trident and stuffed it into his mouth. “Jack's got money on next December,” he said, winking. “But I think we'll be here at least through spring. It's going to be a fight getting into Saigon.” He shrugged in the direction of one of the secretaries, who was seated to Harry's right. “Susan's in charge of the pool, if you'd like to contribute.”
“It's fifty dollars to buy in,” Susan said, smiling condescendingly, issuing the information as if it were a warning.
She was thin and impossibly pretty, with the kind of nose the girls in his Ridgewood, New Jersey, high school often paid large sums of money to acquire. Though it was not her looks Harry had fallen in love with at that moment but her obvious and concrete sense of herself, something that Harry had never seen in a woman before.
“So what are we supposed to be doing here in the meantime?” he asked, taking a sip of his Côtes du Rhône, ducking Susan's gaze.
“Standard wine and dine,” Steve Robinson said. “We've been focusing on the ICCS. The Poles, mainly. The Hungarians, as I'm sure you know, won't give us shit.”
“No defections!” Janson interjected. “We'd have the whole Polish delegation in a matter of days.”
The same old dance, Harry thought, only here instead of the consular staff it was the fruits of peace they were reaping, the very people the Paris Accords had sent in to make sure everyone got along.
The Vietnamese waiter appeared with their dinners. Harry, watching the man's calm face as he distributed the plates, thought naïvely, Well, he's not afraid.
“Nha Trang's not so bad, actually,” Robinson offered, tucking into his steaming coq au vin, seemingly oblivious to the tropical heat. “I was up there for a while this past winter. Your quarters come with a doll of a housekeeper. Pretty Vietnamese girl. Keep her in French chocolates and she'll do just about anything you ask. I'll get you the name of a good shop in Saigon before you leave.”
Harry felt himself flush. He glanced over at Susan, who seemed unfazed by Robinson's remarks.
“Harry's quite the amateur astronomer,” Morrow announced in a tone that verged on mockery. “Am I right?”
“Yes,” Harry answered. “That's right.”
“And what's your weapon of choice? Unitron? Zeiss?”
“I use a Celestron C-8, actually.”
Morrow nodded. “There will be plenty of stars in Nha Trang.”
Harry cut into his steak. He had ordered it medium-well, but it was still bloody, and the sight of the undercooked meat made him nauseous.
Susan leaned toward him. “You can send it back, you know.”
Harry shook his head. “It's fine.” He took a bite and chewed, washed the steak down with more red wine.
Susan watched him dubiously. “For chrissakes!” she said, waving to get the waiter's attention. “How did you want it cooked?”
“Really,” Harry told her, blushing again. “I guess I'm just not all that hungry. Must be the heat.”
But the waiter was already on his way over.
Susan pointed to Harry's plate. “Take it back,” she commanded in perfect French.
Harry smiled at the waiter. “It's fine,” he insisted. “It's really fine.”
The waiter looked down at him, and Harry could tell by the look on the man's face that even he thought the steak should go back. But the entire table was watching by now and Harry, for reasons entirely beyond his control, could not back down.
“It's fine,” he repeated, grinning crazily. “It's absolutely fine.”
Then another flash lit up the countryside, this one bigger than the last, capturing the attention of everyone at the table, and Harry was mercifully rescued from himself.
After dinner, as they all stood on the steps of the Caravelle waiting for their cars, Pete Janson had nudged Harry. “Don't even think about it.”
“Think about what?”
Janson snorted. “You think I'm some kind of asshole?”
Morrow's Mercedes pulled up, and Harry watched Susan climb into the passenger seat. “She have a thing
“It's fifty dollars to buy in,” Susan said, smiling condescendingly, issuing the information as if it were a warning.
She was thin and impossibly pretty, with the kind of nose the girls in his Ridgewood, New Jersey, high school often paid large sums of money to acquire. Though it was not her looks Harry had fallen in love with at that moment but her obvious and concrete sense of herself, something that Harry had never seen in a woman before.
“So what are we supposed to be doing here in the meantime?” he asked, taking a sip of his Côtes du Rhône, ducking Susan's gaze.
“Standard wine and dine,” Steve Robinson said. “We've been focusing on the ICCS. The Poles, mainly. The Hungarians, as I'm sure you know, won't give us shit.”
“No defections!” Janson interjected. “We'd have the whole Polish delegation in a matter of days.”
The same old dance, Harry thought, only here instead of the consular staff it was the fruits of peace they were reaping, the very people the Paris Accords had sent in to make sure everyone got along.
The Vietnamese waiter appeared with their dinners. Harry, watching the man's calm face as he distributed the plates, thought naïvely, Well, he's not afraid.
“Nha Trang's not so bad, actually,” Robinson offered, tucking into his steaming coq au vin, seemingly oblivious to the tropical heat. “I was up there for a while this past winter. Your quarters come with a doll of a housekeeper. Pretty Vietnamese girl. Keep her in French chocolates and she'll do just about anything you ask. I'll get you the name of a good shop in Saigon before you leave.”
Harry felt himself flush. He glanced over at Susan, who seemed unfazed by Robinson's remarks.
“Harry's quite the amateur astronomer,” Morrow announced in a tone that verged on mockery. “Am I right?”
“Yes,” Harry answered. “That's right.”
“And what's your weapon of choice? Unitron? Zeiss?”
“I use a Celestron C-8, actually.”
Morrow nodded. “There will be plenty of stars in Nha Trang.”
Harry cut into his steak. He had ordered it medium-well, but it was still bloody, and the sight of the undercooked meat made him nauseous.
Susan leaned toward him. “You can send it back, you know.”
Harry shook his head. “It's fine.” He took a bite and chewed, washed the steak down with more red wine.
Susan watched him dubiously. “For chrissakes!” she said, waving to get the waiter's attention. “How did you want it cooked?”
“Really,” Harry told her, blushing again. “I guess I'm just not all that hungry. Must be the heat.”
But the waiter was already on his way over.
Susan pointed to Harry's plate. “Take it back,” she commanded in perfect French.
Harry smiled at the waiter. “It's fine,” he insisted. “It's really fine.”
The waiter looked down at him, and Harry could tell by the look on the man's face that even he thought the steak should go back. But the entire table was watching by now and Harry, for reasons entirely beyond his control, could not back down.
“It's fine,” he repeated, grinning crazily. “It's absolutely fine.”
Then another flash lit up the countryside, this one bigger than the last, capturing the attention of everyone at the table, and Harry was mercifully rescued from himself.
After dinner, as they all stood on the steps of the Caravelle waiting for their cars, Pete Janson had nudged Harry. “Don't even think about it.”
“Think about what?”
Janson snorted. “You think I'm some kind of asshole?”
Morrow's Mercedes pulled up, and Harry watched Susan climb into the passenger seat. “She have a thing
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