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JOSHUA KURLANTZICK writes regularly about Asia for Newsweek and the New Republic . He also contributes to Mother Jones , the London Review of Books , the New York Times , Foreign Policy , the Atlantic , and Time . In 2007, Yale University Press published his book on China's soft power, Charm Offensive .

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In the 1950s, U.S. foreign policy makers and intelligence agencies faced a momentous choice: Should America, as former OSS officer Jim Thompson believed, fight the Cold War by helping other nations build democratic, capitalistic futures while preserving and strengthening their traditional cultures? Or would it be more practical, as Thompson's old OSS buddy Bill Bird argued, to help local strongmen seize power and prop them up with financial and military aid in return for their staunch anticommunism and the establishment of American military bases on their soil? History makes two things perfectly clear—America chose the latter course, and anyone who disagreed with that choice, including Jim Thompson, was in serious danger.

In The Ideal Man, journalist and Southeast Asia expert Joshua Kurlantzick tells the compelling and tragic story of an OSS officer posted to Thailand in 1945 who fell in love with that then-remote nation and made it his home. Through this powerful lens, Kurlantzick offers insight into a pivotal moment in Cold War history that set a course for American foreign policy that is still being followed today.

Kurlantzick reveals that, as a civilian, Thompson epitomized all that was best about postwar America. This former society dilettante quickly discovered the disappearing Thai cottage industry of silk farming and weaving and rebuilt it into a vast new source of wealth for the nation and thousands of its workers. But Jim Thompson was leading a double life.

Thanks to his growing business, his passion for his new home, and his innate curiosity, Thompson had access to people and places that no other American could equal. He quickly became the go-to man for agents of the newly formed CIA. But he made no secret of his support for nationalist fighters in Laos, Cambodia, and Vietnam, or his opposition to America's increasing military presence and support of Thai generals. Soon, he and Bill Bird found themselves on opposite sides in coups, congressional investigations, and what was, at the time, America's largest-ever covert operation.

Thompson's very public opposition to what had become established American policy earned him plenty of enemies, especially among Thai generals. His disappearance in 1967 became an international mystery that has fostered decades of speculation.

Bristling with thorny insider tales of OSS and CIA exploits, political gamesmanship, and international intrigue, The Ideal Man is ideal reading for anyone who loves history, spy stories, and behind-the-scenes accounts of how diplomatic policy decisions are made—for better or worse.

Aus dem Klappentext

In the 1950s, U.S. foreign policy makers and intelligence agencies faced a momentous choice: Should America, as former OSS officer Jim Thompson believed, fight the Cold War by helping other nations build democratic, capitalistic futures while preserving and strengthening their traditional cultures? Or would it be more practical, as Thompson's old OSS buddy Bill Bird argued, to help local strongmen seize power and prop them up with financial and military aid in return for their staunch anticommunism and the establishment of American military bases on their soil? History makes two things perfectly clearAmerica chose the latter course, and anyone who disagreed with that choice, including Jim Thompson, was in serious danger.

In The Ideal Man, journalist and Southeast Asia expert Joshua Kurlantzick tells the compelling and tragic story of an OSS officer posted to Thailand in 1945 who fell in love with that then-remote nation and made it his home. Through this powerful lens, Kurlantzick offers insight into a pivotal moment in Cold War history that set a course for American foreign policy that is still being followed today.

Kurlantzick reveals that, as a civilian, Thompson epitomized all that was best about postwar America. This former society dilettante quickly discovered the disappearing Thai cottage industry of silk farming and weaving and rebuilt it into a vast new source of wealth for the nation and thousands of its workers. But Jim Thompson was leading a double life.

Thanks to his growing business, his passion for his new home, and his innate curiosity, Thompson had access to people and places that no other American could equal. He quickly became the go-to man for agents of the newly formed CIA. But he made no secret of his support for nationalist fighters in Laos, Cambodia, and Vietnam, or his opposition to America's increasing military presence and support of Thai generals. Soon, he and Bill Bird found themselves on opposite sides in coups, congressional investigations, and what was, at the time, America's largest-ever covert operation.

Thompson's very public opposition to what had become established American policy earned him plenty of enemies, especially among Thai generals. His disappearance in 1967 became an international mystery that has fostered decades of speculation.

Bristling with thorny insider tales of OSS and CIA exploits, political gamesmanship, and international intrigue, The Ideal Man is ideal reading for anyone who loves history, spy stories, and behind-the-scenes accounts of how diplomatic policy decisions are madefor better or worse.

