Page 63 of Cry Havoc
Tom and Quinn shared a glance.
“No sense waiting if something we know could help expose whatever network Lam was a part of,” Quinn said. “We’ll go with you, sir.”
“So be it. And for what it’s worth, I’m proud of you. You did right by SOG and the country today.”
“Doesn’t feel that way, sir. We lost a good teammate, a good man,” Quinn said, pulling the Croix de Lorraine rosary from his pocket. “Amiuh carried this with him on every mission. Maybe one day this country will know some peace.”
“Maybe,” Singlaub said. “One day.”
Quinn slid the rosary back in his pocket.
One day.
CHAPTER 19
CIA Annex
Saigon, Vietnam
“YOU GUYS STILL LOOKlike shit,” Nick Serrano said, his voice deep and gruff with an accent that sounded Italian to the two MACV-SOG operators.
The CIA annex was concealed in a French colonial building nestled among the tree-lined Rue Pasteur, a picturesque street that was also home to SOG headquarters. They were both within walking distance of MACV, the command center from which General William Westmoreland had overseen all operations in Vietnam since 1964. The two military headquarters also shared the street with the RAND Corporation, which had set up shop in an old French villa at 176 Rue Pasteur close to the old presidential palace. It occurred to Tom that the entire war in Vietnam was being run from a single street in downtown Saigon.
In contrast to what was happening at outposts across the country, this charming street in Saigon felt peaceful. If the generals wanted to wrap this war up, perhaps their headquarters needed to be closer to the reality of the field.
The three men sat at one of four quaint round wooden tables covered in white tablecloths and adorned with perfectly arranged place settings in an outdoor courtyard protected by high walls covered in ivy. The lightstone patio blended perfectly with the colonial architecture, creating the illusion that they were in the Loire Valley. Water flowed gently from a spigot into the base of a small fountain, masking the intrusion of traffic noise from the street, just beyond the walls of their refuge.
Very French, Tom thought.
The same green tamarind trees that lined Rue Pasteur provided shade while flame trees that would bloom with fiery red and bright orange fern-like leaves in the months ahead to signal the coming of spring remained barren. Their branches resembled the brittle fingers of an old man stretching for something just beyond reach. Spotted doves cooed, and sparrows chirped from their limbs, their notes blending in an unadulterated natural harmony.
“Peaceful back here,” Serrano stated.
“A little different than Phu Bai,” Tom said.
The CIA man noticed Tom looking up at the birds.
“The birds love this courtyard. I think they know they are safe here. The Vietnamese have a preoccupation with trapping them and keeping them caged. I don’t understand it myself. The caged birds sound different, like they are trying to escape, crying for help, frightened. These birds,” he gestured to the trees above. “These birds have a different sound. It’s relaxing. They sound free.”
Tom and Quinn had arrived still covered with the blood, sweat, and grime of combat. Serrano had taken one look at them and suggested they clean up.
Tom had showered and changed into jeans and a green T-shirt from his seabag, which had survived the ambush, though his Converse shoes were still covered in dried blood. Quinn’s duffel had been destroyed in the convoy attack, but by the time he finished showering a new set of clothes in the correct sizes had been set out for him. The Agency had sent someone shopping. He now wore clean tan pants, sandals, and a black button-up shirt.
“Thanks for the clothes,” Quinn said.
“The least we can do,” Serrano replied.
The CIA officer was dressed in beige pants and a thin white linen untucked dress shirt. Leather shoes matched his slicked-back jet-black hair, and his dark complexion was offset by light blue eyes that appeared almost translucent. He was in shape and clean shaven. Tom guessed him to be around forty. A Zodiac Sea Wolf dive watch with rotating bezel and a distinctive white dial was strapped to his left wrist on a JB Champion stainless Oyster bracelet.
“Why did you want to see us, sir?” Tom asked.
“Cut the ‘sir’ business. This is the Agency. Nick is fine. I want to talk with you about the ambush. But first, can I offer you tea, coffee, beers?”
“I’ll take a beer,” Quinn said.
“Preference?”
“Local is fine.”
