Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

“It’s just a draft. He’ll never finish it.”

“What you need to do is prove the existence of ‘command influence.’ What you need to do is isolate these different channels running up the chain of command, and randomly inject information among these channels to see how much they get distorted. How do you, so to speak, ‘clean’ a channel? You need channels you affect and channels you keep unaffected. This isn’t new. Yellow fever again, polio, et cetera. What you’d really need is two or more unconnected intelligence organizations—get some of our allies to participate. It would be interesting. It might get us somewhere. It might bring on a revolution. But do we need to start one until we need to start one?”

“I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

“It’s just remarkable he’s opened the whole question. The colonel. I mean, is it possible to create markers, intelligence markers, and follow them up and down the chain of command and out through the lines of commo, and draw conclusions about the way we do things? It’s pretty wild, man. Your uncle’s a wild revolutionary.”

“Have you met him?”

“Once or twice. I enjoy the colonel. He’s a sizable personality. I mean, Cao Phuc—case in point. As far as we can trace things he talked someone, some drunken commander of one of the helicopter assault groups, into securing a landing zone on that mountain in ‘64, then when the Twenty-fifth Infantry arrived he sort of borrowed a platoon and kept them out there twenty-four months, on one pretext after another, and had the Twenty-fifth serving that LZ as if it were a base. Then he sold the ville as the world’s best place for a relocation camp. At the peak he had half a dozen platoons running up and down that mountain, and his very own helicopter. That is one impressively large personality, man. Unfortunatamente, during the Tet thing he took casualties and lost a whole platoon we can only hope are POWs now, and folks started asking what in tarnation is going on in Cao Phuc. If it wasn’t for last Tet, by now he’d probably have his own brigade. And he’s not in any way connected to the military!—except as liaison to Psy Ops, hardly any of whom have actually personally encountered the guy, ever. He did it all on his personal authority. I mean, man, he did it all on balls and bullshit. Can you believe it?”

“You seem to know more about him than I do.” “There’s a lot to admire there. He’s a warrior—” “A genuine war hero, Terry.” “Of course, let’s say a hero, he’s got medals up the ass, okay—but he’s

not a spook, he’s not that type. He suspects everybody’s against him, but he acts like he hasn’t got an enemy in the world. You know what a guy once told me about the colonel? ‘His enemies are only friends he hasn’t defeated yet.’ “

“John Brewster, right?” “Who?” “You heard me.” “Matter of fact, it might have been John. I don’t remember. Look.

Come on. Look … your uncle has something to teach us, which is: Trust the locals. He’s never separated himself from them. He works with them, he’s joined to them. But in doing that, he separates himself from us, his people.”

Skip said, “I think you’re misinterpreting the facts, and then exaggerating your own misinterpretation. Or at least you’re just allowing your interpretation to enlarge itself.”

“Have you read The Quiet American?” Skip said: “Boo-coo fuck you.” Voss said, “Boy, this is quick. I thought we’d shoot the shit awhile.” “Yeah. Yeah.” Crodelle blinked. Nothing more. “He was living at the

Continental when he wrote it.” “Graham Greene. Next door to the colonel.” “Skip… a man outgrows his mentors. It’s inevitable.”

“Look,” Skip said, “I get it.” “Then explain it.” “You explain it.” “I’ve been explaining it. If the colonel wants to make empirical sense

out of his theories, then let him propose a random-assignment study using two systems—a control, and a system into which he introduces some agent or catalyst whose effect he can measure against the control system without the agent. Think back: the old proposals for the cause of polio, the days when they were just banging away with any idea that came into their heads—dog feces, for Christ’s sake; injecting polio patients with their own urine. That’s the colonel, man. Shooting piss into the intelligence apparatus. I mean,” Crodelle said, “even in Washington he was legendary for his three-hour hydraulic lunches.”

Sands turned to Voss. “Fuck you too, Voss.” He stood up. “Speaking

of shooting piss. I gotta whiz.” “Melt yourself some ice,” Voss said. “What?” “You’ll see.” He left, and Crodelle watched him until he’d gone inside the res

taurant. “Gee, Terry. What took you so long?” “Rick? Do you know your role?” Voss didn’t answer. He watched Crodelle sip from his martini. “Is there a window in there?” “He’s not going out the window.” “How do you know?” “He’s having too much fun.” “Are you?” Voss thought of ordering another drink, but felt the remark about hy

draulic lunches had rendered such a thing inadvisable. “If he pushes, I’m gonna push back. Just to keep the balance in my fa

vor, okay? And things are gonna speed up.” “They certainly are.” “Fine with me. And you do have a role to play. When the balance

tips too far, you jump on the teeter-totter—on my side, incidentally.” “I’m clear on that.” “On the way here I picked up something at the shop.”

“What shop?”

Crodelle convulsed into life again. “Will you look at this?” He took from his breast pocket what looked like a large cigarette lighter. Holding it in his palm, he pressed its side with his thumb. “Open it up, and— zow.” Two tiny reels within. “The tape is—you see it? That little wire? That is one one-thousandth of an inch in diameter, man.”

People from Manila’s Regional Security Center showed up in town regularly and Voss thought he knew them all; Crodelle wasn’t one of them. He’d set up a shop in the Language School’s basement, and Internal Ops had been told to give him what he needed, and today he needed a twenty-first-century recording device.

“You guys have all the nifty stuff.” “These things have been around for a dozen years.” Sands was back. He sat down, and Crodelle held out the recorder, its

face still open. “Behold.” “Where’s the tape?” “The light has to be right. See?” Voss said, “One one-thousandth of an inch.” “Is it on?” “Why the hell not?” Crodelle said, and shut its lid and left it between

them on the green linen tablecloth. “Let’s give it a whirl. We’re here at the Aragon Ballroom with bandleader extraordinaire Skipper Sands … Sands. German? English.”

“No. Irish.” “Irish?” “My great-grandfather came from the Shaughnesseys. Apparently he

started calling himself Sands on the ship over.” “A bit of a turncoat.” “I never met him. I wouldn’t know.” “Was he in trouble?” “No. Can I ask you something?” “Sure.” “Am I?” “The Aragon Ballroom is a place of music and frolic. No one’s in

trouble here.” “Hell. Why not polygraph me?” “That’s not out of the question.”

“I mean right now, Crodelle.” “No, Skip. Not right now. We’ll need to prepare you if we want to

end up with a decently conclusive polygram.” “Any old time.” “Sure. Noted.” “What about Crodelle? C’est Français?” “I don’t know. Yeah, French. It may be a misspelling of ‘Cordelle.’—

Where’s Uncle Francis, Skip?” “I don’t know. Right here in town, I assume.” “Do you know he was recalled to Langley seven weeks ago, eight

weeks ago—anyway, early last November?” “I didn’t know that.” “No, because he never went.” “He goes where he wants to.” “Yeah. And when he wants to, he’ll just whip out a pistol and shoot a