Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

“Apology accepted.”

“Well, look,” Voss said, “here’s the problem. That article set the machinery in motion. So now he’s gone, so—let’s hope that’s enough, right? But the machinery has to do some chewing before this business winds down. Things just have to complete their run. Can’t cut it short. So you’re being called back to Langley.”

“Do I interpret that as an order?” “Correct. We’re sending you home.” “Okay. Will Station want to talk to me first?” “I suspect you’ll get a little going-over.” “I’m not really attached to Station. I’m Psy Ops.” “You’re in-country, that’s all. You’re in this theater of ops. They’ll

want everything before you give it to Langley.” “Who’s They?” “Terry Crodelle.” “Sounds like a party.” “He wants a polygraph.” “You bet. Whatever’s most helpful,” Skip said.

Skip guessed most of the equipment on the conference-sized table comprised the polygraph machine. A microphone on a stand faced him, beside it a large tape recorder. Skip watched the revolutions of its reels, one fast, one slow. Beside the tape recorder rested Crodelle’s green beret. Crodelle wore the battle dress uniform of the Special Forces, a captain’s bars on his collars.

“Well, this is, I think, is—I don’t know what it is.” “It’s what?”

“I said I don’t know.” “You said you had a thought.” “A thought?” “You said you thought you knew what it was.” “When did I say that?” Crodelle thumbed a lever on the tape recorder and found the place,

Skip’s voice saying Well this is I think is—”there.” “That’s just—I’m stuttering.” Captain Crodelle paused and stared a few seconds before saying,

“Good enough. Very good. Just checking.” He held down a button while depressing a lever and the reels began

again. “Are you actually Special Forces? Or is it a costume?” “It’s a uniform.” “Whose store is this?” “We’re with the RSC, more or less.” “I thought the RSC was Manila.” “It’s a temporary shop.” “And you’re a real live soldier.” “Come on.” “I did come on. I came. Fm here. The question is, where are you?” “Sometimes you’re behind the desk, sometimes you’re in the field—

but this stuff, this Tree of Smoke, it’s neither desk nor field. It’s some

where out in the jungles of romance and psychosis.” Crodelle stopped

the recorder and said, “Your shit is a mess,” and started it again. “It was just a hypothetical exercise. A scenario. Psychological warfare.” “Jousting with terms. You’re not going to help yourself.” “Captain, I’m not here to help myself. I’m here to help you.” “How are you covered here in Five Corps? What’s your name?” “I’m using my own documents.” “No cover.” “It’s just me, fellas.” “I want you to clarify a few terms for me from this article entitled —

well, no title. But clarify a few terms.” “By all means, to the extent I’m able. If it helps.” ” ‘Insulation’—that just means sticking your fingers in your ears when

somebody issues an order.”

“That’s a simplification, but that’s the gist of it.” “Basically cutting oneself out of the chain of command.” “Again, that’s simplifying.” “Without chain of command, what we get is feudalism. Now, of

course we speak figuratively of bureaucratic fiefdoms. But in this instance we believe the fiefdom to have been actual. We believe your uncle, the colonel, to have been the fief.”

Skip said, “I believe we’ve reached a linguistic impasse.” “I’m as much as suggesting renegade activity.” “I believe we’re staring into a linguistic abyss.” “The ‘mobilization-loss dichotomy.’ ” “The what?” “Mobilization hyphen loss.” “Oh! for goodness’ sake. ‘Move it or lose it.’ He says it all the time.

Said it, that is.” “Without chain of command what you get is warlordism. He was run

ning his own little agency.” “And the phrase ‘move it or lose it’ proves that?” “The article proves that he considered it his duty. He was running his

own operations branch—assassinations in Mindanao, for instance. And

his own private, personal double agent right here.” “Where?” “Here? You know—little place called South Vietnam?” “What double agent?” “Skip —I don’t mean you!” “Now you’re making me sick. Literally ill.” “We aren’t accusing you of treason.” “Then what? If there’s an accusation, tell me what it is. Don’t tell me

what it isn’t.” “We just want a name. If it’s the name we already have, then you’ll have verified it.” “Give me the name you have, and I’ll give you the verification if I

can. “Skip. You work—for us.” “Yes, I do. And proudly, but—” “Well then, Skip.” “You can understand my reluctance.”

“No, Skip, I can’t.”

“From where Fm sitting, the area you’re delving into, the parameters, if any—it all seems a little amorphous. I feel an obligation to get assurances from you we’re going to keep things… in the arena of relevance.”

“Assurances? What? Me no speakee.” “I don’t want to jeopardize overlapping interests, let’s say.” Crodelle again stopped the reels. “What interests?” “If any.” “What a load of shit.” “That’s just what Fm thinking.” “All right. Fuck.” Crodelle frowned, stared at the floor for a good

thirty seconds before raising his head again. “I’m willing to drop this line. Just assure me, you assure me, that no unauthorized operation is in process.”

“It was a hypothetical exercise. If it were actual, it would actually be

over. You have my assurance of that.” “It’s all over.” “As over as it would be if it never existed.” “All right. Let’s stop giving each other headaches.” Crodelle resumed

the recording. “As for this hypothetical exercise in psychological warfare code-named Tree of Smoke. In our last conversation, you and I talked about some files.”

“Files?” “Where are the colonel’s files?”

‘ “Files.” “The data apparatus for Tree of Smoke.” “Where are you getting all this?” “What a silly question.” “I don’t know about any files.” “What a silly answer.” “Describe what you mean. I’m here to help.” “What bullshit.” “I’d say the bullshit’s all yours.” “His three-by-five collection.” “Oh. Yeah. Those were archives. I don’t know where they got to.” “When did you last see the material?” “In the PI —I was cataloging some of it, then he took it away. Check

with the RSC up there. Maybe somebody knows. Check at Clark Field. That’s where I last saw the stuff.” “Voss saw those footlockers here. In Saigon. At the CIA bungalow right after you arrived.” “That can’t be true. Or it’s very doubtful. They were taken off my

hands at Clark.” “They were here.” “Then they were shipped here after they were taken off my hands.” “Skip. What kind of career path do you believe yourself to be follow

ing?”

“Kind of a corkscrew one. Pointing down. Can I tell you about the files? The files were archival in nature, very out of date, of no current interest. If I had them I’d have no reason to hide them, no motive. If I had them, I would turn them over to you immediately.”

“You know what I like about your style? We catch you lying and you

forge right ahead.” “Hook me up. I’ll pass.” “Oh, we’ll hook you up.” “I’ll pass. Get to it.” “And a UA.” Skip said nothing. “A urinalysis?” “Oh. That’s fine.” “Lot of narcotic use in Five Corps. Can’t tell who might be caught in

the snares.” “Bring me a jug and I’ll piss in it.” Crodelle stopped the recorder, stood up to lean over it and grip its