Up Country (47 page)

The reason the geniuses didn’t tell me ahead of time why this guy needed to be whacked was because if he was already dead, then I would have information I didn’t need.

But for some reason, they seemed to think that if and when I met Mr. Tran Van Vinh, I’d know the reason, and I’d do what I had to do.

Whatever this poor bastard saw in the ruins of Quang Tri during Tet of 1968 was going to come back to haunt him, and to kill him. And that really wasn’t fair, if he had indeed survived the whole war and had grown old . . . well, about my age, which is not old, but mature.

I tried to bring all my considerable powers of deductive reasoning to this puzzle, and I was getting close to something, but it kept slipping away.

The thing that was easy to deduce was this: If what Mr. Vinh saw was going to get him killed, then what Mr. Vinh told me could also get me killed.

I
sat in the cocktail lounge of the Century Riverside Hotel sipping a Scotch and soda while the little guy at the piano was playing “Strangers in the Night.”

It was ten after six, and the place was filled with Westerners chatting away while pretty cocktail waitresses in short skirts hurried around getting drink orders wrong.

I started wondering if Susan had gotten herself re-pissed and was going to stand me up. Women don’t care where they are when they’re pissed off at the guy they’re with. I’ve had women make scenes in Soviet Moscow, East Berlin, and other places where it’s not a good idea to attract attention, with no regard to their surroundings or the situation; when they’re pissed, they’re pissed.

Another possibility was that Susan had been picked up for questioning. After that little scene this morning at the police station, I wouldn’t be surprised if they decided to harass me through her. Despite our charade, they knew we were together.

A bigger anxiety, however, was the gun, and the possibility that someone had seen her burying it. But even if the cops had been alerted, they wouldn’t make a move until someone came to dig it up, which was why I intended to leave it there.

I ordered another Scotch. The three veterans were a few tables away, and they’d acquired some company in the form of three women in their mid-twenties, young enough to be their daughters. These guys may have once been officers, but they were not gentlemen; they were pigs.

The women looked and acted like Americans, but beyond that, I couldn’t tell much about them, except that they were tourists, not expats, and they liked middle-aged guys with bucks.

Anyway, it was 6:30, and I was getting a little concerned. This is why it’s better to travel alone, especially when you’re on an assignment that could get dicey. I have enough trouble watching my own ass without worrying about a civilian.

But maybe she wasn’t a civilian. This got me thinking about Mr. Anh, who, like Susan, was doing a little favor for Uncle Sam. This place was becoming the East Berlin of the post”Cold War world: shadowy people running around doing deals, doing favors, keeping their eyes and ears open. The CIA must feel re-energized now that they had a place where they could stir up the shit again.

The Americans, of course, don’t like losing, and they’d learned a good postwar lesson from the Germans and the Japanese; if you lose the war, buy the winner’s country.

Susan appeared at the door and looked around. She spotted me as I stood, and she smiled. You can always tell when someone is sincerely happy to see you by how they smile when they spot you in a crowd.

She walked over to the cocktail table, and I saw she was wearing black jeans, which I hadn’t seen before, and a white silk V-neck sweater, which I also hadn’t seen.

She gave me a big hug and kiss and said, “I knew you’d returned safely because I checked with the desk.”

“Safe and sound.”

She sat, and I sat across from her. She asked, almost excitedly, “So, how did it go? You had the rendezvous?”

“Yes. It went fine. What did you do today?”

“Shopping and sightseeing. So, who met you?”

“A Eurasian woman named Dep Throat.”

“Come on, Paul. This is exciting. Was it a guy? An American? A Viet?”

“A guy. And that is
all
I’m saying.”

“Do you know where you have to go next?”

I didn’t seem to be getting through to her. I said, “Yes, and that’s the end of the conversation.”

“Is it far from here?”

“What are you drinking?”

“San Miguel.”

I signaled the waitress and ordered a San Miguel beer.

Susan asked, “Where did you meet this guy? Where is Number 32? I’ll bet that refers to the map in the guidebook.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“I slept like a baby until noon. Did you go to the Immigration Police?”

