In response, Ashton shook off the policemen holding him. When one of them moved to lay a hand on him again, Ashton swung at him with his fist and knocked him to the ground. This triggered a flurry of activity; other policemen rushed in and began to club Ashton with canes till he passed out. When he came to, he was lying on the floor of a room which smelt like a urinal. He spent the night there, alone in the dark.
They must have gone through his pockets, because Dennis was there at six in the morning to get him out.
‘I don’t have to tell you that you look terrible and smell worse,’ was the only comment his colleague made while helping him into the car.
When they reached the Embassy, Ashton got out of the car on his own and hobbled to his room.
‘Just get on that plane, Henry. Please!’ Dennis called out to his retreating back.
Ashton didn’t answer. The flight to Tokyo was at 6 p.m.
Dennis came to his room at noon. He looked flushed.
‘I think we have something,’ he said. ‘The Yanks want to see you.’
‘You spoke to them?’
‘First thing, as soon as it happened. But they hadn’t responded until now. They’ve spoken to Julius. You’re to meet them at the club.’ His voice dropped and he continued in a whisper that sounded almost theatrical, ‘Three in the afternoon. I’ve been told to ensure that no one sees you going out. So I’ve got a private car. If anyone stops you, you’re to say you’re going to the doctor. It’s all cloak and dagger. Don’t ask me why.’
At the club, an American sergeant met Ashton, escorted him straight into the library and closed the door behind him as he left. Harold Wilton was already seated. Next to him was a tall, stern-looking man whose face Ashton had seen somewhere, but couldn’t place. Both men rose to their feet as he entered and the British ambassador made the introductions. ‘This is the American ambassador-designate, Mr Henry Cabot Lodge, Junior’ he told Ashton, indicating the austere-looking man.
Henry Cabot Lodge, Junior had been brought in as Ambassador for a reason. August 1963 was turning out to be a tumultuous period in Vietnam’s history. From the north, the Vietminh were making steady inroads into the south and starting to use a network of jungle paths that would come to be known as the Ho Chi Minh Trail and passed through Cambodia and Laos, thereby enabling them to develop supply lines behind the 17th Parallel. Diem, the Catholic President of the south, was beginning to find his position untenable. With the Buddhist agitation garnering mass support, Diem was increasingly given to issuing meaningless writs and orders which could not be enforced.
The men in the club’s library engaged in desultory small talk. Then Henry Lodge came straight to the point.
‘The way I see it, Colonel, we all want something here,’ he began. ‘We want Diem to stay. He’s not the best, but there is no other. And if Diem has to stay, the Buddhist self-immolations have to stop. They attract far too much attention and make our policy look bad at home. The Vietnamese can continue to protest. And sure, we will be sympathetic. But no more self-immolations. You want the girl out and the Buddhists want you as a mediator. If you go and talk to them and persuade them to stop all the burning, we can get Diem to release the girl.’
Ashton sensed that the ambassador-designate was in his element. He made it all sound so simple, even plausible.
‘Why do the Buddhists want me?’ Ashton asked, his tone betraying incredulity.
‘We’ve been trying to figure that one out. Probably because of your, um, close rapport with the girl and your recent heroics, Colonel.’ The ambassador-designate permitted himself a small smile. ‘The guys who got in touch with them have said it’s either you or no deal. Suits us too. We don’t get involved. Given President Diem’s current predicament, we don’t think he would take too kindly to us negotiating with the Buddhists.’
‘What do I have to do?’
‘You go down to,’ the ambassador-designate consulted a small pad in front of him, ‘Louangphrabang – that’s in Laos – and make your way to the Monastery of the White Elephant. It’s one of the oldest and most venerated monasteries in Indo-China. There, you will meet the designated intermediary, the monastery’s head priest.’ He paused, then continued, ‘In their culture, seniority and hierarchy garner much respect. So if the Laos monastery issues an edict, it will be obeyed without question.’
It was quite apparent to Ashton that the ambassador-designate was now simply mouthing the briefing he had been given by the State Department men. After a pause, Lodge continued, ‘Also, since it is in Laos, Diem can’t get to it.’
