January-February 1974: Northwest Laos: The pornographic film flickered on the bare end wall of the mess room in an expanded United States Army Type C Special Forces camp at Xieng Lom in northwest Laos. As a particularly scabrous scene came to an erotic climax, the young Lao Captain sitting on the right of the British Defence Attaché, Colonel Jason Rance, could contain himself no longer. He half turned, squeezed the Englishman’s knee and moaned. Rance recoiled in revulsion, hating to be touched. Also at the show were a Lao Staff Colonel, there for protocol reasons, selected officers from the five Lao Irregular and the two Thai Unity Force of the Thai secret army battalions under training and, unexpectedly, an excellent English-speaking Thai Captain – ‘Call me Charlie,’ he had said to Rance when introduced – the British Embassy Beaver aircraft pilot, Major Anthony Crosland, and, of course, the American host.
Colonel Rance had arrived mid-afternoon and had had a session with both Lao officers in their part of the camp. He had found the Colonel to be burnt out – used to be a ball of fire but the fire has burnt out and left the balls so we call him Clinker Bill was his private comment – so he had decided to try and work on the English-speaking Thai Captain, Charlie, hence getting a seat next to him at the appallingly bad film show. In any case, not to have attended would have been a grave breach of etiquette.
The meal earlier on had been a convivial affair, unusual in that camp which otherwise was a lonely place for the sole American, Tom Higgins, the young, Thai-speaking CIA contract Case Officer. Having had prior warning of his visitors, he had decided to throw a party and had ordered a turkey and some wine from his base in Udorn, in Thailand. The double X film, with the unedifying title of ‘Fay and Gay’, was a bonus. Tom Higgins had as an unquenchable an appetite for the salacious as had any woman-starved member of the forces in his camp.
Even after the ceasefire had been signed on 23 February 1973 the war had grumbled on in the rest of Laos, indeed in the rest of Indo-China, sometimes dying down as the Communists manoeuvred for tactical advantage and occasionally flaring up as they gobbled up more real estate before the other side could react. However, where the camp was, not far from the Golden Triangle, it was quiet. Calm, however, was illusory: to the north flowed the brown-watered Mekong, the property of the Pathet Lao for a long stretch. Away to the northwest was Route 46, off limits because it was secretly occupied by the Chinese People’s Liberation Army.
Frequently the area was clouded over. Fly above the weather and risk getting into Burmese airspace: fly under it, dodging the mountain peaks, and risk being a target for hostile ground forces. Fly direct from Vientiane and over Thai airspace, even with clearance, and the T-28s of the Royal Thai Air Force on anti-guerrilla patrols were trigger-happily eager to take on something unarmed and slower than themselves.
It was Anthony Crosland’s first flight along this testing corridor into Xieng Lom so he was both relieved and relaxed during the meal. Conversation was mostly in English, the wine making the Asians more fluent than normal – except for the Thai Captain whose English was superb in any event, having been fully educated in England. He had been introduced as Captain Xutiati Xuto, which had so utterly floored the British pilot, unused to the Lao and Thai tongue-twisting names, that they settled for his English nickname – Charlie. It was Charlie who sat on Rance’s left at the film show.
Rance, of course, had no idea that Lieutenant General Sir David Law, KCB, CBE, DSO, MC, Director of Military Intelligence, was Charlie’s foster father. Charlie had never intruded into his foster father’s official life. Never, that is, till recently. Even before the heart-searching that went on in the arcane counsels of the shadowy intelligence world after the abortive meeting of the previous 12 October that prevented Rance from being used operationally, even though he had stumbled on two of four ‘moles’, now known as the Four Rings, even though one of them, named Le Dâng Khoã, had given his ring to Jason in the final exercise of the Jungle Warfare course. The General’s covert plan, dubbed ‘Operation Four Rings’, was to be withheld from Rance for security reasons, meant he needed Rance to stay on in Vientiane after his original ‘end of tour’ date. So he had written to him, the burden of the letter being that they were having trouble in finding a suitable replacement for him. ‘Therefore I am asking the Military Secretary’s branch to consider your extension by at least eight months in the first instance. Think it over and let us know your answer, preferably within a month. It will also give you a chance to continue work on your almost impossible quest to get the king to announce his date for his coronation, through your Lao teacher, who is, I believe, the King’s niece and elder sister of your teacher in London. We were unduly dramatic in calling it “Operation Stealth”.’
