M. Forsythe - While Rome Was Sleeping

“A double agent is an obvious detriment to an entire CIA operation. Kelshaw convinced Klein that he was the logical one to try to find out how far the damage had spread. So he destroys all sensitive documents at the Udorn station and bails out after getting partially patched up at the base dispensary. After months of being on the move while keeping a low profile, he winds up in Vientiane. And that’s where Jack Hubbard enters the picture.” He said thickly, placing his hand on his chest in mock solemnity.

“You knew Klein?” Andrew queried. He stood and refilled his glass.

“Yes, I knew Neil Klein; he was with the State Department Office of Intelligence in and out of Saigon when I was there in ‘68. He was a cool operator; always had his hand on what was going on. The Phou Pha Thi meltdown and the Tet Offensive were hot items on the military intelligence and the State Department menus and it’s my guess that Klein was called in to help monitor what was happening.

“He was a straight shooter; like a lot of us he didn’t like what the Administration was doing in ‘prosecuting the war’ as they liked to say. He hated the war and he was very uncomfortable with some of the games the White House and the Pentagon leaders were playing; he particularly didn’t like the attrition policies of some of the commanding generals. But, he wasn’t in a position to do anything except to do his job and report.

“I know he didn’t have a lot a time for all the petty diplomatic politics going on in Saigon. Later he got to Vientiane too, to see what could be done about the POW’s. I know he had serious disagreements with U.S. policy in the peace negotiations regarding the POWs and MIAs. Yeah, he’s almost one of the good guys.”

“Almost?” Andrew looked surprised

Jack didn’t respond just looked into space for a moment then said, “Do you have more ice?”

“Jack,” Andrew changed the subject, “Did you ever hear of a beautiful Eurasian woman of some notoriety in Saigon whose name was Lia Dupre’?”

Jack stopped rummaging the ice trays, commenting “Well, well, well, Andy, I see you’ve been doing your homework. Ahhh yes, the lovely Lia,” he paused, “Everybody knew Lia… some in the Biblical sense.” Jack laughed. “But, she was ver-r-r-ry choosey. You had to be powerful or rich or influential. Any one of those items in combination would get you the key to her boudoir, or, if you had all three, she would come to yours.”

“Don’t tell me you were tangled up with her!”

“Andy, are you kidding me? I was a member of the great unwashed press corps. Lia Dupre’ would hardly breathe the same air as we peons‘. And she definitely did not want to be the subject of any of our news stories… but, I must admit, if we weren’t working or filing a story, we might down a few spirits and wonder who had Lia tonight.”

“She must have been shy,” Andrew smiled, tongue in cheek.

“Of course. She was a favorite of, and she worked for old T. R. Perkins, the CIA station chief, who was also a pal of her father’s. Her daddy was a wealthy Frenchman who owned a rubber plantation, and because of war, the family had moved into a cozy little palatial cottage in Saigon. T. R. spent a lot of time at their home.

“She was really only interested in men who were in positions to give her meaningful visibility, so she spent a lot of time on the arms of diplomats and visiting Senators, sometimes acting as a hostess for T. R. when he wanted to throw one of his wing-dings.

“It was also rumored…, rumored, hell, it was known;” Jack said vehemently, “That she had serious ties with the Communist Party in Saigon and she played footsie with the leadership of a number of the party officials that were outspoken in their dislike of American presence in Vietnam and the South Vietnamese government.

“She was supposedly on a CIA watch list, but it didn’t seem to matter; with T. R. running interference, she moved freely where ever she wanted. She was part of some big international artist group; a couple of times a year she would travel to Paris to shop, play and attend arty parties. How did you find out about Ms. Dupre‘, Andy?”

“Your friend, Neil Klein filled me in a little. I understand she came to a bad end.”

“Yeah, that’s right, she did; she was murdered; found shot, lying beside the road to Bien Hoa. Whoever did it wanted to make sure she didn’t recover… I think she was shot four or five times.

“There was hell to pay though, when they found her; her mom was an upper class Vietnamese woman and she and daddy were not about to let their beautiful virginal daughter’s death go unpunished, that is, if they could help it. As I said, daddy was a chum of old T. R. Perkins and together they set about launching a first rate witch hunt.”

“So did they ever find out who did it?” Andrew asked.

“No, but not for lack of trying; personally, I think she crossed someone who got fed up with her games and pulled the plug, literally.”

“I wonder who they looked at. It would be hard to nail some visiting diplomat for murder, if one of them did it, that is,” Andrew mused.

Changing the subject, he asked, “Jack, you didn’t say what Kelshaw wanted you to do for him. And for that matter, what did you want him to do for you?”

“Andy, I need to crash… throw me a rug or blanket or anything and I’ll tell you all in the morning,” he hiccupped. “At which time we will talk about your future,” Jack had folded up on the couch, feet extended over the arm.

“Come on, buddy, you can have my bed, it’ll fit you better.” Andrew put an arm under Hubbard’s long torso and half lifting, guided him to his bedroom leaving him sprawled on the bed with a quilt tossed over him. Andrew grabbed a pillow and blanket and settled, slightly folded, on the couch.

Saturday, September 27, 1980

8:00 AM

Brad had reservations on an early flight back to Washington. He had called Olivia and asked her to meet him at National Airport that afternoon. He noted the cool distance in her voice when he called. There was no mention of the abruptly ended conversation of the day before. He was troubled—there had not been a time in their marriage that he had heard anything but warmth and eagerness to see him upon returning from a trip, but now there was uncertainty.

Brad settled into his first class seat and declined beverages and newspapers, indicating he desired not to be disturbed.

He leaned back and closed his eyes. Thoughts and questions were bombarding his mind. Two weeks ago, what appeared to be a perfect solution to a wretched problem had not only failed in part, but had raised more problems in its’ now failed wake. And Lia had reemerged after all this time.

Brad thought back to the first time he saw Lia, shortly after he had returned to Saigon in January of 1968. She was coming out of the American embassy compound pausing as though she was looking for a ride. Brad driving past took one look at her long shapely legs and trim figure and pulled over. She noted his rank; smiling as he stopped.

“Good afternoon, Colonel,” she spoke softly as she moved toward the car.

“Good afternoon, may I offer you a lift, Miss?” He asked, while appraising her body, head to foot.

“Why yes, thank you, Colonel, if it won’t be too much trouble,” She said flirtatiously, getting into the car. “I’m on my way home; it’s not far. Sometimes I walk”

Brad could hardly concentrate on driving. She was the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen. Her shining black hair was waist length and her large dark brown eyes were luminous and inviting. They gave her a mystic aura when she looked at him. Her mouth was sensuous and smiling at him he sensed the attraction on her part as well.