Embassy
Keith Laumer
Prologue
On my first morning I came down early into the lobby of the Grand Samoy Hotel, a dim cavern half the size of Victoria Station and about the same age, filled with shadows and grime and strange odors and tarnished gilt and the memories of empire. The wooden-bladed fans turning under the high gingerbread ceilings provided a rhythmic creaking but no breeze, and through the open doors the hot white light glared in off the pavement like a threat.
Behind the black-varnished mahogany reception desk, a small neat man with nervous eyes in a lined brown face peered at me over gold rimmed glasses as I came up and asked for directions.
“American Embassy? Only five minutes from here, Mr. Bayard,” he said in a tone that suggested he was afraid I might argue the point.
“Would that be by bus, train, or on foot?” I inquired genially.
“No train running, Mr. Bayard.” Sweat appeared at his hair line and started down. He leaned over the counter and pointed outside. “But Tri-shaw waiting, sah! One kot only, come quickly-quickly to Embassy!”
“Don’t rush me,” I cautioned him. “I don’t want to miss anything.”
He gave me a stricken look and hurried away to attend a stout Indian gentleman lodging what sounded like a complaint in staccato Urdu; I went on across the unswept tiles and out into the smells and sounds of Samoy town.
* * *
It wasn’t quite seven o’clock but the sun was already hot; I strolled along and looked at the people crowding along the street, the gaunt pi dogs, the sleek black crows that ducked down for choice bits from the gutter. A bristly sewer rat ambled along ahead for quite a distance before a man in a white shirt and flowered skirt pulled off a sandal and took a slap at him.
There were wild flowers growing in mounds of dirt among tilted paving blocks where the street had been dug up a long time ago, and there were vendor’s stalls and bamboo huts built on the curb and along the sidewalk. The facades that had probably been impressive once were stained green and grey with mould, where you could see them behind the huts and the hand-painted signs.
I came along Daijee Street into Victoria Square, and there it was, a white building with a heavy marquee and a big American flag hanging down above it. A short wide Samoyan in a warped white garrison cap and a soiled white uniform with gold buttons was standing out front. He had a rolled umbrella hooked over one arm, and under the starched pants six inches of bowed leg showed above large bare feet.
The folding steel grill in the entry was closed, and behind it a Marine Guard in civilian clothes lounged against the handrail. I was a little early, I saw, but the SAS office across the way seemed to be open, so I dropped the long skinny cigar I was smoking through a gap in the sidewalk, waited for the splash, and headed across the square.
In the airline office a tall slender girl with a clean pretty face and short blonde hair gave me a nice smile as I came up to the counter. I told her about my baggage that hadn’t turned up when the plane was unloaded the night before.
“Any chance of running it down this side of Tokyo?” I wondered.
“Yes, certainly. May I have your ticket and claim checks?”
I gave her the papers and she looked at them in a businesslike way.
“You are stopping here?” She sounded pleased, as though I had just told her I was famous.
“I’ll be working across the street.” I nodded toward the Embassy.
“I’ve been so eager to meet the American diplomats. I see them coming out every day and getting into their big American cars and driving away in such a hurry.”
“I’m eager to meet the American diplomats myself,” I said. “I’m new at the job.”
The girl wrote things on a piece of paper and smiled some more and told me to check again the next day and I said I would. Across the street the Marine was folding the grill back now and people were going in. I made a little more conversation with the young lady and then, not without a certain reluctance, went back out into the early morning heat and across to the U.S. Embassy, Samoy.
Chapter
At the Chancery reception desk, Alice Chan sat with her chin on her fists, looking out through the open entry at the people passing along the pavement in the glare of the early morning sun. Of what avail was it, she thought, to be young and pretty, and to be here each day in the place of the Americans, if even when she rose before dawn to dress her hair as it was shown in the Book of the Silver Screen, still the wonderful Mr. Henry Cummins and the others passed by her desk with scarce a glance . . .
Alice gave a faint lift of her shoulders as a small man in a neat white suit―a half-caste―came up the steps, asked directions, gave her a condescending smile, went on. She sighed, opened the drawer of her desk, and drew out a worn movie magazine. She leafed through the thumbed pages, paused to read the caption under a picture of Rock Hudson, then let the magazine drop to the desk. She glanced at the clock over the elevator door: 7:10.
