Chapter Four – Vultures:

"My God," Sir Roderick Hives exclaimed, fixing Willie under his aghast and somewhat patronizing gaze, "Caine, you must be mad! Supply the insurgents with arms?"

"Someone's done it, sir," Willie replied levelly. "And Lutara certainly seems to believe it was us. It would have been quite simple, too, with the foreign aid packages the delegation brought along."

"Disaster relief you mean," Hives corrected Willie. "Food and medical supplies, hardly a declaration of hostility let alone an endorsement of an uprising!"

"Were they ever checked, sir, the packages?"

"I suppose someone must have, of course. Can't very well bring shipments into a foreign country without being vetted for arrival."

Willie brushed passed this detail with a shrug. "I suppose there's always the chance that the people who checked it were working with the insurgents."

"You're out of your mind, Caine!" Hives exclaimed again. "Our government in no way, shape, or form, sanctioned this coup. We were acting on a mission of peace!"

"And you're positive about that, sir? Only it wouldn't be the first time that the British Government did something that the Special Section was the last to know about."

"Her Majesty's Government is hardly in any position to need to ask for permission from you, Caine."

Willie ignored this, deaf to anything but his racing thoughts as he sought to fill the missing pieces in with a flurry of information. He thought about Roach's Soviet ship in the Mogadishu port that Bob had apparently been going to investigate before his capture.

Outside, the dawn was slowly creeping across the sky. The Islamic call to prayer erupted suddenly from the heart of the city, echoing through the streets until it seeped, muffled and eerie, through the walls of the embassy.

"When did the Soviets arrive, sir?" said Willie. "Before or after the coup?"

Hives looked quite affronted, "After, of course, Caine."

"And Judd didn't mention anything to you about a Soviet ship in port beforehand?"

"Just what exactly are you suggesting?"

"Only that someone must have supplied the insurgents with arms. If it wasn't us and wasn't the Somalian military than it must have been the Soviets. Apparently Bob had seen evidence of their presence in the city before the coup broke out."

"Ridiculous, Caine," Hives scoffed. "The Soviets came in to help Lutara. Why should they be responsible for the coup in the first place?"

"A KGB plot?" Willie suggested with a shrug. "At the same time they've ensured Lutara's trust and friendship with them while encouraging his continued distrust of the British. After all, now Lutara thinks we're the ones responsible for bringing in the arms."

"But we hadn't anything to do with that!" said Hives in frustration and Willie stopped himself from retorting that it wasn't he who needed convincing, but Lutara.

"Yes, but it isn't beyond the realms of possibility that the Soviets planted the arms in our shipments, perhaps switched out the goods for guns when our backs were turned; it would certainly explain their presence in the port."

"Why let themselves be seen, then?" said Hives. "Foolish sort of thing to do when performing something as clandestine as this."

"There's no logical reason why they shouldn't be here, sir," Willie answered. "They've been sending humanitarian aid for the past months. Lutara's always favored Kosygin to Wilson."

Hives had gone pale. "If it is as you say, Caine…what does that mean for us? Surely Lutara doesn't mean to act on these unfounded allegations."

Willie shrugged. "There's no telling what he could do."

"Then surely we must leave at once," said Hives firmly, if not a little breathlessly. "There's no point to stick around and wait for Lutara to strike."

"Yes, sir," said Willie, "but we'll hardly be able to leave yet. Lutara –"

"If this is about your man Judd, Caine…" Hives began in warning.

Willie interrupted him. "I'm only asking for a few more hours, sir. I have a contact within Lutara's men –"

"If Judd has indeed been taken to Lutara's prison than that is not our concern," Hives intercut, "but a matter of international diplomacy."

"I refuse to leave him behind, sir," Willie said resolutely. "Not until I've exhausted every option."

"We cannot allow one man to put the rest of us at risk!" Hives exclaimed and Willie knew what he was actually saying was that he was not prepared to risk his own upper class life for that of an insignificant intelligence officer like Bob Judd.

Willie tried not to think about Bob. He tried not to think about Bob in Lutara's prison, Bob being dragged down a hallway by guards, Bob being lined up in front of a wall to be shot. He remembered the gunfire from the night before and suppressed a shudder of fear. The panic came in waves, Willie had noticed, suddenly appearing with a persistent, blank fierceness and just as quickly leaving him with a cold and calculating calm.

"Judd doesn't deserve to be left behind, sir," said Willie. He could not afford to lose his head and so was left with a stern, uncompromising resolve. "And I've told you before that I don't intend to."