Rance, not unhappy with the idea, recalled his driver Leuam’s words soon after he got to Vientiane. He had been most upset by a nasty trick the Popovs, as he privately dubbed all Russians, had tried to play on him on his first ever visit to their embassy. What was it? Yes, something about thirty-two months needed to placate his thirty-two body spirit phees. Almost as though he had known in advance! He had sent his reply by return – yes, he would stay on.
After the General had formulated his plan, he invited Charlie home from a course he was attending at, as it so happened, the army Intelligence school at Ashford in Kent. Charlie was, in fact, a member of the Thai Intelligence Service seconded to the Royal Thai Army. He had developed into somebody different from other Thais. Small of stature and with pleasing features, he radiated a quiet purposefulness with a presence that impressed his seniors and subdued his juniors. After dinner on the Saturday, the General took him into his study and worked his way around to what had been on his mind for some time.
‘Charlie, you are well on your way to becoming a success in your own particular line. I gather that the British are quietly popular with the Thai government although overshadowed at the present time by the Americans. English girls as wives of rich and influential Thais are not unheard of and are accepted in society. Thus your excellent English and your British connections are not a disadvantage.’
Charlie had made a noncommittal reply. This is not what the Old Man usually speaks about. What’s coming? He would not have to wait long to find out.
‘I have often wondered about the day your mother ran out into the road and my Jeep killed her so, by Thai law, made me your foster father. You can’t remember her. I never knew her. As for your real father, the only rumour I ever heard was that he’d been a soldier, taken his elder son somewhere to the northeast and had never returned. But to come back to us: our relationship is a special one. I have never tried to claim any allegiance from you over and above normal family connections. Tonight,’ and a harshness crept into his voice and a bitter look simmered in his eyes, ‘I am going to change that. I myself have no higher to go in this man’s army. You can still rise high in yours. But that is no use to you if your country is overtaken by events now simmering in Indo-China. I need help – your help – to contact certain people in Laos or for them to contact you. I warn you here and now that what I am asking may be dangerous. I am not asking you to divulge any state secrets but cooperation may be needed. Those bridges can be crossed later. What I really want to say is I can offer you a situation you can exploit, that, for reasons of British Government policy, I cannot process myself but, under certain circumstances, I can support – so can the SIS and, obviously, the CIA can be relied on, that is if we don’t touch their temporary contract men. If you want more, tell me. If you want no more, also tell me and we’ll both forget it.’
The Thai nodded his agreement. ‘Carry on, father. If it weren’t of paramount importance you wouldn’t be talking like this’
‘Right. I thank you most sincerely.’ The two men shook hands and regarded each other with affection and respect. ‘Listen to this: the man at the centre of this is a certain Colonel Jason Rance, now our Attaché to Laos …’
… now squirming, on Charlie’s right-hand side, as a particularly loathsome scene of a young boy fondling his elder sister’s breasts kept the rest of the audience riveted with further expectation.
As the Lao Captain’s attention was fully drawn to the film, now showing a scene of incest and sodomy taking place in a bath, Rance could see he would get nothing out of him. He made himself as comfortable as possible and shut his eyes. Scarcely had he done that when he heard a quiet, insistent voice in his left ear, ‘Colonel, Colonel.’ He turned towards the voice and there was Charlie looking at him intensely. ‘This is a bloody awful film but we can’t leave or our absence will be noted. Listen. If there is anything I can tell you about our secret army, for your ears only, please, as to source, anything at all, past, present or future, ask me now and I’ll tell you what I can.’
Rance could scarcely credit what he heard. For months he had waited, wondering how to penetrate this particular organisation. The Thais were naturally always silent about their secret Unity Forces, the faked documentation, the volunteers with altered names and their dependence on the Americans. And yet, here was someone he did not know offering it to him, unasked for, on a plate. Suspiciously he asked, ‘How come you trust me enough to offer this to me?’
