Free A Dangerous Friend by Ward Just Page A

Ten-months-and-thirteen-days-and-eight-hours-and-thirty-five-minutes was nowhere in sight. Sydney recalled a photograph he had seen of the Gare du Nord in the spring of 1940, soldiers leaving for the front, civilians returning, the picture's texture dark and grainy, somber in the filtered light. Paris had never recovered from its abrupt defeat. In 1940, no one knew who was in charge and the future was in doubt. The Germans were invading once again and there was no animation or confidence in the faces of the French, one more difference between Paris then and Saigon now; and no one doubted who was in charge here.
    Those few departing Americans were provided a special gate,
U.S. Personnel This Way.
When Vietnamese approached this gate they were coolly waved away. Military policemen loitered close by, visually inspecting each departing American; and if there was cause for suspicion he was pulled from the line and asked for his passport and exit visa, and if the answers were unsatisfactory the suspect was moved against the wall and searched without delay, the questions suddenly official and specific, and before you knew it there were four military policemen, not two. Sydney watched the little drama unfold, an unshaven middle-aged man shaking his head no, then sighing, staring at the floor, explaining something without looking up, extending his wrists as if he expected to be slapped or handcuffed. The MPs conferred among themselves, one of them consulting a thick blue book, apparently a roster of names.
    Sydney heard the MP say, Get the hell out of here.
    Yessir, the suspect said.
    Don't come back, the MP added.
    Why would I come back? the suspect said, and moved along to Vietnamese passport control, where he was waved through. Sydney watched him hurry into the lounge, where the bar was doing an energetic pre-lunch business. So Vietnam was like Puerto Rico, as easy to slip into as it was to slip out of, so long as your papers were in order and your name absent from the roster of suspicious characters.
    Noise drifted from the bar to the terminal area. Sydney was surprised to see young Western women among those three-deep at the bar and at tables, everyone laughing and toasting each other. The women were tanned and attractive, in their close haircuts and short skirts looking like coeds on spring break, the last fitful hours before the long flight north. The atmosphere was one of high impatience, a kind of nervous flutter. Through the wide window back of the bar, Sydney could see a flight crew strolling to the Air Vietnam Caravelle waiting on the tarmac. Suddenly one of the women threw her arms around the neck of the man standing next to her and kissed him deeply; the others applauded, even the unshaven middle-aged man, who stood on the fringes of the group drinking beer from the bottle. And then Sydney realized he had misunderstood the ambiance. It was not impatient or nervous. It was festive.
    Annoyed, he turned away, looking left and right, uncertain where to go. Of course Ros had better things to do than wait for a morning at febrile Tan Son Nhut, but surely he would leave a message. Sydney watched a television crew being greeted with shouts and handshakes, Vietnamese scurrying about to load the heavy equipment into a white van with a network logo on its side panel; and then the van hurtled away into traffic. He had the address of Llewellyn Group House, Tay Thanh district, but he had no idea how far it was and whether it was safe to travel by taxi. The little blue and white Renaults did not look roadworthy, either. So he marched to the sidewalk where he stood with his suitcases in the damp heat, the sun ferocious but ill defined in the thick diesel haze, and wondered about the reliability of the taxis.
    When a Vietnamese approached and tried to hand him a card, Syd shook his head.
    You come, the Vietnamese said.
    Go away, Sydney said, but the Vietnamese was insistent, shoving the card in front of his eyes and jabbing at it with his