Up Country (23 page)

“You guess.”

“He’s the son of an important government official, and he comes in only on Wednesdays in time for lunch.”

“Close. But he does have the contacts. Everything in this country has to be a joint venture, which means buying part of a company that the government confiscated from the rightful owners in 1975, or starting a new company and giving the government a share for peanuts. I mean, it’s more complex than that, but there’s nothing that can happen here without some government involvement.”

“Is it worth it?”

“It could be. Lots of natural resources, a hardworking, low-paid population, mostly all literate, thanks to the Reds. The harbors are terrific—Haiphong, Da Nang, Cam Ranh Bay, and Saigon—but the rest of the infrastructure is a mess. The American military put in some good infrastructure during the war, but whenever an area was contested, the bridges, roads, rail lines, and everything else got blown up again.”

“It’s sort of like playing Monopoly, but everyone gets a hammer.”

She didn’t reply, and in fact looked a little impatient with my sarcasm.

I thought about all of this, about Vietnam Incorporated. To the best of my knowledge, this was the only country in Asia where the Americans had a distinct business advantage over anyone else, including the Japanese, who the Viets were not fond of. The Soviets who were here after 1975 screwed things up, the Red Chinese weren’t welcome, the Europeans were mostly indifferent except for the French, and the other East Asians either weren’t trusted or were disliked.

So, in some ironic way, for reasons that were partly historical and nostalgic, and mostly financial and technical, the Americans were back. Ms.
Weber and her compatriots, armed with MBAs, engineering degrees, letters of credit, and lots of hustle, were racing around Saigon on their motor scooters, carrying satchels of money instead of satchel charges of plastique. Swords into market shares. And what did this have to do with me? Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

Susan said, “Are you sulking about something?”

“No. I’m just processing. There’s a lot to take in.”

She observed, “If you’d never been here, this wouldn’t seem so strange to you.”

“Good point.”

She looked at me and said, “We won the war.”

I wasn’t going to reply to that statement, then I said, “Fifty-eight thousand dead men would be happy to know that.”

We sat in silence while I thought about AAIC. The place looked legit, and Susan sounded legit, but . . . But stay awake, Brenner. The bamboo was clicking in my brain again, and the vegetation swayed without a breeze. I looked at my watch. It was ten after eight. “Time to fax,” I said.

“We’ll finish our drinks and relax. They’re not going anywhere.”

Ms. Weber seemed indifferent to my fate, but she was right; they weren’t going anywhere. I asked her, “Where’s your apartment from here?”

“On Dong Khoi Street. South of Notre Dame, not far from the Rex.”

“Don’t think I know it.”

“Sure you do. It was once Tu Do Street, heart of the red-light district.” She smiled. “You may have seen it once or twice.”

In fact, I had, of course. My Vietnamese lady friend had lived in a little cul-de-sac, right off Tu Do. I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember her name, but like a lot of the Viet ladies, she’d adopted an Anglo name. I knew it wasn’t Peggy, Patty, or Jenny, or I’d have remembered it. In any case, I remembered what she looked like, and our times together, so I wasn’t senile yet.

“Are you remembering Tu Do Street?”

“Actually, I was there a few times. Professionally. I was an MP on my tour of duty in ’72.”

“Really? And how about the other time? Sixty-eight, right?”

“Right. I was a cook.”

“Oh . . . I thought you did something dangerous.”

“I did. I cooked.” I asked her, “So you live in a red-light district?”

“No, it’s quite nice now. According to the guy I rented it from, it was once called Rue Catinet, during the French time. It was fashionable then, but very sinister, with spies, double agents, murky bistros, high-priced courtesans, and private opium dens. It went downhill from there during the American period, then the Communists cleaned it up and named it Dong Khoi—General Uprising Street. I love their stupid names.”

“I vote for Rue Catinet.”

“Me, too. You can still call it that, or Tu Do, and most people know what you’re talking about.” She added, “My apartment was built by the French—high ceilings, louvered windows, ceiling fans, and beautiful plaster moldings that are crumbling, and no air-conditioning. It’s very charming. I’ll show it to you if we have the time.”