‘Don’t underestimate yourself, Colonel. Your reputation among some of the people I deal with is that you must have three eyes to cope with all you see. No confidence that you have been given has ever come to the ears of another. Just take it that I am ready and willing to talk – nor am I asking for anything in return.’
Before Rance had a chance of replying the reel came to an end and the lights were turned on. He glanced at Charlie: Who does he remind me of? ‘Pretty good, eh?’ asked Tom Higgins to everyone in general. ‘Di ti sut loeui’ – the best there is, and set about changing the reel. Lights were switched off and the dreadful movie continued.
Rance turned to Charlie, having made up his mind to squeeze this unexpected lemon as dry as he could. ‘Tell me about your relations with General Vang Pao in Military Region 2.’
Charlie was scathing about the setup. ‘In MR 2 it’s all right for our artillerymen but hard on our infantry deployed away from base on the hill tops. The General pinches our supply planes when we’re short of rations to fly girls into that enclave at Bouam Long, know which I mean?’
‘Yes, I do.’ He hadn’t been there yet but he was determined to get there. An enclave, halfway between Luang Prabang, the royal capital, and Sam Neua, the Lao Patriotic Front capital, that was, in effect, a group of fortified Meo villages, above Ban Ban on Route 6. Ban Ban, a strange-sounding name, meant, he knew, ‘Home Village’.
They continued talking intermittently until there was another pause as the last reel was made ready. When once again their voices would be drowned by the sound track, Charlie said, ‘You are obviously puzzled by my openness. This is to your credit. I expected it. You may report what I have told you to your Defence Intelligence – don’t be surprised! I know your terminology but, once again, please don’t use my name. When you get back to Vientiane, write a private letter to General Sir David Law. In it say you’ve met Charlie and have had a chat but you wish to check on his credentials. Just that. Nothing more. Then sit back and await the answer. It will be positive. After that, put me out of your mind until sometime in the future when we’ll meet again. I’ll make the running, not you. You can get hold of me only through Gordon Parks – again don’t be surprised I know who your intelligence man is. Don’t use my name. Let our association be code-named “Perseverance”. Do you know the Thai for that? It is an easy word – Mana. And the omens are good: your name is the same without the Jason – Percival, shortened to Percy Vere Rance: same difference!’
On hearing the word Mana, Jason’s mind flashed back to when he was commanding the last ever two jungle courses, one for the Royal Thai Army and the other for the Army of the Republic of Vietnam, ARVN, at the Jungle Warfare School in Malaysia. The ‘exercise-enemy’ Gurkhas had been withdrawn and he had had to use Thais v Viets and Viets v Thais. The Guiding Officer of the Thais, Major Mana Varamit and that of the Viets, Major Le Dâng Khoã, had had a fight, which he had managed to settle. Almost as a reward, the Vietnamese Major had given him a ring which, he had eventually found out, belonged to one of the yet to be traced four ‘moles’, almost, working in the Communist cause. Later, even before he had taken over as attaché, he had met one of his ex-Thai students, now in the Thai secret army, at MR 2 HQ who had told him that Major Mana Varamit, calling himself Chok Di, had just left to attack a North Vietnamese Army position.
What Rance did not then know was that another ‘ring’, Tâ Tran Quán, working with the NVA, was wounded by Mana as he tried to kill him on defecting to the NVA. Mana was wounded in the head and Tâ Tran Quán was also wounded. He had taken off his ring before being captured by the Thai secret army and swallowed it to hide it. What he had unexpectedly found out the first time he had visited the LPF HQ was that their latest arrival from the Communist HQ in Sam Neua in northeast Lao, was also a ring wearer. His name was Bounphong Sunthorn; Jason and Gordon Parks knew him as Ring B. Jason had, in fact, met two of the four.
On the morrow the two Englishmen, after a cup of coffee, were airborne and Rance sat in the copilot’s seat with his notebook in front of him, racking his brain for what Charlie had said that he knew still evaded him. Anthony Crosland concentrated on his job of getting back safely. Rance scarcely noticed the flight, engrossed in this new dimension of his Attaché’s life. He had been so stunned by learning that his and Mana’s name were the same, ‘perseverance’, that he had no answer for Charlie, which was just as well as the projector broke down at that moment.
