Café Wars Read online

  “Yeah. I’ll be all right.”

  “Okay. We can fly back to Hanoi after the signing.”

  “No. We both know you need to stay here in Geneva. Your magazine expects complete coverage and that means interviews with everyone and their dog once the peace agreement has been signed. The politicians will want their minute in the spotlight. Easy pickings for a pro like you.”

  “It’s really just a lot of posturing if the South Vietnamese and the U.S. don’t sign. Besides, your health is more important than my job.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, but I’ll be fine. Besides, someone needs to pack up your apartment in Hanoi.”

  “You’re not going to pack up the apartment.”

  “No. I won’t actually pack anything but I can supervise and make sure everything makes it back to Paris.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “…for us. Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Brigitte lay back down beside him and brushed the hair off his forehead. “I can’t believe it’s actually ending after eight years,” she said.

  “Worried a war correspondent like yourself will have nothing to write about?” said Coyle.

  “There will always be something to write about. The world is not a peaceful place. There will always be a war somewhere.”

  “I suppose you’re right… and gainfully employed. Which is good. One of us should have a job that pays the bills.” He smiled. “I could get used to being a kept man.”

  Brigitte hit him, careful to avoid his wounded shoulder. He moaned in mock pain. He closed his eyes and pretended to go to sleep. It was the only way to get her to fall asleep and she needed her rest. He was far from sleep and would stay up remembering what had happened and considering what might be next.

  Coyle slept on the plane flying back to Hanoi until his nightmares overtook his slumber. He would wake not knowing where he was at. It would take a few moments of confusion before he realized that he was safe. Riding in the back of a plane rather than in the pilot’s seat was unfamiliar to him and made his butt sore.

  His shoulder was another story. During the fall of Dien Bien Phu, Coyle and Brigitte had attempted to escape the French garrison through the outlining forest around the airstrip. Brigitte accidently tripped a booby-trap and Coyle pushed her out of the way to keep her from being skewered by several sharpened stakes. In the process he was skewered himself and they were captured by a Viet Minh patrol. Soon after, they were released so that Coyle could deliver a message to the Americans from General Giap, the Viet Minh commander and architect of the offensive that defeated the French. The wound festered and eventually became septic. It almost killed him. The doctors were forced to cut away a large amount of infected flesh around the wound and healing had been a slow process. He had not be able to fly since the incident and was getting antsy.

  Coyle loved to fly. He was good at it. One of the best, some said. It seemed natural to him like he was born to sit in a cockpit. He had flown in four wars. In the beginning, he had flown combat aircraft. Now he only flew cargo and transported troops in the C-119 Boxcars. He had lost his taste for combat and killing. There was no glory in it as he had thought when he was a young man and first joined the Army. He knew now that war only created misery and sorrow. He had seen enough pain and death to fill a lifetime and wanted no more of it.

  These last six months, Coyle had been flying for the French Army as a subcontractor through Civil Air Transport (CAT). CAT was an aviation services company founded by the American General Claire Lee Chennault. The company would eventually be purchased by the CIA and become known as Air America. CAT paid well and did not require Coyle to fly combat missions as part of his contract.

  He had tried to go back to the United States and fly commercial airlines but it just wasn’t a good fit. He couldn’t stand the whining passengers complaining that the aircraft cabin was too cold or too hot. It’s an aircraft for Christ’s sake, he thought. You’d think it was a luxury cruise liner.

  He was looking forward to spending time with Brigitte in Paris. He would pick up a job flying cargo that gave him weekends off. She would spend her time writing articles for the magazine and working on her book about her adventures as a war correspondent flying with the French paratroopers. There would be long dinners with her friends where he would feel lost, because everyone was talking in French, but he didn’t care, because Brigitte was laughing and smiling. That’s all he really wanted… to make her happy. It would be a good life.