“Yes.”

“Did it go all right?”

“Yes.” I added, “Actually, we had some words.”

“Good. When you’re nice to them, they think you’re up to something. When you mouth off, they figure you’re clean.”

“I know that. I was a cop.”

“I stayed away from the Citadel, as you asked, and now you have to tell me where you met this guy.”

“Obviously, I met him in the Citadel.”

“Do you think you were followed?”

“I wasn’t. I don’t know about him. Did you buy that outfit today?”

“Yes. You like it?”

“Very nice.”

“Thank you.”

Her beer came, and she poured it into a glass. We touched glasses, and she said, “Sorry about last night. You don’t need the hassle.”

“That’s okay. I did the same thing to you about Bill.”

“You did. I got rid of him.”

I didn’t reply.

I noticed the three vets again, and they were looking at Susan even though they already had three babes. What swine.

“What are you looking at?”

“Three Americans over there. Former army or marines. I saw them here yesterday and also at dinner. They’re eyeing you.”

“They’re cute.”

“They’re pigs.”

“The women seem to be having a good time.”

“They’re pigs, too.”

“I think you’re jealous.”

“No, I’m not. You’re the most beautiful woman in the room.”

“You’re so sweet.” She changed the subject back to business and asked, “So, do you know how to get to this place you’re supposed to go to?”

“I think so.”

There was a good deal of background noise in the lounge, so no one could overhear us, and the piano player was playing Tony Bennett’s “Once Upon a Time.” I decided that the time had come to get at the bottom of some things that could affect my health. I said to her, “Now, let me ask you a few questions. Look at me and keep eye contact.”

She put down her beer and sat up in her chair. She looked at me.

“Who are you working for?”

She replied, “I work for American-Asian Investment Corporation. Sometimes I do favors for the American consulate in Saigon, and the embassy in Hanoi.”

“Have you ever done favors for the resident CIA guy in Saigon or Hanoi?”

“Saigon. Just once.”

“You mean now.”

“Yes.”

“Do you get paid?”

“Expenses.”

“Did you have formal training?”

“Yes. A month at Langley.”

Which explained the trip to Washington. I asked, “Is American-Asian Investment a CIA front?”

“No. It’s a real investment company. But it is a vetted facility.”

“Anyone else at AAIC doing favors?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“What were your instructions regarding me?”

“Just meet and greet.”

“They didn’t tell you to pump me?”

“No. Why bother? Are you going to tell me anything about why you’re here?”

“No. Did they tell you to travel with me?”

“No. That was my idea.”

“Right now, Susan, are you on the job or off the job?”

“Off the job.”

“I’m believing everything you say. You understand that? If you say it, it’s the truth.”

“It
is
the truth.”

“Are you in love with me?”

“You know I am.” She smiled for the first time and said, “I did fake one orgasm.”

I tried not to smile and asked, “Do you know anything about my assignment that I don’t know?”

She didn’t reply.

“Tell me.”

“I can’t. I can’t lie to you, so I can’t say anything.”

“Let’s try again. What do you know about this?”

She took a sip of beer, cleared her throat, and said, “I don’t know what your purpose here is, but I think the CIA does. They certainly weren’t going to tell me. I think everyone has little pieces of this, and no one is telling anyone else what they know.”

That was probably true. I wondered if even Karl had the whole picture. I said to Susan, “Meet and greet doesn’t quite cut it.”

“Well, obviously there was more to it. I was asked to brief you about the country without it sounding like I was briefing you. More like acclimating you and making sure you were good to go.” She added, “You figured that out.”

“Okay, aside from the resident CIA guy in Saigon, did you speak to anyone from the American embassy in Hanoi?”

“Yes, I did. The American military attaché. Colonel Marc Goodman. He flew to Saigon and spoke to me.”

“About what?”

“He just wanted to be sure I had the right stuff.”

“To do what?”

“To . . . win your confidence.”

“I’m not getting a clear picture.”

“You’re putting me on the spot.”

“My life is on the spot, lady. Talk to me.”