"Mind you, Caine," said Hives darkly. "If anything ill comes of this – if anything happens that could otherwise have been avoided had you acted with due haste – on your head be it, Caine."

Willie clenched his teeth. "Understood, sir."

Post-war Vietnam was a desolate and broken place. The streets were pockmarked with bomb craters and rubble. Skeletal frames of burnt buildings lined the sidewalks. Dirty children played in the gutters under fluttering red flags with gold stars. The stench of smoke, gasoline, and sweating bodies seemed to hang perpetually in the air. The threadbare cities and damaged villages had flown past the windows of Cheever's rusted Ford like crude pieces of a jigsaw puzzle and the car shuddered over the jagged bumps in the street.

They had driven continuously through the day and half the night, taking turns at the wheel while the other shut their eyes under pretense of getting some sleep. Neil, himself, had been unable to nod off and he doubted that Cheever had done so, either. The darkness of night sagged over the car like a black curtain. Narrow jungle paths had replaced the villages long ago and trees bent low over the road to either side of them, branches reaching into the sky, obscuring the stars, and creating a suffocating feeling of claustrophobia.

Cheever was at the wheel and Neil sitting stonily at his side. Cheever drove nimbly through the roads, navigating each twist and turn as though intimately acquainted with them.

"Got a woman back home, have you, Burnside?"

Neil cocked an eyebrow. Cheever had been relatively good at keeping silent until now, perhaps sensing that Neil was not one for idle chitchat. He wondered what had prompted the CIA man to make conversation now, further wondering if Cheever had just gotten bored.

"I'm married, yes."

"Ah, married," said Cheever. "Haven't gotten bagged yet, myself. What's she like, your wife?"

"Belinda?" said Neil, and immediately wondered just how he was to describe her. Young, rich, suave as her mother, calculating as her father. "Not anything very exceptional."

Cheever laughed, revealing only the top row of his teeth. "Not exactly typical pillow talk."

Neil was not in the practice of discussing his personal life while on an operation and ignored Cheever, staring out the window at the passing vegetation.

"Who's this man we're meeting, anyway?" Neil asked irritably, turning again to glance at Cheever.

"His name's Lý Tôn Binh," Cheever answered. "One of the Montagnard people. Good man, good fighter. Had his chance to leave Saigon last April but elected to stay behind, hold down the fort."

"Isn't that rather foolish?" said Neil. "The PAVN must be looking for him."

Cheever lifted one hand off the steering wheel and waved it toward the car window and the passing trees and undergrowth of the shadowy and mysterious jungle. "There's still plenty of places to hide in there, Burnside. Besides, most of his people stayed. They were trained by the Greenies to cut off the North Vietnamese supply lines into the South. I met Binh through Operation Phoenix."

"Ah yes," said Neil, remembering Willie's rather ostentatious description of the 'CIA's official murder program.' "Operation Phoenix. We have heard a lot about that, haven't we?"

Cheever's lips turned upward at the corner but he wasn't smiling. "Orders is orders, Burnside, even when the world has lost its sense of proportion."

Neil didn't reply. It wasn't as if he could say he hadn't ever followed an order he'd found questionable. After all, he recalled, it had been his bullet not a day and a half ago to fell another human being. Phạm An Bào, too, had just been doing his job, following orders same as Neil.

"The general communist conspiracy has gone rather out of fashion, Neil, don't you think?" one of Belinda's friends had asked at one of the tiring little dinner parties she liked to devise, casting the characters and sculpting the dialog like a talented puppet master. No, Neil didn't. He didn't think the threat of communism was any less dire than it had been after the Second World War, and he didn't think it was liable to become so any time soon, and Neil would be damned if he'd ever find himself working for a service who felt otherwise.

"Never thought I'd come back," Cheever continued softly and pulled Neil abruptly back to the present, jolting along a winding jungle path as they were. Cheever was staring impassively out of the windshield. "Nam's got a certain feel to it, you know? There's something in the air. I tell you, plays strange tricks on your mind. Got the feeling something's watching you from behind every tree, just out of sight no matter how long and hard you look for it." Cheever shook his head. "Feels like I never left."

Neil stared at his companion without speaking, wondering what else hid behind Cheever's stolid appearance and droll asides and decided that Cheever was a decent operations man. Neil might even concede that, without Cheever's help, he may very well have been caught by the PAVN by now and off to a North Vietnamese prison camp.