  Brigitte had a cute apartment in the old Jewish quarter called ‘Le Marais.’ It was an easy walk to Notre Dame, the Seine River and the Louvre. He liked the sidewalk cafes, the pastry shops and little bookstores, with their floor to ceiling shelves stuffed with dusty editions of Hemingway’s ‘A Moveable Feast.’ The underground metro made getting around easy and Paris was one of the world’s best walking cities. There was so much to see and do everywhere. Best of all, he liked waking up next to Brigitte. She was not an easy woman but he loved her and would do anything to protect her – as he had proven several times in Vietnam.

  The airline waitresses served cocktails and the evening meal. The steak he ordered was far from hot. He didn’t say a thing. Life was good. Why push it?

  Ho Chi Minh was not happy. His army had won at Dien Bien Phu, and the French were demoralized. Both sides had paid a heavy price. Both sides had lost their best soldiers. The French were still dangerous. They had only used 10% of their total fighting force. Ho had used 50% of his, together with most of the munitions for his artillery. His army was out of position, stuck in the highlands, shepherding French prisoners, and the monsoons were taking their toll on his lines of communication, making troop transport all but impossible. It would take months to reposition his soldiers and replenish his supplies. It would be six months before his army was ready to fight another major offensive. And while he prepared, the French would recruit more South Vietnamese into their fighting force and train them to kill his brothers and sisters.

  His representatives had the momentum at the negotiating table in Geneva. The French politicians wanted out of Vietnam but that could change like the wind if the French generals were able to secure a military victory or the Americans decided to enter the war. He had the Chinese and the Russians on his side but they were growing weary of the eight year war and were threatening to cut off aid if he did not make a deal with the French. The Russians had suggested that Ho accept the current deal and wait until the French left, before continuing the struggle. Ho questioned whether the Russians or the Chinese would be willing to continue the war once the peace was won.

  The deal on the table was a bitter pill to swallow. It divided Vietnam in two – the North and the South. There would be a ceasefire and an exchange of prisoners. The French would withdraw and leave both Vietnams. The two Vietnams would be independent. Elections would be held within two years and Vietnam would once again be united… maybe.

  The South Vietnamese government was not agreeing to the deal but the French had decided to go ahead without them. America had offered to step in and guarantee South Vietnam’s survival. The Americans did not like the deal either. They didn’t trust the North to have free and fair elections. They were blinded by their ideology and hated the communists. It was true. Ho Chi Minh was a communist but he was a nationalist first. He loved his country and its people. He had spent his life fighting for their freedom. To Ho, communism was a means to an end. A method to fairly redistribute the land that the French had taken and to give his people a chance at happiness. It was about the people, not ideology. If he thought capitalism could feed his people he would gladly accept it. But he had seen the greed of the French. They had stolen the wealth of Vietnam and given little back to the people. He had seen capitalism at work. It offered little hope. Ho would remain a communist until the end and the Americans could pound sand if they didn’t like it.

  Ho and his people would accept the deal that wa
s offered. They would be patient and wait until the French had left just as the Russians had suggested. But it wasn’t over. Not until Vietnam was once again unified. He knew there were more battles to be fought and more blood to be shed.

  Brigitte sat with the other journalists to witness the signing of the agreement between the Viet Minh and the French. It was a sad day for her. She loved her country and up until that day, Vietnam was part of France. The tide of anti-imperialism had been swinging against the European powers since before World War II. The colonies wanted their independence and they saw that their European masters were weak from fighting a World War that bled them dry. It was now or never. The time to strike. And strike they did.

  Vietnam was the first of France’s colonies to win its independence through revolution. Others would surely follow. Morocco and Tunisia had already refused to join the French Union. Cambodia and Laos were newly independent countries and were already considering shedding the protection of their former master.

  Algeria was the most troubling. Algeria was not considered a colony but part of metropolitan France. Algiers, the capital of Algeria, had been the city the Free France government used as a capital while Paris was occupied by the Germans. The ties were strong, or so the French thought.