“Speaking of time . . .”

“Okay.” She stood. “Let’s fax.”

She went to the fax machine in the alcove, and I followed. She wrote something on a sheet of company letterhead, then handed it to me. It said, “Weber—64301.” She informed me, “That’s my code so they know it’s me, and that I’m . . . something . . .”

“Not under anyone else’s control.”

“Right. If the number has a nine in it, it means I’m under duress. Am I under duress?”

“No comment. Now I’m supposed to sign it, right?”

“Right. I guess somebody there knows your signature.”

“I guess so.” She gave me a pen, and I signed the sheet.

She said, “This is exciting.”

“You’re easily excited.”

She fed the paper into the fax machine, and I watched her dial the 703 area code for northern Virginia, then the number, which I didn’t recognize. The fax rang, then started to grind away. She said, “Not bad. First try.”

The fax went through, and Susan said, “That calls for a drink.”

She left the alcove and went to the sideboard where she made two fresh drinks. As she returned, the fax rang. She handed me my drink, then took the fax she’d sent and put it through the shredder.

The return fax came through, and I took it out of the tray. The
familiar handwriting said:
Hello, Paul—You had us worried for
the last fifteen minutes. Glad to hear from you and hope all is well. We can continue this
communication via e-mail. Ms. W has instructions. Regards, K.

I stared at the message, words from another galaxy, as though I’d been contacted by aliens, or by God. But it was only Karl; I’d recognize his tight, anal handwriting anywhere.

Susan was already sitting at her desk and was going online. I shredded Karl’s message.

I left the alcove and wheeled a chair beside Susan. She said, “Okay, we’ve made contact. He wants you to go first. What do you want to say?”

“Tell him I have an appointment at the Immigration Police headquarters tomorrow at oh-eight-hundred—purpose unknown.”

She typed and sent, waited and got his reply, which said:
Do they still have your passport?

“Yes, and my visa.” She typed the reply, and I said to her, “Let me sit there, Susan. You’ll have to move away from the screen.”

She glanced at me, then stood, took her drink, and sat in the chair opposite her desk.

Karl replied:
Tell us what happened at the airport.

I took another swallow of Scotch and began typing, relating the encounter fully, but succinctly. It took me ten minutes to type all of this, and I ended with:
I believe this was a random stop and question. But it may have compromised the mission. Your call.

The reply was some time in coming, and I could picture Karl in an office with a few other people: Conway, maybe, some other FBI types, and CID people, and people who I could only guess at.

Finally, his reply came, a lot shorter than the conversation in Virginia that led up to it. It said:
Your call, Paul.

I tapped my fingers on the desk and took another swig of Scotch. I didn’t want to let too much time go by, as if I was hesitating. Yes or no? Simple. I replied:
It may be Colonel Mang’s call.
I realized that was a bit of a cop-out, so I added:
If I get my passport back, I’ll go forward with the assignment.
I pushed send.

The reply came quickly:
Good. If you’re expelled, we know you did your best.

I replied:
There is a third possibility.

They thought about that in Virginia, then Karl replied:
Be sure to have Ms. Weber in a position to know if you are detained. Set up a meeting time or phone call with her, and tell her to contact us if you don’t make your contact with her at the scheduled time or place.

I replied:
I know how to set up a failure-to-show alert. Thank you.

Karl, true to form, wasn’t going to be baited, and he replied:
Is Ms. Weber under any surveillance? Has she been seen with you other than at the Rex rooftop?

I glanced at Susan and said to her, “They want to know if you think you’re under surveillance.”

“How do I know? I don’t think so. It’s not my turn this month.”

I typed:
She doesn’t believe she is.
Because I’m a pro, and I don’t ignore sticky parts of multiple part questions, I typed:
We spent the day sightseeing. Saigon, Cu Chi.

I could hear Karl’s voice, “
What
? You did
what
? Are you insane?”

His actual response was:
I hope you had a pleasant day
, but I know Karl. He was pissed.

I don’t like having to explain myself, but I typed:
It was good cover, and an opportunity for me to take advantage of her knowledge of conditions up country.
I added:
I don’t have my platoon with me this time.