Willie found Peter Roach in the Foreign Correspondent's club, a grubby figure slumped over a table in the corner. Okar was sitting across the table from him, alert and watchful like a sentry guarding his charge while he slept. Willie's stomach was roiling and he made himself think of different things: getting dinner with Pricilla back in London, English rain pattering against the windows of a cab, Hives waiting to leave back at the embassy, anything but Bob in Lutara's prison.

He approached Roach's table briskly. It was exactly eight o'clock. With the dawning daylight, the signs of the coup that Willie had otherwise missed in the darkness of the night before had now been illuminated: shattered glass from storefront windows, crooked streetlamps and crumpled litter lying in the dusty streets. The city had been fitted with an uneasy, restless quiet that penetrated even the embassy's solid, fortress-like walls and the dingy, lazy atmosphere of the club.

Okar tensed as Willie came forward. Willie hesitated for only a moment, scanning Okar's wiry but strong looking arms and wondered what there could be within Roach to inspire such loyalty.

Willie closed his hand around Roach's shoulder and gave the man a slight shake. "Roach. Get up."

Roach stirred, shook his head, and batted Willie's hand away. "Gerroff – oh, Caine," He blinked, eyes bleary and red. "Bloody hell."

"Alright, Roach," said Willie tersely. "Your time's up. What have you heard about Judd?"

"Surprised you're still around," Roach continued, unsteadily rising with one hand pressing against the top of the table for support. "Lutara's making noises about moving against your embassy friends, wants you all out of his bloody country."

"Don't drag your feet, Roach," Willie said impatiently. "What about Judd?"

"Still worried about your missing boyfriend, are you, Caine?" Willie could smell his breath, hot and sour with the stink of alcohol.

"I'm warning you, Roach –" Willie fought against the anger building in his chest. He curled his hands into fists at his sides.

Roach waved a hand lazily to Okar, who had also stood from the table and was hovering uneasily between the two of them as though prepared to obstruct Willie at the merest hint of violence. "Ask Mahad, why don't you? Mahad knows all about your boyfriend, doesn't he? Mahad, tell Mr. Caine what you found out."

Willie was uncertain whether or not Okar could understand English but he had perked up at the sound of his name and said something to Roach in Somali.

Roach batted Okar away, fixing his bleary gaze on Willie, tipping forward slightly but stopping himself before falling over.

"You've heard about little Bobby, haven't you, Mahad?" Roach laughed. "Said Lutara tossed him in one of his pleasant little underground torture chambers, didn't he? No one gets out once they go in, do they, Caine?"

Willie clenched his teeth hard enough to make his jaw ache. He concentrated on breathing deeply through his nose, not tearing his eyes away from Roach's filthy face, thinking about Neil in Vietnam, Hives back at the embassy, Hardwick waiting back in London, but certainly not about Bob – twenty-five-year-old Bob –

"Tied him over an anthill and slashed his belly, didn't they?" Roach slurred. "Driver ants. Nasty little buggers. They've been known to devour a cow in a matter of minutes, leave nothing but a pile of white bones, picked clean. One of Lutara's favorite tricks – he likes to watch it, smiles right around the time they start screaming –"

Afterward Willie couldn't remember how exactly it had happened but suddenly Roach was reeling backward, clattering against the table with his hands covering his nose, blood leaking through his fingers. Willie's right knuckles were aching sharply and Okar was holding Willie's wrist, stopping him from striking another blow.

Later he was almost convinced he spat the words "damned liar" at Roach's crumpled face but he wasn't certain; he liked to believe he had managed to maintain a bit more of his composure.

Willie tugged his wrist out of Okar's grasp and turned on his heel, walking blindly out of the club, up the stairs to the street where stifling, crackling heat throbbed off the road and slapped against him as soon as he emerged into the naked desert sunlight.

He didn't know where he was going. He could feel the eyes of the uniformed, gun carrying Soviet militia acutely, following him down the lane as he stumbled away from the club, still smelling Roach's foul breath, knuckles throbbing, sick fear churning in his stomach, Roach's voice reverberating emptily in his skull: pleasant little underground torture chambers…tied him over an anthill and slashed his belly… no one gets out once they go in.

Willie realize he was making his way back to the embassy, vague plans of telling Hives about Judd, wiring Hardwick, grabbing his gun and going to storm Lutara's prison by himself, spinning half-formed in his head.

