Macv, p.17
MACV, page 17
In his real room at the Carasel, there was everything he owned in Vietnam. Clothes, books and magazines, but nothing that couldn’t be easily replaced. No reason to go there.
He looked at the street, at the people swirling around him without a purpose. He moved to the curb and raised a hand. He shouted at a taxi and the cab slowed, coming toward him. “Where?”
Reed shrugged, thought about a change of clothes, a hotel shower and a few minutes to relax. “Carasel Hotel.”
They drove across town and as they did, Reed suddenly remembered that he had a jeep. He could have driven himself, but it didn’t matter now. If the Army found it, it would just keep them busy in the wrong place that much longer. In a couple of hours he would be on his way out of Vietnam.
At the Carasel he paid the driver and walked across the large, bright lobby. It was quite a contrast to the hole-in-the-wall where he sometimes hid. He nodded to the Vietnamese behind the desk and continued on. He saw a striking American woman, blond hair, tall, slender, coming at him and nodded to her.
“Good morning.”
She looked surprised, said, “Good morning,” and kept on going.
Reed used the elevator to the fourth floor and hurried down the hallway. At the door he fumbled with his keys, unlocked it and entered. As he did, he was suddenly uneasy. It was stupid coming here. It would be the first place they would look if they tumbled to him, but he still wasn’t convinced that the trail would lead to him.
He turned on the air conditioner and then the radio timed to AFVN. They were playing the latest rock and roll. Or rather the latest they had, which was about six months behind what was happening in the World.
For a moment he listened to it and then stripped, moving into the bathroom. He turned on the shower and then looked at himself in the mirror. There was a ragged red stain on his chest. Blood from the woman he’d killed the night before.
Now he began to laugh. That Army dickhead sitting across the table from him, talking about leaks and traitors and who they might hang for it, and he was sitting there, the blood of his last victim still on his chest. A large ragged oval of dried blood. It was a shame to wash it off, but he had to do it.
He stepped into the shower, adjusted it until it was warm and began to soap himself. Maybe he had time for one more woman before he escaped. One more chance to feel the power.
Naturally when they reached the conference room, Reed was gone. “It would have been too easy if he’d been here,” said Gerber.
Maxwell rubbed his hands anxiously. “Now all we have to do is figure out where he might have gone.”
“If we were the police,” said Fetterman, “we’d start with his room and work it from there.”
“Of course,” said Gerber. “Jerry, you got a jeep?”
“Yeah, come on.” They headed out to the parking lot and Maxwell unlocked the wheel. “How we going to handle this?” he asked.
“We take him quickly and then drag him over to the MP headquarters. Turn him in there,” said Gerber.
“Captain,” Fetterman said, “maybe he should die in the shoot-out.”
“What shoot-out?” asked Maxwell.
Gerber turned to face Fetterman who was sitting in the back of the jeep. “We go in, tell him we know he’s the leak, the spy working for the enemy. He draws on us.”
“What shoot-out?” repeated Maxwell.
Fetterman continued, oblivious to the CIA man. “We have to open up. We don’t want to do it, but he gives us no choice. We have to do it. It’s him or us.”
“As long as the physical evidence backs us up on this,” said Gerber.
Maxwell looked at the two of them. “You remember the trouble you got into over the Chinese guy. Court-martials and all.”
“That was different,” said Gerber. “That was an assassination attempt on a foreign national. This is an arrest of a spy. One responsible for the deaths of a number of American soldiers.”
Maxwell said, “Let me go first. I want to see him arrested and in jail. Give me that much.”
“Jerry, he’s responsible for the deaths of American soldiers. He killed an unarmed woman in cold blood. The best thing we could do for him is make sure that he dies in the shoot-out.”
Maxwell started the engine and shifted into reverse. He backed out, shifted again and headed toward the exit. “We find him, we give him a chance to surrender first.”
Gerber nodded. “Sure, Jerry, that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
“I mean it,” said Maxwell.