Outside, a patient pi dog shifted, listlessly raised a mange-shaved leg to scratch; Monjee the doorman, who had been squatting in his accustomed place, was scrambling to his feet, thrusting his cigar toward the window ledge. Behind the dusty flank of an Embassy sedan at the curb, a man appeared, coming across the street, up the steps. This was a new American, one Alice had not seen before. He was tall, even for an American, and deep of chest, with hair that was turning grey, and cheerful eyes. She answered his request for directions to the office of the Administrative Officer and watched as he went off along the corridor. She was glad he had not stayed to talk to her any longer than was necessary, but she thought that it would be pleasant if another time he did not hurry past.
2
Bert Sutton, Embassy Administrative Officer, sat in his office looking at the framed poster showing a curving white beach with steep pine-covered hills rising behind it. It looked like a cool, clean place, where you could lie down on the sand and forget everything. Bert had cut the picture from an airline calendar and trimmed away all the advertising except the name of the airline in small print in one corner. He could always take the picture down before the inspectors arrived; or maybe they wouldn’t notice the commercial message. Maybe he would leave it there, let them make something of it if they wanted to. To hell with the inspectors.
Well, not exactly to hell with them, Sutton amended, straightening in his chair. The inspectors were doing an important job; probably they were swell fellows . . . . Maybe they’d enjoy a game of golf, some bridge; Bert was a member of the Turf Club; they’d probably get a kick out of watching the local ponies. And he could get them into Kuan Li, feed them a real Chinese banquet. He’d better get that old devil Mr. Hu to line up a couple of special girls. Keep the nosy bastards busy . . .
Burt turned and stared out through the window, thinking about how Marie Cummins had looked at the pool the day before, slim and full-bosomed in a French bathing suit. Even with her help, that light-weight husband of hers would never get to the top in the Service. Henry was servile enough―but you could tell he secretly preened himself on the fact that he壇 come in through the exam route, considered himself a cut above an integrated officer. Bert snorted at the thought of the condition the Embassy would be in with nothing but these ivory tower fellows around. By golly, they were lucky to have an experienced, dedicated man like Bert Sutton on the job here in the Admin Section.
Bert thought about the morning ahead. It would take about twenty minutes to clear up the left-overs from yesterday afternoon; then after the mail, he would duck down to the snack bar for a cup of coffee; always a good idea to be sociable, crack a few jokes with the staff. Little Nancy from the Political Section was a cute item; she was usually down for coffee about nine.
Then Bayard, the new man for Econ Section, was due in this morning; have to meet him, look him over. Just about time after that to check on the arrangements for the party, then beat it over to the Club and have a couple of gin-and-limes before Harry Yung How showed up for tennis.
Bert uncapped his broad-pointed pen and carefully refilled it from the bottle of turquoise ink he kept in his desk, then lifted a sheaf of papers from his IN basket and started to work. Mabel tapped and came in.
Bert looked up, frowning, holding the pen poised above the paper to indicate that he had been taken in mid-stroke.
“Major Howard to see you, Mr. Sutton.”
Bert frowned thoughtfully. Howard? Nobody of that name here. British Embassy, maybe? No, probably . . .
“Anglo?” he inquired, frowning. He hated to talk to these fellows; always wondered how their fathers or grandfathers had ever gotten down to the level of consorting with native women. Ugly looking little scuts. Did they ever actually marry them? Imagine having your name passed around among generations of these spavined natives . . .
Mabel was nodding. She leaned forward. One thing about Mabel, she didn’t need any padding in the bosom department . . . She wasn’t a bad looking girl. Too bad she wasn’t a little younger.
“He’s just outside . . . ”
Well, no help for it. He must have been waiting when the office opened. Alice Chan ought to stop these people at the front door, put them off.
“Well, certainly, send Major Howard right in,” Bert said heartily.
He leaned back, composed his features. A short, neat man came into the room. He had bushy grey hair and a face that would have looked English if it hadn’t been so brown. Bert stood up, felt his face beaming.
“Well, Major Howard, nice to see you. Here, just pull that chair around.”
“Kind of you to receive me, Mr. Sutton. I am the General Secretary of the SFD, formerly of the British Samoyan Constabulary, now retired.”
Howard laid a straight cane on the corner of Bert’s desk, took a folded sheaf of papers from an inside jacket pocket. He unsnapped a broad rubber band securing the packet, and opened it out.
