as surprised by his fear for Molly
as he had been by his love for her.
Pong maneuvered the clumsy car through traffic on the
quais along the Ben Nghe Canal. Sampans lay in the foul water,
their decks swarming with boatmen whose joints bulged on
their thin bodies like knurs on diseased trees.

this car is like being in America," Pong said, "so
et--I don't like to get out."
jher pressed the electric window control. The
noise of the canal and the heat of noon thrust
open window like a beggar's hand. Pong made a
Sound in his throat and stared at Christopher in the
mirror. He turned north, toward the center of Choi's
house was not far from the place where Christo-in
had exploded. The wreck had been hauled away,
glass still glittered on the pavement and the flames
long smudge across the face of a building. A soup yd with his car where the Citroen had been, tapping
,: of wood with two sticks to attract customers.
; drove through the neighborhood twice before they
house. Once, emerging from a sea of tin-roofed hovund
themselves across the city boundary, trapped on
road through fields of paddy. Pong stepped on the
'a and, reaching through the steering wheel, worked
of the submachine gun to put a round in the diamond
a place to turn around by a group of huts; Pong him wheel all the way over and skidded the tires in an one» the dust. Christopher watched a young boy, astride & « water hole, disappear in the cloud of dirt thrown the wheels of the Chevrolet, and then come out the
,, not having moved while the slow wind moved the
him and the buffalo.

to the shade," Christopher said, when they had
ILung's house for the second time. He wrote six dates,
wed by a time of day, on a page of his notebook. Then
,ve hundred-dollar bills in half, put five halves in an
"with the notebook page, and placed the other torn
lib wallet.

E» walk back so they don't see the car," he said, "and
0 whoever answers the door. Make an appointment
*aee Yu Lung after dark tonight--but not after nine
IB him I want horoscopes for the men born under the

first four dates and times--he'll have to transpose the dates to
the lunar calendar. I want to trace the connection between the
birth dates and the last two dates, which are days and times
when certain events took place. Have you got all that?"
Pong scowled and repeated Christopher's instructions.
"Who do I tell him is coming?" he asked. "He may not want to
see an American."
"Tell him I*m a friend of Lê Thu," Christopher said. Pong
tapped the submachine gun to call Christopher's attention to it
and stepped into the street. Pong rocked from side to side as he
walked, as if the taut muscles of his squat body were disputing
the signals from his brain.
When he came back, he nodded at Christopher. "Yu Lung
will have the stuff for you at eight o'clock," he said.
"Let's have some lunch, then," Christopher said.
"Barney told me not to leave the car."
"Have you anything with you?"
"Sandwiches," Pong said, holding up a packet. "I made
them at Barney's while you were telephoning the young lady."
"You're a good operator, Pong. Did you report that to Wolowicz?"
"Yes, on the radio while I waited for you at the dead man's
house. That's when he told me not to leave the car."

6

Nicole was waiting at the table on the roof of the Majestic,
a Coca-Cola before her and the city spread out beyond her soft
profile. She wore a different French frock; her hair was bound
with a broad white ribbon that passed over the top of her head.
Christopher sat down with his back to the view, so that he could
watch the door and the room.
"I'm a little surprised you came," he said.
"You came last night when I invited you."
"Yes. I hope you have a quieter journey home than I had.'
"You seem well. There's a cut on your cheek."
Christopher spoke to the waiter, who poured cassis in the
bottom of a glass and filled it with white wine.
shouldn't drink wine at midday in this climate,"
"It's very bad for the liver." Her eyes looked him as she watched ships move in the river.
^," Christopher said, "have you any compliments or
j,for me from the Truong toe?" him smiled, a sudden sly glint of teeth and eyes. "He
-I listen at doors. I listened last night, in Cho-;
their breath away, you know." ? Then they have very good self-control."
don't know how to deal with you. At first they him were insane."
Enow?"
him traced a pattern on the tablecloth with her finger-looked
up quickly into Christopher's eyes. "They
in a terrific hurry. That upsets them more than
I say you know, or suspect. They think you want to lay
' out before the world as truth. They know you're a
a

I never concealed it."
a know what else you are. You conceal that." him I'm concealing it still. I'm only a journalist, Nicole. him one behind what I'm doing."
shuddered with impatience. "You suppose they
' where you slept last night, or whose car you have , Paul--really."
[embassy thought, for some reason, that I needed pro
was glad to have it."
I looked at him again and laughed shrilly, almost in him of Phuoc's laughter. The waiter brought them fish,
wine, and went away. Nicole ate deftly, saying
l( until she had cleared her plate. Her eyes moved busily
landscape behind Christopher's shoulder; the sun
{through the green awning changed the hue of her skin
1 into the light or away from it.
: you were saying to my uncles last night--were you
' she asked.
: revealing what they had done? Absolutely.""If they have done such a thing--let us have that plainly
understood."

"All right It isn't proved that they did."

"You think the proof would have the effect you described?
Would the Americans leave?"

"Yes."

"It's logical," Nicole said. "The Americans would do what
you say in the open, before the world. But what would they do
secretly?"

Christopher shrugged. "I don't know. Not much. After all,
it was a fair enough exchange."

Nicole drew in her breath. "You are cold-blooded. Would
you speak in this way to an American?"

"I've done so. They don't like it any more than you do,
Nicole."

Nicole touched the back of his hand with her fingertips.
"Leave Vietnam," she said. "You don't understand us."

"Don't I? Tell me about yourself, Nicole. Where were you
born? What were your schools? What is your future?"

She drew back her hand. "All that means nothing." She
touched her temples. "You believe one lives in this part of the
body, but I live in my three souls and my nine spirits, and there
are a thousand vital points in my body. Each one of which
touches a time or a date or a number in the lunar calendar,
which you cannot even understand. I never speak my own
name, nor does anyone who loves me. You haven't time, if you
lived here for another fifty years, to begin to understand."

Christopher put a forefinger on her brow; she made no
movement to avoid it. "If your brain stops," he said, "then all
this wonderful system of mysteries stops, too, doesn't it?"

"In this body, yes. There are other forms, other forces that
go on."

"You seem determined to convince me that Vietnamese
culture is a secret code."

"And you seem determined not to believe me."

Christopher called for the bill. While he counted out the
money, Nicole sat watching him, her upper lip caught between
her thumb and forefinger. Christopher remembered'how he

I Luong's dead mouth, and again saw the grain of rice him his lips, magic against the Celestial Dog. It took him
at to realize that Nicole's long fingernail was pressing I bade of his hand. When he looked up, she removed it,
; a white half-moon on his sunburnt skin, him Vietnamese she said, "My name is Dao. I was born in
I am twenty-three. All that is worth loving will die
1 me before I have a child."
a, giving no sign that he understood her lan-,
folded his napkin into a neat triangle. "We seem to be where we began," he said. "I thought we might to beyond
him today."
Ifou really don't believe in the importance of anything
I you, do you?"
, yes, I believe in its importance, and you've taught me
|a lot," Christopher said. "But if there is one certain thing a codes, it's this--they can be broken. Tell the Truong toe a him again for the photograph he gave me last night. Tell
, that I have some pictures of my own."
[ don't understand that message."
5 Truong toe will understand. Like me--and like Diem I believes in consequences."

eight

him

"Barney ordered me not to leave you," Pong said. His eyes
darted over the crowd in the narrow street outside Yu Lung's
house. There was enough light to see movement, but not
enough to distinguish faces. Bicycles drifted by, and an occasional
motor scooter sounded its horn, scattering pedestrians
and cyclists as it plunged past the parked car.
"If you stay here with the car you'll draw attention," Christopher
said. "Go somewhere else, and come by again at exactly
nine o'clock. I'll be here."
A cyclist peered angrily through the windshield and hammered
on the hood of the car.
Pong said, "Okay, nine o'clock. If you're not here, 111 come
inside."

> drove away through the crowd, touching the horn him a series of Morse dots to clear the way ahead of him. to was annoyed by Pong's unnecessary noise. Then he one it made no difference--secrecy was of no further use
him Saigon.
pJLung's house had a blind front except for a frame of a wood, painted red, around the door. The lintei was low,
topher ducked his head to enter. A servant with a
[it showed him down a long hall to the back of the a walked past rooms filled with noise--plaintive Chi
playing on a gramophone, loud voices, the beating him against a pot in the kitchen. But the hall itself was . It was impossible to guess what sort of people lived
['the closed doors.
a the noisetuid the pungent smell of the house, Christo-not
expect to find Yu Lung looking as he did. The
Her was a man of forty with a round prosperous belly him checkered vest and a gold watch chain. He greeted
not in a dim room hung with incense and calligra-:
in a brightly lighted office, sitting at a polished desk
y-steel file cabinets behind him. There were two tele-rand
a photograph of his wife and her young children in
| frame on the desk. Yu Lung rose from his chair with a
shook hands with Christopher. The pressure of his him firm and quick. favour Lung," he said. "You're a friend of--who was it again?" \ Thu." Christopher found himself smiling broadly--Yu
[had made magic efficient.
pher took the torn halves of the five one-hundred-bills
out of his wallet and laid them on the desk. The
; produced his own portions of the torn bills from a desk
and spent a moment fitting them together on the glass
P his desk.
him the fee satisfactory?" Christopher asked.
I've drawn the horoscopes for you," Yu Lung said. He
I six sheets of rice paper over the top of the desk. On each him he had drawn a circle; symbols connected by tines lay

within the circle. A vertical row of Chinese characters ran down
the edge of each page. Yu Lung looked expectantly at Christopher.
"I'm afraid I can't read these without assistance," Christopher
said.
Yu Lung nodded. "As you no doubt suspected, there is a
remarkable conjunction of forces between the four men and
the two dates you gave me. The fates are acting quite strongly
on one other. Do you wish a classical interpretation, or a Vietnamese
reading?"
"Vietnamese, to begin with," Christopher said.
"I thought you might, so I've added the geomantic factors
as well. Briefly, three of these men are either dead already or
will be on"--he ran his finger down a lunar calendar-- "the
next conjunction of their forces, which will occur, in Western
time, seven years from now on the dates you gave me for the
events."
He pushed aside the charts that he had drawn for Kennedy,
Diem, and Nhu on the basis of their birth dates and times.
"This fourth man," Yu Lung said, tapping the Truong toe's
chart, "is active in the fates of the others. I see no danger for
him. You understand, you've asked me to work from very limited
information."
"I'm impressed with what you've done. How much faith
have you in your results?"
"Well, you understand that the basis of horoscopy in our
system is that the stars and all the other portents predispose
rather than predetermine an individual's fate. A man's acts can
alter his reading--in other words, he can avoid destruction
through wisdom, or cheat himself of good fortune through stupidity.
But the forces here are quite clear."
"And the factors other than horoscopy?"
"Yes, the geomantic factors. You understand the principle
of geomancy, of course--one orients oneself to the natural
world on the basis of harmony with the five natural elements,
which are fire, water, metal, wood, and earth. None of these
three men seems to have been in harmony with the world. In

I terms, they were all under the influence of the Ma
»

him is?"
ivery colorful and malevolent force--the tightening
Ma Than Vong goads men to suicide, or into situa-!
their violent death is inevitable. One of the men, him foreigner, I believe--am I correct?"
nodded. Yu Lung had shown him Kennedy's

him foreigner was a powerful man," Yu Lung said, "but
nemesis was Ma A Phien, whom the Vietnamese
) opium ghost. This man was predisposed to a death in
Also, he was much involved with the am, the him spirit that stands for darkness and is associated with a for the others, who must be Vietnamese, there was a
1 of the influence of duong, or the male spirit of light,
.Then this force conjoins with the am spirit of the other
him they are lost."
' whose error?"
a own, of course. As I said, we are dealing with predis-»not
predetermination. The horoscope is incomplete, as
; realize."
lete? In what way?"
: are other individuals involved. One in particular,
I guess is a Vietnamese related in some way to the
. Perhaps he lives elsewhere than in the place where
> relatives live, or lived. He exerts a force after their
It's a key force. Without knowing his stars, you will not
the others."
I'll Lung rocked back in his swivel chair with a faint squeal
1 springs and folded his hands on his stomach. "Would him for some tea," he asked, "or a glass of scotch whiskey?"
g's face was circular like his charts--a small pursed
, a broad nose that moved when he smiled, arched eye-

it is
the other man in whom I am interested," Christopher

Yu Lung laughed "I thought it might be. You haven't the
look of a nan who pays five hundred dollars out of idle curiosity."
He pulled Scotch tape from a dispenser and stuck the
torn American bills together. "Have you chosen between tea
and scotch?" he asked.

"Nothing, thank you. I may say you work swiftly from very
limited information."

Yu Lung shrugged. "It's a settled science. One learns the
principles, and if one has the gift, the situation opens itself very
quickly.**

"One would almost think that you had dealt with these
particular horoscopes before."

"Ah, perhaps," Yu Lung said "They are unique. All horoscopes
are."
"Then you'd remember if you had done them before?"

"Yes, I'd remember. You say you are a friend of Lê Thu.
How did you come by that name?"

"By chance," Christopher said, "though I suppose your
philosophy would not accept that explanation."

Yu Lung waved a pudgy hand "Chance is an accurate
word in your language. A geomancer would call it the function offeng shut--the geomantic conditions. What you'd describe as
being in the right place at the right time. These beliefs are
ancient. Your people once held to them, like everyone else.
They're preserved in your language, though you no longer hear
the real meanings in what you say."

"You know something of Le Thu, do you not?"

"I?" Yu Lung said. "It's a common Vietnamese name, quite
a sad one--they might give it to a second child if the first had
died, in order to discourage the bad spirits from taking this child
as well."

"I was also a friend of Vuong Van Luong," Christopher said.
"I believe you spoke to him a couple of nights ago."

"Luong. Yes, he came here."

"And asked about Lê Thu."

"I could tell him nothing of importance."

"He was shot dead after he left you," Christopher said

"Not for that name, I think," Yu Lung said. He had a habit

his eyes when he lied. He held Christopher's
; his hands, counting it over and over again.
are the ethics of your profession?" Christopher
If our consultations are secret, I suppose."
, yes, absolutely. These are intimate matters." him you keep records?"
F course. Clients come back. One keeps a complete pro
case. Principles are fixed, but conditions change. One
> see how forces have behaved in the past, so as to apply
gic to the future."
pher smiled at the man. "What is the maximum
I of time over which a horoscope may be kept?"
quite indefinite, but of course one can compute in
I of an adult lifetime. Thirty years. Say ten thousand days
; a certain ring to it."
one should think five thousand days would give one a com-iture." rly complete. Not all, but enough."
put a thick envelope on Yu Lung's desk. The
(-teller kept his eye away from it. He drew one of the him sheets toward him. With a red pencil he drew circles
groups of ideograms that ran down the edge of the a. The system I use is uniform," he said. "The top group , place, time of birth. The next group is the name of
lividual, if I have it. All the Chinese characters below are
iption of the individual's fate. Do you see?"
res."
; Lung straightened the pages, squaring their edges by
; them on the glass top of his desk. He went to his file a, unlocked it, and inserted the papers in a file so that a
protruded from the top. Christopher's envelope still lay I desk top.
f?And now," Yu Lung said, "I must insist that you take a him of scotch with me. It's quite an extraordinary bottle of him Regal. I had it from a foreigner. I'll fetch it, if you'll be him as to wait."
Yu Lung left the room. Christopher took the file folder him the open drawer of the steel cabinet and opened it. Therewere seven sheets of drawing paper in addition to the ones Yu
Lung had prepared for him. Christopher used Yu Lung's scissors
to clip the ideograms from the edges of all the sheets. He
put the long strips of rice paper, covered with Yu Lung's flowing
calligraphy, in his inside pocket, with Molly's photograph.
He closed the file and pushed in the lock.
Yu Lung, when he returned with the whiskey, did not
glance at the file cabinet. He handed Christopher his glass
before he poured whiskey into it, and smiled when Christopher
held the empty tumbler up to the light.
"Will you spoil it with ice?" he asked.
Christopher shook his head. They touched glasses.
"You've spent a good deal of time in the East," Yu Lung
said. "You've learned our manners--you don't make sudden
noises or laugh in that peculiar way Europeans have. They
guffaw and stare at one, expecting that one will put on an
expression that exactly matches their own. One is not, after all,
a mirror."
"Living in Saigon has not made you into a Vietnamese, Yu
Lung."
"No," Yu Lung said, "though I was born here, like my
father. We Chinese who live abroad call ourselves huachiao. The words mean 'sojourning Chinese.' A sojourn is by definition
temporary. One of our poets said we are like migrating birds
with our soub flying ahead of us to China; we take no interest
in our landing places or even in our journey--we beat our wings
violently, in pursuit of our souls. Vietnam is where I live, my
dear fellow--but it is not my world."
Yu Lung widened his eyes in self-mockery. "I think one
glass of scotch is quite enough for me," he said.
Christopher's envelope, containing fifty one-hundred-dollar
bills, still lay untouched on the desk. Yu Lung had not acknowledged
its existence. Christopher walked along the hallway
behind Yu Lung. Outside Yu Lung's bright modern office,
they were back in China. When Yu Lung drew close to shake
hands, he gave off the bitter unused smell of an old man.

; late. Christopher crossed the street and stood against the wall of a tin shack. Cyclists and pedes-lover
the beaten earth of the street No one turned
opher's direction; he might have been as invisi-|the
spirits Yu Lung had spoken about. A new moon
, the mist of Saigon's lights.
into the street driving too fast, blinking the a people away from the car. As he reached Christo open the front door and slowed only enough to into the seat beside him. Pong's eyes were
> rear-view mirror.
ay Simca picked me up after I left you," Pong said, him for a while, but you can't hide this big car." him think they're still on you?"
H»ere five minutes ago. They've got yellow head-looked
out the rear window. "Go out to the
west," he said. "Let them find us."
1 go back to the house."
be outside when we came out again. Let them

1 the car toward the canals. The two-way radio
opher switched it off. 'Turn off the dashlights," (may have to drive in the dark after a while."
made the long curve where the Doi Canal turned him light flashed from the mirror onto Pong's face. a are," he said,
going," Christopher said. "When we get into the him off the lights and drive fast. They can't keep up." him still within the city limits, but the car was racing him swamps and paddy of the rural Seventh District, on
him edge of Saigon, him know there are VC all over the Seventh District at wasn't you?" Pong asked. He pulled his revolver from its
1 laid it gently on the seat between them.

"I know. How far to the first big curve, so you can stop 1
without their seeing your brake lights?"
"Maybe two kilometers," Pong said. "Just before the Cho ]
Dem ferry."
Pong switched off the headlights and trod on the accelera-i tor. The car pulled itself into the darkness, swaying on its soft]
springs over the uneven roadbed. Pong cursed as a wheel ran I
off the pavement and threw a burst of clods against the inside]
of the fender.
"Barney says driving this car is like screwing a fat woman no
--you don't know exactly where you are," Pong said.
Christopher pulled the submachine gun off the dashboard ]
and worked the action. "This is what we're going to do," he said
"Listen, because I only have time to tell you once."
Pong listened. "Barney said no shooting," he said.
"Barney's not here," Christopher said.
Midway through a long curve, Pong pulled the automatic him
transmission into low gear and turned off the key. The car
bucked and ran down to a stop, Pong touching the brakes no
lightly only twice.
Christopher got out while the car was still moving. He lay down on the slimy earth between the road and the paddy; the
Simca had turned off its lights, but he could hear its motor far no
back and see flashes of red as the driver braked to keep it on I
the road.
The Chevrolet, its lights still out, stood broadside on the
pavement. Christopher saw the rice move near the Chevrolet no
as Pong waded into the paddy, his revolver held above his head* no
The Simca came around the curve with its tires shrieking, no
swaying from side to side. The driver saw the Chevrolet at the 3
last moment and switched on his lights. For some reason b*j
sounded the horn, and in the glow of the instrument light3}
Christopher saw him pulling the steering wheel to the right]
hand over hand like a falling man clawing at the face of a cliff-J
The Vietnamese in the passenger seat braced his feet him
the dashboard, his teeth bared in fear.
The Simca flew for an instant after it left the road. Christ'
pher had no real idea of its speed until it struck the paddy»]
: sheet of water into the air. There were three a the other: the hard slap of the flying car on the I paddy, the splash of water hitting the road and
let, and a brief shriek of pain from inside the a. The Simca turned end over end and settled into him its top. Its yellow headlights shone over the water, him it to glow among the stalks of rice for a moment
' went out. It was very quiet; Christopher heard
[the car and, when that stopped, the faint rustle of

I by the wind.

a to the waist, came out of the paddy with his pistol
I stood at the edge of the road. Christopher stood


: they hit you," Pong said. He walked back and him of his sneaker, smeared with dark mud, along the


waded through the paddy, still holding the him gun, and looked at the car. All four windows were
. He beckoned Pong and together they rocked the
I over on its side. Pong opened the door; both
npled together behind the wheel. He clambered
, seized one of them by an arm, braced his feet
I door frame, and pulled the limp corpse out of the a it into the paddy and pulled out the other body. a helped him carry them through the water to the him was still soft from the afternoon sun.

the bodies methodically, finding nothing
I and a little money. The man who had killed Luong
the silencer to his .22; Pong found it in his
1 held it up for Christopher to see. When he was
;, Stood up and threw a handful of coins from the a into the water. He started to roll the bodies back


' Christopher said. "Do you have a camera in the


I and opened the trunk. He came back with a
, fitting a flashbulb into its reflector. He offered
> Christopher. "No," Christopher said, "you do it."


K.'	163


Pong knelt and took pictures of the dead men. The flashgun
erased the shadows from their faces, so that they looked as
Luong had looked, lying on his back with the morning sun
shining into his extinguished eyes.
'Take two of each," Christopher said.

At Luong's house, the old woman who had given Christopher
food that morning told him that Phuoc had gone away to
pray. Christopher found him in the Xa Loi Pagoda, where the
Ngos' enemies had waited for arrest only a few weeks before.
He sent Pong, a Buddhist, into the pagoda. Phuoc came out
alone and got into the car without hesitation.
Phuoc looked at the submachine gun and the two-way radio
and turned his body in the seat, watching Christopher's
profile. Christopher gave Phuoc the Polaroid photographs Pong
had taken and turned on the interior light.
"These are the men," Christopher said. He opened the
glove compartment and brought out the long-barreled .22 pistol.
"This is the gun."
Phuoc examined the dead faces of his brother's murderers.
Christopher turned off die dome light.
"How did they die so quickly?" Phuoc asked.
"They drowned. It was an accident. I wanted to talk to
them, but they went off the road and overturned in a paddy.
"You wouldn't have killed them?"
"No. I would have given them to you."
Phuoc gave his sputtering laugh. "I see."
"Do you know them?" Christopher asked.
"How should I know them? They look like boys."
"So did Luong when I found him."
"Tho."
"All right, Tho," Christopher said. "Phuoc, have you ever
seen them? If you have, tell me."
Phuoc slapped his palms together twice, sharply, in the
dark. "Yes," he said, "they were outside Yu Lung's, drinking him*
the street when Tho and I came out the other night."
him went with him to Yu Lung's?"
, I know Yu. His father taught me horoscopy."
1 you sit with Yu and your brother while they talked?"
Phuoc said, "but Yu said nothing of value. He
I money, that's why my brother was coming to find you.
lit you would have it."
at was Yu going to tell your brother in return for the

: wasn't clear to me. Yu can talk like a fool when he him Tho spoke about Lê Thu, Yu became very alert.
: about a voyage. Tears must be carried in a special
fYusaid."
a voyage? What vessel? He spoke to me in a very brisk
a French psychiatrist. Why should he talk to your
' in riddles?" him known Yu since we were boys--he suits his approach
it. He's Chinese." a said nothing more?"
, yes," Phuoc said. "He leaned across his desk and whisyive
thousand dollars.' Then we went away, Tho to get
' from you. I came here--I sleep nearby."
pher touched the brake pedal twice, to signal Pong,
ne out of the shadows, walking in a slight crouch, his
5 from side to side as if to catch a scent. Christopher
I of the drowned men, following him through the him Cholon.
I won't see you again," Christopher said.
: opened the door and seemed startled that his action
I them in light. He still held the photographs in his hand;
I at them again before he closed the door, and gave
fback to Christopher.
him thing I know," Phuoc said. "This Lê Thu--it was the
| name of one of the Ngo women. She was killed in '54, by him or the Viet Minh, no one ever knew which, as she
; down from the North. The Viet Minh brought her
i-a small girl, to the Ngos. Their Truong toe raised her. It's
> loved her mother." I child was Dao, die one who calls herself Nicole?"

