Perfect Spy

PERFECT S PY

Pham Xuan An, Magazine Reporter

L B ERMAN

The Incredible Double Life of

Time

and Vietnamese Communist Agent

ARRY

For Scott and Lindsay

C ONTENTS

P ROLOGUE :

1.

2. T H E A PPRENTICESHIP OF A

4. T H E E MERGENCE OF A

6. T H E B LURRING O F R OLES : A PRIL 1975

7. I N H I S F ATHER ’ S

“I C A N D I E H APPY N OW ” 1

H O A B INH : S PY AND F RIEND 21

S P Y 51

3. C ALIFORNIA D REAMING 83

D UAL L IFE 115

5. F ROM T IME T O T E T 155

191

S HADOW 229

E PILOGUE :

A N 7

About the Author

Credits

Cover

Copyright

About the Publisher

Praise

E XTRAORDINARY D OUBLE L IFE 2 6

A CKNOWLEDGMENTS 283

N OTE O N S OURCES 289

N OTES 291

I NDEX 321

Prologue

“I C A N DIE

HAPPY NOW”

I FIRST MET PHAM XUAN AN in July 2001 at Song Ngu seafood

restaurant, located on Saigon’s bustling Suong Nguyet Anh Street.

I had been invited to a dinner hosted by my friend Professor James

Reckner, director of The Vietnam Center at Texas Tech University.

Approximately twenty guests were seated at a long and rather nar￾row table, where the only chance for conversation was going to be

with the person at my left or right or directly across the table. I spoke

no Vietnamese, and the two Vietnamese academics seated on either

side spoke no English. The only empty seat at the table was directly

opposite me.

I began thinking this was going to be a long evening when I noticed

everyone at the table rising to greet the thin, wiry Vietnamese gen￾tleman joining us. I guessed he must be in his late sixties, and he

had a certain self-effacing gentleness about him. I overheard Jim

saying,“Welcome General An, we are so pleased you could join us.”

A few moments later we were seated opposite each other. The gen￾eral had responded to Jim in English, so I quickly introduced myself

as a professor from the University of California, Davis. Pham Xuan

1

2 P ERFECT S PY

An’s eyes lit up. “You are from California! I once lived there and

went to college in Costa Mesa. It was the happiest time of my life.”

For the next two hours, An and I talked about a range of subjects,

beginning with his two years at Orange Coast College, where he

majored in journalism; his travels across the United States; and all

he had learned from and admired about the American people. An

told me he had visited Davis while interning at the Sacramento Bee.

He recalled the personal kindness of publisher Eleanor McClatchy,

and mentioned he had met the governor of California, Edmund

G. “Pat” Brown, while attending a conference for college newspa￾per editors in Sacramento. An beamed with pride when telling me

that his eldest son, Pham Xuan Hoang An, anglicized as An Pham,

had also studied journalism in the United States at the University

of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and had recently graduated from

Duke University Law School.

Barely touching his food and always reaching for another ciga￾rette, An asked about my current research. At the time I was writing

a book about the secret Paris negotiations between Henry Kissinger

and his North Vietnamese Communist counterpart, Le Duc Tho,

during the Nixon presidency. An launched into a detailed and

sophisticated analysis of the negotiations, providing me with new

information and a fresh perspective. As he spoke, I recalled reading

about a highly respected Time magazine reporter who turned out

to be a spy for the North Vietnamese and surmised that my dinner

companion was that person.1

An never said a word that evening about his job in espionage,

focusing instead on the details of his other job as a correspon￾dent for Reuters and Time. He spoke passionately about his trade

and with fondness about his many American friends in journal￾ism, mentioning many of the era’s best-known reporters, includ￾ing Robert Shaplen, Stanley Karnow, Frances FitzGerald, Robert

“I C A N D I E H APPY N O W ” 3

Sam Anson, Frank McCulloch, David Halberstam, Henry Kamm,

and Neil Sheehan. He told me that his circle of friends extended

well beyond journalism to include the CIA’s Lou Conein, Colonel

Edward Lansdale, and former CIA director William Colby, who

had been the CIA station chief in Saigon. He also mentioned many

South Vietnamese politicians and generals, including General Tran

Van Don, Ambassador Bui Diem, General Duong Van Minh, known

as Big Minh, who was the last president of the Republic of South

Vietnam, and former prime minister and vice president Nguyen Cao

Ky, who regularly sought An’s advice on fighting cocks and dog

training.

My dinner companion seemed to know everyone who was any￾body during the war. As we parted that evening, An gave me his

card, with a drawing of a German shepherd on one corner and a

rooster on the other, asking that I call him the next day in order

to continue our conversations about the Paris negotiations. After

dinner, my friend Khanh Le, who works for the Vietnam Center at

Texas Tech and whose family fled the Communist takeover in April

1975 just a few days after An’s wife and children evacuated Saigon

for the United States, told me that I had just spent three hours with

Major General Pham Xuan An of the Vietnam People ’s Army,

the recipient of four Liberation Exploit medals and six Soldier of

Emulation medals along with the title he held to that day, People ’s

Army Hero.