“I wasn’t supposed to travel with you. But I was supposed to offer to meet you here in Hue, to tell you I had to go there anyway on business or whatever. Then I was to say I would meet you again in Hanoi.”

“What if I didn’t like you?”

“Most men like me.”

“I’m sure. And what was the point of you meeting me here in Hue?”

“To see if I could help you, to report on your health, your attitude, any problems with the police, the outcome of your rendezvous, and so forth. You know that.”

“Okay. Did this military attaché guy, Colonel Goodman, and the CIA guy talk to each other in Saigon?”

“They did. But I wasn’t there for that meeting.”

“You understand that a military attaché is actually Military Intelligence?”

She nodded.

“Who’s the CIA guy in Saigon?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Apparently everyone was in on this, but me. Army Intelligence and the CIA were talking to each other about a CID/FBI case that they weren’t supposed to know anything about; but obviously they did. What was the connection? Actually, the more I thought about Mr. Conway at Dulles, the more he seemed less FBI and more military; but they wanted to give the appearance of FBI involvement so that it seemed more like a homicide case and less like an international problem. Not only was Colonel Mang running around passing himself off as one thing when he was another, but so was Mr. Conway. And so was Susan. By this time, I wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that I was working for Colonel Mang.

“Paul?”

“What?”

“Are you angry with me?”

“Not yet. Okay, so when they motivated you to use your many charms to win my confidence, what did they tell you to motivate
you?”

“National security. My patriotic duty. Stuff like that.”

“What else?”

“Do you still love me?”

“More than ever. What else?”

“I’ve already told you a few times. It has to do with the emerging relationship between America and Vietnam. Business. Oil. Trade. Cheap labor. They don’t want it screwed up. Neither do I.”

“Who’s trying to screw it up?”

“I told you that, too. The hard-liners in Hanoi, and maybe in Washington.”

“And did they tell you that my mission was going to help or hurt that cause?”

“They indicated that you could help.”

“I guess they did, or you’d have already pushed me off the roof of the Rex.”

“Don’t be silly. I was told to help you.”

“If I told you what I was doing here, do you think that my little piece of the puzzle and the little piece of the puzzle that you have might fit together?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want to swap pieces of the puzzle? You go first.”

“I have no need to know why you’re here, and no desire to know.”

“Or, you already know.”

“I don’t. Are you pissed off at me?”

“Not yet.”

“Still love me?”

“More than ever.”

“Good. Can I have a cigarette?”

“Sure. Fire away.”

She pulled a pack out of her purse and lit up. She took a long drag and exhaled, then sat back and crossed her legs. She said to me, “It has to do with Cam Ranh Bay.”

“Okay.”

“We built it, we want it back.”

“I know that.”

“The Philippines has kicked us out, and the Japanese are moving to reduce our presence. The Russian lease on Cam Ranh Bay expires in a few years, and they’re paying rent under the old 1975 lease price in new rubles, which are almost worthless. Hanoi wants them out.”

“Real money talks English.”

“Right. We’re talking about
billions
of greenback dollars to Hanoi for a long-term lease.”

“Go on.”

“The Viets hate and fear the Chinese. Always have. The Americans fear the Chinese. Strategic Pentagon projections show us at war with Red China within twenty years. We’re short on military bases in this area. Plus, there’s a
lot
of offshore oil here.”

“So, this isn’t about coffee, rubber, or betel nuts?”

“No. Oil and military bases.”

“Got it. Continue.”

“The Pentagon and others in Washington are very excited about this. The present administration is not. They don’t want to piss off the
Chinese, who would go totally ballistic if we set up a military base at Cam Ranh Bay.”

I nodded. I now had a little piece of the puzzle, but it didn’t fit my piece. I mean, it must, but there was another piece in between.

Susan continued, “Hanoi is willing to sign Cam Ranh Bay over to us, despite some hard-line opposition from the old Reds who still hate us. But it’s the present American government who doesn’t have the balls to go for it, despite nearly everyone in the Pentagon and the intelligence community saying go for it. It’s crucial in case of a future war. It’s good for us, and good for the Vietnamese.”