"Yes, Dao. It means 'peach blossom.'"
"Who was her father?"
Phuoc opened the door again. Sitting in the light with his
face turned away, he said, "Do Minh Kha. Do went with the
Viet Minh in the early days, and after they won, he gave up his
wife to stay in Hanoi. She and all the other Ngos who were
Catholics came south after Dienbienphu. The Truong toe had
a great passion for this woman--Ho Chi Minh himself wrote a
poem about it, how she had chosen a brave fighter over a rich
man. Do chose the revolution over Lê Thu and the revolution
killed her. So the Truong toe got the women he lost to Do after
all--he keeps her altar, and he has her daughter."

Christopher called Wolkowicz on the car radio and, speaking
German, asked him to bring two things to their last meeting.
An hour later, he found Wolkowicz waiting in his Mercedes
on the Yen Do Road, near the airport
Wolkowicz walked from his car to the Chevrolet and got
into the back seat. When Christopher told him what had happened,
he showed his teeth.
"What did you do with the bodies?"
"Put them back in the paddy."
"The cops'U think it was the VC."
He handed Christopher an envelope. "Is this what you
wanted?" he asked.
Christopher opened the envelope and looked at the photographs
of Nicole and Do Minh Kha that Luong had taken in
Vientiane.
"Yes. Thanks."
"You've identified the girl, right?"
"Yes. She's a relative of the Truong toe's."
"The chick you had lunch with?"
"Yes."
"What's the connection with Do?"
Christopher put the photograph back in its envelope.
"She's a courier," he said.
: grunted. "All in the family. The generals would
that."
him for me," Christopher said, handing Wolkowicz the
, >He had addressed it to the Truong toe.
1 it in the morning," Wolkowicz said,
pher opened the car door. "Did you bring the
' he asked,
^to the Mercedes."
a walked to the other car and rapped sharply on
? Peggy McKinney's brother, wearing khakis, got out. a overhead, descending toward the airport with their
[its on. Christopher had to shout above the noise of does.
; around in the headlights," Christopher said, touched the boy the Polaroid pictures of his dead agents.
; captain crouched so that the light fell on the pic-j
wore a heavy Rolex watch and a West Point class ring,
slender in a sinewy way and he had his sister's
: he held his body so as to display it to best advan
he had less control over his face.
[ at Christopher, he stood up and held out the photo-pher
took them back. He handed him the pistols \ taken from Luong's killers.
&*ve lost your amateur status," Christopher said.

nine

him

Christopher did not imagine that the Truong toe would be
immobilized by a photograph of Nicole. He'd hide the girl, as
Christopher intended to hide Molly, and try again to kill Christopher.
But he would have to adjust his operations. All this
would take time. Time was what Christopher wanted, and Molly's
life.
It was raining in Rome and the Christmas decorations were
up. The taxi driver let Christopher out by the door of his apartment
on the Lungotevere. Christopher looked up and down the
curving street and saw no one. One side of the street was open
to the Tiber and the other was lined with old buildings whose
heavy doors, built to accommodate horse-drawn coaches, were
always locked. There was no place for surveillance to hide; that
was why Christopher lived in this street.
, Christopher's training told him it was better to see the
sition than not to. He did not know how quickly the
; toe could move. He felt the beating of his own heart as a inside and climbed the stairs. Molly should be asleep.
I used his mind to make his body stop trembling.
Letting himself into the apartment, he walked across the floors, hearing his own footsteps. Molly had decorated
1 Christmas tree and placed it on a table in front of one
: windows. The paintings that had been in the bedroom him hung in the living room. She thought that pictures should
oved from one wall to another so that the eye would be
a to see them in a new place each day.
It was not yet six o'clock in the morning, and the rooms a cold in the wintry light that filtered through the win.
Christopher went into the bedroom. Molly was not in the
. The clothes she had worn the day before were draped over him back of a chair, and a book she had been reading lay open
: bedside table.
' Christopher pushed open the bathroom door. It was a win-i
room; he turned on the light and, hesitating for a mo-,
pulled the shower curtain aside. The tub was empty and
> dripped on a brown stain he knew was only rust. He was
I wearing his raincoat and its hard material whistled softly on him door frame as he brushed against it.
Christopher looked at the bed again. There was a small
in the center of the mattress. He threw back the cov-Í and saw a bottle of champagne lying on the sheet; there
beads of moisture on the cold glass. He stared at the

Feeling something at his back, he turned around and saw
standing in the doorway, pushing her tangled hair away
her face. She wore one of his T-shirts and carried two
eglasses between the long fingers of her left hand.
"Double bloody damn," she said. "I wanted to be in bed a the wine poured when you came in. I forgot the glasses."
Molly pushed the hair away from her cheek and smiled. "I
the taxi in the street," she said. "It woke me from a
, and I looked out and saw you in the flesh, which was
what the dream was about. You must have come in like a cat
burglar--I didn't hear you from the kitchen."
She shivered and placed one bare foot on top of the other.
Her eyes were defenseless with sleep. Christopher took several
deep breaths, but he could not regain control of himself: he had
believed for thirty seconds that she was dead. Blood poured
through his heart--he felt its temperature, as hot as tears on the
cheek.
"Open the wine," Molly said. "Never too late."
Christopher picked up the bottle and began to peel the foil off its neck. He lost control of his hands; they leaped on his
wrists and he dropped the bottle. It exploded on the marble
floor. He put his quivering hands in his armpits and sat down
on the bed.
"Paul," Molly said, "what's the matter?"
"Be careful of the broken glass," he said.
"What is it? Stop trembling, Paul."
She knelt beside him on the bed and put her hand on his
forehead, as if he might have a fever.
"You're cold as ice," she said. "You've caught a chill."
When they made love, Christopher cried out as if he were
in pain. Molly wanted to talk, but he put his fingers on her lips.
After they had lain quietly for a few moments, he opened his
eyes, thinking she would be asleep. But she lay on her side with
her knees drawn up, gazing into his closed face. When he kissed
her, she didn't open her lips or put her hand on him. He fell
asleep.

He woke before she did. Molly found him sitting on the sofa
with the long strips of Yu Lung's calligraphy spread on the
coffee table before him.
Christopher rubbed her thick hair; it crackled with electricity
in the damp winter air. Molly moved away from him.
"Don't stroke me," she said "I'm not a cat"
"All right. What do you want?"
'To be told. What was the matter with you when you came
home this morning? I thought you were going to scream when
I walked into the room."
: couldn't find you."
I would I be? Sleeping with an Italian?"
[ didn't consider that possibility."
| Then what?" Molly asked. I've never known anyone like him time you show your feelings you act like some who's been caught in a lie.'
j^Tm trying to get over that."
yell, I wish you'd himy it up. I take you into my body,
(least you can do is to tell me what it is that's made you so
[when you're not making love. When you get out of bed,
, you know. I'd like to know whether you're yourself him you're lying down or when you're standing up. I used to
: it was Cathy, but it's more than that, Paul."
"Yes, it's more than that."
'Something had changed in Molly. Christopher looked at a for the first time without a memory of sex or a desire for it.
r's personality had always been the force that lit her face
her gestures, something that made her physical
' accessible to him. Now it leaped out of her flesh. There
have been two women facing him--one with Molly's a and the other, entirely separate, a spirit that had escaped
lit
"For Christ's sake, Paul, what is it?" MoUy cried. "What am
* you? You confess that you love me at midnight, and go to him in the morning without a word. You go to Saigon for him and come back looking as if you've done murder. I
lit your heart had dropped out of your body when I
into die bedroom this morning with the wineglasses. a were you so frightened?"
"I thought I'd killed you," Christopher said.
He told her about the photograph the Truong toe had
ihim.
"Was that the picture that odd little Vietnamese took in the
tit?" Molly asked.
"Yes. I was stupid to let him see you."
"And you think they really would kill me in order to--
1 Punish you for learning their secrets?"
""I know they would," Christopher said.Looking steadily into her eyes, Christopher told her what
his life had been. He gave her no details, just the fact that he
had always lied to her. Molly gazed back at him while he spoke,
showing no flicker of surprise.

She said, "Is this what drove Cathy to do the things she did
--knowing you were a spy?"

"I think so, yes."

"Then she was a fool."

"You may not say so when you've lived with it for a while,
Molly. Ninety percent of the time it's a foolish, joking sort of life.
But once in a while something like this happens, and the joke
stops."

"Do these people really go about murdering strangers?"

"Not usually. This time they're really threatened."

Molly moved for the first time since they had begun to talk;
she crossed her legs, clasped her bare knee, and put her chin
on it, as if listening to a story about creatures she didn't believe
in.

"What do you have on them, for heaven's sake?"

"Molly, it's better that you don't know that."

"No," she said, "we're not going to have that again, Paul.
If you don't tell me I'll go out into the streets and let them kill
me. I won't go on with you."

"All right," Christopher said. "I believe they assassinated
Kennedy. I have some proof, and before I'm done I'll have it
all."

"I see. And when you have the proof, what good will it be?"

"I don't know, Molly. All my life I've believed that the truth
is worth knowing, even if it leads to nothing. It usually leads to
nothing. But what else is there?"

Molly touched herself, and with the same finger, touched
Christopher.

"Yes," he said. "But I didn't know that always."

"It's funny," Molly said, after a moment of silence. "I won't
say I'm not frightened. But it's too unreal."

"It's real enough," Christopher said. "I'm sorry you have to
know."

"Know what? I've always known you were dying of shame.

I know why, and it's not so bad as it might have been, never you've done, you've done for your country. Isn't that
'. to justify anything?" I "That's what we train ourselves to believe."
; "Yes," Molly said. "I would like to know one more thing. him you killed other men?"
Christopher closed his eyes. "Not with a gun or with my him," he said. "People have died because I made mistakes, or
dent. Sometimes I knew it was going to happen and did
; to prevent it. I don't know the difference between that
1 murder."

Molly made them a cooked breakfast. She put a new record a the phonograph and stood with her arm around Christo's
waist and a glass in her hand, waiting for him to laugh one the words of a new Italian love song.
After they ate, she gave him the mail and the telephone
ges from the office. Christopher sorted out five of the
one messages and pushed them across the table.
"Who's this?" he asked.
"Herman. I don't know whether that's supposed to be a
: or a last name. He talks Italian with an accent."
"And this was the message?"
"Yes. It seems less mysterious now than it did then. He just
a saying he'd be standing by the Pietá in Saint Peter's at ten
black in the morning and again at four in the afternoon. Then
&'d say, 'Molto urgentel'--anA ring off."
"Could you tell what sort of an accent he had?"
"Not really. A lot of tongue and lips in it."
Christopher looked at his watch. "It's three-thirty," he said.
I ought to be back in less than two hours."
Molly gave him a long look and then laughed. "Ah," she
, "the joys of love."
"Molly, you have to understand. This may be nothing--I
ay not even make the contact when I see who it is. But I have him know. It could be important."
"It could be a killer."
"In Saint Peter's? Shooting a man in front of the Pietá is the
sort of thing a lover or a lunatic would do--not a professional."
"Kennedy was shot in Dallas, in the middle of a crowd of
people with cameras."
"Yes," Christopher said, "but there's no way to kill the
President of the United States discreetly."
"What you're saying is that if they kill you--or me, I suppose --they'll not simply kill us but destroy all trace of us. Isn't
that it?"
"That's the idea, Molly."
They sat on opposite sides of a narrow table, and Christopher
could see every detail of Molly's face. Her eyes were
closed and she pressed her lips together, so that a web of lines
appeared for an instant on her smooth skin. Tears ran through
her lashes.
"My God, how cruel," she whispered. "They leave a person
no meaning at all."
Christopher turned up the volume on the phonograph and
told Molly what to do while he was gone. On his way out of the
building, he used the stairs again, searching the hallways on
each floor as he descended.
The day was as gray as slate. There was no one in the street
except a shepherd, down from the Abruzzi for the Christmas
season, who stood on the low wall above the river playing bagpipes.
The shepherd's wild music followed Christopher across
the Ponte Sant'Angelo, but no one was behind him, and he was
still alone when he reached Saint Peter's Square. He walked
through one of the colonnades of Saint Peter's, loitering among
the pillars, but still saw no one following.
Inside the basilica, he walked along the left wall, pausing
to look at paintings. In an alcove near the great altar he saw the
original of Luong's picture of Christ: its meaning was being
explained in German by a guide to a group of tourists. Christopher
walked on, behind the main altar. Foreign priests were
celebrating mass in the chapels along the sides of the basilica.
Gherman Klimenko, standing before the Pietá with a

ebook in his hand, saw Christopher coming. He leaned on
I chapel rail, as if to read Michelangelo's signature on the
I of the Madonna, then snapped the guidebook shut and
leisurely to the other side of the church. Christopher
I for a moment at the sculpture and watched Klimenko's
|j(-tweed overcoat disappear into the group of German tour-
!t

,He followed Klimenko past Luong's Christ and saw the him get into the elevator that led to the roof of Saint Pe-Christopher
took the stairway, and Klimenko was al-iy
on the gallery, gazing down into the Vatican gardens,
Christopher got there. He went to the opposite side of I terrace and waited until a young couple finished taking him and descended the stairs. Klimenko turned and
at him, and Christopher walked across the flagstones
him.
< This has been very dangerous for me, coming to the same
him at the same hours for three days," Klimenko said, him, "I've been away. I only got your message today."
^Klimenko had no hair and he was always cold. Even in him he wore a buttoned suit. He stared morosely at Christo-'
and pulled his fur hat tighter on his bald head; a sharp
. filled with rain blew the skirt of his coat and he leaned
' and tucked it between his knees.
"I think you know what I want," Klimenko said.
Christopher remained silent. The great building and the him in its courtyards absorbed the detonation of the Roman
c, so that he and Klimenko stood in a pool of silence at the him of the roof.
"You won't answer me," Klimenko said.
"You haven't asked me a question, Gherman."
Klimenko turned his back to Christopher and rocked up
I down on his toes.
"I'm worn out," he said, as if speaking to one of the Swiss
pacing below them in the garden. He turned around
"I want to make a contact," he said.
The wind nearly took Klimenko's hat and they both

reached for it; Christopher caught it and Klimenko screwed it
down again on his forehead.

"Paul," he said. "We can only talk for ten minutes. Don't
waste the time. You know what I want."

"I think so. But I can't help you, Gherman. Walk into the
American embassy. You can be there in ten minutes in a taxi."

"Christopher--don't do this. They know. I've been running
for a week. Where do you think they expect me to go?
They're waiting outside the embassy in the Via Veneto. You
know the system--a car is waiting around the corner. They'd
have me before I could walk across the sidewalk."

Christopher shrugged. "Then go to Paris or Bern."

"You're my only hope. I've been waiting for three days.
You don't know what it's like."

"No, I don't."

"Look," Klimenko said. "I have no more energy for charades."
He seized Christopher's arm. "I told you, I'm worn out."

Klimenko's teeth chattered. He walked back and forth rapidly
on the roof, swinging his arms around his body to warm
it. He came back, close to Christopher, and spoke in a hoarse
whisper.

"Paul--have I ever given a hint that I knew about you in
all the years? Ever? How many times have I seen you, in how
many places? We drank whiskey together in the bar of the New
Stanley Hotel in Nairobi. We had lunch in the Fin Bee in Geneva,
as if we were friends. We talked about opera, the ballet,
the way BOAC is always late."

"I'm glad you have such tender memories," Christopher
said, "but if you think you know anything about me, you're
wrong."

Klimenko stood up to his full height. He was still a foot
shorter than Christopher. Holding his clenched fists at his sides,
he said, "All right. In 1959 you were in the Sudan; a Pole named
Miernik was killed by the natives in the desert and you brought
his body out. In 1960 you were meeting an agent named Horst
Billow in front of the S-bahn station at the zoo in Berlin; he was
run down by a black Opel and killed before your eyes. In 1962
you penetrated the Chinese operation in Katanga with Al76


> and gave him gold to pay for the juju that broke
: insurgent groups. In 1961 you were in Laos talking him Hmong who is now a general. Your case officer is
, Webster, who lives at 23-bis, avenue Hoche, Paris. 1 of clandestine operations in Washington is David
|ind in practice you are answerable only to him. I can

pher said, "If all that is true, why do you think I
: you right now?"
opened his eyes. "You people don't kill. We
too."
pher was not surprised at the quality of Klimenko's
, and he knew that Klimenko did not expect him to

took Christopher's arm and walked him around him. The mossy slope of Michelangelo's dome rose be-Christopher
heard the wail of pipes, and saw a I "walking across the piazza below; the man wore a him tied around his waist with a rope and a red cap like a he'd seen by the Tiber. Straining his eyes, Christo-
:
this man had a different face,
close this gallery at four-thirty," Christopher said.
go down."
i't come out empty-handed, Paul. I can show you

o's voice was growing thinner, as if he had sud
cold. "Name a place," he said. "Just make sure it's

I is not my work."
put a hand on Klimenko's shoulder; the flesh
under his thick overcoat. Christopher had always him Russian, but he knew what mistakes he could make.
; do you expect to stay operational if you go around I Eke this?" he asked.
: long. You see what's happened to my nerves."
' did you come out? You've always been a loyal Rus'tyou?"
I skin of Klimenko's sagging face was blotched, brownand white like the meat of a bitten pear. "Loyal to Russia, yes
--and I still am. I no longer agree with the line."

"It's no different than it ever was."

"No. But I am. One gets tired. Doubts become more important
--Klimenko's Law: as life shortens, misgivings magnify."

"Then I'm sorry you've come to the wrong man."

"I can tell you how the arms come to the V. C. through
Cambodia," Klimenko said in a rush of words. "I can tell you
what we are going to do with the structure of the Cuban intelligence
service. I can give you names you don't have. There's
been a change in the funding system--I set it up, I know the
banks and the account numbers. Paul, don't be foolish."

Christopher shook his head.

"I know what you think," Klimenko said. "You're worried
about your cover. But you have no cover with us. We know
about you--we've known for years. When you begin thinking
about yourself you lose your profession. I know."

A Vatican guard appeared in the stairway door. "The gallery
is closing," he said in Italian.

"Do you want to go down first?" Christopher asked.

Klimenko uttered a little laugh; he was in possession of
himself again.

"It's comic how I fit the defector's pattern," he said. "I tell
you how I love Russia, and offer you her secrets in exchange for
safety. It's no wonder people like you and me exist, Paul--men
are so predictable, so easy to use. I know what you'll do next.
We'd better set up a meeting now. I don't want to use the
telephone anymore."

"Gherman, I won't see you again. I can't help you. What
I'm telling you is not technique, it's the truth."

"You don't believe in the quality of the merchandise."

"I care nothing about it one way or the other."

"Signori," the guard said, "you must descend now. The
gallery is closing."

Klimenko fluttered his gloved hand impatiently at the
guard. He turned his back on the man and again put his face
close to Christopher.

"There was an operation in the States last month," he said.

; word was Weedkiller. A million dollars went through
in Swiss bank. An American got the money. A million


him Paul. Think about that."
pi»


money went into the bank in Zurich on Novem-It
was taken out the next day, just before the bank


a whom?"

> looked aside. "I don't tell you that now. When we
, when I have assurances--but not on this roof, in the


ii'll have assurances when I have this information,'*
said.

a?"

, All of it."
aorrow," Klimenko said. "I can't wait longer than


3T nodded and smiled at the guard, who had him the gallery and was walking toward them with his him out and his shoulders shrugged to show that he was
I of his patience, a right," Christopher said. "Five o'clock in the morning,
^Protestant cemetery behind the Porta San Paolo. Ill him on Shelley's grave."

ntic," Klimenko said.
> walked away, leaving Christopher to talk to the remon-;
guard, who might remember him.


5 of the souvenir shops near Saint Peter's, Christopher a a postcard of John XXIII. He took a taxi to the main post him the Piazza San Silvestro and, using the typewriter at the
> office, typed the name and address Nsango used in
ttville on it. In the message space he typed a Christmas
; in French and signed the message with three initials,
speak like a Frenchman, but his handwriting was
'American.

17»

He dropped the card in the airmail box outside and walked
next door to the long-distance telephone office. When the call
came through, the clerk put him in Cabin 10 as usual, and he
could hear the tap sputtering on the line. Sybille answered.
"You're coming for Christmas!" she said.
"No, I want to invite you down here."
"My dear, we can't. We'd have to charter an extra plane to
carry the presents my husband has bought me to make up for
his guilty conscience."
"Is he there?"
"At five-thirty? Have you forgotten already what it is to be
chained to a machine gun like a poor German private, rat-tatting
away for the Fatherland?"
"Will you give him a message? Tell him I'd like to have
lunch with him. Write down the date and time carefully--you
know what his memory is."
Christopher gave her a formula that would bring Webster,
if he understood it, to Rome the following afternoon.

The shops had just reopened and the streets were teeming.
Christopher went into a jewelry store and bought an opal ring
for Molly. He put it in his pocket and walked into the Rinasente
next door; the department store was so crowded that he
moved sideways through a pack of unmoving Italians. He went
to the top of the store on the escalator and came back down the
stairs, leaving by the front entrance. By the time he reached the
taxi stand behind the Galleria Colonna across the street, he was
certain that he was still alone.
He rang his own doorbell six times, four long and two short.
Molly tapped on the inside of the door four times, and he rang
again twice. He heard the locks turning and the chain rattling,
and Molly opened the door. She held a bottle of champagne in
her hand.
"Can you open this without fumbling?" she asked. "It's
three thousand lire the bottle, you know."
Sitting on the sofa, Christopher told Molly to close her eyes.
He put the opal ring on her finger.

autíful," Molly said. "But aren't opals supposed to
Etoek?"
I superstition will do us good. Gaze into the stone,
I live each day as if it were your last."
; a wonderful sense of humor you have. Is all this
a a joke to you?"
E it a joke? Think of it--some little fellow with hate in
, deadly dramatic, stalking us in Christmas week. If
, he wouldn't even have been told who we are or why
to kill us. All he asks is a chance to be taken

I him seriously."
his gun seriously, and his delusions," Christopher a not him. He's just a man, and a weak and stupid one wasn't let himself be used. We know about him. That
É his value."
kissed him. She wore no scent or makeup; he had
(it her as clean as a child. Molly did not like the

this morning," she said, "I go on the premise that
< is permissible. I've been reading your poems again. him what you meant by these lines:

"In the cave where my father grows,
He sees my son undoubling from a rose."

st, Molly, I don't know. It rhymed."
en up," she said, pointing a finger,
[loved my father," Christopher said. "He lived his whole
out doing anyone any harm. I think I hoped, if I ever him child, that it would manage to stay innocent, the way the
a did."
"What was the cave?"
one «.""Silence. He stopped speaking when he was about fifty."
"Stopped speaking? Altogether? Why? Was he mad?"
"My mother thought so," Christopher said. "So did I, for a
. Then I began to read a little more and I realized that he

would have been treated as a holy man in most places in the
world."
"On the other hand, he could have been mad."
That's possible. He refused to give evidence."
"Not a word, not a gesture, to the end of his life?"
"Nothing."
"You behave as if you think what he did was rather beautiful."
"Oh, I do," Christopher said.