“So do I,” said Gerber.
They turned onto the main street, heading toward the Carasel Hotel, hoping that Reed, not knowing they had tumbled to him, would be sitting around waiting. And Gerber hoped that he would want to fight. He prayed he would.
CHAPTER 15
CARASEL HOTEL, SAIGON
Reed sat naked on the bed, the water dripping from his body and soaking into the bedspread. He sat there for a long time, until the water had evaporated and he began to get cold in the icy blast of the air-conditioning. He stood up and wandered to the window, wondering what was happening to him. Nothing made sense anymore.
Then he remembered the dead girl in his bed at the other place, and he remembered Gerber’s face staring at him across the table and knew that it was time to leave. Head over to the Cercle Raquette and hang around until he could make the necessary connection. Find the Viet Cong and let them know that he was the one who had been feeding them the information. Let them know that he was burned and had to get out now. They’d help him because he’d helped them.
He dressed in his finest suit, a charcoal-colored silk, a single-breasted model that had been tailored by a shop that claimed a connection to the tailors of Hong Kong. It was a fine suit.
He put on a white shirt and a dark tie and then returned to the bathroom so that he could admire himself in the mirror. Thi would have liked to see him in the suit. Hell, she would have liked taking him out of it. Undressing him slowly, hanging up his clothes so they wouldn’t wrinkle and then fucking his brains out. As long as he let a little information drop sometime during the visit.
As he’d done in the other room, he turned slowly, spotted nothing that he wanted and walked into the main room. He walked down the stairs until he reached the lobby. There were a hundred people in it. GIs with Vietnamese women, officers from all branches of the military, journalists, bellboys and clerks. Lots of people who ignored him as he made his way across the marble floor to the front door.
For a moment he stopped and looked out into the blazing heat of noontime sun. It looked hot. People were sweating, moving slowly to conserve their strength, and dodging into doorways to escape the sun for a moment.
Reed pushed open the door as the doorman reached it. He grinned at the man and gave him a five-dollar tip. Not piasters, but a greenback. That would set him back on his heels.
He hailed a cab, never even thinking about the jeep that was parked near the other hotel. He crawled into the back and smelled the odor of other passengers. There was trash on the floor. Candy wrappers and Coke cans and a condom that looked to have been used, but not recently. Reed thought about the shit getting on his shoes and then put the thought out of his head.
“Where you go, Joe?”
Reed sat back and thought about that. He was beginning his great escape in the back of an old cab with a Vietnamese driver who could barely speak English.
“The Circle Racquet Club.”
“What?”
“Cercle Raquette,” said Reed, not sure that he had the pronunciation right.
The driver nodded and entered the traffic. He turned once and went around the block so that he was heading in the opposite direction. It took them twenty minutes to get there, dodging through the traffic of Saigon’s streets. The driver stopped on the street and Reed paid him.
The club was a massive structure that took up nearly the whole block. There was black wood and brass doors that opened into beautiful green lawns trimmed short and lined with carefully clipped hedges. Reed stood for a moment and then walked toward the French colonial-style clubhouse with its stucco walls and red tile roof.
He walked in, was stopped by a man in white who wanted to know if he was a member. The man spoke French.
“No,” said Reed in English. “I might like to join, if that is possible.”
The look on the man’s face changed, as if he suddenly were forced to be gracious to a man he didn’t like. In broken, heavily accented English, he said, “You follow me. I tour you.”
Reed was shown the spacious locker room, the pool area and the tennis courts. A couple of women were playing, batting the balls over the net, but with no real instinct for the game. Playing at playing tennis.
They walked around the grounds, the gardens with their lush tropical plantings and bright flowers. The sun was bright and hot, and Reed felt the sweat beginning to soak his silk suit. Finally they returned to the pool and Reed sat down in a wicker chair.
“You mind if I relax for a moment?”