  Brigitte thought about the benefits France had brought to her colonies: commerce, railroads, hospitals, universities and, of course, government with its codex of laws. Before France, most of the colonies had gone through civil wars and changed their heads of state multiple times. It was difficult for a nation and its people to progress when one never knew what the policy and laws would be in the future. France had brought stability and modernization to its colonies. There was little question the people had benefited and progressed under their colonial masters. But their desire for self-determination outweighed the benefits and now they wanted their freedom. They were willing to fight for it, and France had proven she was willing to fight to keep her empire intact… even if she didn’t always win.

  The South Vietnamese leaders were noticeably absent from the signing, Brigitte scribbled in her notes. Their fate had been decided by the Viet Minh, French, Chinese and Russians. Their country was divided without their consent. They would acquiesce for the moment and adhere to the terms of the agreement without actually signing it. They did not believe that the North Vietnamese would keep their word. But the French were leaving, with or without their approval. Better to be rid of them and be free to fight the coming war as they saw fit. Only the Americans stood by their side and declined to sign the agreement. But would America stand by the south when they were betrayed by the north? Would America’s help be enough to fend off the communists?

  Brigitte attempted to be objective when she wrote her articles but she was a patriot. She was after all… French. She had joined the French resistance during the German occupation of France. She had been captured and tortured to reveal the names of her co-conspirators. She wanted to be brave and resist the Gestapo, but their methods were effective. When the Gestapo finally released her, she spent the rest of the war in a German prison camp wondering if the information she had revealed had caused the deaths or imprisonment of her comrades. It was a heavy burden to bear.

  The French magazine Politiques Internationales that employed Brigitte had already informed her that she had been replaced by a younger reporter in Hanoi and she was to return to France. They had no intention of letting their star war correspondent remain in Vietnam as France’s influence withered away. That job was assigned to a new reporter that still needed to prove their worth. Fresh meat for the journalism grinder.

  Brigitte had become a well-known celebrity for her reporting during the siege of Dien Bien Phu. Her parachuting into the valley in the opening battle of the campaign had enthralled her readers, as she knew it would. Brigitte wanted to be famous and wasn’t afraid to admit it. She wanted people to read her writing and if it took jumping from an airplane to accomplish her goal, then so be it. She had been awarded her parachutist brevet which she wore proudly on her tailored jumpsuit. Dien Bien Phu was her fifth jump with the French paratroopers, but not her last.

  The magazine would put her out for interviews and photo ops like a prized pony. She had already had an appearance on the American television show “What’s my line?” as a challenger. She didn’t mind as long as there was still time to write. Once her book was finished she would need all the publicity she could get.

  Tonight there would be a grand party at the French embassy to celebrate the signing of the agreement. She had purchased a new evening gown that revealed just enough skin to catch the eye and yet covered just enough to be treated serious. She had feigned disappointment that Coyle would not be there to see it. In reality, she was relieved. She had kept quiet about her relationship with Coyle. It wasn’t a secret, but she didn’t want her relationship with the American pilot to distract from her own accomplishments. She was not the type of woman that would stand behind her man. She would stand with him, or sometimes in front of him, whether he liked it or not. After all, he knew what he was getting into when he first started courting her. She figured her moxie was part of the reason he was attracted to her. She was a woman to be reckoned with. A challenge to be met.

  Brigitte waded through the crowd when the signing ceremony was finally concluded. She spotted Brigadier Generals Jean Gilles and Jacque Massu in a group of officers near the doorway. As she approached, Gilles saw her, smiled and gave her a hug. “Brigitte, you look lovely.”

  “Thank you, General Gilles. I see you have polished your eye for the occasion,” said Brigitte.

  “Indeed I did. Would you care to see it?” Gilles enjoyed popping out his glass eye whenever possible, especially when young ladies were present.

  “No thank you, General. I have seen it quite enough. Best save the surprise for the un-indoctrinated.”

  “Brigitte and I jumped into Dien Bien Phu together,” said Gilles turning to the others in the group. “Do you remember, Brigitte?”