Christopher heated milk in the dark kitchen and drank a
cup of cocoa before he woke Molly so that she could lock the
door after him. She had slept naked and he embraced her long
body, still warm from the blankets. He stood in the hall until he
heard all die locks fall into place.
It took him ten minutes to inspect his car. It was still dark
and he had no flashlight. He felt the motor with his hands and
lay cm his back on the cold cobblestones and ran his fingers over
the frame. The car had been standing in the rain for a week and
the engine started reluctantly.
Christopher drove up the Tiber, crossed it on the Ponte
Milvio where Constantino had seen the sign of the Cross, and
came down the opposite bank. The streets were empty. When
he parked the car and walked into the cemetery, there was
enough light to see the tips of the cypresses against a sky filled
with sailing clouds.
He walked on the grass among the headstones to avoid the
noise of his footsteps on the gravel pathways.
At precisely five o'clock, Klimenko, wrapped in his long overcoat, emerged from a row of cypresses. The Russian walked
without hesitation to Shelley's grave, and Christopher thought
again about Klimenko's tendency to make mistakes: he must
have come to the cemetery the evening before and marked the
spot:.
"Good morning, Paul."
"Gherman. Did you case this place last night?"
bu knew right where to find Shelley."
came earlier this morning. No one has picked me up."
imenko lifted his feet, in pointed Italian shoes, one after
per out of the wet grass. "Nevertheless, I'd like to get
'cover as soon as possible," he said. "All this standing

the open isn't good."

it grave over there is where Edward John Trelawny is

Christopher said. "He snatched Shelley's heart out of
/al pyre on the beach at Viareggio. Later Trelawny was
'agent in Greece with Byron. He thought Byron was a

I amateur."

Hg," Klimenko said "Let's go over to the trees." In

surrounded by the straight stems of the cypresses, Hi-
tenied
more at ease. "What arrangements have you

«Basked.

bat you have is valuable, I can hand you over to some-
tfternoon.
They'll tell you what to expect"

«a will that be, roughly?"

| transportation to the States, debriefing, a place to stay

*re ready to surface."

jn't want money," Klimenko said. "That has to be

to No money."

^ïght, 111 tell them. What do you have with you?"
interest was aroused by Weedkiller. I've brought you

I'm
nko removed his hat and turned out the sweatband.
I Christopher three small photographs and a slip of a a series of numbers and letters written on it in red
botographs showed two men in dark American suits
shirts crossing a sidewalk. One of the men carried a
(hecase. The cameraman had been sitting in a car: the I'm door showed in a corner of the picture. The faces
lelear.
° *»ank in Zurich is the account number for?" Christomd
Co., in the Bleicherweg. It's a small bank. This I'm usage."

him,	183

"Who are these people?" Christopher held up the clearest
photograph.

"The men who made the withdrawal. They spoke American
English."

"Names, Gherman."

Klimenko shrugged. "They were couriers. The names they
used on the hotel register were Anthony Rugged and Ronald
Prince."

"Rugged and Prince? Come on, Gherman."

Klimenko reached into his hat and handed Christopher
photocopies of two Swiss hotel registration cards. "The cards
are genuine," he said. "What do names like that suggest to
you?"

"Clumsy Americanization." Christopher looked again at
the men in the photograph; they had dark, closed faces; one
man's mouth was open, as if he had been chewing gum. "Probably
Ruggieri and Principi originally."

"Something like that. I saw the passports they handed in at
the hotel--genuine. Their names are Rugged and Prince."

"What was the million dollars for?"

"I don't know. I carried it from Stockholm. It was brought
to me from Moscow by the head of my section. I made the
deposit, and my instructions were to put the money in the
account and leave Zurich at once. Center wanted no surveillance
on the messengers."

"Why not? Is that your standard procedure?"

"No. Do you want me to explain the whole system now?
Briefly, this is the only cash transaction in any amount I've ever
handled where no receipt was required. I couldn't believe the
irregularity of it."

"Why would they do it this way? A million dollars."

"Obviously security was more important than money, ft
was a very tight operation."

"You must have been given a deposit slip."

"No--they wanted no paper of any kind. Not even in the
files at No. 2 Ulitza Dzerzhinskogo." Klimenko smiled bleakly
when Christopher did not react to the address of KGB headquarters,
spoken aloud.

him the withdrawal code?" Christopher asked,
a, not written. To make a withdrawal, one cited
of the account and gave the codeword tortora, him 'dove' in Italian."
lï«»*V
I to that--it was an insecure code, there's a clue
know how incautious these administrators can

. the money at the bank?" ' the directors, Herr WegeL" him is his office?"
a floor, extreme northwest corner of the building, a on the door."
a you sketch the layout of the office from memory?" 1 iflimenko said.
a notebook and a pen and made a quick
; the pad on a gravestone as he drew. I this?" Christopher asked, pointing to a scribbled him one side of the sketch.
I," Klimenko said. "Herr Wegel had a coal fire
; made a joke about being an unthrifty Swiss. I
everything. I was worried about the lack of docu-
*


him decided to take some pictures and ask some ques-

;
I'd already decided not to go back. I thought die
him might be useful."
didn't you just take the million and run?"
to? Mars? Besides, Paul, to steal official money?
. I do such a thing? What would they think?"
ko still held his hat in his hand. Astonishment drew
ton his bald head: he could betray his service and his a he could not bear that his colleagues should think

sis an intriguing little mystery," Christopher said, "but I why it should interest us. It's incomplete. All you've
is evidence of a big cash transfer and a couple of
. The rest is not even speculation."
"I can speculate, if you like."
Christopher waited.
"In the fifties, as you know, I was at the UN under him
cover as a Tass correspondent," Klimenko said. "Mostly 11
died Latin Americans--they're easy, because they like we
Sometimes an African. My targets were all non-American, <
cept one. I had a primary assignment targeted on a
American group. The Latinos and the blacks were make-wo
The American target was very, very difficult. I only made I
recruitment three months before I was posted to West
Europe."
"And you handed over the American asset when you 1
New York in 1956?"
"No, there was no handing over. I made the recruitment no
and told the man to go fictitious until we made contact again.]
It wasn't really a recruitment. I didn't tell him anything about]
his employers. We didn't have him under discipline. He was an no
American patriot, he would have shot me if he had known I was no
a dirty Communist spy."
"What did you tell him?"
"That I represented a group in Belgium that might need no
work done in America. That my name was Blanchard. That the I
fee would be high. That he might not hear from us for years, but no
when he did, we'd expect action in whatever period of time we no
specified. I told him it might be as short a period as twenty-four no
hours."
"How did you bind the recruitment?"
"I gave him one hundred thousand dollars as a retainer. We
wanted him to know we were serious."
"How did you set up the future contact?"
"Telegram and meeting. I rented a safe house in Chicago
and put two unwitting people in it. The agent had the address-When
he got a telegram from Naples saying, in Italian, that ? uncle Giuseppe had died, he was to go to the safe house at 10:1$
on the next night after the day of the week mentioned in the
telegram as the day of his uncle's death."
"10:18--that sounds authentic," Christopher said "Why do you people split the clock that way?"
>	was annoyed by the digression. "It's just tech-
I
to discipline agents. In czarist days no one
>	in Russia. After the revolution, people were shot . It was part of the pattern of changing everything,
society." him the agent?"
lyou it was a difficult target," Klimenko said. "It took him to make contact. I wasted time. I should have a security is almost the same as ours. All clandestine him are more or less alike. When I did, I went in with
ouble, after I'd established my cover with them."

him Piccioni. He's called Frankie Pigeon."
ifahe?"
>	laughed. "You have lived abroad for a long time,
. What would someone called Frankie Pigeon be?"
it

him Chicago. Frankie is an important American."
by? What would you need with him? You've got all
meed."
him never have all the guns you might need. You know
& One of the bolshoy chirey has an idea--do you know a phrase means? The big boils--that's what we call our
, as if they will burst at any moment. It tells you
; about the KGB. Anyway, someone had an idea in
/I carried it out in the field. It was a contingency plan,
ay they'd need a clean killing in the States. Then him a man." a it was insecure."
I Mafia is insecure? No one has ever convicted Frankie
of anything. It was compartmented very tightly. him didn't know who we were. He likes money, a little on
I It wasn't easy to find a man like Frankie--most of these him won't deal with outsiders."
' often did you use him?"
a, unless we used him last month. The idea all along him employ him on a one-time basis against a target we a reach. Hell never be used again."
Klimenko w»s shivering violentiy, and Christopher felt I
cold seeping through his own raincoat
"Really, we must get under cover," Klimenko said,
getting light."
"What was Pigeon used for?"
"That I don't know. But consider the sum involved,
sider the date."
"I have," Christopher said.
"I can give y<ou a piece of hard information, Paul. Froi
Pigeon is a sentimental man. He always spends the twelve (**yi of Christmas in the village of Calabria where he was born. He
brings his wife aod children with him on Christmas Eve and
stays until January 7.1 can show you on a map where he'll be."
"You can show me in the car," Christopher said.
Sitting in the front seat beside Christopher, Klimenko drew
a sketch of the roads leading to Frankie Pigeon's house in the
hills above Catanzaro, on the toe of the Italian boot He handed
it to Christopher.	no
"He takes two men with him," he said. "I don't know what;
their security arrangements are. He likes to hunt rabbits in the :
early morning and talk with the farmers in the evening. He go« no
for walks before dinner."
"I thought you said you didn't keep in touch."
"I kept myself informed."
"Is there anything else about this man Pigeon--as a person.
I mean?"
"The weakness?" Klimenko said "He's a snob--he's been
bilked of thousands by genealogists attempting to prove that hi»
mother's family, the Cerruti, are bourgeoisie from the north of
Italy; but all the Cerruti are Sicilian from way back, shepherd*
and shoemakers. That's of no use to you."
"Then tell me something that is useful."
"Frankie Pigeon is a hypochondriac. He's morbid about
germs--washes his hands all the time. He has a servant who
spreads sterilized towels over the floor for him to walk on him»
hotels. He boils his coins before he touches them, won't handle
paper money at all because of the danger of disease. You recog",
nize the pathology--it's common enough in murderers."
: shape of Monte Testaccio loomed above the car, I mounted at its summit "What's the name of that
tasked.
told him. "It's made entirely of pottery--the him ancient Romans used to transport wheat and honey
eastern Mediterranean. It will appeal to your Le
of irony that the Monte Testaccio, a dump, is the ', trace of the common people of the Roman Em-laughed,
coughed, and covered his mouth. I the arrangements?" he asked.
gave him an address and a key. "Be ready at
, precisely on the hour. The man who comes will say I is Edward Trelawny. You'll reply, 'Do you still have a heart?'"
: twelve hours. Can't it be sooner?"
, One last thing, Gherman--don't talk to anyone else I Pigeon for fourteen days. Then you can spill it."
> was swiveling his head, watching the approaches

\ you understand?"
Ill tell your friends on January 6. There'll be no
Ming the time with other things, Paul."

pher began to talk while Molly was still in the room.
gave her a cold stare and held up his palm,
smiled and said, 'Tell me the etiquette, Mr. Web-would
feel more comfortable if you went into the him and read a book," Christopher said.
die door had closed behind Molly, Webster said, him she know?"
: I'm a retired agent. She had to know what she was a in, so I told her. She took the call from Klimenko, but wasn't know his name or what he is."

"That's what I have for you, Tom--Gherman Klimenko. ]
wants to defect."
"He's in Rome?"
"Yes, I met him twice, last night and this morning. You can ]
pick him up at five o'clock."
"Why does he want to come across?"
Christopher shrugged. "He's pleading ideological disillusionment.
I think he's just tired of the life, the way they usually
are. Even Klimenko feels his motives are a little peculiar. He
doesn't want to be offered money."
Webster stood up and looked at his watch. The phonograph
was playing Molly's new love songs at full volume and Christopher
had to strain to hear Webster's voice.
"Where is Klimenko?"
"In a minute, Tom. There are some things I need."
"You're bargaining with me?"
"No," Christopher said. "I'm going to ask a favor. You can
have Klimenko whether you help me or not. What would I do
with him?"
Webster sat down again and peeled the cellophane from a
cigar. He watched Christopher through the flame of the match.
"Wolkowicz sent a cable on your doings in Saigon," he said. "He
sent somebody out to that church you visited--the cellar is full
of opium."
"Is it? Well, that's a dividend for Wolkowicz."
"Like Klimenko is my dividend? For a retiree you're pretty
active."
"I'm like a reformed tart," Christopher said. "People just
won't believe I don't enjoy it anymore."
"You still won't tell me what you're up to? Wolkowicz is in
a tizzy out there, and it's going to communicate."
"I'll be finished soon. Tom, I've gone as far as I can go alone
on this. I need some support."
'Tell me what you're after, and you've got all the support
you can use."
"No."
"Then no support"

him, Tom," Christopher said, with no inflection in his
o's at 6 piazza Oratorio, second floor. The name
is Busotti."
at's that place?" a a pied a terre Cathy had for herself. She gave me the
him she left--there was a paid-up three-year lease."
at does Klimenko expect?"
11 gave him was a recognition code. Tell him your name
1 Trelawny when you pick him up. He'U reply, 'Do you him Shelley's heart?' He expects you at five." Christopher
| Webster a key. "You'd better knock before entering," him "He's nervous." "
	stabbed the ashtray with his cigar, breaking it in
: me ask you this--does this operation of yours have
; to do with the United States of America?"
a*

I you tell me about it when it's all over? Have you told
, or anybody, so that the file will be tidy if you get your
him outfit's
over, 111 tell you if I can, Tom. Patchen knows, wasn't tell you, try him."
him you are working?"
[ for the outfit, Tom. If you help me, you put your ass

	breathed loudly through his nose, attempting to him patience. "What do you need?"
a want you to take Molly back to Paris with you and keep
' the streets until New Year's Eve. She can stay with
or you can put her in a safe house, but I want her
, twenty-four hours a day."
tiy is that necessary?"
y've threatened her. I can't leave her alone--she has him how to protect herself."
i'll right. Sybille and I are going to Zermatt for the holiWe
can take your girl along."
1," Christopher said, "Iwant you to fix it up with the
if station so that I can use their villa on the via Flaminia for

a week, beginning day after tomorrow. It has to be the'
I don't want any other safe house. Third, I need the stuff on a
list by tomorrow night. It can be left in the villa."
Webster read the list and frowned. " You want weapon
he said.
"Yes."
"All that stuff in Saigon must have shaken you up," Webster |
said.
"Parts of it did. Can you do all that?"
Webster ran his finger down the list. He said, "I think so.;
Rome will get credit for Klimenko--they won't be in a mood to asked
deny you anything."
"You don't have to say the villa and the weapons are for me.
Find out how to turn off the microphones."
Webster put on his coat. He opened his attache case and
held up a nine-millimeter Walther pistol. "Do you want this
until I get back?"
"No. I'm going to stay inside."
Webster balanced the flat automatic on his palm, then put
it in his pocket. "Look for me about ten," he said. "I may want
to sleep here--Molly and I can get an early start in the morning."
Webster started to close the briefcase, then snapped his
fingers and reached inside it for a copy of France-Sot a, folded
to the crime page. He handed Christopher the newspaper, tapping
a small item with his forefinger. "I almost forgot to show
you this," he said.
Christopher read the item:

DEATH OF A CRIMINAL
About eleven o'clock last night, police were summoned to the
public lavatories near the place Clemenceau to provide assistance
to a man who had been found unconscious inside.
The attendant, Mile. they. Calamier, told the guardians of the
peace that the man entered a compartment about 10:15. Shortly
thereafter, Mile. Calamier, who was cleaning the women's portion
of the public facility, heard sounds of a struggle through the
partition.

him a few moments later that MUe. Calamier found the him man, or the man die believed to be unconscious, in
at and summoned policemen on duty nearby. a investigating officers found that the man was, in fact, \ had been struck a hard blow on the nape, judo-style.
1 at first that it was an affair of perverts, a, medical examination revealed that the victim had him a massive overdose of heroin. A portion of the hypo
needle used to administer the fatal dosage was found in
, perhaps broken in the struggle that preceded his death. a physician was not of the opinion that the deceased was him addict his body bore none of the usual signs of that habit,
I Jrom the single fresh puncture in the forearm.
him victim was said to be Jean-Claude Gaboni, a Corsican him Algeria. Gaboni was known to the police as a criminal type
I in the traffic in drugs. An investigation is in progress.

see?" Webster said. "Sometimes poetic justice tri
handed back the newspaper. It had been six
he had told the Truong toe about Gaboni, three him the Truong toe had given him Molly's photograph. I moving no more quickly than he'd thought they

I you still have Kim's place bugged?" Christopher

I'll may hear something about Gaboni on those tapes. If anything about me, or about Molly, I hope you'll let
a."
e're always a week behind on the logs because of the him problem. They talk Vietnamese all the time." it is terrific," Christopher said,
a minute," Webster said. "How would Kim know
ornT'
fNdd them in Saigon about that mistake with young Khoi
hlesBains."
him told them? Why, for Christ's sake?" him have to give something to get something," Christo-

pher said. "I wondered if they'd kill on foreign soil and how
quickly. Now I know."


Molly packed her suitcases without speaking. She laid
Christopher's ski clothes on top of her own in an extra bag "I
suppose there's some remote chance we'll both be alive on New
Year's Eve," she said. "If you come to the mountains you'll be
properly dressed."

"The worst thing you can do is dramatize," Christopher
said. "I have to go away at least twice in the next few days and
I can't leave you alone. You'll be all right with Tom and Sybille.
They're used to this kind of situation. They know what to do."

"And what does one do?"

"Routine precautions," Christopher said. "A doctor working
in a cholera epidemic takes the necessary injections, boils
his drinking water, burns his clothes. It's the same idea--the
play-acting, the secrecy, and the codes, and the loud music so
that you can talk in a room that may be bugged--all that is the
way agents immunize themselves. They may die anyway, but
if they take the proper precautions, the chances are against it."

"All right," Molly said. "But all this business of solving the
crime of the century annoys me so. It's an interruption. It's
almost Christmas, Paul. I thought we'd be together. I build up
these scenes for the two of us in my imagination, and then they
don't play."

"I promise you 111 be in Zermatt on New Year's Eve. It's
a much better holiday than Christmas."

Molly closed her eyes and put her fingertips on the lids. "I
have to be so passive--all our life together I've waited for you
to come back, waited for you to feel love, waited for you to
speak," she said. "Now I have to wait for you to prevent my
dying, and the odd thing is, I'm less concerned about being
murdered than about being alone for a week."

"It'll be over very soon."

"I know it will," Molly said. "Help me to get this stuff off
the bed. Before I go I'd like to hold the clean part of you
between my legs once more."

Webster went ahead of them in another car the next mom94


met him on the road to the airport by the ruins of
, Webster turned his back while they kissed, and a the road behind them. There was still no sign of dan-

pher
wondered what the Truong toe was waiting

ten

ac con-J
Christopher was alone, and that was his advantage- Rome
1
trolled the rhythm of the operation. Driving back ^pfsafe
along the Ostia road, he calculated that he had eight oW ^ssible
time left. He thought it would be enough. It is almost ""^t who
for a national police force to keep track of a single *^ jjtions. I
continues to move, if the agent takes elementary Pr.,p their
For Christopher's opposition, who dared not go oti*5' ( know
own small circle for help, it was hopeless. They coulo ^fiance
where he was going or what he was doing. Their aPM Didn't
was to catch Christopher in the open and kill him-*^ think they would be able to do that.	.^king
He parked his car near the railroad station in a ***" police
zone. After he had checked his baggage, he called ***

nplained that the car was blocking traffic. By the time him two more phone calls, the police wrecker arrived and
| his car away. He knew it would be under twenty-four-1
in the impoundment lot outside the walls of the city. I last place the Truong toe's men would look for it him phoned the Hertz rental agency in Milan and reserved a pickup in the late afternoon. At the telegraph office in
1 station he sent a money order to a man in Ajaccio terse message that reminded him how little his methods
I from Klimenko's; the thought caused him to smile as he
I in the cable form and the money, and the clerk gave
1 look: it was odd that a man, sending news of a
r's death in Christmas week, should look so cheerful.
Uy, Christopher checked the train schedule for Milan
1 reserved a first-class seat on the 9:40 express. It was ' 7:30 when he walked out of the terminal and took a him the Vatican.

> Urpi had never taken holy orders, but he had come > a monk. He waited for Christopher in a corner of him library, his broad face still shining with the effect
; prayers. Urpi was the son of a Portuguese soldier him woman, and his dark features were such a combi
of Iberian and Cantonese peasantry that he might have
Kin either country as a native. He was twelve, and already ' corrupted, when the priests took him off the streets of
1 taught him to read and write. Before he was wenty, him discovered his talent for scholarship, and he
|fbr the next forty years lived outside the Church, or
I to.
I spoke and wrote every known dialect of Chinese. He
I but forgotten Portuguese, however, and when Christo-I
brought him a letter from a relative in Macao, Urpi
I to construe it into Latin before he could understand it.
; had wanted him to find a place in a nunnery for

one of his nieces. The girl had never taken the veil; she went
to live with a policeman. But Urpi had rediscovered his family
through Christopher.

"Paul," he said, "have you brought me some photographs
from Macao? How are they out there?"

"Not this time, Alvaro. I've come to ask a favor."

"Ah."

Urpi moved a stack of books from his desk to the floor, so
that he would be able to see Christopher when they sat down.
Urpi worked at a carved table, surrounded by battlements of
volumes with ideograms stamped on their spines. A great pile
of Chinese manuscript, Urpi's lifework, stood in the middle of
the desk.

Christopher handed him the dozen strips of paper he had
clipped from the borders of Yu Lung's horoscopes.

Urpi examined the calligraphy through a magnifying glass.
He wore steel-rimmed eyeglasses pushed up on his forehead,
but Christopher had never seen him use them. Urpi was very
near-sighted. When he read, he used the magnifying glass and
put his face close to the print, giving soft grunts of frustration.

Urpi touched Yu Lung's ideograms with his blunt fanner's
fingers. "Lovely work," he said. "A very fine brush."

"Can you translate these for me, Alvaro?"

"Yes, yes," Urpi said, "but it will take some time. These are
complex thoughts, very poetically expressed. This man writes a
very old Chinese, and he uses Taoist imagery. How odd. What
is he?"

"A horoscoper."

Urpi looked up, shocked at the word. "Oh, my, Paul."

"Don't you want to do it?"

"But of course. I didn't know you had these superstitions."

"I haven't. I just want to know what the manuscript says.
In great detail."

"It will be difficult to render the spirit, you know. This is a
rare idiom. May I have a little time?"

"Three days?"

