Up Country (28 page)

“Yes? And when you visit your old battlefields, what will you feel?”

I replied, “I was a cook. But if I was a combat soldier, I have no idea what I’d feel until I stood on the battlefield.”

He nodded. After a few seconds, he said to me, “When you arrive in Hanoi, you will again report to the Immigration Police.”

“Why? I’m leaving the next day.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

I leaned toward Colonel Mang and said, “My first stop in Hanoi will be the American embassy.”

“Yes? And for what purpose?”

“I’ll leave that for you to figure out.”

Colonel Mang thought about that and said to me, “Did you contact your consulate here?”

I replied, “Through my acquaintance here, I registered my presence in Ho Chi Minh City, my problem at the airport, my passport being taken, and my arrival date in Hanoi.” I added, “My acquaintance here will or has already contacted the American embassy in Hanoi.”

Colonel Mang did not reply.

I liked the subject of the American embassy, so I said, “I think it’s a very good thing that Washington and Hanoi have established diplomatic relations.”

“Do you? I do not.”

“Well, I do. It’s time to bury the past.”

“We have not even buried all the dead yet, Mr. Brenner.”

I wanted to tell him I knew about the Communists bulldozing the cemeteries of the South Vietnamese military, but I was already a pain in his ass. I said, “If America had no diplomats here, who could I complain to about your behavior?”

He actually smiled, then informed me, “I liked it much better the way it was after 1975.”

“I’m sure you did. But it’s a new world, and a new year.”

He ignored this and asked me, “Did you give your acquaintance, Mr. Stanley, your travel itinerary?”

“I did.”

He smiled. “Good. So if you met with a misadventure along the way, and if no one hears from you in Nha Trang or Hue or at the Metropole in Hanoi, your embassy and the police can join in making inquiries.”

I said, “I don’t intend to meet with any misadventures, but if I do, my embassy will know where to make the first inquiry.”

Colonel Mang seemed to enjoy exchanging subtle threats and counter-threats. I think he appreciated me on one level. Also, by this time, he was starting to suspect that he and I were in a similar business. And I was fairly sure that Colonel Mang was several steps up from an Immigration police officer; he’d borrowed this ratty office in Section C, full of backpackers and condom posters. Colonel Mang’s real home was in Section A or maybe B. Section C put the suspect at ease and off his guard. And regarding my notifying the embassy, or Karl, they weren’t as concerned about the Immigration Police as they would have been about the Security Police or the National Police.

Also, I thought, there was some irony and symmetry at work here—I wasn’t a former cook or a tourist, and Colonel Mang was not an Immigration cop. And neither of us was going to get nominated for Best Actor Award.

I said, “Colonel, I need to get back to the Rex Hotel, or I might miss my transportation. Thank you for your time and advice.”

He pretended he didn’t hear me and looked at my hotel bill. He said, “A very expensive dinner. Did you dine alone?”

“I did not.”

He didn’t ask any further questions and didn’t ask for money. He took a piece of cheap paper and wrote something on it, then took a rubber stamp off the desk, and pressed it onto the paper. Colonel Mang said, “You will show this to the Immigration Police wherever you report to them.” He handed me the stamped paper, my hotel bill, my passport, visa, and another square of paper with a C on it, though this one was yellow. “You will take this pass directly to the desk where you entered the building and give it to the man there.” He smiled and added, “Do not lose your pass, Mr. Brenner, or you will never get out of this building.”

Colonel Mang had a little sense of humor; warped, but at least he was
trying. I stood and said, “I had an interesting visit, but I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

He ignored this and informed me, “If you deviate from your itinerary, notify the closest Immigration Police. Good day.”

I said to him, “And thank you for returning my souvenir to my room.”

“That is all, Mr. Brenner.”

I couldn’t resist and said, “Chuc Mung Nam Moi.”

“Leave, before I change my mind.”

Well, we didn’t want that, so I left.

Outside in the hallway, there was no one to escort me, so I just walked down the hall by myself.

I got to the front lobby and gave the guy there my yellow pass, and he pointed to the front doors and said, “Go.”

I walked toward the front doors. The Ministry of Public Security was sort of a bad imitation of Orwell’s Ministry of Love, but there was a palpable presence of police power in this building, a feeling of accumulated decades of fear, intimidation, interrogations, blood, sweat, and tears.

I left the building and walked out into the sunlight. As Susan said, there were no taxis around, and I walked a block before a cab pulled alongside me. I got in and said, “Rex Hotel.”

And off we went. I glanced at the note that Colonel Mang had given me. It was a long sentence in Vietnamese, except for the words
Paul Brenner
. I also recognized the word
My
—American. Colonel Mang had signed the note with his full name, which was Nguyen Qui Mang, followed by his rank,
dai-ta
. These Nguyens got around. Anyway, the stamp on the note was a red star with a few words, including
phong quan ly nguoi nuoc ngoai
. I put the paper in my pocket, pretty pissed off about having to carry around a note from the fuzz.

It was a few minutes after nine, and within ten minutes, I was back at the Rex.

I walked into the lobby, and there was Susan Weber, sitting in a chair facing the door, wearing navy blue slacks, walking shoes, and a tan cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She saw me, stood, and moved quickly toward me, as though we were lovers meeting for a tryst.

Neither of us wanted to be overdramatic, so we just took each other’s hand without any hugging or smooching. She said, “How did it go?”

“Fine. I’m free to roam. How’d you do with the ticket?”

“I’ve got you booked on the train to Nha Trang.”

“Great. You’re terrific.”

“But the ticket isn’t here yet, and it’s a 10:15 departure.”

“How far is the station?”

“About twenty minutes, this time of day. So, what did Colonel Mang say?”

“I’m re-educated.”

She smiled. “Did you keep your smart mouth shut?”