Karl’s reply was terse:
Roger.

There was nothing further on that subject, so I typed:
Ms. Weber’s boyfriend has contacted or will contact the consulate on my behalf.

Karl replied:
We’ve already done that, obviously. Are you forming an entire spy ring there?

My, my. We were becoming a little snippy. In conversation, I wouldn’t even reply to that, but with e-mail, you had to reply, so I typed:
:)
.

Karl, obviously in a jocular mood and with an audience, replied:
:(
 .

I asked Susan, “Can this keyboard give the finger?”

She laughed and said, “Are they giving you a hard time?”

“They’re working at it.” I mean, my ass is on the line here, and they’re busting my balloons. I typed:
Do you have any further information for me regarding my assignment?

Karl replied:
Not at this time.

I asked specifically:
Haven’t you located that stupid village yet?

Herr Hellmann replied:
That’s irrelevant if you’re not at liberty to travel, and that is information you shouldn’t have before you meet Colonel Mang. We’ll let you know when and if you get to Hue.

I thought about that and concluded that they had located the village, or always knew its location. Also, the name of the village was not and had never been Tam Ki. They’d changed that in the letter, of course, so if anyone here were squeezing my nuts, and if I gave it up, it wasn’t my actual
destination. In fact, Tam Ki might not exist. Fairly certain of my conclusion, I asked Susan, “Does Tam Ki mean anything in Vietnamese?”

“Spell it.”

I spelled it.

She said, “The whole language is based on accent marks, diphthongs, and stuff like that—compliments of the French who gave them the Roman alphabet. Unless you pronounce it right, or know the accent marks, I can’t translate it.”

“Can it be a village? A place name?”

“Could be, but for instance, T-A-M can mean to bathe, or a heart, depending on the pronunciation, which is based on the accent marks. Tam cai is a toothpick, tam loi is an air bubble. See what I mean?”

“Yeah . . . how about K-I?”

“K-I is usually a prefix—ki-cop is stingy, ki-cang is carefully, ki-keo is to bargain or complain.”

“Could this just be a made-up name?”

“Could be. Doesn’t sound like a place name.”

I looked back at the screen and saw:
Acknowledge.

I replied in the military style:
Affirmative
, which has different shades of meaning, depending on who’s talking to whom, and how the conversation is going. In this case, it meant:
Yeah.
I added, to see what he’d say:
Do you want me to research the location of this village?

The reply was immediate:
Negative. Do not ask and do not look at maps. Maps are inaccurate and many villages have the same name. We will contact you if and when you get to Hue.

I replied:
Roger. How are you making out with names of suspects and name of victim?

Karl replied:
Narrowing list.
Then:
If at liberty, where will you go tomorrow?

I replied:
Narrowing list.

He answered me:
Colonel Mang wants an itinerary and so do we.

I looked up at Susan and asked her, “Where would be a good place to go from here tomorrow to kill a few days?”

“Paris.”

“How about a little closer to Saigon? Someplace where Westerners go.”

“Well, Dalat, the French mountain resort. The rail line is still blown up, but you can get there by car or bus.”

“Okay, any place else?”

“There’s the old French beach resort of Vung Tau.”

“So, I have my choice of the mountains or the beach. Where’s Vung Tau?”

“A little south of here. I can take you with my motorcycle. I go there on weekends.”

“I need to head north.”

“Why don’t you call your travel agent?”

“Come on. Help me out.”

“You didn’t want my help.”

“I apologize.”

“Say please.”

“Please.” I couldn’t believe I’d gotten myself in this situation; hounded by a Vietnamese version of Lieutenant Colombo, apologizing to a sulky upper-middle-class snot, and Karl shoveling shit at me over the Internet. Where is my M-16 when I need it?

I calmed down and asked Susan, “How about Nha Trang?”

She nodded. “Not bad. Not too far, nice beach, and lots of places to stay. Do you know it?”

“Yeah. I actually had a three-day in-country R&R there in ’68.” I asked her, “Are there any Western tourists there?”