He was still deep in thought when they arrived on schedule at 10.30 at Wattay. On the way back to the villa for a wash and change, he called in at the embassy to see if there was any mail. While waiting for the brew, Mr Joseph his clerk had started preparing for him, he went and asked Gordon Parks if he could spare some time for him that afternoon. Back in his own office, sipping his cup of coffee, he opened an unsealed envelope that he found was an invitation to a film in the Lao Patriotic Front compound near the Morning Market on the morrow, starting at 7 p.m. The title of the film translated as ‘Culture and Acrobatics’ and, with a sick grin, he realised that could have also been the title of the previous night’s film.
‘Mr Joseph. Get the operator to ring the LPF and tell them I’ll be delighted to attend but don’t add that I could have been happier without it. Thanks for the brew. I’ll be back this afternoon and will deal with anything else you’ve got for me then.’
He had a long session with Gordon Parks who admitted that he had been warned by London to expect a move from the Thai named Charlie with an unpronounceable name and that London had said he could indoctrinate Rance only after Charlie had made the first move. He gave the impression that the whole affair was a touch unorthodox.
‘What does it mean, Gordon? Things are happening behind my back. I’m puzzled at this unexpected dimension, or should I say intrusion, into my life.’
‘I’m not so sure myself. I have been told to expect him and use him on any “need to know” work that comes my way, not yours.’ The SIS man was in a quandary. He had been told about General Law’s plan to extend Jason Rance in post to use him as an ‘unconscious agent’ only for ‘Operation Four Rings’. He had also been told not to tell Rance about the operation. But not to help him out with genuine advice was impossible. He sighed inwardly and, against his better nature, temporised. ‘Keep him in the back of your mind but, my advice for what it is worth, do not tell him about your Four Rings or other sources until there is no other solution but that he might provide it. As we don’t know what sort of problem needs that sort of solution, we are no further forward. What else did you learn on your trip?’ and he listened, not interrupting once, as Rance told him as much as he could recall of the previous night’s conversation.
‘Yes, send your report as any other but don’t reveal your source as it would be wrong in any case to mention the Thai by either name. If London wants to know who was the “officer in the Thai Unity Forces” with whom you spoke, your best answer is to say you did not ask him his name as, apart from being embarrassed, it would only have been an alias.’
‘OK, Gordon. One other thing. I’ve been invited to the LPF compound tomorrow night to watch a movie. If I get the chance, I’ll hint heavily that the British Co-Chairman and his military representative should pay the Red Prince and his gang a visit in Sam Neua – the Popovs crew were recently there in a Co-Chairman’s guise.’
And before the close of play, Rance wrote his acceptance letter to the General.
Rance felt a thrill of expectancy as he was driven down the Avenue Lane Xang to the Lao Patriotic Front compound opposite the southern end of the Morning Market. He had the ring that Major Le Dâng Khoã had given to him that day in the jungle on the little finger of his right hand – just in case. Doubtless most of the guests would be Communists, complete with bear-hugging, treble-kissing and heavy handshakes. But it was probable that Bounphong Sunthorn, Ring B, would be there and just a chance that Le Dâng Khoã, ‘Ring A without the ring’, might show up though he was not banking on it. If his ex-colleague was there, he would play it cool and hope for an opportunity for contact.
The car turned through the gates, checking momentarily as Leuam showed the sentry Rance’s invitation card. They were directed to an area to one side of the main building, only Heads of Mission being allowed to drive up to the front door. Rance walked over to the line of guests that was slowly filing forward towards the main entrance. At the door were Soth Petrasy and Bounphong Sunthorn. Rance smiled at them both. They both smiled back at him as they shook hands.
‘Good evening, gentlemen. It is a pleasure to be asked to your cultural evening and a privilege to attend. I am much looking forward to it.’
‘I’m so glad you could spare the time to come,’ said Soth, with no trace of irony in his voice. ‘We haven’t seen you around much lately.’