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The Ideal Man

John Wiley & Sons

Chapter One

A twenty-five-year-old Irish American from South Boston with a boxer's jaw and sharp blue eyes, Horgan had for years feared being sent to Vietnam. Back home, in his working-class neighborhood, most people disdained the Vietnam objectors who demonstrated in Harvard Yard, and since it was only early 1967, the antiwar movement had not yet built up its roar and fury. So Horgan kept his mouth shut at home, but he knew his mind. "I didn't know what we were doing there, and I certainly didn't want to fight," he said.

When Horgan finally was drafted, he didn't flee, but he snagged an assignment almost as perfect, and one that would transform his life. He was detailed as aide to Brigadier General Ed Black, commander of the headquarters of U.S. forces in Thailand, where the U.S. military launched its bombing raids into Indochina, planned its overall war strategy, and generally enjoyed all the luxuries of life unavailable in places like Danang or Cam Ranh.

In the early days of the Vietnam War, back during the Eisenhower and Kennedy administrations, the Americans serving in Thailand had come to the country on tourist visas and kept a low profile, for fear that the Thai public, so proud that its nation had never been colonized, would resent a U.S. Army presence. But by 1967, with the United States lavishing so much aid on Thailand, the Americans and the Thais had dropped that pretense, and now thousands of GIs arrived in the country every month. By 1968, the United States would have forty-six thousand troops in Thailand, housed on bases around the country.

Still, Thailand wasn't Vietnam. Instead of having firefights with the Viet Cong, Black and Horgan roamed the dusty, baked-earth Thai Northeast, site of most U.S. bases. In the Northeast, the two men toured U.S. Army outposts, shared banquets of sticky rice and grilled catfish hosted for them by village leaders, and made sure that the general found courts in every small Thai town so he could get in his regular tennis game.

Most weekends, the general and his young aide, like most men detailed to the Northeast, came to Bangkok. The Thai capital still seemed exotic to anyone who arrived from the United States. Three-wheeled pedicabs jostled for road space in the potholed streets with vendors hawking dried squid and creamy banana leaf curries and crunchy fried locusts. Monks' chanting rang out in the morning from the courtyards of temples glittering with gems inlaid in the spires.

But Bangkok was becoming more Americanized, and you could grab a real, juicy burger and a Coke over on Sukhumwit Road and then head over to Petchaburi Road's go-go bars to run through the street of brothels. By 1967, Bangkok already had such a reputation for male pleasure that the U.S. military routinely sent men exhausted from tours in Vietnam to the city for R & R tours, and Time magazine wrote, in a lengthy article on the country, "Any jewelry store on Oriental Avenue has star rubies for the asking.... Equally abundant are instantly available women." The bars filled up with young Thai women from the countryside with sweet round faces and hard, flinty eyes; they latched on to the GIs' clothing as the men walked past, the start of a long night of negotiation.

Barhopping for girls wasn't Ed Black's style. Generals didn't do that, at least not where enlisted men could see them, and being a general had always been Ed Black's dream. A squat-shouldered, square-jawed man with hair brushed straight back, and with a nose that seemed to have been flattened against his face, Black stood spine-stiffeningly straight and looked like the answer to a casting call from an army recruitment advertisement. Even now, in his sixties, the general completed his daily regimen of push-ups every night, no matter where he and Horgan bunked.

The army had been his life since he had enlisted more than twenty years earlier, in the days before World War II. The general hadn't risen as quickly as he had hoped—his blunt speaking style and love of press conferences didn't exactly endear him to the higher brass, and Horgan sometimes wondered if the general had picked him as an aide just because Horgan had once worked as a journalist—but Black had now made it to a command in a real hot war. He had a wife, who would join him in Thailand, but for now he was alone in the country, his time filled only with the lives of other men and the vast details of managing a massive military buildup.

Without bars on the agenda, when the general and his aide came to Bangkok, they stayed instead at the antique teakwood mansion of Jim Thompson, one of Black's oldest friends. This weekend, like most, the routine at Thompson's residence varied little. As the sun began to set in the soupy, hundred-degree Bangkok heat, Jim Thompson arrived home from his silk shop over at the Suriwong Road business district, and Black and Horgan joined a seemingly endless parade of guests for a tour of the house and of Thompson's enormous art collection, for scotches on the veranda, and then for dinner.

Horgan did not have much familiarity with American high society, but he knew enough to know that he should be impressed by Thompson's guests: Eleanor Roosevelt, the du Ponts, Truman Capote, various counts and countesses, and marquises. Each time Horgan showed up at Jim's house with the general, some other famous person would be joining them for dinner.