The British ambassador interrupted with a low cough, before addressing Ashton.
‘If you choose to accept, you will submit an application expressing your wish to resign your commission which,’ – another cough – ‘will be granted immediately. The ministry has given me the authority to do the needful.’ He paused, ‘I’m sure you understand, Ashton, that the terms of the Official Secrets Act will still apply and this entire affair is to be conducted maintaining the strictest confidentiality.’
It was clear to Ashton that they had thought it through to the minutest detail. It was equally clear that he would be acting on his own.
‘When do I go?’ he asked.
The other two men looked at each other.
‘Tonight, if you are ready,’ Wilton replied. ‘The flight out is booked.’
‘You knew, then, that I would agree?’ Ashton said, unable to let it go.
Both men looked at him impassively before rising to their feet. The meeting was over.
Ashton boarded his flight and was met in Tokyo by a British Embassy staffer, who handed him a ticket for Vientiane. By the following evening, he had landed in the official capital of Laos. Ashton was carrying a regular British passport, having handed his diplomatic one to Dennis, who had seen him off at Saigon airport. Ashton was now officially
persona non grata
; he could never go to Vietnam again.
At Vientiane, it was raining with the typical violence of a tropical monsoon, with no signs of a let-up. A local tour guide met him and changed his currency for him. Ashton tried to conduct himself like a tourist, buying himself a guidebook and, as an afterthought, a small book on Buddhism. He couldn’t be sure, but suspected the white couple sipping coffee in the airport lounge was American, CIA or whoever had been employed to keep an eye on him. It didn’t really matter.
The guide took Ashton to the river in a taxi and made arrangements for him to complete the next segment of his journey by boat along the Mekong River which served as the border between Laos and Thailand. It ran twisting through the mountains and cut through thick jungle that reminded him strongly of Malaya, except that the vegetation here appeared wilder and denser. It was a small boat, thirty feet long at best, with fishing nets hung on its bow. The catch possibly supplemented the income of the boat’s owners or at least fed them when they were not busy ferrying people. But for now, the boat took on passengers from both sides of the border, many of them greeting the pilot and crew with effusive familiarity. None of the passengers seemed to be paying for the trip in currency; instead, they left some rice or fish for the pilot and his crew, while one man even handed over a pig in lieu of fare.
The boat did not have a cabin. The pilot navigated from under an improvised lean-to made of poles, on which a rusty tin sheet had been fixed with wires to serve as the roof. The boat had no toilet either. To ease yourself, you needed to climb over the stern and hang on to thick manila ropes while finishing your business. The boat was powered by an old diesel-run outboard motor that trailed a slick in the Mekong’s muddy brown waters. Ashton had been graciously offered the only chair on board, a ridiculous cane rocking chair set close to the stern, where diesel drums had been piled up. The crew treated him with deference, partly because it was in their culture to do so, partly because he was the only white man on the boat and had been put on board by his guide with much fuss and gesticulation and mostly because he was the only passenger paying in cash. They even gave him a huge umbrella to keep out the rain. Everyone else carried his own.
Over the next couple of days on the boat, Ashton grew to enjoy eating out of the two bowls he was served, one containing rice and the other the dish of the day. He was the only passenger privileged enough to have two bowls exclusively for his own use. The others ate their rice from individual bowls, while taking turns to dip their chopsticks in the single community bowl in which the accompanying dish had been served for them. After having his first two meals in relative isolation, Ashton asked if he could join the others, to which they smilingly agreed, entertaining themselves by observing the clumsiness with which he used his chopsticks, a sight they found vastly amusing.
It wasn’t long before Ashton came down with diarrhoea. It could have been either from the food or the water which was drawn up from the river by the bucket. Accustomed to the ailment – the white man’s faithful companion all through his stay in the tropics, regardless of duration – Ashton bore it with fortitude, taking regular doses of the medicine he always carried with him.
Just before they reached their destination, the pig, which had been squealing all through the journey but had fallen silent on the last day, was butchered. Ashton decided it was a combination of celebration and common sense. The pig was probably going to die anyway – the reason, perhaps, for its previous owner handing over such a valuable commodity to the crew. After it was cooked, everyone ate with much gusto and Ashton himself tried to do the meal reasonable justice before being forced to abandon it midway and go over the stern.