I was curious whether Khanh felt any animosity toward a man

who had not only been his enemy, but who by living a life of decep￾tion had seemingly betrayed so many Vietnamese in the south.

Khanh explained that he had not known An during the war. He did

not know what to expect when a few years earlier he was asked by

a mutual friend to meet An for coffee. Khanh discovered a humble

and reflective man who never once displayed a hint of what he called

4 P ERFECT S PY

David Halberstam sent An this New York Times Magazine photo,

writing below it, “Is Pham Xuan An A Great Problem?”

BETTMAN/CORBIS

“victor’s arrogance.” Khanh used the words “friendly and open￾hearted” and wanted me to know that An lived a “simple life.”

Both men lost something in the war. Khanh lost his country on

April 30, 1975; An lost his brother, Pham Xuan Hoa, killed in a 1964

helicopter crash. Hoa worked for the South as an air force mechanic.

An also lost his dream for what a unified Vietnam might become.

Ironically, it was Khanh who was free to travel regularly between his

home in Lubbock, Texas, and Ho Chi Minh City for extended visits

with his family. General Pham Xuan An, Hero of the Revolution,

had never been permitted to leave Vietnam to visit his many friends

or family members in America. Both men were aware of what the

other had lost; their friendship was testimony to the reconciliation

between Vietnamese patriots on both sides of the war.

When I called An the next morning, he immediately suggested

we meet at Givral. During the war, Givral coffee shop, located

“I C A N D I E H APPY N O W ” 5

across the street from the Continental Hotel and within earshot of

the National Assembly building, had been the gathering spot for

journalists, correspondents, police, and government officials—the

place where rumors started, were tested for their staying power, and

where everyone hunted for the best story line of the day. The rumor

mill was known as “Radio Catinat” for the street Rue Catinat,

but after 1954 changed to Tu Do, meaning “Liberty Street.” After

the war, the name changed again to Dong Khoi, or “Collective

Uprising.” Through all these name changes, Pham Xuan An held

the title General Givral because it was here that he could be found

daily, dispensing information, almost always in the company of

King, his large and obedient German shepherd, his green Renault

quatre chevaux parked in front.

For the next two years, that is, until An became ill, he and I met

regularly at Givral. A rhythm developed to our meetings. I would

arrive first to secure a window table and review my notes and ques￾tions. An would pull up on his old green motor scooter and walk

directly to our table, not before receiving a warm welcome from

Givral’s staff. For the next few hours I would ask questions and take

copious notes while An explained the nuances of Vietnamese politics

and history. An would sometimes put his cigarette down, take my

notepad, and write a name or phrase for me, so that I could better

grasp his point. When I would ask if he was tired, An always sug￾gested ordering lunch and kept talking. I soon came to appreciate the

observation of An’s friend and former colleague David Greenway

that An “is a reminder to me of how much I saw of Vietnam but

how little I understood.”2

Then, in 2003, after five decades of smoking, An became seri￾ously ill with emphysema. An was extremely superstitious and had

smoked Lucky Strikes since 1955, when his American advisers taught

him how to inhale and guaranteed that the brand name would bring

6 P ERFECT S PY

him good luck. “I have smoked for fifty-two years. Now I have to

pay for it. It’s still a good deal—I only got three and a half years

of emphysema for all those years of smoking and never ended up

in jail” is how An explained it. Astrology and numerology played a

major role in An’s life, as they do for most Vietnamese. Born under

the sign Virgo, the sixth sign of the zodiac and the only female fig￾ure among the constellations, on September 12, 1927, An saw him￾self as having been protected by goddesses throughout his life and

felt a reciprocal responsibility for protecting women.

I arrived in Saigon on the day An was hospitalized. Local newspa￾per reports hinted that he had only a short time to live.3

I called An

Pham, who confirmed the bleak prognosis. Before leaving Saigon, I

handwrote An a personal letter, expressing as best I could my hopes

that we would once again meet at Givral. I joked that he had cheat￾ed death so often as a spy, perhaps it was not yet his time to meet

the Emperor of Hell, where An often mused he was first headed. I

doubted An would ever read the letter.

Months later I received word that An was home, recuperating. He

thanked me for my letter, said he was looking forward to our next

conversations, and requested that I bring three books he was inter￾ested in reading. I was soon back in Saigon, but because An was still

weak, he asked that we meet at his home, the former residence of

a British diplomat on 214 Ly Chinh Thang. Surrounded by his pre￾cious books and papers, dozens of birds who seemingly never ceased

chirping, two or three roosters who never ceased crowing, fighting

cocks who still received regular training sessions, a hawk, fish, and

two small dogs that had replaced the large German shepherds, we

would drink An’s special tea from China and talk for hours.