‘Yes,’ chimed Sunthorn as Rance reached him, moving steadily forward so as not to block the door or slow down the queue. ‘I haven’t seen you since our men flew in three months ago. I wanted to thank you for coming down to the airport.’ He was referring to when, after the ceasefire accords had been signed the Pathet Lao forces arrived in Vientiane.
‘Please think nothing of it,’ said Rance lightly, passing on into the main reception room. He took a soft drink from a tray and mingled with the crowd. He spied Le Dâng Khoã talking to a Czech diplomat. His former student looked up and saw him and looked away again with a flickered warning, unseen by anyone else. Presently people were herded into an open courtyard the other side of the reception room. Rance hung back, being deliberately slow, hoping to get a seat at the back. He was rewarded by this tactic. Le Dâng Khoã came over to him, introduced himself in Lao, not Vietnamese, English or Thai and shook his hand.
‘Sabai di, Tan. I am Le Dâng Khoã, a northerner from near Sam Neua. I am in command of the LPF troops here in Vientiane. Who are you?’
‘I am Colonel Rance, the British Defence Attaché. How nice to make your acquaintance. I hope you are well and are not having too many problems.’
They wandered out of the room together, like any other host and guest. Le Dâng Khoã found him a seat, one from the end of the back row. ‘Keep this for me,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll be back.’
The lights went out and the film began with hill people from the ‘Liberated Zone’, as the occupied zone was called, dancing traditionally in tribal dress. It was mellow, dexterous, colourful and realistic. It was such a contrast to the show of two nights before that Rance was prepared to enjoy it. Someone came and sat on his left. It was Le Dâng Khoã who said nothing as he cautiously moved his chair a fraction nearer to Rance.
‘I’m delighted to see you,’ he breathed in Rance’s ear. ‘I can’t tell you what has happened since we last met. You’re safe enough right now and for the foreseeable future but nearer the time …’ and he let the sentence hang in the air. ‘I trust you and you trust me, otherwise you would not have behaved as you have done with Bounphong. What I am more worried about is Mana Varamit. I hear he is in a camp somewhere near the Black River, probably near Office 95 and working for the Viets. Is it true he killed Tâ Tran Quán? I only got garbled reports and no feedback from Thai sources was picked up.’
The South Vietnamese attaché had told Jason that Tâ Tran Quán, dubbed Ring C, had been captured and was being held by the RLA. Jason had had permission from the Deputy C-in-C to visit him. ‘No, Tâ Tran Quán’s alive and well and not far away. He was wounded but is better. I have met him and he knows that I know about you three others.’
‘Oh, how wonderful. HQ are not quite convinced he’s dead although they have announced him as such. They don’t understand certain mysterious circumstances, that is to say, how did he come to be away to a flank just at a crucial time.’ This last allusion was lost on Rance but he was wise enough not to comment. ‘But it’s Mana who can spoil everything planned for us. You see, he was in the wat with us after Ban Liet was burnt’ – Rance remembered his driver Leuam’s story about the genesis of the ‘ring’ story, way back in 1945 – ‘then he disappeared. His father was a deserter from the Thai army. I gather he was killed soon after by the same Communist gang. Mana indeed knows about us and the rings so he will try his best to prevent us from doing what we have to do. I was never more surprised to see him at the Jungle Warfare School and I don’t know what would have happened that day had you not intervened. After I gave you the ring – I still don’t let myself wear one – I felt dreadful as I had, in fact, broken our boyhood oath. But so much of what we were looking for was in you that I just had to. I did steal time with His Holiness and explain matters to him. He forgave me, even said it would have been wrong not to have done what I did. Without you wearing it we may fail: in good time I will wear it once more. So please, regard it as yours now.’
Rance was flabbergasted by so outright an explanation? warning? request? What more? The reel was coming to an end with a crescendo of patriotic fervour and his companion slipped away.
The next film was entirely devoted to the LPF acrobatic team, giving open air shows to many villages and schools. The standard was high and the two clowns extremely clever. Rance chuckled as he watched it. After a while, Le Dâng Khoã returned.