As the dinner crowd sat down on the terrace—passing through rooms surrounded by bronze Buddha heads, Ming bowls, and Burmese tapestries inlaid with gold leaf—the out-of-town visitors, always overdressed for the Bangkok weather, oohed over Thompson's food and offered quick, uncomfortable bows back to the retinue of servants who saluted Thompson and his guests with the hands-together Thai gesture known as the wai. Black and Horgan knew that dinner would just be ordinary curries and steamed rice, bought by the houseboy Yee from some street vendors nearby for less than twenty-five cents a dish.

Still, no one really came to Jim Thompson's house for the food. They came for Jim Thompson. By 1967, Jim Thompson did not just manage his extravagant house; he was the curator of another exhibit: his own legend. The best-known American in Asia, he lived the life that all these visitors to his house wished for. Now sixty years old, Jim was not very physically memorable upon first meeting: a soft putty chin, a permanently tanned and creased face from years in the Thai sun, thinning sandy hair, an eggplant nose and a high brow, bright blue eyes, a simple white shirt and khakis, and delicate soft hands—usually wrapped around a cigarette, against his doctor's advice.

Unlike some expatriates, he never boasted, or at least it did not seem like boasting. The scion of an old, wealthy Delaware family, raised alongside the du Ponts and the Rockefellers, Jim still spoke with a clipped, boarding-school accent, and he still knew that it was bad manners to tout your money, your connections, and your adventures; perhaps his life as a spy had made him naturally secretive, too. Thompson might actually have loved flattery, but when people praised him, he played it off with a shrug; when they oohed over his antiques, he told some story about how he'd been lucky and found this or that priceless statue in some secondhand market.

When guests arrived, Thompson welcomed them with a studied informality, calling out "Hallo there.... Come on up," from the top of the stairs. Once you met Jim Thompson, you never forgot him. Everyone at dinner knew Jim's basic life story, from all the newspaper articles, television newsreels, and gossip about him.

They knew that Thompson had come to Thailand, a country now central to the Vietnam War, at the end of the Second World War as part of the predecessor of the Central Intelligence Agency. They knew, vaguely, that he'd been involved in some sort of secret missions, the type that required knowing how to dynamite railroads and parachute into war-torn territory. They knew that when Japan had surrendered, Thompson had stayed on in Bangkok as a spy; everyone knew that—he'd been working all over the region, with Thais, Lao, Cambodians, and Vietnamese.

Even after Thompson had formally resigned from America's spy service, most people in town worshiped his advice, and many assumed that he had never really left his old job. Meanwhile, even if he did still spy, his legitimate business alone, the Thai Silk Company, had made him an international celebrity. The silk king, the newspaper profiles called him—the man who had built Thai silk from a small cottage industry into a global fashion powerhouse, made Bangkok the Paris of the East, and brought glamour to this remote capital.

If the guests were lucky, Jim might take them on a quick predinner tour of his silk weavers just across the canal. They'd wander through the clusters of wooden houses filled with the endless clacking of silk shuttles moving back and forth on the looms. Conductors from the sampans (canal gondolas) called out destinations and fares, and Thompson's weavers waied Jim as though he were some kind of god. Jim just smiled back, as if he were embarrassed and thrilled all at the same time.

His guests knew that they had become part of the show. They knew that Jim entertained virtually every night, in a traditional teakwood house that had become a combination museum and gathering place for not only socialites but also all of the generals, politicians, and world leaders who came to Bangkok to observe and analyze the American buildup in Indochina. At his home, with the dim houselights flickering on the gold-lacquer bodhisattva statues and the sandstone Buddha heads from the twelfth century, the talk always somehow turned to Jim, everyone seated around him, lobbing questions about his life, his world, and his opinions. The silk king was, of course, happy to answer.

When Jim paused, Horgan would often hear whispering back and forth between some of the female socialites in the room, wondering behind their hands why Jim had never remarried and running their fingers through their hair whenever Jim glanced over at them.

After the tourists and the countesses had returned to their hotels, promising to stop by the silk shop the next day to spend more money, Thompson, Horgan, and Black would retire to one of the alcoves off the dining room. In the sitting room, Thompson had an elaborate model of a Chinese mansion. Even at 11 p.m., Bangkok's heat could be intense, but Jim's house was shaded by feral palms grown massive under the endless sun. When Horgan walked over to the veranda, across the canal he could see families of Thai Muslims eating dinners of chicken biryani and roti murtabak in their houses, the men in white skullcaps and robes and the women in straight long frocks.