  “One does not forget such an experience,” said Brigitte. “He puts his eye in his pocket when he jumps.”

  “One does not want to go searching for a misplaced eyeball when under fire,” said Gilles.

  “Good policy,” said Brigitte.

  “Brigitte, have you met Brigadier General Massu?”

  “Yes. We met in Saigon in ’52 I believe. How are you, General?”

  “Quite well, considering… Not exactly an auspicious day, is it?” said Massu shaking her hand. “This is what one can expect when your hands are tied by the politicians in Paris.”

  “I’m sure I would find many that would agree with you, General,” said Brigitte. “Have you heard any scuttlebutt on when the Viet Minh might release their French prisoners?”

  “Worried about Bruno?” said Gilles.

  “Bruno and the others. I would feel better if I knew they were receiving their Red Cross packages.”

  “Doubtful,” said Major Paul Aussaresses.

  “Mademoiselle Friang, this is Major Paul Aussaresses,” said Massu. “If anyone would know, he would. He is in charge of my intelligence unit.”

  “Your reputation proceeds you, Mademoiselle Friang,” said Aussaresses shaking her hand.

  “And yours, Major,” said Brigitte, slightly weary. She had heard stories of the Massu’s major and his studies of the art of interrogation.

  “I do not believe it will be long before our prisoners are released. The Viet Minh don’t have the food and medical supplies to care for them. That being said, I’m also sure there will be some last minute conditions attached to their release,” said Aussaresses.

  “And will we comply?” said Brigitte.

  “I would imagine,” said Massu. “Paris wants to wash its hands of the entire affair as soon as possible. Nobody is in the mood to quibble.”

  “So, where to next?” said Brigitte.

  “Algeria I would imagine,” said Gilles.

  “You think the situation is that serious?
” said Brigitte.

  “Yes. They have seen the Vietnamese insurrection succeed. Now they will want their own,” said Gilles.

  “Algeria is not Vietnam. I doubt the politicians will give it up so easily,” said Massu. “France’s honor is at stake. We have lost enough face for a time. We will fight to win it back and perhaps our hands will finally be untied.”

  TWO

  Ahmed Ben Bella sat in an Algerian café finishing his tea. He knew he was being watched. Someone was always watching him and occasionally trying to kill him. He had already survived multiple gunshot wounds and a bomb blast intended to end his life while hiding out in Egypt. He was a hard man to kill.

  He was tall and considered good looking by most women. He had returned to Algeria under an assumed name with a forged passport like a goat entering a wolf’s lair. But he was no goat. He had fought for the French in World War II and won several medals for his bravery, including the Croix de Guerre and the Medaille Militaire, which Charles de Gaulle had awarded to him personally. The French Army had trained him well. Now, they and the pieds-noir militias, hunted him. He was a troublemaker, and they wanted him dead.

  Messali Hadj and Bella were the founders of Organisation Speciale (OS), the paramilitary wing of the Mouvement National Algérien (MNA) - a political organization lobbying for Algeria’s Independence and secretly preparing to take up arms against the French as soon as the time was right. With the signing of the Geneva Accords that freed Vietnam from French rule, that time was approaching. Algerians were energized by the French defeat at Dien Bien Phu and saw the light at the end of a long dark tunnel – their own bid for Independence. Bella was in Algeria to build on that momentum. It was a big risk, but he was used to big risks.

  He would need to shake whomever was tailing him before he met with the leaders of the other underground organizations later that evening. They would meet in secret knowing full well that anyone of them could have been turned by the police or worse… the militia. If any of them had been turned by the enemy it would mean jail for the rest of them and most likely torture that would end with their disappearance. Bella was familiar with torture and knew to hold out as long as possible, then become a fountain of both true and false information so his opponents could not tell the difference and would discount whatever he said. Naturally, he would prefer to remain free and avoid any unpleasantness but he was not afraid. Few things frightened Bella. Many were frightened by Bella. He was a veteran assassin when required and he too knew effective methods of torture.