He fumbled for his papers at the gates to the embassy and eventually succeeded in handing his passport to the guards, realizing dimly that his fingers were trembling. He looked up at the scowling sentry, one of Lutara's men, and wondered if this man had been the one to drag Bob to prison or tie him to the ground or slash his stomach open –

Willie snatched his passport back and stuffed it into his pocket, marching back to the embassy's front doors, taking the steps at a near run. His heart pattered with painful haste inside his chest. Nauseous despair, delirious fear, and wild, uncertain hope twisted in his stomach until he was sure he was going to vomit.

Willie was a fool; he'd acted without thinking, let his emotions get the better of him. He should have stayed in the club, interrogated Roach further, gotten all the details, made him declare hard proof. Bob may, in fact, still be alive – Roach might have been mistaken, had perhaps hoped to provoke Willie with spiteful half-truths – Bob might yet still be alive – Bob might yet still –

"Sir!"

Willie spun wildly on his heel and confronted Oliver Mason, who was rushing down the hallway from the control room. He was pale, sweating profusely, and trembling with nervous energy. He was holding an envelope in his small, shaking hand; Willie held his hand out for it but Mason didn't pass it over.

"Sir, emergency signal from London. Embassy personnel to withdraw immediately," Mason swallowed and adjusted his glasses which had been sliding down his greasy nose. "They've – er- received word from Lutara, confirmed capture of –" Mason cleared his throat and blinked. "– British secret service agent Robert Judd."

"Jesus," said Willie, mind reeling. He braced his hand against the wall, knees threatening to buckle. He swallowed back the bile that had risen in his throat.

"And, sir," Mason lifted the envelope in his hand, passing it to Willie. "Dropped off by one of Lutara's men, sir –"

Willie took hold of the envelope. Mason seemed to have disappeared from Willie's vision, melted into the chipped plaster wall.

"Sir –"

Willie walked down the hall, heading toward the men's lavatory. He pushed open the door with his shoulder. Bare pipes climbed the opposite wall. There was a pool of water under the sink from a leak in the plumbing. Willie struggled to open the envelope, still sealed; evidently Mason had lacked the courage to peek inside.

Willie's fingers were quivering almost too hard to slide the contents of the envelope into his hand. They'd sent pictures. Three in all: cheap Polaroid shots, grainy and foggy but clear enough for Willie to be certain that the maimed body and face, grossly contorted from pain, did indeed belong to twenty-five-year-old Bob Judd.

The heat in the bathroom was heavy and suffocating. A sheen of sweat formed on Willie's forehead and back of his neck. He could taste acid on the back of his tongue. The photographs fluttered to the dirty concrete floor as they slipped out of his palm.

Willie braced is hands on both sides of the sink basin, elbows locked and head bowed. He screwed shut his eyes in order to avoid looking at his pale and haggard face in the tarnished mirror. He gasped for breath and ineffectively willed himself not to be sick.

Willie's throat was raw and head aching when he came back into the hall. Mason was still standing where Willie had left him, evidently too dumbstruck to do anything at all productive. Willie snapped at him to get a move on and Mason stumbled off to the control room to begin packing up or destroying any sensitive material.

Willie walked over to the ambassador's sweet and cracked his bruised knuckles on the door.

"Come," said Hives from within and Willie shoved his way into the room without another word.

"Caine!" said Hives angrily, catching sight of Willie. "What in heaven's name have you been doing? There's an emergency signal from London – we're to return immediately, damn your friend Judd –"

"Judd is dead," said Willie sharply and Hive's eyes widened.

"My God –"

"Pack your things," Willie continued, voice struggling to climb out of his taught throat. "We're leaving as soon as possible."

"My God, Judd," said Hives faintly and Willie wondered bitterly where damn your friend Judd had gone. "Lutara must be out of his mind – killing a British national – out of his mind…"

"That was never a question to begin with, sir," said Willie. "Excuse me…"

"But, Caine –" Hives continued. "I mean to say, how did it happen, Caine?"

Willie stared at Hives without speaking, surveying his fitted, expensive suit and delicate, bureaucratic facade, and wondered what expression might cross Hives face if Willie showed him the photographs currently lying on the damp bathroom floor.

"I'm sorry, sir," said Willie finally, "but I've got plenty to get done before we leave."

The pub was crowded and loud. Manchester City was playing Arsenal on the television behind the bar and the counter was swarmed with supporters for either side, grasping tankards of beer and glasses of whiskey. The chatter of the crowd and static of the television drowned out the patter of rain against the window. It was wet and miserable outside so Willie had ordered a dry martini and taken it to a booth in a dark corner.