Urpi looked at the long strips of paper again. "All right. But
in the end, it may mean nothing to you. You'd have to know

whom he was writing about and make deductions, a it was translated. What language do you want it in?"
atever suits you best, Alvaro."
in is easiest for me--that's what I'm used to, and I have him equivalents for Chinese words already in my mind."
atin will be fine."
. The day after Christmas, then. Ill be here from six
is morning, as always. When do you go to Macao again?" of soon, Alvaro. What do you hear from the family?"
Christmas message. I thought you might be bringing him. It takes me back, you know--I have grandnephews who are as old as I was when the Franciscans took me in. a they're as bad as I was--thieves, liars, full of lust. Ah,
(God is waiting for them."
expect so, Alvaro. Please guard those papers well. I'll
; them back."
ey're safe here," Urpi said, indicating the thick walls him slow figures in black that moved among the books. He
a hand and put his head down among his books and
, the magnifying glass against his eye.

opher slept on the train, protected by three nuns and
ilboy who shared his compartment. In Bologna he leaned him the window and bought a sandwich and a bottle of beer a a platform vendor. One of the nuns peeled an orange and
1 it to him, with the skin arranged around the fruit like
| pointed leaves of a lily. She was young, with a sensual face a which prayer had scrubbed all traces of desire. However,
; pretty orange, handed across the compartment as if she I feeding a horse and was wary of its teeth, was as much a ', of flirtation as of charity.
When Christopher arrived in midafternoon, Milan was
1 by the nickled light of the winter sun. He stayed long
to buy two hundred feet of nylon climbing rope, a
pitons and a mountaineering hammer, a good camera him a closeup lens, and a small, powerful floodlamp bulb. ThenThe car was pushed toward the edge of the road by gusts
of wind, and in Como the water of the lake blew over the jetties.
At the Swiss frontier, Christopher was required by the relaxed
police to show nothing but the green insurance card for his
hired automobile. He inquired at Bellinzona, where the road
forked, about the condition of the passes, and was advised to
cross the Alps through the Spliigen pass, since the higher Saint
Gotthard and the Furka were closed.
There had been a heavy snowfall in the mountains, and he
pulled off the road and attached the chains. It took him a long
time to maneuver among the cars that had lost traction on the
switchback road leading to the summit. At the top he got behind
a Swiss postal bus, equipped with a snowplow and a sander,
and followed it down the other side of the mountains into the
valley of the Rhine.
It was ten o'clock when he reached Zurich. He drove
through the dim streets, past the leaden Swiss architecture,
until he found the hotel he was looking for. It stood in the
Talstrasse, in a block whose rooftops led into the Bleicherweg.
After he had looked up Dieter Dimpel's address in the
telephone book, he walked along the street until he reached the
stone town house that was the bank of Dolder und Co. The bank
had a mansard roof, with a steep pitch falling to the eaves but
a flat top divided by three tall chimneys. The buildings on either
side were twenty feet higher than the bank. Christopher fixed
the proportions and the distances in his mind and walked on
along the lake shore toward DimpeFs apartment.
Music filtered through the thick door of Dimpel's flat.
Christopher placed his palm against its polished wood and felt
the tremor of drums and tubas. He rang the bell, set in a brass
plate on which Dimpel's name was inscribed in flowing script.
There was no response. Christopher pressed the bell again and
stepped back from the doorway.
When at last the door swung open, Christopher found himself
looking into an entryway lined with timepieces. Grandfa-
I been turned off. Christopher looked downward and
, so short that the doorknob was above his head.
: do you wish?" Dimpel asked in Swiss German, a wore a plum-colored dressing gown and a white ascot
: calves were as muscular as a cyclist's. His blond hair
ntined and combed flat on his skull. He bad the head
of a normal man, with wary gray eyes and a long

I'll a friend of Major Johnson," Christopher said
1 showed no reaction to the name except to throw a shoulders and lift his head so that he looked directly
r's eyes, him party-card number was 555," Christopher said.
gave a sharp nod and slapped his bare heels to.
The date was June 4,1943," he replied. "I am some
occupied just now. Is it urgent?"
lies, but I can come back."
apel ran his eye over his collection of clocks. Thirty him," he said, winked, and closed the door. As Christopher
: down the carpeted stairs, he felt the vibration of band him starting up again on Dimpel's phonograph.
went to a cafe across the street and drank a him of hot chocolate. It was beginning to snow, plump flakes
; through the lamplight that fell from the window of the
. A girl wearing a loden coat and white knee socks emerged him Dimpel's building. She looked up and down the wet street
I* taxi, shook her head angrily, and strode off through pools a. Christopher dropped coins on the table and left him empty cafe.

All of Dimpel's clocks were striking the hour when the
et opened the door. He took Christopher's coat and went him of him through the rooms resounding with chimes and
, Dimpel now wore a tweed suit with a vest The red
in his breast pocket matched his spotted tie.
201

I

The car was pushed toward the edge of the road by gusts
of wind, and in Como the water of the lake blew over the jetties.
At the Swiss frontier, Christopher was required by the relaxed
police to show nothing but the green insurance card for his
hired automobile. He inquired at Bellinzona, where the road
forked, about the condition of the passes, and was advised to
cross the Alps through the Spliigen pass, since the higher Saint
Gotthard and the Furka were closed.
There had been a heavy snowfall in the mountains, and he
pulled off the road and attached the chains. It took him a long
time to maneuver among the cars that had lost traction on the
switchback road leading to the summit. At the top he got behind
a Swiss postal bus, equipped with a snowplow and a sander,
and followed it down the other side of the mountains into the
valley of the Rhine.
It was ten o'clock when he reached Zurich. He drove
through the dim streets, past the leaden Swiss architecture,
until he found the hotel he was looking for. It stood in the
Talstrasse, in a block whose rooftops led into the Bleicherweg.
After he had looked up Dieter Dimpel's address in the
telephone book, he walked along the street until he reached the
stone town house that was the bank of Dolder und Co. The bank
had a mansard roof, with a steep pitch falling to the eaves but
a flat top divided by three tall chimneys. The buildings on either
side were twenty feet higher than the bank. Christopher fixed
the proportions and the distances in his mind and walked on
along the lake shore toward Dimpel's apartment.
Music filtered through the thick door of Dimpel's flat.
Christopher placed his palm against its polished wood and felt
the tremor of drums and tubas. He rang the bell, set in a brass
plate on which Dimpel's name was inscribed in flowing script.
There was no response. Christopher pressed the bell again and
stepped back from the doorway.
I been turned off. Christopher looked downward and
, so short that the doorknob was above his head.
: do you wish?" Dimpel asked in Swiss German.
I a plum-colored dressing gown and a white ascot him calves were as muscular as a cyclist's. His blond hair
ntined and combed flat on his skull. He had the head him of a normal man, with wary gray eyes and a long
(nose.
. a friend of Major Johnson," Christopher said.
1 showed no reaction to the name except to throw
; shoulders and lift his head so that he looked directly
opher's eyes. I party-card number was 555," Christopher said.
gave a sharp nod and slapped his bare heels toff.
The date was June 4,1943," he replied. "I am some-
I'll
just now. Is it urgent?"
fes, but I can come back."
. ran his eye over his collection of clocks. "Thirty
' he said, winked, and closed the door. As Christopher
: down the carpeted stairs, he felt the vibration of band '. starting up again on Dimpel's phonograph.
opher went to a cafe across the street and drank a him of hot chocolate. It was beginning to snow, plump flakes
; through the lamplight that fell from the window of the
. A girl wearing a loden coat and white knee socks emerged him Dimpel's building. She looked up and down the wet street
I* taxi, shook her head angrily, and strode off through pools
stlight. Christopher dropped coins on the table and left him empty cafe.

All of Dimpel's clocks were striking the hour when the
et opened the door. He took Christopher's coat and went
1 of him through the rooms resounding with chimes and
Dimpel now wore a tweed suit with a vest The red
F in his breast pocket matched his spotted tie. 201

him 1


Dimpel lifted a bottle of brandy from the low table in front
of the sofa, showing Christopher the label with an inquiring lift
of his eyebrows. Christopher nodded, and Dimpel poured cognac
into a large balloon glass. He sat down, pushing himself
back into the deep chair by digging his heel into the cushion.
His bright eyes followed Christopher's gaze as he noticed the
Diirer engravings on the wall, the porcelain collection on the
chimneypiece. There were no clocks in the living room.
"So," Dimpel said. "How is Major Johnson these days?"
"Very well. He sends you his best wishes."
Dimpel nodded. "I'm sorry to have sent you away. I'd
begun something. It was necessary to finish."
He had stopped speaking in Swiss dialect, and his German
was filled with the mushy diphthongs of Bavaria. Dimpel made
no sign that he was less than six feet tall, and Christopher very
quickly stopped noticing his size.
He asked to use the toilet, and Dimpel showed him down
a long hall, switching on the light for him. The walls of the
corridor were crowded with framed photographs of unclothed
blond girls, all wearing white knee socks; the pictures were
expertly lighted and posed. Because there were so many photographs,
the effect was chaste, an arabesque of white skin against
whiter cloth, spun hair and closed eyes.
Dimpel slid out of his chair and stood up when Christopher
returned. He refilled the brandy glasses and, taking his own in
both small hands, thrust his nose into the fumes.
"Are you quite happy with the watch business?" Christopher
asked.
Dimpel put his head to one side. "Yes, it's been a good
business. It was an established shop--the old man who owned
it had no children, so it went on the market without difficulty. I carry all the good Swiss marks--Omega, Piccard, Bolex, and
so on. Also a good line of clocks. I've always liked timepieces.
What are you wearing?"
Christopher pulled back his left sleeve. "A Rolex."
"You're wise to have steel instead of gold--the gold is a
waste of money. Your watch will never wear out, but if you

him to lose it, come and see me. I can save you quite

: you."
1 waved a hand; the favor was not worth mention-put
down his glass and Dimpel sat straighter a and composed his face, aware that the small talk was

[ wonder if you'd consider a proposal," Christopher said. I will consider anything."
; is a matter of some urgency. I'm familiar with your him Berlin."
I haven't done that sort of work for a very long time." ', realize that. Have you lost interest in it altogether?" a was more interesting than selling watches, I'll say that.
I climb a little in the summer. Last year I did the Matter-the
Italian side." Dimpel thumped his chest with
ger. "Fifty years old."
[ compliment you."
ipel decided to stop speaking. He watched Christopher Y, a look of broad amusement on his face. He flicked his
dy glass with a fingernail and listened to it ring.
have a simple job," Christopher said. "I thought you
: undertake it."
| Dimpel pursed his lips, sipped his cognac, made the glass
| again. "What made you think that?" he asked.
" "Johnson's description of the way you worked in Berlin. He
a you were a genius at what you did."
' "What I did was certainly good for Major Johnson. I was him younger in Berlin. Besides, that sort of thing seems stupid I you've stopped doing it. Men like yourself, who go on with him their lives, find that hard to understand."
"Ill describe the job," Christopher said. "It involves enter
a room through a fireplace, opening a file with a simple
lock, photographing documents."
"What building?"
"A bank in Zurich."

Dimpel burst into laughter. He had a deep voice. "A bank?
In Switzerland?" he cried. "It would be safer to commit sodomy
at high noon in the middle of the Bahnhofstrasse."

"It's a test of skill," Christopher said. "However, it can be
done, and done cleanly. The security is nothing compared to
the headquarters of the CRU in Berlin. Nor are the possible
consequences."

"This is not Berlin in 1946."

"No. But, with respect, Heir Dimpel, this operation is incomparably
more important than anything you did in Berlin."

Dimpel agitated his cognac glass and again inhaled its fragrance.
He seemed deep in thought; then the smile of a man
who remembers a pleasure parted his thin lips.

"Let me hear a little more," he said.

Christopher sketched the roof of Dolder und Co. and the
adjoining buildings, showing the distances involved. From
memory, he reproduced Klimenko's drawing of the interior of
the bank director's office.

Dimpel, taking a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses from
his handkerchief pocket, examined the sketches. "What is the
access to the roof?" he asked.

Christopher tapped the sketch. "I have a room on the highest
floor of this hotel. There's access to the roof by the fire stairs.
One crosses the adjoining roof without difficulty. The roof of the
bank will give trouble."

"Yes. It's a drop of seven meters from the roof next door,
then a climb of what--five meters? On what sort of surface?"

"Copper sheathing."

"Slippery stuff, and it's snowing. Then a vertical climb of
four meters to the top of the chimney." Dimpel lifted his cognac
and poured the entire contents of the glass into his mouth.
"Very challenging," he said.

"I know nothing about the alarm system, nothing about the
internal security," Christopher said. "This is a high-risk operation,
Herr Dimpel. There may be a night watchman. If there is,
he cannot be harmed."

Dimpel folded his spectacles and tapped his front teeth
with them. "There is no watchman at Dolder und Co., and

no alarms in the chimneys. They're an old-fashioned
the Swiss have faith in locks. It's in their national
him»

itry has to be made tonight," Christopher said. "The
at is very strict."
el's clocks struck the half hour, and he gave Christo-I
tight-lipped smile full of sly pleasure,
tiy should I do this?" he asked. "Can you explain that to

[ can't think of a single reason, and if I could I wouldn't I it to you. There's nothing I can give you, in a material
at you need. I will say that you're the only man in the
[who can do it."
Ifou're quite right--I have no material needs. Johnson put
I the reach of your organization, you know, when he
him up in the watch business. I thought that rather a joke on
ople. The British would never have done that, or the
**

ifould you have preferred working for them?"
"An agent always works for himself. It's a mental disease,
fe work. Quite incurable."
§The sing-song tone of German sarcasm had crept into Dim-voice,
and Christopher thought he had failed. Dimpel a to the window and stood on tiptoe to look out. He carried
F erect and all his movements were stylized; he planted
ifeet firmly on the Chinese carpet, drank from his glass with
rly precision. Christopher remembered Trevor Hitch-k's
description of Dimpel: the midget did have the manners a field marshal. He clasped his hands behind his back and
. to face Christopher.
"The snow is coming down harder," he said. "Another diffi-ity." ."Yes, you'd leave tracks on the roof."

"Who would see them? I was thinking of the danger of a
»»

"Then perhaps we'd better talk no more about it," Christo
said. "I've enjoyed meeting you, and the cognac."
He stood up and held out his hand, palm upward, for hiscoat. Dimpel looked Christopher up and down and shifted his
feet on the carpet.
"One moment," Dimpel said
He strode out of the room. When he returned he was carry,
ing Christopher's coat and a scuffed, bulging rucksack. He wore
a leather trench coat and a woolen cap. He nodded briskly to
Christopher and slung the rucksack. They went out together
into the snowstorm.

In Christopher's hotel room, Dimpel changed into climbing
clothes and attached crampons to his boots. He inspected
the rope Christopher had bought in Milan with great care and
tossed the pitons contemptuously onto the bed.
Dimpel put the camera in the chest pocket of his parka,
draped a coil of rope over his shoulder, and handed Christopher
the extra rope. He ran up the stairs to the hotel roof; once in
the open air, he spread his arms and took deep breaths one after
the other, exhaling noisily through his nose. Snowflakes gathered
in his thick eyebrows. He showed Christopher with gestures
how he wanted him to assist
Christopher, braced at the edge of the roof with the rope
belayed around his waist, felt only a slight strain as Dimpel
rappelled down the wall of the building. He was lost from sight
for a moment, then Christopher saw him on the roof of the
bank, running up the steep pitch of the gambrel, his weight
thrown into the slope.
Dimpel reached, the top, swung his arms for balance, and
walked across the roof, leaving footprints behind him. At the
base of the farthest chimney, he uncoiled the second rope and
cast it toward the top of the chimney; Christopher heard the
faint rattle of the grappling hook. Dimpel tugged on the rope
and walked up the bricks, his body nearly horizontal. He sat on
the top for a moment with the snow drifting down around him
before he adjusted the grappling hook, seized the rope, and
dropped out of sight down the chimney.

him Dimpel was inside die bank die storm worsened a, waiting on the roof, was unable to see die street
below, and he glimpsed DimpeTs climbing figure a when it emerged from die chimney and came back him housetops.
1 didn't speak until they were inside Christopher's him again. Dimpel's face was blackened like a comman-a
result of his passage through die chimney and he him of coal smoke. He bent his arm with a brisk movement
1 at die large sporting watch on his wrist,
y-one minutes exactly, from start to finish," he said
1 nod. He dropped die coil of rope on die floor and one Christopher die camera.
I stripped off his climbing clothes and stuffed diem
. Thick blond hair grew on his chest and shoul-his
skin, pink and healthy from many baths, shone
. He went into die bathroom, and Christopher heard
; his diroat and spitting, and then die rush of die

him Dimpel came out again, his hair was slicked down him had wrapped a towel around his waist. He put on his
. dodies, brushing imaginary specks of dust from each a, and tied his silk necktie wim great attention to die
'die knot.
him were five documents in die file you wanted," he
'"A deposit slip, a memorandum of identity, an explanation
withdrawal code, a withdrawal slip, and a police report
; four photographs of each, as there was no brace for die him and die light was not good. If die film was fast enough,
I have readable copies."
"Thank you," Christopher said. "That was very quick
Jt^ air

"It was simple work, and therefore very dirty." Dimpel
1 at his fingernails, took a gold penknife from his pocket, I began to clean diem.
"The matter of payment," Christopher said. "How do you
at that arranged?"
"I have no need for money." Dimpel closed his penknifeand threw his head back with a snap. "Do you have Geri
blood?" he asked.
"Half, from my mother."
"I thought so. You look German. You have the manner, the: confidence, of a German officer."
Christopher had never been paid a compliment that he
desired less. He made no reply. What Dimpel said next he said
in his ordinary brisk tone of voice.
"Major Johnson may have told you about my early connection
with Adolf Hitler."
"Yes."
"You're hiding a smile. I see you know the entire story. No,
don't protest--I understand. I've thought much about that
man. He was an obvious fool. Yet he was permitted to make
history--destroy Germany. I mean its architecture, which was
a work of art, and its name."
Dimpel paused and watched Christopher's face, as if awaiting
a reaction to some startling bit of information.
"What I would like from you," he said, "is something from
your government's collection of booty that belonged personally
to Adolf Hitler."
Christopher saw a glint of humor in the calm depths of
Dimpel's eyes. "Have you any particular item in mind?" he
asked.
"Something that he wore or a personal document Not so
large that it will not fit into a good-sized picture frame."
"You're going to hang it on your wall?"
Dimpel was grinning now. "Yes, in a gold frame with a light
shining on it. After I've used it to wipe my behind."
Dimpel picked up his rucksack, set his cap on his head,
shook hands firmly, and left.

Christopher started south again at first light, and he was in
Rome by early evening. The city was loud with the rough music
of the bagpipers.
What had been snow in Zurich was rain in Rome. Christo-
: into the slow traffic along the Lungotevere; the F his car were steamed and the wipers could barely
shield clear of the sluicing rain. There were two on in his street, one at either end of the block in which
at building stood. One of them had draped a sodden
over his head. A third Vietnamese sat in a black him Paris plates, smoking a cigarette. The eyes of all him were fixed on the entrance to Christopher's apart-I
even if they had been able to see into his car they a have recognized him driving by in the snarl of rush-

I'm


air



eleven

him

When Christopher showed Stavros Glavanis the room in which
he would break Frankie Pigeon, the Greek ran his palm over
its cold sweating walls and said, "If you're going to do this to
him, you may as well kill him."
"You have to bring him here in perfect condition and get the information without putting a mark on him," Christopher
said.
"These methods are not your usual ones. Are you growing
more realistic?"
"It's a special case," Christopher said. "This man can't be
moved by money, and he's too afraid of his own people to talk,
unless you make him more afraid of you."
Glavanis looked around the bare circular room again. He
shrugged. "It may be possible," he said. "It depends on the man
(depends on the man, and how quickly you get to
^	*

had had trouble finding the second operative
had asked for in his telegram, and more trouble
: of Corsica during Christmas week, when the boats him were fully booked with foreigners on holiday. His
| instructions were to make contact on any even-num-:
between six in the evening and midnight. Christo-; to the meeting place on the Capitoline Hill three
: Glavanis and his companion finally appeared a o'clock, Christopher was tired, and the wine he had
: dinner had given him a headache. At four minutes
(hour, he saw the tall figure of Glavanis, accompanied
man, climbing the steep street that led from the
the Forum. Christopher, standing in the shadows,
I his fingers twice and Glavanis came straight for the

> embraced Christopher. "You remember Jan Eycken,"

nodded and held out his hand. Eycken hesi
a fraction of a second. He did not like to display his
|,he had lost both thumbs when he fell into the hands of him rebel unit in the Kabylia, and he had spent his life
; simple men who hated deformity.
; and Eycken had been comrades in the Foreign
ïlavanis a sergeant-major, Eycken one of his corpo-was
amused by Eycken's stolid Flemish self-Eycken
had been a younger child than Glavanis
; the Second World War, and he had seen action only in
wars. He thought Glavanis looked down on him be-s
he had never killed a white man. Glavanis, wiping mirth
Ibis eyes, had told Christopher that he planted this notion
ken's mind because it made Eycken very brave when
' went into action together.
< Stavros Glavanis came from a Macedonian village on die
side of the frontier with Yugoslavia, and he had been
; men in battle since the age of thirteen. His father had him a follower of General Napoleon Zervas, and when he went
with Zervas's EDES partisans in 1941, he took Stavros, his oldest
son, with him. They remained in the field, ambushing Germans
and later fighting Greek Communists in the mountains,
until the end of the Greek civil war in 1949.
When they returned to their village, they found that Stavos's
mother was dead, and his six brothers and sisters, and most
of his cousins, had been taken across the frontier and on to
Russia by the Communists, to be trained for some future Greek
revolution. Stavros's father gave him his gold ring and told him
to marry and breed new children. Then, carrying his British
rifle, he set off through the woods to the east Stavros never saw
him again.
Stavros married an Athenian girl, and found that he had
married her too quickly: she cuckolded him within the year
with an old lover who had fought against Stavros as a member
of the Communist ELAS partisans. Stavros killed his wife's
lover, shipped on a freighter to Marseilles, and joined the Foreign
Legion. Christopher met him in Indochina, where he was
a sergeant leading a platoon composed mostly of Germans. Because
of Stavros's long experience as a guerrilla fighter and his
personal enthusiasm for killing Communists, his platoon was
one of the most successful units operating in the Indochina War
on the French side.
After Dienbienphu, Glavanis went directly to Algeria,
where he was shot in the chest by an Arab terrorist while sitting
in a cafe in Oran. He lost a lung as a result of his wound, and
Christopher recruited him a week after he was invalided out of
the Legion, offering him the prospect of going into action
against Communists.
In Vietnam and later in Algeria, during periods when he
was recovering from wounds, Glavanis had headed military
interrogation teams. He knew a great deal about the natives
who had passed through his hands; because the French had lost
both wars, many of the people they had tortured were now
generals or government ministers or high party officials.
Christopher had often used Glavanis as a source of information,
and once or twice as a courier. But he had never until now
needed him for his primary skills.
took Glavanis and Eycken to his rented car,
a dark street by the Forum. Glavanis stood for a
, gazing at the broken columns. "I miss Greece," he I stones remind me." He lifted his hips off the seat
> got into the front seat, and reached into his pocket
opened the small box Glavanis handed him and
I gold-plated fingernail clipper inside: the Greek never him a friend without bringing a gift, him they drove through the gates of die villa on the Via
, Glavanis said, "My God, Paul--what is this place?" » villa, a long, towered building, lay at the end of a drive
1 between perfectly matched cypresses. Gravel walks a the grounds, past statues and fountains, hedges and
, flower beds and water jokes--a passerby could be a by a hidden jet in any of a dozen places. There was one on of walk where fountains formed an arch over the path
; of a hundred meters, so cleverly designed that not »of water fell on anyone who walked beneath the spray. a belonged to some Roman nobility, and afterward to one
si's mistresses," Christopher said. "Late in the war, one used it as an interrogation center for important prisoners that, nobody wanted it."
; Rome station had furnished the villa with black leather
antique tables left behind by the Italians and the
, and thick carpeting that absorbed the echoes thrown
' the tile floors. An elaborate alarm system mat covered him with electric eyes and the interior of the villa with
that sensed the heat of an intruder's body had been
, The bar was stocked with the national drinks of five
ots and the library contained books in twenty lan-,
There was a photographic dark room, a small cinema,
áum. The villa was a place for new agents to be trained him old ones to rest
: Webster had arranged for the young officers who guarded
|place to be sent away on Christmas leave. The old-fashioned
microphones implanted in the plaster had been re
with voice-activated transmitters, and Christopher did
liar a moment believe that he had been told where all die
bugs were located. He took Glavanis and Eycken out
explain what he wanted from them.
Glavanis asked only one question: "Is this man a <
nist?"
"He works for them," Christopher said.
Glavanis, standing at the bar, grinned and drank
glass of ouzo, taking in a noisy breath as he swallowed.
Eycken, who had the face of a suspicious shopk
raised immediate objections. Christopher listened, kno
that it was Glavanis who would set a price on the services of Y friend.
"The time element is very short," Eycken said. "We havef
to drive all the way to Calabria, take this man out of a him
house, drive all the way back to Rome. And break him. All in no
three days or less. What if he doesn't break?"
"Hell break," Christopher said.
He motioned for Glavanis and Eycken to follow him. Glavanis
refilled his glass from the bottle of ouzo he had carried
into the garden. The three men strolled around the villa, gravel
crunching beneath their shoes. In a thick grove of cypresses, a
hundred yards behind the villa, Christopher knelt and pulled a
lever hidden in a concrete chamber at the base of a tree.
A spring-loaded steel manhole cover opened at their feet.
Christopher shone his flashlight into the hole. Twelve feet below,
the round beam of the electric torch moved over a damp
stone floor.
"Eycken, get in," Christopher said.
Eycken gave him a hard look and stepped back from the
edge. He didn't move his hands, but Christopher felt his ten-

"It's
all right," Christopher said. "It's just an experiment."
Glavanis nodded; Eycken held out his hand for the flashlight.
Christopher gave it to him, and he put it in his pocket and
swung athletically into the hole, hanging for a moment by his
fingertips before he dropped into the darkness.
"I'mgoing to close the hatch," Christopher said. "You'll see
us again in five minutes."