‘We must meet when the time is ripe. I’ll let you know somehow or other but please do not try to contact me. As a guide, remember this: plans are being made to take this country over territorially within two months of the fall of Saigon. Agitation will start the day after Saigon falls – and it will fall sooner than you think. I must leave you now but just one more point; when you go to Luang Prabang you must contact Thong Damdouane. He’s the fourth of our team. He knows about you and is waiting for you. He may have news of Mana’s exact whereabouts. I’m so glad I’ve made contact. I feel I have found an old friend after many years. La korn,’ and with that ‘goodbye’, he melted away, leaving Rance’s eyes on the film but his mind playing back everything he had been told.
The show finished. The audience applauded heartily and moved back to the central room. As Rance said his farewells to Soth and Bounphong, he asked them when the Central Committee was going to invite the British up to Sam Neua. He got the totally unexpected reply that arrangements were, in fact, being finalised before an official invitation was extended. In other words, quite soon.
February 1974: Sam Neua, Northeast Laos: Sam Neua is in the northeast of Laos near the border with Vietnam. Apart from being a provincial capital and on the French-built Route 6, it had been a quiet and sleepy place for many years. The war of 1939-1945 passed it by and only when French armoured columns probed into the area from Hanoi, which they did infrequently between 1949 and 1954, was the tranquility of the region shattered. Even the cataclysmic upheaval at Dien Bien Phu that culminated in the octave of Easter 1954 only sent ripples not waves that, on the surface at any rate, soon petered out as the last vestige of the French army dismally concentrated in Hanoi. The only French vestiges that remained were an indifferent infrastructure, an educational system of sorts and an embryo civil service.
Apart from being within easy enough striking distance of Hanoi, another reason for Sam Neua being eminently suitable was that communications with, so therefore disturbances from, Luang Prabang and Vientiane, would be tenuous. So, not only was Sam Neua remote, it had the further tremendous advantage of being in limestone cliff country that meant it was riddled with deep caves wherein life, although tedious, uncomfortable and cheerless, could continue despite the massive American air attacks that laid waste acres of surrounding forests but did little real damage to the LPF cause. Indeed, it often enhanced it. Eastern Europeans, subservient to the Communist Cause, meddling Cubans and fence-sitting Swedes saw the many surrounding bomb craters, some of which were later used as fish farms, and the shattered remains of Sam Neua town, with only the wat unscathed, as a sure and encouraging sign of little people being bullied by a vicious and wicked super-power, and emerging triumphant. Although basically the Lao and the Viets are antipathetic on one another, an understanding can always be found for political opportunism.
The Protocol Officer in Sam Neua rehearsed the details in his mind after the Politburo decision. Clearance would be given for four British diplomats to fly in their Beaver aircraft. They would be His Excellency the Ambassador, Mr Cameron; the First Secretary and Head of Chancery, Mr William Rogers – both of whom spoke good French; the Defence Attaché, Colonel Rance, who spoke good Lao; and the pilot, Major Anthony Crosland, who spoke only English. As far as the Vientiane comrades were concerned, the British Attaché was no menace: he never asked them awkward questions, never tried to make them do things – oh, how hard they had tried to get the Polish Major on the International Control and Supervision Commission to get the Soviets in turn to lay off them, but to no avail: nag, nag, nag, thought the Protocol Officer, involuntarily grimacing, and also he kept himself to himself except when amusing the children. What was it that Comrade Nga Sô Lựự had said though? Playboy? Something about sightseeing like a tourist, visiting the wats in Luang Prabang with his driver. Nothing wrong with that, surely? It was common knowledge that Comrade Bounphong was the driver’s brother: Leuam Sunthorn. Was Leuam better as the driver to the DA or working with his younger brother? It would be an interesting decision, whichever way it went. So much depended on the comrades in Vientiane and their struggle. Even though the American imperialists had won military victories, the Saigon clique was no political match for the Hanoi government. It was a question of time, stealth and perseverance.