Jim and the general poured themselves generous scotches, and Jim lit up another cigarette. Black refused to smoke, on health grounds, but he allowed himself drinks—and Jim offered the young aide a drink as well. Now the real conversation began, really a two-man conversation. "I just sat there and listened," Horgan said. "We'd be there until one or two in the morning, but I didn't say much. What did I have to say around these two giants?"

General Black couldn't care less about Jim's art, the silk company, or the latest famous person who'd dined at Jim's house. Ed Black cared about his family, his tennis game, and, above all, his job. So inevitably the conversation would drift to war—or rather, wars, the talk bouncing back and forth between the Second World War and Vietnam. Black had recruited Jim to join the spy agency during World War II, and the two men would slip into a discussion of that war with a kind of shorthand common to old buddies. Caserta, Trincomalee, Fort Monroe—Black or Thompson would only have to mention a place, and they'd both laugh at the memories without saying more, even if the names were nothing more than a spot on the map to Horgan. They never boasted about their World War II exploits, either, but they also never talked about the blood and boredom and brutality—it all sounded like a kind of honorable adventure, in their telling.

When the glasses were nearly empty, Jim would reach into a cabinet for more scotch or call out to Yee to grab another bottle and some blocks of ice. The talk would turn to Vietnam, and the whole tenor of the evening would change. Sometimes Black and Thompson would gossip about the generals in Thailand and Vietnam: who was up, who was down, when the next coup would happen in Bangkok. But Horgan always came to Bangkok prepared to hear another argument, and he was rarely disappointed.

For Black, the Vietnam War truly was the critical stand against communism—and even if it wasn't, the army bosses had ordered it, so that made it right. The communists were causing problems all over the world, and they had to be dealt with; it was that simple. Jim would come right back at him. For Thompson, who'd lived through the failings of one colonialist after the next in Asia, the fighting hadn't started when the United States showed up. The conflict had been going on for decades, and American involvement would be just another episode of an outsider getting caught up in battles and games it knew nothing about, and of coming down against average people in Southeast Asia—never a position that was wise to be in.

"Look," Jim said one night, as Horgan looked on from the margins of the conversation, "this war has gone on for a long time—the Vietnamese fought the Chinese, the French, beat them both. When you go back to America, they'll still be fighting—and you'll go home, and all the trouble you've left here, it will cave in on these countries."

Thompson never spoke about the consequences of his views directly in front of Horgan, but occasionally, when the aide wandered out onto the veranda for some air, he'd hear the two old friends talking in more worried tones about that. Thompson's deeply lined face looked more weary than normal. With America's staunch support for the conservative leadership in Thailand and in Vietnam, Thompson's views could put him in danger. He openly questioned the Thai leadership and worried that America's policies were hindering democracy in Southeast Asia and turning the United States into a new type of colonialist.

He'd already been investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, which had quizzed everyone all the way back to his prep school buddies to find out whether he was involved in "un-American" activities. Now Thompson was receiving regular threats from Thais close to the ruling dictators who didn't appreciate a foreigner (even Jim Thompson) criticizing their rapidly expanding—and for the generals, lucrative—alliance with the U.S. military. Other foreigners in Bangkok had started shunning Thompson, fearful of whom he had offended. Business competitors had begun trying to muscle into his lucrative industry.

Occasionally, Thompson would stop Black with a slight smile and a wave of his hand. "Let's listen to this young man," he'd say, pointing to Horgan. The young aide would then try, while carefully watching the general, to express his antiwar feelings without making his boss sound like an idiot, knowing that Black viewed the antiwar movement as unpatriotic. Every time Horgan finished, Jim would flash him a small smile. Later, back in their own guest quarters on Jim's compound, Black would mutter to Horgan, "Jim has been out here so long, he doesn't get it anymore, he doesn't understand our world."

To Horgan, Jim always seemed more than angry; he seemed hurt—personally hurt by the war. The general was just a visitor, passing through, happy enough in Thailand but always ready to head back home. For Jim, this was home—and the war, with its American GIs, American midwestern tourists, American burgers, and American-style go-go shows, was forever changing that home, and not in ways Jim welcomed. On the few occasions that Jim had traveled up-country to see Black, Horgan thought he saw the same hurt.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Ideal Manby Joshua Kurlantzick Copyright © 2012 by John Wiley & Sons, Ltd. Excerpted by permission of John Wiley & Sons. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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