, Glavanis around and showed him that it was
>see the villa from where they stood. The house him countryside, and there was no noise and no light,
back into the villa. Christopher led Glavanis a stairs, and then into a long concrete tunnel with
^ bulbs screwed into the ceiling. At the end of the
opher stopped before a rusted steel door. on has been in there alone for five minutes, with a
''Christopher said. "Look at his face, and use your

' a light switch and pulled open the door. Eycken
; against the far wall of a bare round concrete room him. diameter. The walls sloped inward like the sides of a funnel. Eycken shielded his eyes from the blinding
H.of high-intensity lights. The walls were painted with
ive paint.
him held a heavy revolver in his hand. Glavanis stepped a him and Christopher. "It was a joke, Jan," he said.
swore, a long elaborate Arab curse, and moved him the door before he put his gun away.
explained that the Germans had built the
5 the war they would bring a man through the dark
him, and drop him through the trapdoor. He would him naked in the dark room, sometimes with a dozen rats, him with music or recorded human screams playing at him through the loudspeakers' in the wall. The door
I with concrete and cleverly concealed; it was impossi
tell that it was there by sense of touch. When, after two I days, the wall opened and the lights went on, and the
ir--already half-crazed by thirst and the rats and the
ers--saw a German in an SS uniform standing in the
, it had a certain effect him "Is that how we begin with this Communist?" Glavanis
nl
: "Yes. You may not have to do much more. He's used to I protected, being invulnerable. He thinks of himself as a
ous man. That's one of the pressure points--he won't

I I
^



know how to handle being helpless. Also, he's a hypochondriac.
He's going to get very cold in here with no clothes on, and he's
going to be worried about pneumonia."
"Can we use water?"
"If you have to," Christopher said. "I don't know that it'll
be necessary. I have something to keep him quiet when you
take him, and when we let him go."
"You're going to let him go?"
"Yes. Don't let him see your faces at all You'll have to tape
his eyes as soon as you take him."
Eycken smiled, his white teeth glittering beneath the hair
on his lips. "I'd better shave," he said.
"Afterward would be better," Christopher said. "I want
you to start in the morning. You fly to Reggio and pick up the
car there. Stavros, you still have the papers I gave you? The car
is booked in that name, at Auto Maggiore at the airport."
"Yes, I still have the papers. What information does this
type have, that he's worth all this trouble?"
"If I knew, we wouldn't have to go through all this," Christopher
said. "Come on upstairs. Ill explain the operation."

Christopher showed them the maps he had drawn on the
basis of Klimenko's description of the house in Calabria, and
gave them photographs of Frankie Pigeon.
"It would be better to know more about his habits," Glaanis
said.
"I agree, but there's no time. You have to have him back
here before first light day after tomorrow. You'll have to lie up
and watch, and take the first chance you get."
"What about the bodyguards? Can we deal with them as we
think best?"
Christopher handed Glavanis a small briefcase. Glavanis
removed two .22 caliber pistols from it and looked quizzically
at Christopher. He pushed a cartridge from one of the clips;
there was no lead bullet as in ordinary ammunition. The nose
of the cartridge case was pinched shut. "What's this supposed
to be?" Glavanis asked.
"It's birdshot. You can't kill with it, but if you fire into thehim close range, you produce a lot of pain and shock. You
obilize these people for an hour or two, that's all." Noel's a better method of immobilizing people," Eycken


him doubt. But this isn't a war zone, Eycken. If you kill him, you'll have carabinieri all over you before you get


him slid a clip loaded with the birdshot cartridges into on pistols and felt the weight of the weapon, holding it
I length. "I suppose it'll work if you get close enough and

'he said, Noel's no need to hit the eyes."

, seeing the contempt in Eycken's face, grinned a. *7an isn't used to working with a man who has scrusaid.
him sorted out the other things in the briefcase: two
(tickets to Reggio, an envelope fat with dirty thousand
bandage and tape, handcuffs, a hundred feet of light
, a pair of binoculars, a bottle of pilk He shook the
1 asked a question.

' Christopher said. "Give him two or three if he's
when you take him. It should take seven or eight
> drive back to Rome. Hell sleep most of the way in the
ii Don't give him too much Seconal. We want him awake

him put him in the hole."
avanis prodded the contents of the briefcase with his
. He nodded in satisfaction. "Everything well need him," he said. "We'd better sleep now." Before he went
, he winked at Christopher. "Do you know what day it ?"
nas him nodded rapidly and uttered a short, sharp laugh.


him Glavanis and Eycken slept, Christopher tested the
in the interrogation room and prepared the other »that would be needed there;

him he spent an hour in the darkroom. Dieter Dimpel's him of the tortora file at Dolder und Co. were in per17
feet focus. Christopher ran the negatives through the en
but made no prints. The bank records verified Klimenko's him
in every detail There was one bit of information that Klime
had omitted It was an important fact, and Christopher <
eluded that Klimenko could not have known about it. If him
of it ever got back to Moscow, big boils would burst all over a
KGB.
At five in the morning, Christopher woke Eycken and (
vanis and cooked breakfast for them. He drove them to I
airport, and before Glavanis got out of the car he kissed <
pfaer on the cheek in the Greek style. "Happy Christmas,"
said.
Christopher drove back to the villa on country roads I
wound through muddy winter fields, put the car in the no
and fell into a deep sleep in a locked room.

When he woke it was dark again. Although the furnace wai
operating, the huge marble living room was cold, and he started ]
a fire of olive wood in the grate and sat before it, reading the '
short stories of Somerset Maugham. He was most of the way
through the thick Penguin paperback when headlights flashed
across the ceiling and he heard tires turning on the gravel drive.
The car, a dusty blue Fiat 2300 with a Naples number, blinked
its lights and continued to the back of the villa. Christopher
heard the car doors slam and the hollow double ring of the
trapdoor being opened and closed.
Glavanis and Eycken were hungry. They still wore the
ill-fitting peasant corduroys that Christopher had given them.
Eycken drank three glasses of neat gin, one after the other, and
pushed the bottle across the table.
"It's cold," Glavanis said. "What I want is brandy."
Eycken went into the sitting room and came back with a
new bottle of Martell. Glavanis drank from the bottle.
When there was food before him, Glavanis said, "It was
easy, Paul"
Glavanis and Eycken **<"* hidden the car in the woods and

nuu^e Pigeon came out at sunset for his evening
« fields. Two bodyguards, young men in American him beside him. Glavanfe and Eycken shadowed P|.
I men, keeping inside the edge of the woods, until
sll out of sight of the house.
: stepped out and walked right up to them, all
»,anis said.
on smiled at them. Glavanis and Eycken, dark and
earing work-stained clothes, were the sort of men
I to talk to. When one of the bodyguards put a hand
0	his pocket, Pigeon gave him a playful backhanded
1	arm. Pigeon wished Glavanis and Eycken Merry favour his blurred Italian, he called out a question: What
-say?
Was it going to rain on Christmas?
pt on smiling and shrugging," Glavanis said, "and
»»t of ten--Jan and I worked out the drill beforehand
: the bodyguards in the face with your .22 birdshot.
I practically no noise."
a reached into his mouth, extracted a piece of steak
I placed it on the edge of his plate. "I apologize to
d to Christopher. "That's a very good weapon. They TCr backward and went out like a light. It draws a hell
F blood. They must have thought they were dead."
ib shot is enough, usually," Christopher said. on gave them six rounds apiece," Glavanis said. "TheyH
*t for girls from now on."
ft worry," Eycken said, "they'll live."
it about the man?" Christopher asked. He'd given
>	name for Pigeon.
a tried to run," Glavanis said. "I had to put some bird-lis
leg, but he's all right. I treated the wound."
>	saw your faces?"
him waved away the question. "For a few seconds. He
nber. I've never seen a man so astonished. When I
._	..,.1	1 ¥¥	l-_l .
the puis him neiu » g*«" «g«u««»i «»».»~-- ---- ..-- --... ~»ig him one of the capsules fell out of his mouth. When I picked
I was dry, Paul--he couldn't make saliva." I'll he blindfolded now?"
"No, but he's wearing the handcuffs. There was
behind us on the autostrada. No one saw the car. The < problem is the police, and it's a holiday."

"They won't call the police," Christopher said. "You him
as well get some sleep. You can start in on him in twelve 1
That ought to be enough."

Christopher went downstairs and checked the locks on I
steel door. Through the peephole he could hear Frankie 1
breathing, heavily and quickly, and the shuffle of his bare 1
over the stone floor. Christopher had transferred some <
Ironic music from a record to a tape, playing the record him
until the tape contained twelve hours of harsh, dissonant him
He switched on the tape recorder, which was attached to I
loudspeakers inside the interrogation room, and turned
volume to the nwrinuirn-The
music was so loud that it set him
vibrations in the steel door. Before he went to bed, he I
on all the alarm systems.


Christopher was drinking coffee the following afternoon]
when Glavanis and Eycken came downstairs. They had coffee no
with cognac in it, and Glavanis put two large steaks under the ]
broiler.

Christopher said, "How much money did the man have on him
him?"

Glavanis shrugged. "None. The bodyguards had about two
thousand in dollars, plus maybe two hundred thousand lire."

"It's yours."

"What about our pay?" Eycken asked

"That, too."

"What do you want him to spill?" Glavanis asked.

"Ill ask the final questions when you think he's ready. Just
work on him."

"We have to ask him something," Glavanis said. "Otherwise
one can't make the psychological progression--there's no
reason to put on more pressure if he isn't asked a question be
refuses to answer. It's not logical. There's no focus of fear."

"Keep asking about a million dollars. Tell him you know he
received it Just keep hammering on that"

aao

" now. Talk to him through the loudspeakers--I've
Dphone. There's a light for his eyes if you want it."
about the water?"

ler hesitated. "If you need it, but be careful. I
it's going to be necessary." him sipped his coffee, making a windy noise with his a lot of faith in water," he said,
lis washed the dishes before they went downstairs. I woolen ski masks that concealed their faces and
jir voices. Eycken's black beard curled from the bot-mask.
: worked for almost three hours. No sound of any kind
to the upstairs. Christopher watched a dark Gable
ibbed in Italian, on television. Finally he heard the
scrape over the stone floor of the cellar, and Glava-footsteps
on the stairs.

MIS came into the sitting room with his mask still on.
iy," he said. "Jan is with him. He's a mess, Paul--he
trol himself."

anis pinched his nostrils shut through the mask,
1 when this reminded him that he still had it on, and
it off his head. He smoothed his short black hair with
ids.

Noel's primitive, that man," Glavanis said. "At first he kept
ing that he was going to kill us. Jan kept pouring water
>his throat through the tube. In the end, he went to pieces
' way, he kept on saying 'Mama! Mama!' It was very
-we gave him no pain, just the water." him he coherent?"

Aore or less. He's afraid Jan will drown him again. The 1 is very effective."
"All right, let him rest for a few minutes. Turn off the lights
rfcck the door. I'll be right down."
.Christopher went upstairs and put on an Italian suit, with
ribbon of a decoration in the lapel. With a gray wig and
~"che and rimless spectacles Christopher looked different
,h that Glavanis reached for his pocket when he saw him

coming down the stairs. Christopher was carrying a
leather case, the kind used by doctors to transport hypodermic
He had draped a heavy dressing gown over one arm. Before 1
went into the cellar he removed his wristwatch and put it in hiij
pocket; there were thousands like it, but he did not want Pigeon a
to remember it.


With the door closed and the lights reflecting from its polished
white walls, the interrogation room looked like the inside
of a dry skull. Frankie Pigeon, naked, was tied by his wrists to
a ring in the wall. Long yellow stains ran down the inside of his
legs. He trembled uncontrollably. The floor was slick with the
water he had regurgitated.

When Pigeon saw the door open, he pressed his knees
together and turned his lower body to one side in a convulsive
movement, to protect his genitals. He looked at Christopher,
then closed his eyes tightly. His limp gray hair had fallen over
his face. Pigeon's chalky body had been powerful in youth; now
it sagged, and his round stomach heaved in and out as he
worked to control his breathing.

Christopher put his briefcase on the table. "Buona sera, Don Franco," he said.

Pigeon did not open his eyes. Christopher turned off the
overhead lights. Now only the table lamp, fitted with a brilliant
photographic bulb, was burning. Christopher stood behind the
lamp in the shadows. He removed a large hypodermic syringe
from the leather case, and holding his hands in the light, filled
it from an ampule of yellow liquid. He laid the syringe on a
white towel. Then he focused the lamp on Pigeon's face. His
eyes were open, and he stared wildly at the syringe.

"This is a very unhealthy place, Don Franco," Christopher
said, continuing to speak Italian.

Frankie Pigeon tried to speak and failed; he closed his eyes,
concentrated, and tried again. "You get nothing from me," he
said in English.

ilttve time," Christopher said. "You must be very

: a chair in the center of the room, in front of the
I untied Pigeon's hands. Pigeon fell to the floor, shudher
lifted him and helped him into the bath
sit down," he said. He went back to the table and
|>the light so that it shone on Pigeon's haggard features, a altogether blind him. Pigeon sat with one flaccid leg
I around the other; his body shook and he wedged his
him his crossed legs.
at you to understand your situation," Christopher it is possible for you to remain in this room indefinitely,
will not change, except to get worse. No one will

him had stopped trying to control his shivering. "They'll 1 he said, "and when they do, you bastard... .**
. You can forget about being rescued. It's not realistic, him have no chance. You saw what happened in Calabria,
I earshot of your house."
tried to speak again. It was difficult for him--his him opened and no voice came out. When finally he was able
sound, it was a high thin shriek; a beaded string of
leaped out of his throat and fell through the beam of

fïWho?" he screamed.
didn't answer. He waited until Pigeon had a a little before he touched the hypodermic with the tip a. As he spoke to Pigeon, he tapped the glass barrel of
ringe with his fingernail.
him hypodermic is filled with the live bacteria of Hansen's her," Christopher said. "I wonder what you know about
i's disease."
Í^Frankie Pigeon's eyes were fixed on the syringe and on
opher's rhythmically tapping finger.
"Hansen's disease is caused by the Mycobacterium leprae," topher said, "which is why it's more usually called leprosy,
a peculiar disease. The incubation period varies greatly.

Sometimes the disease develops in a year or two after infection,
but sometimes fifteen or even twenty years can pass before any
symptoms appear. All that time, the germ works inside the
body. It takes various forms. The neural form may be the worst
--lesions develop on the central nervous system. It causes madness,
loss of sexual potency, loss of bowel control, and so on. It
can paralyze the lungs or eat them away. Other forms cause the
fingers, the nose, the toes--even whole legs and arms--to rot Parts of the victim's body just fall off. Lepers have a strong,
disagreeable odor. There is no cure once the disease establishes
itself."
Pigeon pushed back his chair, the legs moving silently over
die wet floor. He stood up, crouching with one hand on the back
of the chair to keep himself from falling.
"Get away from me," he cried.
Christopher covered the syringe with a corner of the towel.
"I want some information," he said. "It has nothing to do with
your organization. There's no question of your betraying your
own people--I've no interest in them or their activities."
Now that the syringe was out of sight, Pigeon was less
agitated. But when he spoke, he stammered and his voice
broke. He was not used to being powerless. "Those guys in the
masks," he said. "They don't even know who I am."
"No, they don't Here, Mr. Pigeon, you're nobody."
They took fucking pictures of me!"
"Yes, those were their orders. Well keep the photographs.
We may want to mail them to the United States, to certain of
your friends."
"Do that, and they'll come after you."
"Will they? I thought they'd be more likely to ask you if you
talked, and what you talked about"
"I want those pictures," Pigeon said. "I'm not having any
goddamn pictures of me with no clothes on and...." He saw
his fouled legs and turned his head aside, biting his lip like a
shamed child.
"Let me tell you what we know," Christopher said. "In
1956 you received a retainer of one hundred thousand dollars

a bald man with a foreign accent who told you his
; Blanchard. You didn't hear from Blanchard again a week in November of this year. You then received him Naples stating that your Uncle Giuseppe had died,
the plan Blanchard had given you seven yean him went to an apartment on Cedar Street in Chicago,
I instructions for a job. You carried out the job. On
25, two of your men, Anthony Rugged and Ronald
: to the bank of Dolder und Co. in Zurich, and one a million dollars in hundred-dollar bills. They iden-with
the code name tortora, which, as you him 'pigeon' in English."
1 know so much, tell me what the job was," Pigeon said. picked up the hypodermic and depressed the
!#> that a thin stream of the yellow serum squirted out him and through the light "That's what you're going
I»," be said, him can kill me!"
, I give you my word I won't do that Not with a gun

, or anything quick."
| trembling of Pigeon's body intensified. He stared into
, then turned his whole body away from its glare. He
1 noisily. When at last he was able to speak, he did so
1 soprano voice, like a castrate.

had to ask him only two or three questions. him was done, Christopher left the room, taking the him with him, and the spool of tape on which he had
, Pigeon's hysterical spillage of what he had done to
>'s money.

Christopher typed out a summary of Pigeon's a on a single sheet of foolscap. When he was finished,
I the ribbon from the typewriter and put the spook
on his way back to the interrogation room, he
the ribbon into the red coals of the furnace and
I it burn.

Pigeon sat where Christopher had left him, his him legs intertwined, his hands gripping the seat of die

folding chair. Christopher put the sheet of foolscap on the I
and told Pigeon to read it. He ran his empty eyes over him
paper.

"Sign it, and give me your right hand," Christopher;
He inked each of Pigeon's limp fingers and rolled them over a
paper, so that he had a full set of prints to authenticate I
signature that ran drunkenly down the page.

He left Pigeon staring at his own hand, blackened by I
ink. He still wore a large diamond on his small finger


In the kitchen Glavanis and Eycken were playing piquet
with fierce concentration. When they finished the hand, Christopher
gave them their pay.

"Give the man this injection," Christopher said, handing
Glavanis the hypodermic. "Hell be terrified, so you'll have to
subdue him."

"What is it?"

"It'll knock him out for eight hours or so, it's harmless. He
thinks it's leprosy germs. Dress him, and blindfold and gag him.
Drive north on the Via Flaminia and drop him in a field, away
from the main roads, at least three hundred kilometers from
Rome. Then turn in the car at Auto Maggiore in Milan and leave
the country."

"I've been thinking about what you said," Glavanis said.
"He did see our faces."

"He won't want to see them again. He has no idea where
he is now, or where to look for you."

"All the same, Paul--if you have what you want...."

"There's an operational reason why he must stay alive."

Glavanis rested his brown eyes, which were as steady and
as liquid as those of a young bride, on Christopher for a moment,
then laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. "You
always have a reason to let them live," he said. "One day you'll
wish you hadn't been so merciful."

Christopher shook hands with both men. He stared at

hands, and looked questioningly at Gla
«ght," Glavanis said. "Eycken wore rubber gloves
kwe were downstairs."

I as he heard the car go down the drive, Christopher
in order. Glavanis and Eycken had left nothing
gerprints; he removed those with furniture polish
He photographed Pigeon's confession and devel.
; he left, he entered the interrogation room again. He
tie Pigeon's clogged treble voice, answering the
5.
; did Ruby say when you gave him the contract?"
g. He was overjoyed to hit that faggot." had he ask for money?"
a did Jack want with money?" Pigeon had asked. "He
fhe was going to get the Congressional Medal of

twelve

Christopher knew where Alvaro Urpi prayed. Each morning
Urpi walked down the Tiber, crossed the river on the Ponte
Palatino, and spent the first three hours after sunrise on his
knees in the church of Saint Sabina. Urpi liked the place be-1
cause it was named for a saint who was converted to Christianity
by her slave, because it was almost barren of decoration,
with great white columns standing in its nave--and because
one could look through a peephole into a hidden garden and see
an orange tree grown from the seeds of a tree planted seven
hundred years before by Saint Dominic, a Spaniard who had the
mind of a Moor, as Urpi had the mind of a Chinese.
Christopher waited at the back of the church while a young
priest said Mass and Urpi finished his prayers. Christopher went
with him to look at the orange tree and listen to the story again.
I a better immortality than stone," Urpi said, and a shy by the poetry of his thought
at back to the Vatican together; Urpi walked like him small rapid steps with his arms held stiff at his sides
on the pavement. He showed Christopher his
F Yu Lung's horoscopes. Christopher needed some I Latin: Urpi moved a finger from Yu Lung's ideo-i
own crowded handwriting, his eyes darting like a
, the material to Christopher's face as he explained I of the translations.
, it's obscure, metaphorical," Urpi said. "But it's
| five men are involved. Three of them--two brothers him enemy--are marked for death. Also a woman who
> be a virgin, and who has a relationship to three of the
< horoscope has to do with a journey and a message."
you construe her destination and the message?" asked.
I yes. That part is plain enough." I you're certain of the identities of the persons who
the horoscopes?"
nodded, reading out the Latin phrases. He pro-pi
very clearly. Christopher cleared his mind, memoriz-"
: Urpi told him.
gathered together Yu Lung's manuscript and his
: and handed them to Christopher. "What is being
1 in these horoscopes is murder," he said.

him that they should express the crime in such beautirpi
said.

he left Rome, Christopher again drove past his
it. The Truong toe's men were still there, but they had
cover; they sat together in the Citroen, two men
> and the other on watch. The man awake was as youthful
, with a lock of hair like Luong's falling into his eyes,
at his head toward a cupped match and lit his cigarette
drove by. There was nothing to be done about
; they broke no law as they waited for the oppor-

tunity to kill Christopher or kidnap Molly. He was glad to have
them there, watching his empty flat, waiting for him to come
back.
It was not yet full daylight when he reached the autostrada
and turned north. There was a moon in the western sky and one
of the planets shone beyond it. The road behind Christopher
was clear. Only a few big trucks were moving at that time of
day. No living soul knew exactly where he was, or where he was
going.
Somewhere between the autostrada and the coast, Frankie
Pigeon would be lying in a field. In the interrogation room, in
the instant before he had begun to talk, Pigeon had risen from
his chair, clasped his hands in front of his heart, and bent his
knees as if he would fall to the floor in prayer unless someone
supported him. He hadn't been begging for his life: he knew he
wouldn't be killed. He wanted to be let go, so that he could
return to the idea of himself he'd had before Eycken and Glaanis
put the rubber siphon down his throat. Christopher, looking
at his own hand on the steering wheel, had a quick vivid
mental image of Eycken's thumbless hands. After that he didn't
think of Pigeon again. "Pigeon does what he does for money,"
Klimenko had said. "After you pay a man like that, you don't
owe him anything more."
In Orvieto Christopher found a coffee bar just opening and
sat by the window drinking caffê latte, alone with the teenaged
boy who worked the early shift. At eight o'clock the street filled
up with Italians, as though the town had been turned upside
down like a sack and its people spilled into the morning. Once,
after a week in Switzerland and a drive through the night over
the Saint Bernard, he and Molly had arrived at the same time
of day in Torino. When she saw the Italians again, shouting and
gesticulating, Molly had leaped up, spread her arms as if to
embrace them, and cried, "The human race!"
Christopher walked through the crowd to the post office
and mailed Pigeon's confession and Dieter Dimpel's photographs
and Yu Lung's horoscopes to himself in care of general
delivery, Washington. The envelope would arrive by registered
airmail in four days' time.
I put photocopies of all the evidence in an envelope
I to Patchen's post office box in Alexandria. After the
: stamps on this package, Christopher reached across
and touched his hand, wasn't cancel the stamps on that one," he said. "I want it

him clerk shrugged. "You'll waste the postage." it is all right, 111 arrange it another way." him the town, Christopher stopped the car and burned him and its contents, grinding the ashes into the earth a heel of his shoe.
him the act of a romantic. Christopher laughed akmd at
I But he was no longer under discipline; the information
1 to him and to the people from whom he had stolen
(Frankie Pigeon, the Truong toe was owed something:
chance to stop Christopher from learning his last

2

used the airport at Milan because it was less a to be covered than the one in Rome. He turned in his
I car and bought a ticket for Salisbury. He used no special
: if he was being watched, there was no way in which he
(avoid being seen. He carried one small bag containing a
, a tape recorder, and the clothes he'd need,
stopped at the newsstand and bought the Herald and a paperback book. Nguyen Kim, wearing a coat him a fur collar, was standing behind him when he turned
ad.
"Hi, baby," Kim said.
; Christopher smiled and punched Kim lightly on the left
> of the chest; Kim was carrying a pistol in a shoulder holster,
put his hand into the pocket of his own raincoat
1 smiled again.
"Why don't you walk me to the passport control?" he said.
: on my right and keep a step ahead. Clasp your hands
I your back."
Kim closed his eyes for a long moment. He looked
tired and less boyish. No expression showed on his face. He him
his hands behind his back and they walked together past the!
long row of ticket counters.
"Just like the movies," Kim said. "All I want is a chance to
talk to you."
"Go ahead."
"You know your buddies out there burned down a church
right after you left?"
"No."
"Well, they did. It's very upsetting. That and the picture
you mailed to the Truong toe."
They were in a passageway now. Christopher put his back
to the wall and gazed at Kim.
"The question is this," Kim said. "Are you going to stop
fooling around, or not?"
"In time."
"How much time do you think you're going to have? You
can't work without traveling, Paul. You'll leave traces."