It was close to noon on the third day when they docked at the port of Louangphrabang. The ancient royal capital of the Thai-Laotian state, this provincial town had also served as the capital under the French till the latter decided in favour of Vientiane. It was also called the City of the Thousand Buddhas. From the boat itself, Ashton could see why. Even the river’s banks were dotted with hundreds of stone Buddha statues jostling for space in the grass and foliage growing around them. Unlike Vientiane, there were no armed guards milling around. Ashton surmised that they had left the civil war behind.
He began searching for the office where he presumed he would have to report and get his papers stamped. After some time, he found a shack on which the painted words ‘
Contrôle
des Passeports’
were barely legible. The man sitting inside stamped Ashton’s documents desultorily, while engaged in a heated argument with a woman who was squatting on the floor of the office and nursing a baby. Ashton asked the man in his halting French if he could give him directions to the monastery. There was no response. It was as if he hadn’t spoken at all. He was about to repeat his query, when the official yelled loudly for someone. A boy appeared. The official snapped out rapid-fire staccato directions in the local language, then turned to Ashton, indicating with a gesture that the boy would guide him to his destination.
Just as Ashton turned to go, the man said curtly, ‘
Le fric,
monsieur.’
Unsure about the going rate, Ashton took out his roll of Laotian currency and handed over 100 Kips. The official seemed pleased enough and turned to dole out one-tenth the amount to the boy who protested indignantly at first over his meagre share before scurrying off to avoid being cuffed by the official who was hurling abuses after him. Ashton quickly shouldered his pack and caught up with the boy.
They followed a track running along the river. The town, for what it was worth, quickly disappeared from view and gave way to an endless expanse of rice fields, where men and women could be seen working. Soon, Ashton discovered that they were making their way up an incline. Visible in the distance was what appeared to be his destination – a monastery built in stone, set atop a hill. They came to the foot of the hill, from where jagged stone steps made their crooked way up. The boy stopped and pointed upwards. Evidently, he didn’t think his tip was enough for him to be obliged to climb those stairs. Ashton grimaced at the boy in mock dismay, indicating with a gesture that it promised to be a difficult climb.
The boy agreed with a grin.
‘A peu près mille marches!’
he announced gleefully, pointing to the steps.
Ashton certainly didn’t have to climb the thousand steps the boy had cheerfully warned him about, but he was still weak from the boat journey and found it hard going. Halfway up, he saw two young monks, robed and tonsured, come down the steps to relieve him of his pack, which now seemed to weigh a ton. One offered him a walking stick, which he declined. Evidently, they had known he would be arriving. He passed under a stone arch and came to a cobblestone courtyard, observing that the monastery had been built on three levels. Here, he was welcomed by another monk, only slightly older than the other two who seemed to be little more than boys.
‘Greetings, Colonel Ashton! I trust you had a safe journey?’ the older monk said in English. ‘I am Ru San Ko.’
Ashton felt a surge of relief as he heard the English words.
‘Yes, thank you,’ he murmured.
‘You must be quite weary from the journey. You are free to retire to your chamber and take some rest. The Teacher is most anxious to meet you and will do so after the evening prayers.’
In time, Ashton would learn that the monastery’s head priest, the man he was to meet, was universally addressed as
Giao Vien
or ‘the Teacher’.
Ashton nodded and the younger monks led him up one more level to a small room presided over by a Buddha image placed against one wall. A little lamp burned before it. A rolled-up coir mat stood in the corner. Next to it was a brass vessel filled with water and a folded towel. The only item of furniture in the room was a small mahogany teapoy. Lying neatly folded on it were a cotton tunic, trousers and a robe, the kind the monks wore. The two young monks silently placed Ashton’s bag in a corner, bowed to him with folded hands and left. When he was alone, Ashton went to the window, which had no grille, and looked out. The Mekong flowed far below. He could see the fishing boats plying in its waters, looking tiny from this distance.