“You use bar. Drink. I return here, twenty minute.”
“That would be nice,” said Reed. As the man left, Reed settled in to watch the members of the Cercle Raquette, trying to figure out who might be VC. Who might be the contact he needed to make.
Maxwell pulled up to the hotel, but there was no place to park. It was the first time that he had ever wanted to park in front of the place, and it was the first time that he had ever noticed that the street was lined with vehicles. He pulled in close, looped the chain through the steering wheel and hopped out.
Gerber climbed out the other side and then tilted the seat forward for Fetterman. As they came around the front of the jeep, a Vietnamese man came at them from the hotel.
“You no park there.”
“I’m here on business,” said Maxwell, trying to sound like a police officer.
“You no park.”
Fetterman pushed past Maxwell and handed the man a five-dollar bill. “Watch the jeep for us, will you? We’ll be back in ten minutes.”
They entered the hotel and started for the stairs, then stopped. Maxwell walked over to the registration desk and asked for Reed’s room key. The clerk thought nothing of it and handed it to him. Maxwell looked at the number, then showed it to Gerber.
They ran up the steps, the adrenaline beginning to pump, making it impossible to walk. In the jungle it was a high all the time. At any moment it could happen, or it might not. Probably wouldn’t. But this was different, Gerber knew there would be shooting. Not necessarily him or Fetterman. They could take Reed without shooting, no matter how heavily armed he was. But there was still the edge, the excitement, knowing they were about to face an armed, dangerous, probably crazy man.
In the hallway they all slowed down as if one of them had ordered them to. Fetterman hurried ahead, taking a position on the far side of the door. Gerber leaned against the wall and Maxwell, the key extended, moved toward the knob. He stopped, pulled his pistol and then looked at the two Special Forces men.
Gerber nodded and drew the concealed Browning from his waistband. Fetterman produced his, holding it up against his shoulder, almost as if he were going to salute with it.
Maxwell nodded and knelt in front of the door, slowly inserting the key. If Reed was in there and had the safety chain on, or if he had bought a sliding bolt of his own, they wouldn’t be able to surprise him.
Maxwell turned the key, felt the lock tumble, and reached up to the knob. He came to his feet and glanced right and left. Gerber and Fetterman were ready.
Without another moment’s hesitation, Maxwell threw open the door and dived in. Gerber followed him, moving to the right side. He dropped to one knee, his pistol extended, pointing toward the bathroom door. Fetterman came in last, leaped over Maxwell and hit the floor, aiming into an empty corner of the room. If Reed had been anywhere in the room, he would have found himself facing a gun.
Maxwell jumped up and ran into the bathroom, hitting the wall, but finding it empty, too. He stepped out and holstered his weapon. “Clear.”
Gerber got up and closed the door. Fetterman was on his feet smiling. “Took down the room in great shape, though.”
“Yeah,” said Gerber. “For what it was worth.”
Maxwell went to the wardrobe and opened it. The clothes still hung in it. The bottom was littered with papers, boxes and extra shoes. He crouched in front of it and began to paw through its contents.
While he searched the papers, Gerber entered the bathroom. Reed’s shaving gear was still there. A damp towel lay on the floor, and he felt the inside of the shower. Still damp, but in the humidity of Saigon, it was hard to tell how long it would take to dry.
He returned to the main room. “Looks like he hasn’t checked out.”
“No reason he should,” said Maxwell.
“Bull,” said Fetterman. “He’s got to know we’re on to him. Otherwise he’d still be over at MACV where we could find him.”
Maxwell found a stack of papers and sat on the bed, thumbing through them.
“Now what?” asked Gerber.
“We’ve got to see if we can find a clue about where he’d go,” said Maxwell.
Gerber moved to a pile of dirty clothes. He began searching through them, looking for anything that might have been left in the pockets.
Fetterman walked to the window and looked out, but there was nothing to see except an alley piled with trash and one old Chevy that didn’t look as if it ran.