"Everyone leaves traces, even the Truong toe."
"You're not going to find traces of him. Even he doesn't
know all the details of what you're after."
"No, I don't suppose he does."
"He wanted me to tell you that," Kim said, "and that's
extraordinary. He says nothing to anyone outside the family.
The old man admires you, you know."
Christopher waited. There was nothing he wanted to say.
"He asked me to give you a message," Kim said. "He had
nothing to do with what happened to Luong. He didn't even
know about it until after you left Saigon."
'Tell him I know that."
Kim came a step closer. "There's more," he said. "He
knows you're not worried about yourself. He accepts that. But
your girl is something else. You have to worry about her."
"Do I?"
"Yes. I know something now I didn't know twenty minutes
ago. I thought the girl was with you. Now I know she's not. It
simplifies the hunt."
him paused, peering up into Christopher's face, expecting
I reply. He frowned, as if exasperated with a stupid per
went on.
I told me to tell you this: there is no limit of time. You'd him hide her for the rest of her life." him what will he do with Nicole?"
otect her, as long as he lives. But he's old, and when he
pNicole will be just a girl." Kim, his hands still behind him, him his toes. "Believe me," he said, "if you go on, if you don't
| Molly will have rice in her mourn."
opher did not understand Kim's words at first; then
I Luong in his coffin with a grain of rice between
food for the Celestial Dog.
|*Why threaten Molly?" he asked. "Why not kill me?" : The old man thinks you're not afraid of death."
' Christopher said, "What makes him think I'm afraid of
ft?"
Kim dropped his hands to his sides and walked away down
» passageway, his unbuttoned overcoat billowing around his
;figure.

The flight to Salisbury, through Khartoum and Nairobi,
: eleven hours. Americans were not required to have a visa him enter Rhodesia, and Christopher, white and blond, passed him customs unnoticed. He took a domestic flight to Lusaka
I found the man he wanted in the bar of the Bidgeway Hotel a night. He had used him once before, and he would not have
I him again if he had been in less of a hurry.
They left in darkness, but when the light plane rose to its
altitude they could see the sunrise. It wasn't a long a, along the brown Kafue River, above tan plains, and then,
ad the Congolese frontier, over a higher savannah that was him color of cheap green paint
The pilot sideslipped between the trees and landed on a \ straight stretch of clay road. A herd of black and white goats,
no larger than spaniels, bounded out of the way of the taxiing
plane.
"That was Kipushi you saw up ahead," the pilot said. "It's
an hour's walk. You can catch a ride to Elisabethville from
there. I daren't land you closer without papers--they're hateful
bastards, the Baluba."

thirteen


a went by slowly, fried by the morning sun, flogged by
rain. The war had not been over for long, and
hville had the atmosphere of a city whose residents, him out by a plague, had only just found the courage to come
: and claim their possessions.

? In the darkened lobby of a hotel, Christopher drank min
water and read the two Simenons, dirty and swollen by the
climate, that he had bought from a street vendor. At
htfall he went into the men's room and put on the boots and
I bush clothes he had brought with him. He wasn't used to I a pistol, and he had to remind himself not to touch the
I shape of the .22 automatic tucked into the waistband of his


Nsango was four hours late. He made no apology. Christo-235

pher followed him into a quarter where hundreds of his tribes,
men, driven out of the bush by war or the hope for money, had
settled. Charcoal fires burned down the length of a long street,
like a herd of red eyes in the black night Nsango dropped on all fours in front of a tin hovel and crawled inside. It was constructed
of flattened gasoline cans and other bits of scavenged
metal, and it stood in a row of houses that looked like mouths
with the teeth knocked out.
Christopher crawled in after Nsango. Nsango sent away the
people who lived there; they trotted, giggling, into the street
and squatted in the dirt Nsango found the stub of a candle and
lit it It gave little light. Christopher saw Nsango's gestures but
not his face as he told him what he wanted him to say to Manuel
Ruiz.
"Why would he believe such a story?" Nsango said. "He's
not stupid."
"I know enough to bluff him--certain names."
"It's dangerous, Paul. I don't know if I can protect you.
These Cubans are quick to shoot"
"There are still the same number?"
"Only five now. One was shot in the stomach and they
couldn't treat his wounds. The other died of snakebite."
"You've been seeing action?"
"Some. We're still earning our guns."
"How many of the Cubans speak French?"
"All, but badly except for this Manuel. I think the others
only understand about half of what's said to them."
"How are their nerves?"
"Jumpy. Some of my chaps are pretty simple men--they
ate the knuckles and the liver of a prisoner not long ago. I wasn't
there. It left Manuel and the others a bit sick."
"Then it's you they're nervous about?"
"Yes, they've received a lot of Kalashnikov machine rifles
and they know we want them," Nsango said. "And of course
they all have dysentery. Who knows? They may be glad to see
another white man."
"Can we go now?"

> sighed. "All right. It's a long walk to where I left the
I well have to find some gasoline and carry that."
outside and shouted. A babble erupted in the
, then died down as all but the people Nsango wanted
ay. In a few minutes Nsango called to Christopher.
I in the street with four jerry cans at his feet
> for you, two for me," he said. "Sweat is the fuel of the

through a field of coarse grass outside the city, one began to sing in a low voice. Christopher compelled his a to form a picture of Molly, walking between high
; in Zermatt, her face pinkened by the wind and the him conversation with Nguyen Kim at the Milan airport
, like the strong signal of a distant radio station in . Christopher had gambled Molly as willingly as he
| have played the life of an agent. He'd done it on reflex: a the opposition see that you are vulnerable. Christopher him the way a natural athlete plays a sport: he knew
; in his muscles and in his bloodstream. To change styles
> lose; thought was a handicap, emotion a hazard. His arms
1 by the weight of the jerry cans, he walked on, trusting
> to keep alert. The march went quickly.

o's camp lay to the north, in the upland forest not
miles from the Rhodesian frontier. Nsango drove fast him the bush, down narrow paths, and he and Christopher
toward the center of the Jeep, their heads sometimes
; together as they dodged the branches that whipped
'the windshield. Nsango, shouting, told Christopher how him had been killed by a tree mamba that had fallen into
5 Jeep a few days before. "A one-minute snake," he
. "He was dead before they could put on the brakes and run him."
F They were challenged twice by sentries, boys wearing torn him of camouflage uniform, before they reached the camp. It him an abandoned village with a large open space, beaten shiny
pbare feet, in the center of a ring of conical wattle huts.

<I'll



"This used to be a prosperous place," Nsango said. "I passed
through here in '62 and found a pile of right hands--men's,
women's, children's--in the middle of the village, on the open
ground. A hundred people had been dismembered. It was
propaganda. In the old days the Belgians used to cut off the
right hands of a whole village if one man committed a crime.
During the fighting someone revived the practice. I think it was
the mercenaries--some of them were Belgians, after all. The
whites said it was the Chinese and their Simbas, who wanted
the whites to be blamed. It could have been either. In any case,
that's where the population went."
Christopher knew the story was true; he had seen a heap
of severed hands in another part of the Congo.
" 'The horror,'" Nsango said, his lips twisting around the
quotation. "You may as well come to my hut and get some sleep.
This Manuel is not a very early riser."
Inside the hut, Nsango handed Christopher a calabash of
water. "It's been boiled," he said, noticing Christopher's hesitation.
"You gave me your sickly intestines along with your white

Christopher woke every fifteen minutes and ran his eyes
over the interior of the hut; it was about the size and shape of
the room in which Frankie Pigeon had been kept. Nsango, his
skinny legs drawn up, slept unworriedly, breathing softly. The
sun came up and filled the low door with intense white light.
There was a burst of birdsong at sunrise. Then the temperature
rose twenty degrees in fifteen minutes and the surrounding
forest fell silent.
Christopher was astonished to hear a bugle call being
played over a loudspeaker. He crawled to the door of the hut
and looked out. About thirty young tribesmen, barefooted and
bare-chested, were mustering for reveille. A tall black with a
Kalashnikov rifle slung over his shoulder and tribal scars on his
cheeks called the troops to attention. In the shade of a limbali
tree, a bearded Cuban wearing dirty U.S. Army fatigues
a cigar and watched. He too carried a Soviet machine


it is the one they call Pablito," Nsango said. "I'd better ai presence before you show yourself."
ked through the entrance. As Nsango walked across him ground, the Congolese NCO presented arms, and him Cuban came briefly to attention and saluted. Nsango
town Kalashnikov behind with Christopher.


tmel Ruiz was eating breakfast when Nsango showed
into his hut. It was three o'clock in the afternoon.
1 lived in what had been the chiefs compound, in the
(house; the other Cubans were quartered in the adjoin-huts.
A half-dozen of the youngest terrorists were I the cassava beds, their faces resentful as they wielded
at sticks rubbed bare by women's hands and left behind him the villagers fled.

1 Ruiz said, "Have you eaten?"
Christopher shook his head, Ruiz pushed a boiled
I a knife across the table and poured warm beer from
? bottle into a canteen cup. The Cuban was a young man,
> than thirty, with curly hair growing to his collar. He
an air of menace that went badly with his smooth
I his wide frank eyes and snub nose. His skin was pale
had the tremor of the dysentery victim. He ate and a efficiently, without pausing to taste, as though to quiet his
Nn order to go on to more important things with the least I delay. His eyes never left Christopher's face. The yam
and overcooked; he washed down each bite with a
1 of beer.

him Sunlight fell in splinters through the thatched roof, striping
I's green uniform. He had arranged his belongings
I the walls--cases of ammunition stenciled with Cyrillic trying, a rack of weapons, unopened boxes of rifles, an Ameri.
radio that ran off a gasoline generator. Pictures of Fidel him and Lenin, and a poster showing abject prisoners taken him Bay of Pigs and their outdated American weapons, had him pinned to the sloping ceiling.
239


'I


Ruiz finished his yam, wiped his lips with the back of ]
hand, and said, "Now. What are you doing in this installable
He spoke grammatical French, and mixed with his adenoid
Latin American accent were some Congolese intonations.
"Nsango has explained how I got here."
"Yes," Manuel said. "But not why. You and he are
friends."
"Yes."
"He says you're an activist, that you've helped him."
"I've always admired Nsango."
Christopher handed Manuel the knife he had loaned
handle first. It, too, was American, a new-issue, short-blade
bayonet.
"What I want to say to you has something to do with youe|
work in another place," Christopher said. "I bring you sor
help for what you're doing here."
"Oh? What are your auspices?"
"I've brought you a gift from a friend--Do Minh Kha."
"Do?" Manuel said. "Do Minh Kha? A gift from faimí^
Where did you see him?"
"I didn't. He passed it to me through a friend in Saigon. He
wanted to bypass ordinary channels. He said you'd understand
why."
"And the friend in Saigon--what was his name?"
Christopher paused to give it weight. "Lê Thu."
Manuel took the name, but not eagerly. Christopher
watched the Cuban's reaction as an angler watches his line,
drawn through the water by a sluggish fish. He decided to let
it go for the moment. There was no reason why the Vietnamese
would have told Manuel the code name for their operation: he
did not need to know. But they would have had to give him
some hint, and it was possible they had given him more than
that. If they talked not at all to outsiders, intelligence officers
talked too much to each other.
"What were you doing in Saigon?" Manuel asked. .
"Working. My work is mainly in that camp."
"And your name, Nsango tells me, is Charron?"
"Yes."

where to find me, you knew my name, you \ could bring you to me?"
: assistance."
' the dull edge of the bayonet down the bridge of him he brought the blade away it was filmed with
|be shook it off the steel with a snap of his wrist
: disturbing," he said.
you should dress less conspicuously," Christopher I'll operating at night, that costume of yours is easily
. You're in a place where white men draw attention I white, and you're dealing with people who don't
meaning of discretion. Nsango's men are not

1 tugged at the lapel of his fatigue jacket and glanced
I badge of rank, earned with Castro in the Sierra We're used to these clothes. They symbolize some»

, it's no concern of mine," Christopher said. "You may a success than others who've tried to do what you're
him is more important than security, after all."
; not? All right, what does Do want?"
: you. To give you this for your work here."
counted twenty thousand Swiss francs, in sod-i-franc
notes, onto the bamboo table. Ruiz sat with him in his lap, gazing at the money.
handsome of Do," he said. "What's it for?"
11 said, for your work--a gesture of solidarity."
: in return for what?" a Thu," Christopher said.
: is Lê Thu?"
told you'd understand. If you don't, so much the
Do's security."
at ten days in Hanoi. I didn't become fluent in Viet
French the name means 'the tears of autumn.'"
el Ruiz's eyes moved away from Christopher's. He sat
, then picked up the stack of pink bank notes. Christo-'
the signs, knew he had been right"Las lagrimas del otono," Manuel muttered. "How did you
come by that phrase?"
"I help out, when I can, with sorr of Do's operations. He
can't move freely outside his own country--he stands out, as
you do among these blacks. Money, for example, must be carried
and delivered."
Manuel nodded and cleared his throat. "It's remarkable
what they can accomplish, Do and his people. But you're right,
of course, their race limits them. They have to rely on others
from time to time."
"Once again, security is sometimes less important than suc-
"There's
no such thing as security among professionals.
You're here. I wouldn't have thought that possible."
Ruiz folded the money in half and stuffed it into his breast
pocket. He fastened the metal button.
"Frankly," Christopher said, "Do didn't think what you did
was possible. He's very grateful. You were the key."
Manuel leaned back in his chair and slapped his palm with
the flat of the bayonet. He struggled with a smile of pleasure,
then submitted to it. He had large even teeth.
Manuel Ruiz's mind opened with an almost audible click.
Christopher had seen this happen before to men who had done
great tilings in secret. No matter how disciplined, they wanted
admiration. Manuel, sent by Che Guevara into a Congolese rain
forest, was a long way from people he could trust--who could
understand what he had done. Christopher didn't know
whether Ruiz had decided to trust him or kill him, but he knew
that Ruiz had decided to talk.
But not immediately. Manuel moved a stack of papers to
the center of his desk, and wetting his thumb, began to go
through them. After a time he looked up and recoiled in mock
surprise, as if he had forgotten that he had a guest.
"You must excuse me now, I have urgent work," he said.
"You'll stay the night, I suppose? Eat supper with me."
"Gladly. I have some Polish vodka in my bag. Do you like
it?"
"No, but I'll drink it, Charron.", in the scorched white light of afternoon, nothing
opher heard African laughter coming from the
a radio playing songs in one of the Congolese lan-|>*The
sun had dried the cassava beds so that the soil was
I rouge.
him sat in his hut, reading. When Christopher entered him and knees, Nsango put a finger in his book to mark I and showed him the cover. It was a French translation
F Albert Schweitzer's works. Even before he became a
Nsango had told Christopher that Schweitzer, who
; black lepers in order to save his own white soul, a only man in Africa he dreamed of murdering.
' thine enemy," Nsango said.
took off the bush jacket he had been wearing,
; the perspiration from the small wire recorder in its
, and fitted a new spool of wire.
did it go?" Nsango asked.
I right Hell talk tonight He wants to talk to someone."
, he's lonely. He's above the other Cubans--they're
a is an educated man."
: are his communications with the outside?"
|6u saw the radio. It breaks down a lot, and the man who
' to fix it was the one who was bitten by the snake.
[ has a link with the Russian radio in Dar hers Salaam, but
> it takes hours to raise them. I think they don't listen him .transmissions."
Pould you consider sabotaging the radio?" him shrugged. "Hell connect it to you."
4ot if you're subtle. The generator operates on a gasoline a. Put a little dirt in die gas tank."
I^Sooner or later he's going to describe you to someone in
: apparatus."
maybe. But not today."
!*AU right. Ill have it done. Manuel won't try to transmit
IjMter dark--the sun interferes."
|Christopher stood up and poured water into his mouthfrom the calabash. He touched Nsango's Kalashnikov rifle, setting
it swinging gently on its hangers.
"I see the weapons have been issued."
"Only to me and other more advanced natives," Nsango
said. "The men are growing impatient."
"I counted ten cases of rifles in Manuel's hut. Your men
must want them very badly."
"Yes. Manuel or one of the other Cubans guards them all
the time."
Christopher sat down on the beaten dirt floor. "How soon
do you expect to kill them?" he asked.
"It's difficult, even though there are only four of them left
besides Manuel. I don't want to use juju again, it leaves the men
in a bad way afterward. And the Cubans never go out with us
all at once. It's easiest to do it in a fire fight, so they think it's
the other side."
"I'd like to see Manuel Ruiz live for a while--a month or
two."
Nsango lay against the twigs and clay of the wall, his legs
stretched before him, his hands clasped behind his head.
"Manuel wants to live, too," he said. "He has zeal for the
idea of what he's doing--not, I think, for the act itself. That's
only a means to an end. He wants to go back to Cuba and tell
how black men died like flies for his idea. As I'm the only one
who understands the idea, or even knows what Communism is,
he needs me. Mine is the only black name he can remember.
To him, the others have no names, any more than lions or
porcupines have names; they're fauna. But my name is known
in the world, thanks to another white man--you. 7 led Al-phonse
Nsango's revolution, 7 am the white explanation for his
victory,* Ruiz will say."
"Don't blame me for your fame."
"No? Then who hired all those boys to paint 'Nsango' on the
walk in Léopoldville and Brussels, who bribed the journalists
and wrote their stories of my heroism, who carried my book
through the jungles to a publisher?" Nsango pointed both index
fingers at Christopher and laughed. 'To whom do I owe this life

nture and idealism, to whom do I owe Manuel, if not to


"If I've done all that for you, then keep Manuel Ruiz alive me. I may need him again."

"I don't know if I can keep him alive, and you, too. Hell
I you when he's had time to think."

"He mustn't be killed until he's talked. It may be necessary
him to talk again."

Nsango's smile had not left his lips. "All right," he said.


Christopher knew that a man who is trained to keep secrets
I be counted upon, when at last he breaks his oath of silence,
I everything he knows. The spoiled spy will reveal the true I of his superiors and his agents, he will suggest ways to
' his own networks. He will bore his interrogators, who
. the day before were his enemies, with the details of his

, betrayals, unauthorized murders, sexual vices.
Manuel Ruiz had not reached that point, but he was at a I dangerous one: he was an idealist who had done a great
; for his cause. Idealists make brave agents, but they are
I intelligence officers. They cannot exist for long without the
ay of like minds; they have a need to speak their beliefs
I to hear their beliefs spoken. Ruiz wanted to talk and he had
» one to talk to.

