MARIE TELACH WENT over the mission with Dean in a small conference room on the secure level of the Desk Three operational center. The room was spartan; there was no massive video screen, no high-tech sound system. The furniture looked a half step above what one might find on sale at Wal-Mart. Small laptop-like computers sat on the table, permanently connected to each other and the Deep Black computer system via a thick, shielded cable. The room was soundproof and, like the entire level, incapable of being bugged.
Or as Rubens would put it, not yet capable of being bugged. No security system was impenetrable; defeating it was simply a question of devoting resources, creativity, and time.
“Your cover will be as a salesman for agricultural machines. An agricultural exposition is being held in Ho Chi Minh City and we’ve arranged for credentials for you. There’ll be a packet of background and technical material in your briefcase. Tommy Karr will meet you in Tokyo,” continued Telach. “From there we’ve arranged for you to fly to Thailand, and then take another plane to Ho Chi Minh City. A driver will meet you at the airport.”
“You mean Saigon, right?” said Dean.
Marie smiled. Dean didn’t know how old she was, but he guessed she was too young to have experienced Vietnam firsthand. It was just history to her, or worse, legend.
And to him? Only a dim memory. Something that had happened to someone else, to a young Marine not even old enough to drink. In fact, he’d lied about his real age to get into the Corps.
Not the last lie he’d ever told, but the last one he felt reasonably good about.
“The driver will be a local, someone businessmen use,” said Telach. “He’ll speak at least some English, but of course we’ll be able to help you with our own translator here. Please leave your communications systems on so we can do that. The CIA will vet the driver, but obviously he won’t be working for us. Be careful what you say.”
Dean nodded.
“Kelly Tang is the CIA officer assigned to help you. She’s covered as a Commerce employee, and she’ll be at the expo. She’ll be arranging different receptions and maybe a luncheon where you may be able to meet one if not more of the contacts. That’s still a little loose.”
A picture of a woman in her early twenties appeared on the screen.
“This is Tang. Look for her at the reception the first night. The CIA is trying to dig up some information on Infinite Burn as well,” added Telach, referring to the Vietnamese assassination program. “We’re all sharing information. So far, they don’t have anything. And for the most part, they’re skeptical.”
“So am I,” said Dean.
“Good.” Telach continued, detailing how the CIA and local embassy people could be contacted. Tang would make available local agents—foreigners who worked for the CIA—if Dean needed help.
“There are three people you’ll have to contact. We don’t have an enormous amount of information on most of them, so you’ll have to gather some of it on the run. We do have some recent photos for two of them, and an old wartime shot of the third. They were all connected with the war, but whether that’s significant or not we don’t know.”
A Vietnamese man a little older than Dean appeared on the computer panel.
“This is Cam Tre Luc. He’s a mid-level official with the interior ministry. He has some responsibility for the state police, though we’re not precisely sure what his role is. I would expect that he’s the number-one candidate, simply because he’s in the right position to know about a plan like this, but he’s going to be the trickiest one to contact.”
Dean read the biographical notes. Cam Tre Luc had been fifteen in 1968. According to the Army intelligence records, he supplied troop estimates and alerts when units were moving. His information had been rated as “often reliable”—excellent, under the circumstances.
“He could easily have been a double agent,” said Dean. “Supplying our guys with just enough information to keep them happy, while he sucked them dry for the other side.”
“That’s true for all of them,” said Telach. She tapped her keyboard. “This is Thao Duong. He was a low-level member of the South government who was rehabilitated following the war. He now has a job in one of their commerce agencies, helping facilitate international business. You should be able to meet during the convention. Last but not least is this man, Phuc Dinh. He was a provincial official for the Vietcong who was on the American CIA payroll. He now works for one of the Vietnamese semi-official agencies that govern and facilitate travel in the country. He lives in Quang Nam Province. We don’t have a recent photo. We’ve constructed a computer-assisted aging shot to show what he might look like, but you know how that goes.”
According to the computer rendering, Phuc Dinh was a bald man, roughly Charlie’s age, with a dagger-shaped scar on his cheek and a scowl on his face. The outline of his face was fuzzy, as if the computer wanted to emphasize the image was guesswork rather than reality.
“Do you have more information on them?” Dean asked.
“A little. You can click on those tabs and bring up their entire dossiers. There are files from the war. As you’d imagine, they’re pretty sparse.”
Dean put his finger on the touch pad at the base of the keyboard, paging back to Tre Cam Luc. The CIA’s wartime dossier consisted of a physical description, some notes about his position and the reliability of his information—three on a scale of five—and a very old photo. When he was finished reading, Dean slid his finger down on the touch pad, hesitated for a moment before selecting the next panel.
Phuc Dinh. DOB 12/4/45. Born, Quang Nam Province.
Communist Party member since at least 1960.
??Leader/lieut of VC cell in Quang nam-Da Nong province, near Laos border.
Ht. 5–3 wt. 114 pnds . . .
brn, brn
Identifying marks—scar right cheek
Contact lost Feb 23, 1971
A small black-and-white photo accompanied the half page of text.
Dean had seen the photo before—more than thirty years before, when he had been assigned to kill Phuc Dinh.
An assignment Dean had successfully completed.
“You OK, Charlie?” asked Telach. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m fine,” said Dean. “When’s my plane?”