Maxwell threw the papers on the floor. “Nothing here.” He turned and jerked open the drawer of the nightstand. Nothing in there but a well-thumbed Penthouse. He rubbed his chin with his hand.
“Shit,” was all he said.
It was then that Gerber found the key. “Hello,” he said as he pulled it from the pocket. “Look what we have here.”
Maxwell rolled across the bed and took the key, turning over the tag where he could almost make out the name of the hotel. He walked to the window and held it up in the light.
“I know this place,” said Maxwell. “Sleazy hotbed number. Wonder why he has a key?”
“Let’s go look at it,” said Gerber.
Reed finished his drink and his escort returned. He smiled down at Reed and asked, “You have seen too much?”
It took Reed a moment to decipher that and then grinned. “It is a very beautiful club.”
“You will join?”
Reed took a deep breath and looked up at the man. “Do you get many soldiers in here?”
“No. American soldiers fight war.”
Reed realized there was absolutely no way to ask the man if the Viet Cong were represented. He knew that at Vung Tau, a coastal city known for its beaches, the Americans, South Vietnamese and the Viet Cong shared the facility, each group pretending that the other didn’t exist.
There was only one thing to do. Either join the club so that he could hang around longer or get the hell out. If he did that, there was no place for him to go. The airlines were all booked weeks in advance, and the airline would check with the embassy to make sure he was authorized to fly out of the country. He needed help escaping.
He set his empty glass on the wicker table near him and then stood. “Let us fill out an application, and then I shall pay for a year’s membership.”
The man’s English suddenly improved. He said, “Very good, sir.”
Reed followed the man through the rich hallways with their fine woods and subdued lighting. It was an elegance that was in stark contrast to the hotel where the dead Vietnamese woman waited for him. Sleaze next to splendor. Foreigners having the money, the power and the connections for the finer things that Vietnam had to offer, while the people lived in poverty, begging for money to survive. It all meant that he was right in the course he had taken. Someone had to show them the errors of their ways.
They spotted the jeep parked near the hotel as they drove up. Maxwell pulled up close and said, “We could stake it out and take him on the street.”
“No,” said Gerber. “We’re better off taking him in his room if we can. There’s less chance of something going wrong that way.”
“And no prying eyes to watch,” added Fetterman.
Maxwell crept forward and parked his jeep near the other. Fetterman leaped out and opened the hood of Reed’s, taking the distributor to disable it.
“At least he won’t use this to escape,” he said.
They made their way to the hotel, saw that no one was watching the lobby, and walked up the stairs. But this time the excitement was missing. They had thought they had him once and had missed. Even with the jeep parked on the street, they weren’t sure that he was going to be there.
At the door they took up their positions as Maxwell tried the key. It worked easily. He threw open the door and dived in, just as he had before.
This time neither Gerber nor Fetterman followed. They covered from the hall, but before they had moved, they had spotted the body in the bed. They knew that Reed wouldn’t be there.
Gerber entered quickly, waited for Fetterman and then closed the door.
“Jesus, he did it again,” said Maxwell.
Fetterman moved forward and reached for a pulse, knowing there wouldn’t be one. The waxy hard look of the skin, and the smell of bowel, told him the woman was dead. Still he had to check.
Maxwell rubbed his face with his hand and then stroked the back of his head. “Jesus.”
“Okay,” said Gerber. “I think we can now assume that he’s on the run. You don’t leave the body in your room unless you’re not coming back.”
Maxwell turned and stared at the body. Fetterman jerked the top sheet from the bed and covered the dead woman with it. As soon as he could no longer see her, Maxwell looked at Gerber.
“How can he keep doing it?”
“There are people like that. They get a taste of it and you can’t stop them. Want to kill everything in sight. Sometimes you channel the tendency by giving them special assignments, if they can control themselves most of the time. If not, you get rid of them. Get them help. Reed’s beyond that. He likes it too much.”