He did not trust Christopher, but Christopher was white
he knew Ruiz's ideological vocabulary. Besides, Christo
was in Ruiz's camp, surrounded by Ruiz's men, miles from him. Ruiz imagined that he could kill him whenever he liked.
Ruiz was drunk. Christopher had gone to his hut in the
following another Cuban who carried a lantern. Ruiz
1 tins--sardines, tuna fish, pineapple, cheese, round un-1
biscuits. They ate from this litter of food with their fingers
drank Christopher's vodka, warm in tin cups. For hours
talked about places they had been, Ruiz testing Christo to see if they knew the same people. Christopher knew


MS


some of them in fact and others from hearsay; a few he knew
more intimately than Ruiz ever would because he had run
agents against them. Ruiz wore a .45 Colt automatic, U.S. Army
issue, in a shoulder holster; its butt, like Ruiz's fingers after
dipping into the canned fish, shone with oil.
Manuel left the hut frequently to empty his bowels; he had
a bad case of dysentery and it carried the oily food through his
body in a torrent. It was after Ruiz came back from one of his
trips to the latrine that Christopher saw the idea come into his
eyes. It amused Ruiz as an idea for mischief will amuse an
intelligent boy. He knew what Christopher wanted to talk
about; he would talk. Then he would keep Christopher until he
could authenticate him, or kill him.
"These blacks of mine sometimes eat their prisoners," Ruiz
said.
"So I understand."
Ruiz drank from his canteen cup, his eyes wide open and
bright over its rim. "We began to talk about Do Minh Kha and
his people this afternoon," he said.
"I remember." I've
never heard of you, Charron. Perhaps that should
reassure me. You know Do well, do you?
"Well enough. I explained the relationship to you."
Ruiz looked at the ceiling, swirled the vodka in his cup,
fixed his eyes on Christopher; his speech was blurred, and he
struggled to enunciate the foreign language he was speaking.
He began a sentence in Spanish, stopped himself, and rephrased
it in French.
"They have a good revolution, the Vietnamese," he said,
"lake ours--the same enemy, the same devotion, the same
practicality."
Christopher permitted a grin to cover his face, as if he
knew a joke too delicious to conceal.
"Do you know Benshikov?" he asked.
"He was in Havana for two years."
"After that, in Hanoi. Benshikov can be pompous. He
wanted to reorganize the North Vietnamese service on KGB
lines. Do told Benshikov that the Soviet service was too bureau4«


to have imagination. Do said you Cubans had the best
in the world, because your revolution is still young
gh to feel hunger and rage."
Ruiz nodded, accepting the compliment. "Do told me that
too," he said.
Christopher went on speaking, as if prolonging the joke. "It i'll Benshikov who suggested a professional rifleman for Dallas,
|know. Do wouldn't tell him the details, just that he wanted
fcssassin."
Ruiz read the label on the empty vodka bottle.
: 'Truthfully, at the time, I thought they had chosen the
; man--not you, the assassin," Christopher said. "He was
Me."
|; Ruiz seized the bottle by the neck and tapped on the table , it; outside, some of Nsango's men were drumming and
; tried to reproduce the rhythm, which was almost as com
as speech,
a "Oswald was insane," he said. "But perhaps that's what was

| Christopher lifted his eyebrows. "Did you imagine he could
' he asked.
I "No. That's why I was permitted by my own people to go
I with the contact. They regarded it as a harmless favor to
aese--a credit for the future when we might want
; from them. It wasn't a high-level decision. I can't
* who had the balls to pass the word to Fidel after Os-l
actually shot Kennedy. Naturally the Americans suspected a lot of people in Havana must have been very, very nerfour
people had no misgivings?"
|Ruiz waved a hand. "It's the old rule--the result justified a risk there might be. They thought even an unsuccessipt
to kill Kennedy would have an important propa
effect. To show he wasn't safe in his own country." f*"Yes, but Oswald himself was a risk. I don't know how you
1 terrible handling problems."
"I handled Oswald very little, Charron. The contact was a. He was such an outsider, such a clown. Our people in
Mexico wouldn't let me take him to a safe house, even. I spoke
to him for perhaps an hour, in the Alameda, between planes."
"But it was you who brought him to Mexico."
"Yes, and I who suggested him to Do Minh Kha. I had his
dossier with me in Hanoi, it came out to me in the pouch with
a lot of other low-level stuff. One of our agents in New Orleans
had assessed Oswald. He was trying to draw our attention there
with that ridiculous thing of passing out pro-Castro leaflets on
the street. We approached him. He offered to train and lead
freedom fighters in Latin America. We pretended interest. Our
man told him he'd have no problem getting a transit visa for the
USSR at the Cuban consulate in Mexico City. The idea was that
he'd stay in Havana, but the FBI and the CIA and all the others
Oswald thought were watching him would think he'd redeected
to Russia. Are you following?"
"Yes."
'Then you see the pattern. Oswald had a tremendous fight
with our consul in Mexico City, a man named Azque, when he
wouldn't issue the visa with no questions asked. Azque thought
he was rabid."
"Yes, I'd heard that. He also got into a sweat with the
people at the Soviet embassy. They reported it to Center."
"Did hep I'm glad I didn't know that. The Russians didn't
want any part of him, naturally. No one did, poor fool."
"How did you make contact?"
'Telephone. We'd given him a time schedule for the call
and a recognition code. We told him to stay at the Comercio,
it's a dump. He hung about for two or three days and I had him
surveilled. He was clean. So I called him up. He made the
meeting in the park that same evening without any hesitation,
precisely on time, hair all combed."
"I hope you didn't wear your uniform."
"No--suit, tie, briefcase. I let him see a pistol under my
coat. I gave him no identification. I don't know what he thought
I was. I played it very serious."
"Like a Russian?"
"He may have thought that. I told him nothing. He made
a point of not asking." Ruiz made a comical face. "He wanted
I like a professional. He was very eager to be treated with
I obliged."
' did you lay the mission on him?"
jfou have to understand I never thought he'd go through
. I just gave it to him cold: when Kennedy is in Dallas in
: week of November, kill him. Use a rifle. Wear gloves.
. the weapon and walk away."
' did he react?"
him was calm, casual. When I told him he'd change history
I a little and gave me a funny look, as if I'd touched
I the wrong place."
; was enjoying his anecdote. He was smiling now and
; Christopher's face for reaction. him mentioned plastic surgery, a new identity, a career of
[the same sort of thing in the future," Ruiz said. "Ama->
really believe such things are possible."
I you promised to get him out after the shooting?" a course. He wasn't the kind who wanted to die. He was him. He imagined himself in a Socialist country, famous
I the secret people. It was a matter of letting him smell
> he'd always wanted. Respect, trust--his greatness ac-dged."
Weren't you afraid he'd panic when you didn't show up?"
again, I had no idea he'd succeed. I thought he a try and be killed by the security forces. It was logical that
id happen."
Sven failing, he might have talked"
fever. He wasn't the type. We would have broken him, Russians. But not the Americans. It would have been a him case. The FBI doesn't torture people. In any case, they
1 have seen he was crazy. If he'd mentioned me, the FBI him have thought I was another of his fantasies."
b-You thought all that out at the time?" one "Frankly, no. But afterward it was plain. It was Oswald who him the meeting place for after the assassination--that movie
. The Texas Theater? He said it would be easy for me to
aber. A movie house. That was die amateur."
v"He wanted you to meet him there?""Oh, yes. He became very brisk--told me what sort of car
to get for the escape, recommended a used-car dealer, drew a
map of the routes south. He said we'd be across the border into
Mexico before the American police recovered from the shock.
I agreed with everything, as if he were a genius."

"Money?"

"I didn't offer him any--it would have been fatal. He
wanted to prove his value. The operation cost nothing. He even
had his own rifle and ammunition."

"He must have wanted communications with you."

"Certainly. I told him to rent a post office box at the Terminal
Annex in Dallas when he was ready to go, and send me its
number. I gave him an accommodation address in Mexico."

"Did he?"

Ruiz laughed. "Yes. He wrote the number of the box on a
piece of paper and circled the two middle digits. The number
was 6225.1 realized after the assassination that 22 was the day
in November on which he intended to kill Kennedy. And so he
did."

"That must have been happenstance, the box number."

"Maybe. When I saw Oswald in Mexico City, he had a
clipping from a Dallas newspaper with him, saying that
Kennedy would be in Dallas on November 21 and 22. Those
were the dates the Vietnamese had chosen--Do Minh Kha gets
the American papers too. Oswald just wanted to tell me which
day, so I'd be there .to arrange his getaway. You know what
these fools are like--they imagine a great secret apparatus exists,
able to do anything. It's a good thing for us that they do
believe it."

"If he'd already clipped the story, he might have gone
ahead with the shooting anyway."

"It's possible," Ruiz said. "He'd had the idea for a long time.
All I did was give him a rationale. After he talked to me, he was
doing it for the revolution, entering history. I think that would
have been important to him--to have his act known by the men
in the apparatus. That way, he wasn't just a cheap little nut, he
was the avenger of the masses."

"You're a good psychologist, Manuel."

if'. Oswald was easy material."
( from his chair and pulled his sweat-soaked shirt him his body. He reached under the table and brought I of beer. When he struck off the cap, placing its lip
> edge of the table and striking downward with the
hand, the beer spurted. Ruiz put the neck in his
jUjwrevent waste, then filled Christopher's cup. It was a
I brand, heavily carbonated. Ruiz belched and shook
apidly in apology.
isn't it?" Christopher said. "Oswald did enter
ut he never had any idea who he was killing for, did

: a clue. That was the beauty of it. I wondered at the
|t as you did, why Do had let me give him this pathetic ' he imagined this man would have the balls to do it.
' planned down to the day and the hour and the exact
of streets. He seemed to think the plan was so
Fthat any fool could fire the rifle. It goes to show you
these Vietnamese are, and how we underestimate him Americans are going to learn a lot over there."
pher lifted his canteen cup. "I hope so," he said,
had told his story with nonchalance. Now his face one into an expression of comical urgency. He slammed
Sr bottle on the tabletop and rushed out of the hut. followed and saw Ruiz, tearing at his belt, running him bamboo screen that hid the latrine. He heard the
open in a loud burst of gas and liquid. Ruiz
land retched, squatting astride the ditch with his arms
I around his own body.
a, a pace behind the crouching man, drew the a from his belt and fired two rounds of birdshot into the
^Ruiz's neck; the pistol's weak report could barely be I the drums. Ruiz emitted a groan, full of breath as
1 been kicked in the stomach, and fell forward into the

him down the path, Christopher found Nsango sitting in
, listening to the drums."The Cubans may follow,"* Christopher said,
won't be good for much when lie wakes up, but he'll be able]
send the others."
"The drums will tell me," Nsango said, "the savage ]
beat of the Congo."
His teeth shone in the darkness. He held up a finger I
silence and turned on the headlights. Behind them in the <
the drums stopped. They heard four long bursts of fire from a
Kalashnikovs. After each burst, Nsango held up another I
"Only Manuel is left," he said. "Send me a postcard, I
when he's no longer needed."

fourteen

him
a Christopher arrived at Patchen's house on I'm Street, the
I were already there. Foley still wore a black tie, but he him off his PT-109 tie clasp. He spoke in a louder voice him handshake was rougher. He had begun to take on some
mannerisms of the new President, but he hadn't yet
I the style. Foley was between personalities; though his
: was stronger, he was pale and less alert than he had
It was apparent that he counted for less in the White
. He deferred to another man, a stranger to Christopher,
t-stood
with his back to a fire of birch logs in Patchen's
Patchen introduced Christopher.
pX D. Trumbull," said the man. Trumbull had a disarming
5 and a chuckling Texas accent. He wore Western boots and
suit, beautifully tailored but impressed, apparently,since the day it was bought. When Trumbull shook hands, he
grasped Christopher's forearm with his other hand and
squeezed.

"Old David tells us you've been through one hell of a lot
in the last few weeks," Trumbull said. "We appreciate it."

When Trumbull said "we" he managed to sketch a likeness
of Lyndon Johnson in the empty air over his shoulder. Christopher
looked into the man's ruddy, open face for an instant
before stepping backward to free his arm.

Patchen filled four glasses with ice, poured scotch into
them, and passed them around. "I don't have any soda," he said.

"This's just fine," Trumbull said. 'Tastes better but it's
worse for you." Trumbull sipped his whiskey and turned his
eyes to Patchen. "Now," he said.

"I'll assume Dennis has briefed you on the background to
Christopher's report," Patchen said.

Trumbull nodded.

"I'm not Christopher's best salesman," Foley said. "But I
told J.D. what his suspicions were."

Christopher realized that Foley had not addressed him directly
since the night they met in Webster's apartment.

"In the past week or so," Patchen said, "Christopher has
been to Vietnam, to Europe, to the Congo. He's talked with the
people involved. He's put his life in hazard, and it's still in
hazard."

As he spoke the last sentence, Patchen shifted his unblinking
eyes from Trumbull to Foley. Foley returned the stare,
tapping his nose with a forefinger.

"Now wait a minute," Trumbull said. "As I understand it,
Paul is no longer with us." He turned to Christopher. "You've
been doing all this on your own?"

"Yes," Patchen answered. "He wasn't operating under our
auspices, nor did he have our support. He ceased to be our
employee before he started out. What he has to report to us he's
reporting as a courtesy to the government. Bear in mind that
this information belongs to Christopher, not the government."

"All right," Trumbull said. "Let's have it."

Patchen took Christopher's report, a bundle of typed

him several photographs attached, out of his briefcase
I it to Trumbull. "You'll have to take turns reading
. "There are no copies, and I think you'll agree there
ft't be any."
o's read it so far?" Foley asked.
E have. The Director refused to read it."
>. Trumbull put on a pair of half-moon reading glasses
1 back into his easy chair. He read rapidly, wetting a
as he turned the typed pages. He went through the him and the attached documents slowly; when he saw him Pigeon's confession and Glavanis's photographs of the
1 gangster he gave a series of soft snorts. When he was
, he closed the folder with care and handed it to Foley. a was no jollity left in TmmbulTs face. He passed his eyes
opher once, then crossed his legs and stared at the a his boot while Foley read the file.
four men faced each other, Foley and Trumbull in
I on one side of a coffee table, Christopher and Patchen on
ron the other side. Christopher watched Foley. As he read, a tightened. Once or twice he closed his eyes and inhaled 1 through his nose. He finished the last page, closed the a, and tossed it on the coffee table. A photograph fell to the a picture of the dead gunmen by the paddy in Saigon, him picked it up and put it back into the file folder,
at's pretty rough reading," Trumbull said. 'David, him Paul's background?"
a has been decorated twice for his work. He is ' senior officer. Within the outfit, his skill and his accuracy a never been questioned."
' cleared his throat. "He's also Patchen's best and old-I,"
he said.
|>ÍThat*s irrelevant," Patchen said. The question before us
him report."
a Trumbull peered over his glasses. "Paul," he said, "I'd like him more flavor before I make a comment. Tell us how you
is."
"It's all there, in the report."
"I mean in your own words."
"Those are my own words, Mr. Trumbull."
"I know that, boy. What I want you to do is talk us through
It"
Foley got to his feet, went to the bar, and made himself
another drink. He took his glass to the window and stood there,
looking into the quiet street

"The truth is plain enough," Christopher said. "Before I go
into it, I want to ask you a question."
Trumbull said, "Ask away."
"What exactly was the role of the U.S. government in the
coup that overthrew Ngo Dinh Diem?"
Trumbull stared for a moment at Foley's rigid back. Then
he said to Patchen, 'Tell him."
"I think you already know, Paul," Patchen said. "In simple
terms, we countenanced it. We knew it was being planned. We
offered advice. We provided support. We encouraged the plot
We welcomed the results."
"Who exactly is 'we?" Christopher asked.
"It was a White House project. They handled it, for the
most part, with their staff and their communications. The
foreign-policy establishment ran errands. There was no plan to
kill Diem and Nhu."
"No plan? What did you people imagine was going to happen
to them?"
"There's no point in arguing that now, Paul. What happened,
happened."
asked. D. Trumbull had been gazing idly at Dennis Foley's back.
Now he turned his eyes, set in nests of wrinkles, on Christopher.
"Old Dennis told me you were upset about Diem and Nhu
and how they died," he said. "I think that speaks well of you,
Paul. But it reminds me of what Harry Truman said about the
bleeding hearts who kept on weeping and gnashing their teeth
and crying shame and damnation after we dropped the A-Bornb
on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. President Truman said he heard a
lot about all those dead Japs, but damn little about the drowned
American sailors at the bottom of Pearl Harbor. You've got to
keep your eye on the whole balance sheet."

him just got through reading the balance sheet, Mr. Trum-
,
maybe. What you've given us in this report is just him, Paul. I'd still like to hear it from your own lips, if
: you're ready to talk to us now."
; seems redundant," Christopher said. "The facts are
. All the rest--how I operated and why, what peo-I
like when I spoke to them, how much money it cost
1 noise. If it helps you to understand, I can tell
Ethat"
him that," Trumbull said. "I'm just an old country lawyer, him to hear how you fellows do the things you do."
; that, Patchen smiled at last and picked up his glass of
, Trumbull had been sipping his own whiskey for some
and he rattled the ice in his empty glass and gave him an inquiring look. Patchen fetched him another drink.

opher began to speak.
report deals with the main question--who assas
President Kennedy and why--and with two incidental him of information," he said. "These treat with the murder
, and with the possibility that heroin and other drugs
I as weapons of war against U.S. troops in Vietnam.
1 murder--execution would be a better word--and him just popped up in the course of the search for infor-about
the assassination. There is no doubt about the a of the matter where the assassinations of Kennedy and
I are concerned. As to the heroin, Patchen and the outfit him it. It's more important than the other two questions, him you can still do something about it. It's intelligence.
: of what I reported is just explanation."
leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. Tm
;," he said. "You fellows are a cold bunch,"
I deal first with the Kennedy assassination," Christopher him is the way it happened: Ngo Dinh Diem and Ngo

Dinh Nhu, his brother, fbelieved for some time that
Kennedy Administration ^^anted to overthrow their _^__
and replace it with a mor^ pliant one. The Ngos knew that»l
coup was being plotted--tb^X knew everything that went on fell
Saigon. There is collateral intelligence in the files on these twf|
points. I reported some of it myself while the Ngo brothers were on still alive.

"Around the beginning of September, Diem and Nhu gave
up all hope that they couíé* survive. They were realists; they knew the power of the United States and the ambitions of the
South Vietnamese general*-Diem
and Nhu expected to be
overthrown, and I believe t*ey knew their enemies would kill
them. They made plans to «Avenge themselves--to spit out of
their graves, as one of their relatives put it. You have to understand
that they didn't want revenge for personal reasons. They
regarded the coup and the**' own murders as an insult to their
family and to the Vietnam^*6 nation.

"It's normal in South A*«a for people, even educated people,
to horoscope importao* projects. They believe there are
forces beyond human intelligence that have an effect on the
acts of men--you can smil^» Mr. Thimbu]], but if you don't
understand that reality, and give it due weight, you'll be making
an arrogant mistake. Yo» may think horoscopy is primitive,
but it exists, and it's used a» * matter of course throughout the
tropical world

"You've seen that ther* are two sets of horoscopes, both
drawn by the Chinese Yu l*mg in Saigon. The first set was
drawn up on September 8,1963. It predicted, quite accurately,
that Diem and Nhu would t»6 murdered and that the murder
would be instigated by a powerful foreigner.

"On the basis of that horoscope, Diem and Nhu alerted
their family. The head of tb« family, the Truong toe, who is
identified in my report, took over the planning for the revenge
of the deaths of Diem and N*»u. After reading Yu Lung's horoscopes,
no one in the family doubted that the murders would
occur, and soon. Nor did they doubt the broker for these murders
would be the President of the United States.

"On September 12 Yu Lung drew up the second set of
58 pounds

I'm. September 12 was the tenth anniversary of John P.
p, marriage. You have the translations. The men horo"?
Diem and Nhu again, President Kennedy, a North
intelligence officer named Do Minh Kha, and Do 'him grown-up daughter. Her name is Dao--or, in
cole. In addition to a reading of zodiacal signs relat
five persons, Yu Lung drew up an elaborate geome.
This showed the places, the geographical loca-e
the feng shui, or the good and evil forces that act
JEWOuld be strongest.
"Aung's readings confirmed that death was certain for*
Nhu. The family had already decided--through logic,
-that John F. Kennedy would be the murderer of
__ves. Yu Lung's horoscope, based on the precise hour,
year of Kennedy's birth and other public information
And where he was wounded in the war, was stricken
: illness, was married, when his child died, when his
pther was killed--showed that there were patches in
p calendar in which Kennedy was vulnerable to violent
'*\"
ftp of these periods fell during the third week in Novemiífae
Western calendar. Kennedy was assassinated on
|rf the third week in November--the day of prime dan-bim,
as predicted by Yu Lung. That he was killed on that
I seem happenstance to you, but it didn't look that way mg or the Truong toe.
am and Nhu were killed on November 1, our time, him died precisely twenty-one days later, on November
m's personal lucky number was seven. Seven times
twenty-one. Also, in Vietnamese funeral custom, special him performed for the dead every seventh day after the
eath. So there was, in the choice of November 22 as the
.the assassination, what one of my agents called 'an ele-»
* >w, as to the North Vietnamese intelligence officer, Do , and his daughter. Do is a member of one of the Ngo
he and Diem and Nhu were cousins of a sort. Do's name,
way, is a nom de revolution; he was born a Ngo. Kinship
is a powerful thing in Vietnam. Do Minh Kha may have been
a Communist and an enemy intelligence officer, but he was also
a blood relation of Diem and Nhu. That would be, in a matter
like this one, the more important loyalty.
"Yu Lung's horoscopes, which predict the time of events,
and his geomantic readings, which indicate the best place to do
something, showed this about Do: that he should be approached
in Vientiane, Laos, in early September. Yu Lung foresaw that
the best possible messenger was his daughter, Dao. She's called
by her French name, Nicole, in my report. Dao or Nicole is the
child of a woman the Truong toe wanted to marry when he was
younger. The mother was killed during the migration of the
Catholics out of North Vietnam after Ho Chi Minh took over in
1954. The Truong toe rescued the child and raised her as his
own daughter. Therefore Do Minh Kha owed a debt to the Ngos
not only out of kinship but also out of gratitude for the way in
which they'd cared for his child.
"We knew that Do Minh Kha was in Laos during September.
We watched him as a matter of routine; he is a very high-ranking
officer and we wanted to know what he was up to. One
of my agents, Vuong Van Luong, was among the U.S. assets who
were sent to Vientiane to try to find out what Do Minh Kha was
doing there. Luong failed to find out, and so did all our other
agents. Do just stayed in a house in Vientiane for three days
with a beautiful young Vietnamese woman. When nothing
more than that happened, we assumed he was shacking up.
Luong did manage to take photographs of the girl, coming in
and out of the house with Do. The girl wasn't in our files. We
couldn't identify her. We now know that the girl was not his
mistress but his daughter. Do and Nicole met in Vientiane in
September for die first time since the girl left Hanoi as a child.
"We weren't able to wire the house in Vientiane, and it
probably wouldn't have done us much good if we had. Do is too
professional to have talked, even to his daughter, in a strange
house where there might be listening devices. However, Luong
reported that Do and Nicole would go for walks together
around the garden of the house in Vientiane. We know now

Nicole asked her (lather to do. And we know that he

I told her father about the family's plan to kill Preri
Kennedy in revenge for the deaths of Diem and Mho. She
I him the horoscopes, probably. She asked for his help in
5 of the family. They code-named the operation against
'the tears of autumn.' That phrase, 'the tears of au-i/
can be rendered in Vietnamese as a woman's name, L6

-"Lê Thu was the death name of Do's wife. As you saw in
, the Vietnamese change their names when they die. I was a kind of double poetry, and a good deal of psychol-,
in the choice of MIS code name. At first I thought it was a
iron the name of Madame Nhu--«he's called Lê Xuan, which
him 'the tears of spring.'
It was autumn in America when Kennedy was assassinated
I November 22. The code name had two purposes--Lê Thu
; of the guilt it would evoke in Do Mioh Kha, who had a his wife away to be killed. And 'tears of autumn' because 1 was going to die in autumn in the Northern Hemi-
"Le
Thu was not a secure code name--it contains a clue
: led me to Do Minh Kha, and through him to everything
. But the family didn't think that security mattered, because
' weren't going to use the phrase outside the family. What
, to them was that it gave a name to their collective
for Kennedy and for Americans in general
"What the family needed from Do was precisely what gave
(our chance to penetrate the operation. They needed a cut
a go-between, who could activate Kennedy's assassin. They
ildn't do it themselves because the assassin could not know, I'll not be permitted to guess, who he was working for. It was
(matter of security--and, more important, a matter of motiva-An
assassin being approached by the Vietnamese would a at once who was using him to kill Kennedy. They couldn't
kve that. Also, they are realists--they knew that even Oswald
wouldn't have done it for a Vietnamese, let alone a

South Vietnamese. Oswald would have believed Diem was a
Nazi, and his sympathies lay elsewhere.
"So they needed a cutout who was a white man. Do Minh
Kha is in charge of the section of North Vietnamese intelligence
that handles liaison with other Communist intelligence services.
He had debts he could call in. The family didn't care who
killed Kennedy. They didn't think it mattered who pulled the
trigger--Yu Lung had already assured them the assassination
attempt would succeed.
"Kennedy's horoscope gives not only the auspicious time
for the assassination, November 22, but also the place, Dallas.
Yu Lung had selected that city as the most favorable geomantic
location. He drew up a long treatment of geomantic conditions
in Dallas. The only limitation he put on success was that the
assassin must not fire toward the north or northwest; under the
principles of geomancy, these are directions to be avoided. Oswald
fired almost due west from the window of the Texas School
Depository. I don't imagine he'd been instructed to do that. It
was a coincidence that Kennedy's car was traveling in a westerly
direction.
"They knew Kennedy would be in Dallas on November 22.
The American newspapers had reported this fact, and you can
be sure that the Vietnamese, in Hanoi and in Saigon, had a
complete file of clippings.
"When Do Minh Kha went back to Hanoi after seeing
Nicole in Vientiane, he found Manuel Ruiz there. Ruiz was on
his way to the Congo to organize a guerrilla force, and he'd
come to consult with the world's leading authorities on guerrilla
warfare, the North Vietnamese. Ruiz was surprised that Do
knew where he was when I tracked him down in the Congo-- of course, Do didn't know; I was lying to Ruiz--so he probably
didn't tell Do what his target country was.
"However, Do had to tell Ruiz what his target was--John
F. Kennedy. Do wanted an assassin for one-time use. Ruiz told
him about Oswald. The Cubans had contacted Oswald, on an
unwitting basis, when he was in New Orleans during the summer.
He'd tried to pass himself off as an expert on guerrilla

. The Cubari network in New Orleans informed Ruiz-- him was his department. The Cubans assessed Oswald, decided him was a nut and dropped any idea of recuitíng him.
"Ruiz didn't think the Vietnamese had a chance of killing
aedy, even though Do Minh Kha was absolutely confident
operation would succeed. Ruiz played a game with the
lamese. He agreed to approach Oswald and activate him
inedy's assassin. You saw in the report what Ruiz thought
pOswald. But he went ahead, as a favor to Do. The irony is
raordinary: to this day, Ruiz doesn't know that he was an a for the Truong toe--he thinks the Kennedy assassination
(a North Vietnamese operation.
"At the instigation of an agent of Ruiz's in New Orleans, I'll went to Mexico City, leaving New Orleans on Septem 25 by bus. He arrived in Mexico City at ten in the morning
| September 27 and registered at the Hotel Comercio, as the
5 had instructed him to do. That day he went twice to the
embassy and once to the Soviet embassy to apply for him. He was refused in both places. Ruiz picked him up on that
' and kept him under surveillance. When Ruiz was certain
: Oswald was clean--that there was no U.S. interest in him
no American surveillance, he contacted him by phone,
; a coded recognition signal.
"David tells me there are three dead days in Oswald's stay
Mexico City. The official investigation has not turned up
»ything on Oswald's activities between September 27 and Ocr
1, when Oswald left Mexico City by bus.
"Ruiz talked to Oswald on September 30, in the park called I Alameda. You have Oswald's reaction in the report. He took
z's bait. When Oswald walked out of the Alameda, he was
Ctivated, and President Kennedy was a dead man.
"Ruiz went on to the Congo. Oswald went back to Dallas."

