Up Country (4 page)

“It was our lucky day. And did anyone send the translation to Mr. Ort?”

“Mr. Ort was sent a translation of a love letter, and a note of thanks.”

“Right. And you have the original of this letter?”

“Yes, and we’ve had it authenticated regarding paper and ink, and we’ve had three different translators work on it. They all came up with nearly the same wording. There’s no mistaking that what Tran Van Vinh is describing to his brother, Tran Quan Lee, is a murder. It’s a very compelling and disturbing letter.” He added, “I’ll show you a translated copy of it, of course.”

“Do I need it?”

Hellmann replied, “There’s not much in the way of clues in the letter other than what I told you, but it might motivate you.”

“To do what?”

“To find the author of the letter. Tran Van Vinh.”

“And what are the chances of Tran Van Vinh being alive? I mean, really, Karl, that whole generation of Vietnamese was nearly wiped out.”

“Nearly is the operative word.”

“Not to mention a short natural life expectancy.”

“We have to try to find this witness, Sergeant Tran Van Vinh.” Hellmann added, “Unfortunately, there are only about three hundred family names in Vietnam, and the Vietnamese population is about eighty million.”

“So the phone book won’t be much help.”

“There are no phone books. But we’re lucky this man’s family name wasn’t Nguyen. Half the Vietnamese family names are Nguyen. Fortunately, the family name Tran is not as common, and the middle and first names of Van Vinh and Quan Lee narrow it down.”

“Do you have a hometown and date of birth?”

“No date of birth, but an approximate age, of course—our age group. The envelope was addressed to the brother via an army unit designation, and also on the envelope was Tran Van Vinh’s return army address. We know from these addresses that these two men were in the North Vietnamese army, not the local South Vietnamese Viet Cong, so they’re northerners. In fact, in the letter there is a mention of their village or hamlet, a place called Tam Ki, but we find no such village on any of our maps of Vietnam, North or South. This is not unusual, as you might remember—the locals often referred to their hamlets or villages by one name, and the official maps had another for the same place. But we’re working on that. The village of Tam Ki will be an important clue in finding this man, Tran Van Vinh.”

“And if you find him? What’s he going to tell you that he hasn’t already put in the letter?”

“He could possibly identify the murderer from old army ID photos.”

“After thirty years?”

“It’s possible.”

“So, you have suspects?”

“Not at the moment. But we’re going through army records now, trying to discover the names of all First Cavalry Division United States Army captains who were in or near the city of Quang Tri on or about 7 February 1968. Also, of course, we’re looking at the First Cav lieutenants who were killed or missing in action at the same time and place. That’s all we have—two ranks, a captain and a lieutenant, their division, the First Cav, a place, Quang Tri City, and the date of 7 February 1968, the actual date of the murder that was described in the letter written the following day.”

Karl and I walked away from the statues, and I thought about all of this. I saw where this was going, but I didn’t want to go there.

Karl continued, “We can narrow this down and come up with a list of
possible suspects based on army records. Then, we will ask the FBI to question these former captains if they are civilians, and we will question any who are still in the army. At the same time, we will be looking for the only witness to this homicide. It sounds like a long shot, Paul, but crimes have been solved with even less to go on, as you well know.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to go to Vietnam, Paul.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Karl. Been there, done that. Got the medals to prove it.”

“Vietnam in January is actually quite pleasant, weatherwise.”

“So is Aruba. That’s where I’m headed next week,” I lied.

“A return trip might do you some good.”

“I don’t think so. The place sucked then, it sucks now.”

“Veterans who’ve returned report a cathartic experience.”

“It’s a totalitarian Commie police state with two hundred thousand tons of unexploded mines, booby traps, and artillery shells buried all over, waiting to blow me up.”

“Well, you need to be careful.”

“Are you coming with me?”

“Of course not. The place sucks.”

I laughed. “Colonel, with all due respect, you can take this case and shove it up someone else’s butt.”

“Listen to me, Paul—we cannot send an active duty man to Vietnam. This is . . . well, an unofficial investigation. You’ll go over as a tourist, a returning veteran, like thousands of other men—”

“You mean I wouldn’t have any official status or diplomatic immunity?”