The aircraft would be seen off at Vientiane by Comrades Soth Petrasy and Bounphong Sunthorn, and met in Luang Prabang by Comrade Thong Damdouane who, as the LPF political representative there, would be the obvious man for the job. There would have to be another comrade with him. Thong could choose which one, probably the local Neutralisation troops’ military commander. It was hoped that the British aircraft would be able to use its six seats so that the two comrades could travel with the British delegation. This would obviate calling on the bigger, though slower AN-2, so save the humiliation of the British seeing the Soviet plane being refuelled by non-Soviet petrol, Shell. Furthermore, they could act as guardians if anything were to go wrong when the plane landed. Clearance would be given for the nearer of the two strips, Nong Kang, but weather might make the strip at Sam Neua safer. In that case, reception would be needed there.
He stood up and looked around his work cave. Cold as death in winter. Even in summer precious little warmth penetrated so far down. Prints and slogans covered much of the walls to hide the damp and take away the dullness as much as anything else. The Red Prince’s cave, where they had their Politburo meetings, was nearer the surface, but it was no warmer there. He walked along a passage. Over the years an electricity generating system had been installed but it was temperamental. Alternative sources of light were candle and hurricane lamp but, earlier on, especially during the intense bombing, supplies from Hanoi were often held up. He reached the outside and stood blinking in the bright sunlight, sighing with pleasure as he felt the warmth. Being January, it was a clear, bright and cool day compared with conditions down in Vientiane but after the cold dampness of the caves, it was pleasantly warm. Across the small valley was another precipitous limestone mountain, similar to that which he had emerged from. It, too, was riddled with caves. One complex was where guests were put, or rather, where the British foursome would go, not to the wooden huts where Socialist country comrades were put. The complex was self-contained, that was to say it had toilet facilities, a place to sleep where booths had been partitioned off for some semblance of privacy, a small cave for eating in and a recess where most of the preliminary talking would take place. In front of the entrance a vast stone baffle had been erected against the bombing. The aircraft, those cursed B-52s, that dropped bombs so accurately on the bridges over the Red River thus isolating Hanoi from the rest of the country, had also tried to drop bombs actually on the cave entrance. Near successes had been frightening. Shot-down US flyers, severely interrogated as they had been escorted through Sam Neua, had agreed that television camera aiming techniques helped to do the trick. Not that he understood how – not his line.
He passed the sentry at the opening through the barbed wire that guarded the sensitive cave. Not more than seventeen years of age, he was dressed in baggy green uniform with a Chinese-style cap. The only difference in dress between the two was that the Protocol Officer, being a civilian, wore the same style uniform but in blue. The sentry said nothing, his doe-like eyes watched him pass. In the western armies and in other comrades’ military forces, soldiers were paid. Not these, though. Tokens, instead of money, were given when anyone performed particularly meritoriously. The only place to change those tokens for goods was deep down in yet another cave, not far from the generator. He continued towards the visitors’ cave, crossing a rough gravel track. A powerful, Soviet-made vehicle drove past, full of soldiers. Probably came from one of the eight static pickets that ringed the cave complex and airfields. Each had a force of up to two hundred men, constantly on the alert for infiltrators. On the left was a hut, used for a school. Children of the few married functionaries and some local peasants had classes there. He walked up a path, wound his way through another barbed-wire entanglement, skirted the vast baffle and went inside the visitors’ cave, shivering as he left the warmth behind. Inside, he came across a fatigue party. ‘Everything under control?’ he asked, knowing it would be. They never left their visitors alone except when they were safely together in their cave. The small microphones would have to be activated, then tested. The Cubans had helped to put them in. Hiding them had been a problem but, from what was known of the British, they were not inquisitive enough to search for such things. Three places would be live, the conference recess, the sleeping booths and the eating area. They might pick something up. That Rance fellow: pity he was on the other side. Comrades said that the Englishman was in revolutionary mould, walked everywhere, had strict self-discipline and set an example of correct behaviour yet mixing with the children. The Politburo received periodical reports about him: what was it that had pleased them? Not my quarrel, not my business. I represent the British in Laos as a whole. With Comrade Thong Damdouane monitoring the party, the Committee was bound to get a good report on the true feelings of the British delegation. Good man, Comrade Thong, trusted by everyone …
He left the visitors’ cave, still deep in thought. As he stood blinking in the sunlight, he took off his cap. The doe-eyed sentry looked at him standing there, an elderly, balding man, slightly stooped with a perpetually worried look on his face. As a cadre, he was entirely devoted to the Cause, if only because he had never known any other. He was like millions of similar featureless functionaries throughout the world, doomed to the treadmill-like monotony of constantly coping with trivia, despite the grandiose eloquence of superiority every system aired.