Dennis Foley left his place by the window. Christopher saw
ugh the window that two White House Cadillacs were dawn up at the curb; the chauffeurs stood smoking on the brick
iewalk. The meeting was taking more time than Foley and

Trumbull had expected. Foley, at the bar, poured neat scotch
into his glass. His harsh blue eyes were fastened on Christopher's
face.
"The killing of Oswald seems to have been unrelated to the
Vietnamese," Christopher said. "There was unbearable heat on
the Soviets. Oswald, after all, had been a defector to the USSR.
The Russian service believes in direct, drastic action. The KGB
had Frankie Pigeon in cold storage. They used Pigeon, and
Pigeon used Ruby, to take the heat off. Pigeon earned a million
dollars with one phone call.
"Ruby was a kind of fringe figure, more a hustler than a
hoodlum, according to Pigeon. He'd always wanted to be on the
inside with the syndicate, if that's what it's called in real life.
Pigeon just told him to make a hit for the syndicate, and Ruby
jumped at the chance. Pigeon says Ruby used to hang around
the edge of the mob in Chicago and was always trying to keep
in touch after he moved to Dallas. The syndicate never wanted
any part of him. And it still knows nothing about the way Pigeon
used Ruby to kill Oswald. Pigeon's terrified that they'll find out.
They'd kill him. He broke discipline. He did it on his own, for
the money.
"Frankie Pigeon scoffs at Ruby now for being a romantic
about Kennedy, but I think Pigeon regarded killing Oswald as
a patriotic act, just as much as Ruby did. Pigeon had no fear that
Ruby would talk: he'd want to prove to the syndicate that he
could observe omertá as well as any Sicilian. Once Oswald was
dead, everything calmed down for the Soviets in twenty-four
hours--literally. From their point of view, it was a sensible
operation, and cheap at the price."

Trumbull sighed. "I swear I never heard anything like
that," he said. "Men killing Presidents of the United States, and
other men killing the assassin, and nobody knowing who they
were working for or why. That part doesn't make sense at all."
"It makes every kind of sense," Patchen said. "That's the

' it's done. I can show you files on a dozen other cases. The
attern is classic. In other circumstances I'd say it was admira."
He turned to Christopher."One thing about the operation
: Oswald. Are you sure about the counterfeit money?"
"Yes," Christopher said. "That's what the bank records
Klimenko carried ten thousand hundred-dollar bills to
ch. Fifty of the bills were counterfeit. They have the serial
nbers of the money manufactured by the SS during the war. I KGB just passed the fake money on to Pigeon. Dolder und
caught it right away. Of course they informed the Swiss . I don't understand it. Maybe the Russians didn't check
the serial numbers; maybe they just gathered up all the
i-dollar bills lying around in their safes. You know how a things can get on an emergency operation. They had no
| reason to plant the counterfeits on Pigeon, unless they've got
idea of blackmailing him with the syndicate. That's too
nplicated, even for them."
Foley returned to his chair with a fresh drink in his hand, him Liquor and anger had colored his face. He sat down beside him Trumbull and stared for a moment into the empty air. When he
I began to speak, he used the abrupt sentences Christopher
| remembered from their first meeting in Paris.
"J.D. asked you to tell us about your methods, but I didn't
any mention of those," he said. "Suppose you tell us how
ij you came by all this data."
"By spending money, mostly," Christopher said.
"Oh. You mean you've been zipping around the world like
, Sam Spade, bribing hotel clerks?"
"I paused to bury one of my agents, Foley."
Foley bent his long torso, leaning across the coffee table so
| that his face was close to Christopher's.
"Let me recapitulate," he said. "One of your agents, this
Luong, was killed in Saigon. What was the death toll from the
, bomb in the car--five, six? Then you killed the two Vietnamese
kids you call assassins. In Zurich you broke into a bank, using an ; unreconstructed Nazi as a burglar. In Italy you caused two
American citizens to be shot, though not, by your account,

killed. You kidnapped and tortured another American citizen.
You left four Cubans dead and another wounded in the Congo.
For a moralizer, you're quite a fellow."

Foley opened the file containing Christopher's report and
spilled the photographs over the table. He arranged the pictures
of the dead Vietnamese gunmen and those showing
Frankie Pigeon, bound and naked, in the interrogation room.

"You expect us to put value on information obtained by
these methods?" he asked. "You expect us to believe in someone
named Manuel Ruiz, hidden in the jungle, and to believe
he'd simply tell you what you say he's told you?"

Foley, as he finished speaking, became aware of Patchen,
who did not so much move as change the tension of his muscles.

"Paul, don't answer," Patchen said. "Foley, let me say this
to you: first of all, Christopher didn't kill his own agent; he has
a reputation amounting to an office joke for keeping agents
alive. Second, he didn't put two pounds of plastique in his own
car. Third, he didn't expect to cause the deaths of those two
Vietnamese gunmen. He wanted to talk to them, for reasons I
think you understand very clearly--reasons he was honorable
enough not to spell out in a report that may yet go to the
President. I have no such scruples."

"David, I'm not talking to you," Foley said.

"Oh yes you are," Patchen said. There was no more resonance
than usual in his flat voice, but Trumbull threw Foley a
glance and held up his palm. "Go on, David," he said.

"Christopher's methods are justified by their results,"
Patchen said. "That's the rule. That's always been the rule.
Christopher's been given promotions and medals by his government
for playing by that rule better than almost anyone else has
ever done. You haven't lived his life. You can't imagine it, much
less understand it."

"All right, David," Trumbull said.

Patchen slowed his speech, but went on. "There's a tape
recording of the conversation with Manuel Ruiz, and a living
witness to Christopher's presence in the Congo," he said. "Christopher left Ruiz alive, and Pigeon too, when it would
have been easy to let them be killed. We can lay hands on both

whenever we're, instructed to do so. Pigeon still has the
iterfeit money, and the Swiss police know the serial num-.
We know the movements of Manuel Ruiz, and of Do and
daughter. The evidence is incontrovertible. Christopher has
en you the truth. You don't like it, Foley. You never have, him think he has some motive to soil Kennedy's memory. The
istion is, will you ever learn?"

, Rolling his glass between his palms, Trumbull nodded
vly, as if agreeing with whatever thought was passing
ough his own head.

, "Well," Trumbull said. "What we seem to have here is a
itry good case against all the people Paul has put the finger
. We've got two men who believe it in this room--am I right,
ivid? You buy what Paul's told us?"

"There's no choice," Patchen said. "It's not just this report
There's collateral intelligence in our hands that confirms
lost everything he's told us. With a little more work we can
aove every shadow of a doubt. Every shadow."
"Okay," Trumbull said. "That's you and Paul. I respect --ir judgment, David, and your work, Paul. Then there's Den
here--I take it he doesn't believe it, and he won't believe

Foley said, "That is correct."

"Then there's me," Trumbull said. "I guess I make the
rfsion. Do we trot this in to the President? He's the man. The a of us are just his lookouts."

Trumbull collected die scattered pages and photographs
*nd put them back in order.

: "If I show this to the President, what'll he do?" he asked.

"He can go on TV and hand the American people another

brutal, horrible shock, or he can read it and keep it secret and

'worry about it for the rest of his Presidency. The country has

got to come together after this tragedy down in Dallas. Got to.

. We've got something to do in Vietnam, and we've got to do it.

a We can't do it without public understanding and support for

; our policy. Wouldn't you agree, Dennis--David?"

> Foley nodded. Patchen, as usual, gave back no indication

of his thoughts.

"Ill tell you a plain fact," Trumbull said. "If the American
people believed that a bunch of Vietnamese got together and
killed John F. Kennedy, they'd want to go over there and nuke
that country--nuke it. You'd never get another dime out of
Congress for South Vietnam. You'd never get an ounce of support
from the press--those fellows love Kennedy's memory
almost as much as Dennis does."

Trumbull riffled the pages of Christopher's report. "You've
got to be careful who you let change history," he said. "You're
sure that this is the only copy of this thing?"

"There's a photograph in Christopher's head," Foley said.

Trumbull gave Christopher a smile of great sweetness. It
was the last time he looked at him.

"I've grown a lot of gray hair, son," he said, "but I've never
seen anyone do the things you say you've done. I want you to
know I believe you did it all. And I wish you luck--I mean that,
Paul."

Trumbull stood up and went to the fireplace. He picked up
the poker and stirred the logs. Kneeling with an apologetic,
arthritic groan, he fed Christopher's report into the flames,
sheet by sheet Bits of charred paper, lifted by the draught, flew
up the chimney.


Patchen went to the door with Trumbull and Foley. Neither
man said anything more to Christopher. He watched
through the window as Trumbull, smiling at his driver and
making a joke, got into his car. Foley opened the back door of
his Cadillac for himself, brushing past the chauffeur. The two
black cars rolled away down the quiet street, under the leafless
trees.

When Patchen came back from the hall he wore his topcoat
and carried Christopher's over his arm. "I guess there's no reason
why we shouldn't have dinner together," he said

They ate a bad meal, cooked with contempt and served
with scorn, in an expensive restaurant in Georgetown that was
going out of fashion. In the men's room there were lewd jokes

him French painted on the wall. They spoke very little; Patchen
1 not finish his food.

Outside, on the sidewalk, Patchen, with an abrupt move-it,
held out his hand to Christopher. He was exceptionally
; on the good side of his body, and he tightened his grip
ntil he caused pain.

"You think they're coming after you, don't you?" he asked.
"The Vietnamese? Yes. But maybe not right away. They'll a I've told you. When nothing happens, they may postpone,
fc's a matter of waiting--everything is."

"Maybe they'll conclude the damage has been done. They ay decide they've done enough."

"Do you think so?" Christopher asked. "They've had two him sons murdered--three, if you count Ngo Dinh Can. The gener-j
als will shoot him eventually."

Patchen buttoned the collar of his coat; the wind, smelling
: of winter rain, was blowing down Wisconsin Avenue.
"So?"
"Only one Kennedy has been shot," Christopher said.

fifteen

him

Molly came into the room with snow in her hair. When she saw
a man standing by the window, she went silent and stopped,
frozen, like a cat that scents something strange in a familiar
house. Then, seeing that the man was Christopher, she fell back
against the door and put her hands to her cheeks: she wore all
the rings Christopher had ever given her.
"Ah," she said. "Ah, Paul--it's you."
Molly had been on the ski runs and the wind had gone into
her clothes; she smelled as clean as the snow. The mountain sun
had browned her face and bleached her lashes, so that her eyes
seemed a darker green. They didn't kiss. Christopher stood by
the window with snow falling beyond the glass; Molly leaned
against the door, her bright clothes reflecting in the varnished
pine.
Christopher said, "Nothing has happened?"
"Nothing. We've spent the whole time on the slopes, or
; fbndu."
"Then you've had a good week?"
"Oh, yes," Molly said; she moved across the room and
his face, tracing the line of his eye and mouth. "But Noel's been a certain lack."

Later, she sat up with the bolster folded behind her and
1 her hair. It crackled and sailed after the brush in the
1 air; Molly parted it into two long streams and brushed hard, \ her Up as she counted the strokes. Christopher arranged a hair, still alive with electricity, so that it covered her breasts,
lly threw back the featherbed and examined his skin.
"What are all those red bumps? I felt them under the eider-im
**
"Insect bites," he said. "I've been in Africa."
"Not the dreaded tsetse fly?" Molly cried, in an imitation
fSybille's voice.
Christopher laughed. "You've teamed to love Sybille?"
"I believe so. I do think it's wonderful, the way she dances
the candle flame and flirts with waiters, other women,
, the English language--every thing and creature except
Tom. She's so filmy, like Vivien Leigh in Gone with the
Ind." "Tom thinks she's a wonder. They're a sort of comedy
»

'Tom's been marvelous. He tells me all the time we're safe him Zermatt because there are no roads up the mountain, only I train. He goes down and watches each train unload, then
«comes back and tells me once again that I can't possibly be
liquidated until the next one arrives."
"That's nice of him."
"He's mad to know what you've been up to," Molly said "I
haven't breathed a word. Sybille says he's most impressed, the
way I keep secrets."
"Ill tell him tonight"
"Then it's over?"
"I wouldn't say that. I'm through with it."
"Ah, and did you learn anything?"
"Everything, Molly."
"Everything? Only the dead know everything."
Christopher took his hands away. Molly grinned at him,
drawing a strand of hair across her upper lip. Christopher
laughed and kissed her; she laid her long body against his, toe,
breast, and cheek.
"Ring down for a bottle of champagne, will you?" Molly
said. "Let's drink it and stay in Zermatt for a while. I like things
as they are. I do love hours like this one--they're like sailing
ships, so reckless and inside the wind, and you don't see how
lovely they are until you get off and watch them sail away."

Tom Webster, crossing the hotel lounge through a crowd
of slender men and women dressed like actors in perfect ski
clothes, looked as if he were costumed for the 1932 Olympics.
His sweater was too small for his shoulders, and his trousers, too
long for his muscular legs, were the old-fashioned kind that
bagged at the ankles. Christopher, watching him, felt a wave of
affection spread through his chest
At the bar Webster ordered two hot buttered rums. "You
have to drink these things up here," he said. "It's part of the
cure, like mineral water at a spa."
Webster saw an empty table against the wall, and dashed
across the room to claim it. He didn't like to have people behind
him when he talked.
"I think you're clear for a while," he told Christopher.
"There's been no sign of Kim's people in Zermatt. I've had the
technicians and the translators rush the wiretap logs on Kim.
He's pulled off the surveillance he had on you."
"Why?"
"Something you said to him in the airport in Milan. He
thought you were going to kill him right mere, in the terminal.
He thinks you're crazy."

That won't last.
:; "No. Kim spends half his time raving about you. He says We got to be stopped. He may not use Vietnamese operators a time. It may dawn on him that white men are harder to
, a in Europe."
> "I don't know," Christopher said. "They're about to realize
r've had a bad experience with a white agent"
- Christopher told Webster, in a few low sentences, what he |d learned. As Webster received the information, his heavy
|ce stiffened.
"What will you do about MoUy?" he asked "She's changed
Do, you know. You care what happens. If you have to worry
bout her, shell bring you down."
The expression left Christopher's eyes, as if he were hauling
an agent Webster's glance didn't waver. ; "You ought to run," Webster said "I don't blame you for
(ranting to go on with her, but it's a mistake." : "I've made worse mistakes. I'm worn out, like Himenko.
JVould you say Molly's a better choice than the one he made?"
"Prettier. But less likely to forgive and forget if you make
le mistake of telling her as much as Klimenko's going to tell him."
', "Molly doesn't want to hear it"
him Webster picked up Christopher's glass and handed it to
him. "Everyone wants to hear it," he said "But what the hell
--let's have a good time. It's New Year's Eve."

Webster had booked a table in another, smarter hotel for
; the réveillon supper. Sybille and Molly wore evening gowns
and jewels. Webster had forgotten to pack his dinner jacket He
appeared in a tailcoat frayed at the lapels and shiny from a
generation of flatirons. It fitted him no better than his skiing
costume.
"Don't you think Tom looks wonderful?" Sybille asked
"We borrowed his outfit from the headwaiter--well, rented it
with an enormous tip--and I stitched and tucked Tom into it.
He wanted to carry a napkin over his arm but I said no. Do you
think I was right to interfere?"
During the elaborate supper, Webster ordered bottle after
bottle of champagne. He kissed Molly at midnight and danced
with her, spinning her with her arm above her head so that her
hair flew out of its pins and her long skirt swirled around her
legs.
"God," Sybille said to Christopher. "She's a beautiful girl.
Are you going to marry her and spoil her figure with babies?"
"I don't think so."
Sybille watched Webster and Molly, gasping with laughter,
on their way back to the table.
"I'll tell you something, Paul. She prefers fear to the alternative.
You won't be able to make her go away."
"Has Tom been talking to you?"
'Tom tells me everything, and so does Molly. You bloody
fool."
"Do you think I've made a mistake, Sybille?"
"A mistake? You've thrown your life away for nothing. Tom
says you did it for your country and the honor of the outfit
Those two things, added together, equal nothing. What good is
what you've done? Look at Molly before you answer."
Sybille, as if she could not bear the taste of anything bought
with her husband's work or Christopher's, threw her champagne
on the tablecloth.

They were the last to leave the dining room. Webster, still
wearing his party hat, draped strings of confetti around the
shoulders of the women. Outside, between the high snowbanks,
they walked hand in hand, four abreast. The low winter moon,
as white as the glacier, lay on the brow of the Matterhorn.
"My God, I've loved this place," Molly said.
"Everyone does," Sybille said. "It's the funny train ride to
the top and coming into the sunshine. And gazing upwards at
the Matterhorn and being so glad one isn't Swiss. God does
squander his landscapes."
Christopher stood behind them. Their faces were lifted
the mountain and they were breathing deeply in the need air. Molly, without shifting her gaze from the moon-|field
of snow, put a hand behind her back, beckoning Christo to her side. But he was looking up and down the shadowed

Molly turned and smiled. She lifted her hands and fluttered
fingers as though to wake him from a daydream. She still
all his rings: the emerald from Burma, the jade from ago, the scarab from Egypt, a topaz, and an opal. There was
athedral on Majorca where Christopher had gone with Cathy > look at a wooden virgin whose chipped enameled fingers
re laden with jeweled rings. "There must be a lot of people
id here who are afraid to die," Cathy said. "You don't give
Brings like that to be forgiven your sins--only to be allowed »live a little longer."

The Websters left the next day after lunch. Christopher
I Molly skied all afternoon. Molly, perfect in every use of her
dy, plunged down the mountain ahead of Christopher, sting his face with the plume of snow that flew from the heels of to skis. She was full of laughter during dinner, but she was
jl reluctant to go upstairs. They sat by the fireplace until mid
night, drinking brandy and listening to a guitarist.
Finally they went to bed. After a time, Molly turned on the one lamp and pushed Christopher's hair off his forehead. "I forgot
the candles," she said.
Molly saw that he meant to speak; she put a finger on his
lips.
"I know what you have in mind," she said. "Don't say it,
Paul I won't go."
"It would be better, Molly. I can't take you back to Rome.
You're only in danger so long as they believe I care for you."
"Yes. You've explained. When you told me about Cathy's
affairs, you said her body was her own--that she could do as she
wished with it. Did you honestly feel that way?"
"Yes. I still do."
"Then you must feel the same way about my body."
"What I feel for you is love, not jurisdiction. That wasn't
enough for Cathy."
"I own myself, just as Cathy did, then," Molly said. "She
chose to abuse her body, and broke her heart. What I choose is
this: I'll give up my body and lay it in the earth before I'll go
away from you."
She turned off the light and turned her back. Christopher
saw that not even a lie would change her mind. In Molly, love
was a force as ruthless as the one that ruled him. To respond in
kind was beyond him. He had been dyed, heart and memory,
by the life he had lived, and not even Molly, willing to be
murdered in order to prove to him that love was possible, could
rescue him from what he knew about himself. Molly had taught
him to feel again, but not that it mattered.
Molly moved under the featherbed and fitted her body
against his, warm skin and hair that smelted of wind and wood-smoke.
Before Christopher went to sleep, he thought again, out
of long habit, of the things he knew he could say and do to
outwit the simplicity of her passion. But he gave up: his betrayals
had not saved Luong or Cathy or any of the others. Lovers
and agents, living within their secret, could not be saved, or
even be warned, by treachery.
Molly murmured in her sleep and threw a nerveless arm
across his chest. Christopher felt her pulse on his own skin.

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Q Gondar	Nicholas Luard	£4.50
air The Ladies of Missalonghi	Colleen McCullough	£2.50
Q Lily Golightly	Pamela Oldfield	£3.50
D Talking to Strange Men	RuthRendell	£2.99
air The Veiled One	RuthRendell	£3.50
D Sarum	Edward Rutherfurd	£4.99
air The Heart of the Country	Fay Weldon	£2.50

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stselling General Fiction

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uncton Wood
KAztec
fA World Apart
: Ladies of Missalonghi
UyColightly
JiSarum
('Communion

I and other details are liable to change
Evelyn Anthony
Geoffrey Archer
Pat Booth
Malcolm Bosse
Laurie Devine
William Horwood
Gary Jennings
Marie Joseph
Colleen McCullough
Pamela Oldfield
Edward Rutherfurd
WhitleyStrieber
2 pounds 95 pence pounds .50 3 pounds 50 pence 2 pounds 99 pence 2 pounds 95 pence 4 pounds 50 pence 3 pounds 95 pence 3 pounds 50 pence 2 pounds 50 pence 3 pounds 50 pence 4 pounds 99 pence 3 pounds 99 pence




ROW BOOKS. BOOKSERVICE BY POST, PO BOX 29, DOUGLAS, ISLE
FMAN, British ISLES

rtE


DRESS


a enclose a cheque or postal order made out to Arrow Books Ltd. for the amount and allow the following for postage and packing.

Í.K. CUSTOMERS: Please allow 22p per book toamaximum of 3 pounds 00 pence
B.F.P O. &EIRE: Please allow 22p per book toamaximum of 3 pounds 00 pence
ioverseas CUSTOMERS: Ptóase allow 22p per book.