“We would come to your aid, if you got into trouble.”

I asked, “What kind of aid? Like smuggling poison into my cell?”

“No, like having an embassy person visit you if you were detained, plus, of course, we’d lodge an official protest.”

“That’s very reassuring, but I don’t think I want to see the inside of a Communist prison, Karl. I have two friends who spent a lot of years in the Hanoi Hilton. They didn’t like it.”

“If you ran afoul of the authorities, they’d just kick you out.”

“Can I tell them you said that?”

Hellmann didn’t reply.

I thought a moment and said, “I’m assuming that the Vietnam Veterans
of America has sent the original of this letter to Hanoi as part of their humanitarian program to help the North Vietnamese learn the fate of their dead and missing. Therefore, Hanoi will locate the family of the deceased Tran Quan Lee, and they will know if his brother, Tran Van Vinh, is alive and where he is. Correct? So, why don’t you go through normal diplomatic channels, and let the Hanoi government do what it does best—keep track of its miserable citizens.”

Hellmann informed me, “Actually, we’ve asked the VVA not to send that letter to Hanoi.”

I knew that, but I asked, “Why?”

“Well . . . There are a number of reasons we thought it best that Hanoi didn’t see the letter at this time.”

“Give me one of those reasons.”

“The less they know, the better. The same is true for you.”

We made eye contact, and I realized that there was more to this than a thirty-year-old murder. There had to be, or none of this would make any sense. But I didn’t ask anything further. I said, “Okay, I’ve heard too much already. Thanks for your confidence in me, but no thanks.”

“What are you afraid of ?”

“Don’t try that on me, Karl. I’ve put my life on the line for this country many times. But this is not worth my life, or anyone’s life. It’s history. Let it be.”

“It’s a matter of justice.”

“This has nothing to do with justice. It’s something else, and since I don’t know what it is, I’m not putting my ass into Vietnam for a reason that no one’s telling me. The last two times I was there, I knew why.”

“We thought we knew why. They lied to us. No one’s lying to you this time. We’re just not telling you why. But trust me that this is very important.”

“That’s what they said then, too.”

“I won’t argue with that.”

The sun had almost set, and a cold wind was starting to blow. We were nearly alone, and both of us stood silently with our thoughts. Finally, Karl Hellmann said in a soft voice, “It is twilight. The shadows are long.” He looked at me. “The shadows stretch from there to here, Paul. That’s all I can tell you.”

I didn’t reply.

A man appeared dressed in an old fatigue jacket, wearing a bush hat. He
was about our age, but looked older because of a full gray beard. He put a bugle to his lips and played taps. As the last mournful note died away in the wind, the man faced the Wall, saluted, and moved off.

Karl and I lingered a moment longer, then Hellmann said, “All right, I understand. It could be a bit risky, and middle-aged men don’t risk their lives for something that could be foolish or useless. To tell you the truth, this man Tran Van Vinh is most likely dead, or even if he were alive, he probably wouldn’t be helpful. Come on, let me buy you a drink. There’s that place you like on Twenty-third Street.”

We walked in silence through the Mall, and Hellmann asked, “May I at least show you the letter?”

“Which one do I see? The love letter or the real one?”

“The translation of Tran Van Vinh’s letter.”

“A true and complete translation?”

Karl didn’t reply.

I said to him, “Give me the original letter in Vietnamese, and I’ll have it translated.”

“That’s not necessary.”

I smiled. “So, there’s something in the letter that is not for my eyes. But you want my help, and you’re holding a lot back.”

“It’s for your own good. Whatever I’m not telling you is irrelevant to the mission of finding Tran Van Vinh.”

“It’s relevant to
something
, or you wouldn’t be so cloak-and-dagger about it.”

Karl said nothing.

I asked, “How long ago did you get this letter from the VVA?”

“Two days ago.”

“And I assume you’ve begun the search of army records?”

“Yes, but that’s going to take a week or two. Also, there was that record storage fire—”

“Karl, that 1973 fire has been used to cover up more crap than any fire in history.”