My book on the Paris negotiations had been published. I now

wanted to use the story of An’s life as a window for understanding

the complexities of the war. I asked An why he had never written an

“I C A N D I E H APPY N O W ” 7

An during one of our many sessions at Givral.

AUTHOR’S PERSONAL COLLECTION

autobiography. Years earlier Stanley Karnow had encouraged him

to do so, but An insisted he held too many secrets that if revealed

would harm the living and the families of the dead, or so he believed.

He would never write about his life as a spy, insisting he was just

one cog in a vast Communist intelligence network. He seemed to

view himself akin to a CIA analyst sitting in a Langley office, read￾ing documents and filing reports. When I asked if I could write the

story of his life, An said no. Still, our conversations continued, and

the more questions I asked about what he had done in espionage, the

more he told me. I was always taking notes and started recording

our conversations. An kept talking.

I then got very lucky. As part of the thirty-year commemora￾tion of Vietnam’s victory in “the American War,” Pham Xuan An

emerged as a cult hero in Vietnam. Two officially sanctioned books

about his life were published. Pham Xuan An: His Name Is Like His

Life won an award in Vietnam for the best nonfiction book of the

8 P ERFECT S PY

year.4

The subtitle was intriguing since in Vietnamese, An’s name

translates as “hidden” or “concealed” or “secret,” so indeed, his life

really was his name!

An gave me the book inscribed with the wry comment, “This

small book tells you about the lucky revolutionary of Vietnam

because luck is better than skill.” The book offered accounts of An’s

exploits in espionage as well as insights into his character. I became

friends with the author, journalist Nguyen Thi Ngoc Hai, who facil￾itated my research by arranging interviews with members of An’s

intelligence network. Still, Hai’s book portrayed Pham Xuan An

doing no wrong. Like George Washington, he could tell no lie, and

like Abraham Lincoln, he rose from humble origins to greatness.

Another book written by two journalists, Pham Xuan An: A General

of the Secret Service, 5

was translated into both English and Spanish,

becoming a hot seller to tourists in Hanoi and Saigon bookstores. I

began using some of the new details provided in both books as the

basis for my questions to An.

An was again hospitalized, this time spending five days on an

artificial lung. His wife, Thu Nhan, consistent with Vietnamese

tradition, placed many of his documents, notes, photos, and other

materials into a coffer so that An could be buried with his secrets.

While in the hospital, the English version of Pham Xuan An: A

General of the Secret Service was serialized in a Vietnamese news￾paper and made available on the Internet. The final installation,

titled “The Greatness,” offered an official party summation of

An’s hero status: “If anything can be drawn from his life, it should

be the lesson of patriotism. Vietnamese have always been fervent

patriots, but no foreign aggressor ever considered this a significant

factor. They could not understand their opponent and were thus

doomed to failure. Had they understood, they would never [have]

attempted the invasion. Pham Xuan An is a great intelligence

“I C A N D I E H APPY N O W ” 9

agent.”

Once again, An sidestepped his meeting with the emperor.

Returning home with just 35 percent lung capacity, he looked terri￾bly frail. Yet An’s mind, memory, and sense of humor were as sharp

as ever. He joked with me about his new GI haircut, made neces￾sary because he could not raise his arm far enough to comb his hair.

He constantly complained that Thu Nhan had made a mess of his

materials and he was now too weak to put everything back in place.

I asked him how he felt about his new popularity. “Now they

know I have not done anything wrong and I will die soon. I have

not betrayed them. They tried to change my way of talking for one

year and my way of thinking for much longer. What can they do?

They cannot take me out and shoot me. They told me that they do

not like my way of talking and that I am different. Even today, they

do not know how much information I have and what I know. Still,

I have proven my loyalty to them, so now the people may find out

about me. I had the courage to return from the United States, and

this is a lesson for our youth. I am considered a good model to many

young people about my love for the country.”

An oxygen tank was stationed nearby, and about two hours into

our conversation, An said he needed to lie down and take oxygen. He

invited me to browse through his library. I found an original 1943 copy

of the Indochina Geographic Handbook, written by British naval intel￾ligence, which An used to assist many families (his brother enemies)

to escape in April 1975 by advising them on favorable sea currents

and shipping routes.6

There was the post-JFK assassination issue of

the New York Times Magazine, dated December 1, 1963, on the subject

of the biggest problems facing the new American president, Lyndon

Baines Johnson. A photo in the bottom right corner of the magazine

showed three men in uniform accompanied by a Vietnamese journal￾ist, cigarette dangling from his mouth, taking notes. The caption read,