By the next mail bag Rance got a reply from General Sir David Law. In it was confirmation that Charlie was no more and no less than what he claimed to be. Rance should treat this information with even more circumspection than ever, if indeed this were possible. ‘We are working more in the dark than normal. I stress that in no way will I order you or expect you to exceed your powers or alter the constraints on your appointment which have been settled by international protocol. However, an Attaché can accept points of view from others, can help them analyse their problems, can respect their confidences and can shield their contacts and sources. No move in this direction is too small not to pay some dividend, be that also ever so small, sometime or other. You must have realised this by now. On the other hand, the possibilities of future benefit that careful handling can produce are inestimable. I am one hundred percent behind you but, and I am afraid this is cold comfort, unofficially. Officially, you know the answer. You have worked yourself, unwittingly, into a unique position, some would say preordained. God go with you.’
That struck Rance as most unlike the awesome Whitehall Warrior as he had shown himself at his initial briefing in London. Good wishes and an order to shred the letter finished off the text, so he did just that.
The invitation for the British delegation to pay a fraternal visit to the Lao Patriotic Front base at Sam Neua was received at the end of January 1974 for 12 to 14 February. The Foreign and Commonwealth Office had already been warned and guidance had been given so an acceptance could be sent almost by return. Preparations had to be made: the Ambassador had certain points he knew he would have to make such as how long did the LPF want a Co-Chairmanship, of which the United Kingdom was the right-wing representative, to stay in force and, until it was disbanded, on what scale was its powers and writ envisaged? For instance, were the Soviet and British DAs to help monitor any infringement of the ceasefire or the placing of boundary markers between the two zones? He also knew that the LPF would represent to him that the Vientiane side had abused protocol and had harassed some of their functionaries. Aid would also be mentioned in the context of rehabilitating bombed areas and the Ambassador felt that an attempt would be made to portray the British as lackeys of the Americans. Accordingly, he had his First Secretary delve into the archives for instances when there had been a divergence of opinion between the two.
As far as Rance was concerned, he knew that he had to keep his ears and eyes open as he would be asked many questions on his return: numbers and types of equipment, vehicles, weapons; state of bridges, roads and runways; state of alertness, morale and training of the soldiers and officers; any storage capacity for fuel; any medical and hospital facilities and what, if any, generating capacity there was for a start, as well as any and everything else that might be of conceivable interest. He knew already that there had been much speculation as to whether certain models and marks of fighting vehicles were purely Soviet or made in China under licence but he doubted his ability to glean such esoteric knowledge. With regard to the pilot, his flight plan occupied his time; frequencies, zonal boundaries; altitudes of both airfields, approach angles, call signs and local hazards; fuel availability, local protection at night and by day; alternative airfields for diversion purposes in case of bad weather. One problem exercised his mind – if bad weather at Sam Neua and Nong Kang prevented any landing there and it was impossible to return to Luang Prabang, would he be able to fly to Hanoi? The mere possession of passports would not obviate many problems were this to happen, the hardest of which would probably be getting back again quickly. He found out that Sam Neua was some three-quarters of an hour’s drive from the cave complex where they would be staying whereas the other and smaller strip was much closer – would both places be alerted? He had to work out a time and space equation: so many gallons of fuel would allow so much luggage to be carried but would leave too little in the tank for a safety margin. In the end Rance made the pilot’s mind up for him.
‘Anthony. Tell our two civilians they are allowed one suitcase each. A small one at that. The Ambassador and the First Secretary will sit in the two middle seats. I’ll go at the back. Get your maintenance man, François Lafouasse’ to rig up two headsets that can be used to talk to each other but to nobody else. Put those for the two rear passengers. I will sit in one of those two seats and hope that my neighbour can be induced to talk to me. The other man who travels can go in front with you. Err on the heavy side for fuel and, if needs be, we’ll only have one escort with us – and he’ll sit beside me.’