“That may be, but there
are
missing files. Yet, I think that in a few weeks, we’ll be able to come up with a list of First Cavalry army captains who may have been in that place at that time. The list of army lieutenants who were actually killed in action in Quang Tri City on or around 7 February will be much shorter and more detailed. I can’t imagine more than two
or three names on that KIA list. There is a presumption that the captain and the lieutenant were in the same unit, so that could narrow down the names of the captains who could be suspects. That’s why I think this is not such a long shot.”

I replied, “Well, you may come up with a prime suspect, but you’ll never get a conviction.”

Karl replied, “Let’s find the witness and the suspect and worry about the consequences later.”

I thought a minute, then said to Karl, “As you mentioned, I was there at the time. And, FYI, the city itself was garrisoned by the South Vietnamese army, not Americans. Our guys were at firebases around the city. Are you sure these two Cav officers were
in
the city?”

“The letter strongly indicates that. Why?”

“Well, then maybe these two Americans were attached to the South Vietnamese army as advisors—Military Assistance Command, Vietnam. MACV. Right?”

“That’s a possibility.”

“So, that narrows it down even more. Do some desk work here before you go sending somebody into ’Nam.”

“We want parallel and concurrent investigations.”

“It’s your show.” In fact, I strongly suspected that the CID had been working on this much longer than Karl was indicating. I also suspected that the CID had already narrowed down the list of possible suspects and the possible victim, and maybe they already had their prime suspect. But they were not telling Paul Brenner about that. What the CID wanted now was for me to find the only eyewitness to this crime. I said to Colonel Hellmann, “An interesting case, and my bloodhound instincts are aroused. But I don’t need the frequent flier miles to Southeast Asia. I can think of a few other guys who’d love to go.”

“No problem.” Hellmann changed the subject and asked, “Are you still seeing Ms. Sunhill?”

I love it when people ask you questions about things they already know. I replied, “Why don’t you ask her?”

“To be honest, I already have. She indicates that there seems to be some problem with the relationship, which is why I thought you might be open to an overseas assignment.”

“I am. Aruba. And stay out of my personal life, please.”

“Ms. Sunhill is still CID, and as her commanding officer, I have a right to ask certain personal questions.”

“That’s what I miss about the army.”

Karl ignored this and asked, “By the way, are you looking for a civilian job in law enforcement?”

“I might be.”

“I can’t imagine you doing nothing in retirement.”

“I’ve got plenty to do.”

“I might be able to help you with a government job. The FBI hires a lot of former CID. This overseas assignment would look very good on your résumé.”

“Not to mention my obituary.”

“It would look good there, too.”

Karl doesn’t make too many jokes, so to be polite, I chuckled.

This encouraged him, I think, to press on. He said, “Did I mention that the Department of the Army will retroactively promote you to Chief Warrant Officer Five and recompute your retirement pay?”

“Tell them thanks.”

“In exchange for about two or three weeks of your time.”

“There’s always a catch.”

Hellmann stopped and lit another cigarette. We faced each other under a lamplight. Hellmann exhaled a stream of smoke and said, “We can get someone else, but your name came up first, second, and third. I’ve never asked a favor of you—”

“Of course you have.”

“And I’ve gotten you out of some very messy situations, Paul.”

“That you put me in, Karl.”

“You put yourself in most of them. Be honest with yourself.”

“It’s cold out here. I need a drink. You smoke too much.” I turned and walked off.

End of meeting. End of Karl. I continued walking, picturing Karl standing under the lamplight, smoking his cigarette, watching me. Well, that was one bad thing resolved.

For some reason, I found that my pace was slowing. All sorts of thoughts suddenly filled my frozen brain. Cynthia was one of them, of course. Write a second act, Paul. Was I set up, or what?

Certainly I needed to do something to get my juices flowing again. But
I couldn’t believe that Cynthia would want me to risk my life to perk up our relationship. Probably, she didn’t know exactly what Karl had in mind.

As I walked, I thought about my favorite subject—me. What was best for Paul Brenner? Suddenly, I had this image of me going to Vietnam and returning a hero; that hadn’t happened the last two times, but maybe it would this time. Then, I had this other image of me coming home in a box.