“Mr. Sutton, our activity in our small party is largely now to keep surveillance over anti-democratic schemes cropping up here and there, because as politicians we are not so expert.” He smiled, showing even white teeth.
“I see,” Bert said.
“No doubt all is well known to your Embassy as to the workings of Communists here in our Republic. Nonetheless, I have now to hand intelligences of some bad hats going into action now on a big scale.” Howard laid out a sheet from his bundle. It was closely written in pencil.
Bert leaned forward and looked at it.
“Hmmm,” he said.
“As you know, Mr. Sutton, Chinese agents are working now very actively among our coolies and sweeper castes, and along the wharves and in the trade unions. Our undercover chaps have turned up now that something big is in the wind. The take-over is set now for the spring of the year, during water festival, to cover starting of rioting ..
“The take-over?”
Major Howard looked at Bert. “These Reds are thoroughly bad fellows; they are bent on having it all their own way, you know. Now the riots―・
“I hardly think, Major Howard, that the Communists are in a position to, as you put it, ahh . . . take over.” Bert smiled patiently. “There are only a few thousand―・
“Precisely, Mr. Sutton! But each is a rabble-rouser, and the masses here in Samoy are not so well educated, you remember. Only a few promises, and they are off! The riots―・
Bert glanced at his watch. “I understand a few windows were broken over at the French Legation during the Laotian coup―that痴 about as violent as these crowds become. They池e quite harmless, we致e found, Major.・
“This is another matter, this time, excuse me, Mr. Sutton. The plan is first the heavy assault on U. S. Embassy, then moving along to Government Ho\ise. The assassinations―・
Bert rose. “Major Howard, it’s been very nice seeing you, and I do hope you’ll drop by again; unfortunately, I must run now; another meeting, you understand.” He came around the desk and helped Major Howard along to the door.
“Don’t forget your documents, Major.”
3
. . . I left the cute little Chinese girl at the front desk, found the office of the Admin Officer, waited while the heavy-faced girl exchanged countersigns with somebody through a half-open painted-over glass door, then went in. A rangy fellow with a tanned face and bags under his eyes dropped a cigarette in an ashtray, jumped up and gave me a big smile, pumped my hand, waved at a chair.
“Well, Mr. Bayard, welcome to Samoy. Tm Bert Sutton, Admin Officer; just call me Bert We’re a pretty informal bunch here.” Bert sobered suddenly.
“Say, Brion, who met you at the airport last night?”
“I managed to make it unassisted,” I said.
“Oh.” Bert leaned back in his swivel chair, sat upright again.
“Did you have any trouble in Customs?”
“No trouble; took about an hour.”
“An hour? That’s outrageous! By golly, I wish Fd been out there. Diplomatic passport, too.” Sutton waggled his head sadly. “These fellows are getting pretty unreasonable. I’m going to mention this to the Ambassador.” He made a note on a pad. “I’ll draft a stiff note to Kinmong over at the Foreign Office.”
Bert offered me a cigarette, lit up and put the cigarette in an ashtray.
“Say, Brion, before we get into this―・Bert smiled playfully at the papers piled on his desk―罵et痴 get you fixed up with some of the necessities. I値l take you downstairs and introduce you to the commissary staff and see to it you get some food in the house―・He paused.
“You do have quarters assigned?”
“No, not yet.”
“Say; m get on Cummins about that” Bert shook his head and looked solemn. “Some of these junior officers . . . “ He scribbled again.
“Say, what about tonight? Reception at the Ambassador’s, you know. I think you ought to come. I’ll attend to an invitation for you. I’ll have my driver drop around for you about seven thirty; chance to meet everybody.” Sutton rubbed his hands together and stood.
“Well, Brion, maybe you’d like to get with Tom Hurd over in Personnel. Hell take care of you, introduce you around and so on. Unfortunately, I have an appointment this morning and I’m on a tight schedule. We can cover your Admin briefing tomorrow.” He gave me a fast grip of dismissal. In the outer office, the heavy-faced girl watched me, not smiling; I leered at her and went on out
In the Personnel Office, a long horsey-looking chap sitting hunched over a desk gave me a look like a country storekeeper who sees city folks coming in the door. I told him who I was and we jockeyed for a few minutes while he got the feel of how much weight he was going to be able to throw with me.