It was bloody London and bloody raining again and Willie had almost finished his drink, his third of the evening. His brain was just starting to get soothingly numb and eyesight a bit blurry around the edges when he looked up and saw Neil Burnside standing above his table.

"Thought I'd find you here," said Neil. It was one of their regular haunts, frequented on Friday evenings and after particularly trying operations but lately chiefly abandoned by Neil after his marriage.

"Neil," said Willie. He waved his hand carelessly to indicate Neil should take a seat but Neil was already shrugging off his coat and sliding into the booth. "When'd you get back?"

"This morning," Neil answered, somewhat grimly and Willie didn't blame him, bloody London weather would have anyone down, especially after the heat and sunlight of Vietnam, the dry desert air of Somalia.

"How's the arm?"

Neil rolled his eyes, "Fine." Willie wondered how many times Neil had been asked the same question over the past few hours.

"Glad to hear it."

"You alright, then?" said Neil from across the table, long face typically serious, eyebrows drawn in concern over hard eyes that saw more than Willie would have preferred.

"Yeah, fine," Willie said casually, trying to make his tongue cooperate. "What'll you have then?"

"What're you having?" said Neil, eyeing Willie's glass critically.

"Martini," Willie answered and hoped to God Neil would have grace enough not to make any snarky remarks about shaken-not-stirred. "Felt like celebrating."

"I'll have a scotch and soda," said Neil.

"Right," said Willie, and pushed off the bench. "I'll get first round." It was a bit of trouble getting the drinks because of the crowd watching the football game but Willie eventually succeeded in attracting the barman's attention to place his order. It was several more moments before the barman actually got around to mixing the drinks, wanting to wait until City took its corner kick.

Willie returned to the table, glass in each hand, and placed Neil's drink in front of him before sliding back into his seat.

"So," said Neil sardonically, "what are we celebrating?"

"The home coming of Neil Burnside?" Willie suggested, matching Neil's tone and taking a sip of his drink. "Life in general? The bloody English rain and victory for The Citizens?"

Neil didn't answer. He put his glass of scotch to his lips, tipped it back and swallowed, each movement measured and precise like he was carefully aiming and cocking a gun. He kept his eyes open and on Willie.

"So how are you really then?" Willie demanded slightly roughly, uncomfortable under Neil's gaze. "Heard it was a tough time. Must have been. You were gone for five more days then you were supposed to be."

"I'm alright," said Neil unconcernedly. "Had some help from a CIA man."

"I heard," said Willie.

"Probably saved my life," said Neil with unexpected candor. "I certainly wouldn't have lasted trying to get out on my own."

"Right, well, I'll tell Belinda that's who she should address the thank you note to," said Willie.

"What about you?" said Neil, never one to dwell too long on his own personal welfare, Willie knew. "When did you get back?"

"Late yesterday evening," said Willie, not soon to forget the numb, heart-stopping car ride cross-country to Hargeisa because of the blocking of the K50 airport. Hives had been hysterically babbling in the passenger seat for all the twenty hours. The awareness of Bob's death had threatened at any moment to smash through the wall inside Willie's mind, constructed to guard against any thoughts not beneficial for the operation's completion.

"Hardwick said you didn't check in," said Neil and Willie wondered if it was a reprimand. He didn't find it at all surprising that Neil, himself, had already checked in with Hardwick and wondered if Neil had bothered to stop home to see Belinda, as well.

"I was due for a day off."

Neil stared at Willie carefully. Willie looked away, studying the cobweb of raindrops running down the windowpanes.

"I suppose his parents have been told?" said Neil.

Willie sighed heavily. "Yes. Hardwick went this morning."

"I had better go, as well," said Neil. "I was his head of section."

"Yeah, well," Willie began, "maybe there will be a memorial service. Seeing as there can't be a funeral if they don't give the body back. Lutara won't be too eager to do that, I'm sure." He brought his glass back up to his lips but stopped before taking another drink.

"To Bob Judd," he said, bobbing his glass in a hasty salute, and didn't wait for Neil to agree to the toast before tossing the rest of his drink into his mouth, swallowing it all in one go, alcohol burning his throat like acid. He wondered whether anyone would bother to let little what-was-her-name know. Clara.

"Bob Judd," Neil echoed, and took a sip of his own drink. He put his cup back down on the tabletop with a soft, musical tap of glass on wood.