“OK, Bayard,” he said. “I’ll take you up and introduce you to the staff. Just sit down while I finish up signing off these reports.”
“Never mind,” I told him. “Tell me where the Economic Section is, and I’ll move along.”
Hurd didn’t want to miss anything; he unfolded and led me upstairs and into an office where a man with wiry brown hair and thick glasses sat behind a desk writing. He finished out the sentence, then looked at me and then at Hurd.
“Oh, Tom,” he said. He laid the pen aside and stood up, slowly, as if he were tired.
“Mr. Jakes, Brion Bayard. He’s your new assistant up here in the Econ Section.”
Jakes pulled his mouth sideways, took off the glasses and blinked at me. “Well, hardly my assistant, Tom.” He extended a hand. I tried it, gave it back to him.
“How’ve you been, Mr. Bayard? You’re Dan’s replacement?”
Jakes waved toward the chairs, and I sat down.
“You’ve arrived at a good time, Bayard. Mr. Kerrigan and I have been going over some plans for a reorganization here within the Economic Section.” Jakes fitted his glasses back on and settled them in place.
“I’ve been carrying most of the administrative workload in addition to my substantive work, and the WEEKA in addition. And, of course, the Quarterly Summary.”
I looked sympathetic.
“I’d like to turn the bulk of the routine work over to you as soon as possible, particularly the Trade and Export Opportunity and Inquiry Reports, and naturally, the WTDR’S. I find that, frankly, I haven’t a great deal of interest in these trivial, or rather, routine, matters. Of course, my substantive work consumes the bulk of my time.”
I couldn’t top that, so I said nothing.
“I’ll be passing a good deal of the alert reporting along to you, too, I think,” Jakes said. His tone was getting a little dreamy now, like somebody planning his vacation. “And our Commercial Library is badly behind date . . . ”
“Hey, that sounds bad,” I said. I got out a cigar and peeled it.
“Of course, you’ll have the opportunity to do some reporting, too. I’ll want to turn over Section Ten . . . “ A thoughtful look crossed Jakes’ face. I lit the cigar.
“You’re familiar with CERP requirements of course?”
I looked around and found an ashtray, and dropped the match in it.
“Sorry,” I said. “Never heard of them.”
Jakes blinked at me.
“Just what has been your experience in Economic work, Mr. Bayard?”
I hated to ruin his morning, but I told him.
“Oh.” Jakes said. “I see.”
“Gee whiz, fellas,” Hurd said. “I hate to break up this nice talk, but I got to be going.” He left us, and I went a a few more rounds with Jakes. We finally settled on an inspection of the Commercial Library as my first big assignment.
I found my way down to the basement, picked a path back among stacked packing cases to a dusty door, eased it open. Two faces turned my way from behind a low railing against which bundled paper-covered books were stacked. Two pairs of feet dropped off the desks as I pushed past the swinging gate and looked around. There were two light fixtures, one with a black-speckled bulb, the other with a cluster of frayed extension cords leading to a fan, a radio, and a hot plate with the cover missing. There was a window, up high, the glass pretty heavily coated with Samoyan real estate.
Around the room newspapers were heaped, loose and in bundles. Behind them you could see the glass doors of bookcases, with the shelves mostly empty. The two desks were covered with more newspapers, and pieces clipped from newspapers, and pieces trimmed off the clippings. The latter spilled over on the floor, radiating from a filled wastebasket. A large pair of shears, three empty tea cups, and yesterday’s banana added a homey touch.
The two chaps that went along with the faces and the feet were up now, looking around for clues to place me so they’d know whether to start their explanations, or ask me for one. I told them where I fitted into the picture, which netted me two glassy smiles but no laughter. We shook hands and they told me their names and then we all stood for awhile and looked around at the newspapers.
It was pretty clear that excavation was called for first, so I told the old boy, whose name was Nabi, to throw out the papers, wash the windows, sweep the floor, empty the wastebasket, get rid of the wires and put the books in the bookcases. I turned to go and a book fell from a high shelf to the floor in front of me. I looked up and spotted a third pair of feet, no better looking than the others.
“What the hell is that?” I asked. Another book fell down.
Nabi craned. He looked at me, dropped his chin to look over the glasses, didn’t like it any better that way, went back to looking through them.
“Friend of yours?” I asked.
“Yes, friend!” Nabi smiled. ...
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