There was silence for a moment and Willie listened to the jagged surging and undulation of the crowd at the bar as they responded to the football game. The score was tied.

"Wonder who we'll get to replace him?" Willie spoke without consent of his thoughts.

Neil shrugged his thin shoulders. "Not someone from the school again, that's for certain. Probably a man off a station."

"It wasn't Bob's inexperience that got him killed," Willie retorted, with a slightly more hostility than he had intended.

Neil ignored him. "It wasn't just that. Judd was too high strung for the Special Section. Too young to realize we aren't just rushing across the world with guns playing at Bond. He wouldn't have lasted long anyway."

High strung like Neil was? Willie wondered. Arrogant and incautious as any man was apt to be when it was they who were holding the gun, blind to the grenade rolled across the floor to their feet. Bob had merely possessed the naïve invincibility of youth, nothing else.

"I don't suppose Hardwick's discussed any retaliatory procedures with you, has he?" said Willie. "He hasn't said anything to me, of course, but you're his favorite pick for jobs like that, aren't you?"

Neil shook his head. "Hardwick hasn't, and he won't."

"Why not?" said Willie, wanting another drink but finding his glass empty. He thought about standing to get another but his head was spinning. "We're bloody intelligence officers of the British Secret Service. What's the good in that if we can't use it when it counts?"

"We can't go for a Head of State, Willie," said Neil firmly, polishing off his scotch. There seemed to be an unfamiliar coldness in Neil. Then again, perhaps it had always been there and Willie merely unaware of it until now. "Not without permission. You know that."

Willie shut his eyes and swore. "So Phạm An Bào in Vietnam gets the chop for political reasons but Lutara is left still grinning on his bloody throne, free to kill another day." The stifled anger flared abruptly and unexpectedly in Willie's stomach, mixing with the many glasses of alcohol uneasily so that he felt ill.

"You're still young, Willie," said Neil heavily. "Not two years in the Section. You're just not used to the violence yet."

"Who says I ever have to get bloody used to it?" Willie demanded, sounding hysterical even to his own ears. "Although I don't suppose I should ask you, seeing as you've just come home from killing a man. Haven't got any qualms about that, I noticed."

Neil addressed him icily from behind raised eyebrows: "You're drunk, Willie."

Yes, Willie was bloody drunk. And he wanted to get a good deal drunker before the night was up. He wished Neil would leave. The game had apparently gone ill for Arsenal and the crowd was beginning to get a bit rowdy. Willie wondered if a scuffle was going to break out – he could use a good fight. Pick one: a first-class knock about or a sound thrashing, he wasn't particular about who came out on top. Bloody vultures, the lot of us, Roach had said.

Willie realized he had his head in his hands, elbows braced on the table. He shut his eyes and tried not to remember the grisly pictures Lutara had sent to the embassy. The sound of the crowd behind him had reached an almost unbearable pitch, pounding in Willie's head until he couldn't think anymore.

Across the table Neil sighed heavily. He pushed himself back to his feet, leaving his glass of scotch half-empty on the table.

"Come on, Willie. Let me drive you home."

End

Historical background:

"A Proper Function of Government" only ever made reference to an "East African country" as President Lutara's homeland and, as President Lutara is a fictional character, I've extended the fiction by taking bits and pieces of history of from Uganda, Ethiopia, and Somalia. Lutara's character primarily mirrored Ugandan president Idi Amin, the political standing of the country closely imitated both that of Ethiopia and Somalia.

The role of Britain in the Vietnam War was a small one, and took a mostly behind the scenes position. In lieu of supplying the United States with ground troops, Britain supported the special relationship by collecting intelligence from their Hanoi and Hong Kong stations, mostly intercepted North Vietnamese intelligence reports, surveillance, communications monitoring, and targeting bomb strike locations. This was in concordance with the intelligence alliance known as Five Eyes, which included Britain, the United States, Australia, Canada, and New Zealand. Britain's involvement in the intelligence operations were usually intentionally misrepresented as the work of the Australians.

US espionage in the Vietnam War took the form of the Phoenix Program, which was a series of CIA operations designed to wipe out any hint of communism in South Vietnam by means of neutralizing anyone suspected of having communist ties. The Phoenix operations were on the receiving end of much controversy and negative publicity because of the CIA's use of assassination, terrorism, and torture. Eventually the program was shut down in 1972 but was alleged to have evolved into a similar program codenamed F-6.