“I tried. He said the prostitutes, the drugs, the karaoke bars, and you would soon be history.” I added, “Not you by name, of course.”

“You know, it doesn’t have to be one or the other.”

“It does, if you’re Colonel Mang. He’s got a serious double-think problem going in his head, and I’m afraid he may have a nervous breakdown. Meanwhile, when is my ticket going to arrive?”

“Any moment. And thank you for that snow globe. Is that for me?”

“Yes. It’s not much, but you don’t need much.”

“It’s the thought that counts.”

“Precisely.” I said, “I’ve got to settle my bill here—”

“It’s done.”

“That wasn’t necessary.”

“It could have been, and now you have time to tell me about the twenty-dollar massage charge.” She smiled.

“I overtipped.” We let that one go, and I said, “Colonel Mang wants your travel agent to call him tout de suite and report in.” I added, “Sorry if that causes a problem. He insisted.”

“That’s okay. Vidotour reports everything, but the private travel agents don’t, unless they’re specifically told to. I’ll call her.”

“Does Bill use the same travel agent?”

“Sometimes. Why?”

“Because he was the one who called the travel agent on my behalf. I didn’t want to use your name.”

“Oh . . . well . . . it doesn’t matter. I’ll call him and straighten it out.”

“Tell him I thank him for getting me out of Saigon. That will make him happy.”

She didn’t respond to that and said, “Did Colonel Mang give you any sort of note, or anything in writing?”

I showed her my note from Colonel Mang and asked, “What’s it say?”

She looked at it and gave it back to me. “It says, ‘Register the address of Paul Brenner, American, and his arrival and departure, and means of transportation to and from your location.’ ”

I nodded. What the note didn’t say was, “Report this to the Security Police,” but that was understood.

Susan said, “It used to be common for Westerners to register with the Immigration Police. You used to need a travel permit in addition to your passport and visa. Travel has become less restrictive in the last few years.”

“Not for me.”

“Apparently not. Let me make a few calls.” She added, “Maybe someone can get a fix on Colonel Nguyen Qui Mang.”

She walked off toward the door where the signal would be better and made a few calls. I hate to leave other people holding the bag for me, and I never do that in my private life, but when I’m on an assignment, Rule Number One is the mission comes first, and Paul Brenner comes second, and everyone else is last. That didn’t include Susan, of course, and probably shouldn’t have included Bill Stanley. It was no big deal, anyway, though I noticed that Susan seemed a little concerned or maybe annoyed.

Susan returned from her cell phone calls and said, “It’s all straightened out.”

“And Bill was pleased that I gave his name to Colonel Mang?”

She said, “You could have used my name.”

“No, I couldn’t have. I don’t want Colonel Mang questioning you and finding inconsistencies in my conversation with him.”

“I thought you were being chivalrous.”

“Spell that.”

I noticed a kid of about twelve coming through the door. Susan walked over to him and said something. He gave her an envelope, she gave him a tip, then said something to my friend Lan, and motioned me toward the door.

Things started to move fast now, and Susan and I were out on the sidewalk. She said, “That’s my taxi, and your bags are in the trunk. Let’s move.”

We got into the taxi, and Susan spoke to the driver, and off we went.

I said to her, “You don’t have to come to the station—”

“It will go much faster if I’m with you, unless you’ve learned to read and speak Vietnamese in the last few hours.”

“Okay. Thanks. I’ll take the ticket.”

“I’ll hold it. I need to show it at the station. You don’t actually have a
seat, but I got you a car number. It’s a second-class coach and will be filled with Viets, any one of whom will give up his seat for five bucks, and stand. You can’t do that in First Class because they’re mostly Westerners, and they’ll tell you to fuck off. Okay?”

I said to Susan, “When you get back to your office, I need you to fax or e-mail my firm and tell them I’m off to Nha Trang. Tell them Colonel Mang wants me to report to the Immigration Police there, but I don’t believe the mission is compromised, though I may be under surveillance. Okay?”

She stayed quiet a moment, then said, “I thought they’d be on pins and needles waiting to hear the outcome of your meeting, so I called the consulate when I made those other calls. I kept it short, in case the call was monitored. I got hold of the guy there who knows about this. I think he’s the resident CIA guy. I just said, ‘He’s free to travel. Wire his firm.’ Okay?”

I thought about this and said, “Okay. But you e-mail or fax them with a full report when you get to the office.”

“Will do.”

The train station was north of the center, and within fifteen minutes we pulled up near the entrance amid dozens of taxis, buses, and swarms of people.

Susan gave the driver a five, and we got out as he popped the trunk. I pulled my bags out of the trunk and noticed a big yellow backpack in the trunk. Susan pulled it out and slammed the trunk closed, then put on the backpack. She said, “Okay, let’s move.”

“Uh . . . hold on.”

“Come on, Paul. We’ll miss the train.”

We?
I followed her into the station, pulling my suitcase through the big central terminal. Susan looked at the display board and said, “Track 5. That’s this way. Let’s move.”

We hurried across the open area crowded with travelers, and I said, “We can say good-bye here.”

She replied, “I hate good-byes.”

“Susan—”

“I feel responsible for getting you to Nha Trang. Then you’re on your own. Okay?”

I didn’t reply.

We got to the track, and Susan showed the woman at the gate two tickets.
They exchanged some words, Susan gave her a dollar, and the woman waved us through.

We hurried along the platform, and Susan said, “Car 9. That’s at the far end, of course.”

My watch said 10:12, and the conductor was calling all aboard in Vietnamese, which could have been funny if I was in a better mood.

We got to Car 9, and I hefted my suitcase on board, then jumped on and pulled Susan up after me. We stood there in the end vestibule compartment, and I was huffing, puffing, and sweating.

The conductor gave the last all-aboard, the doors closed, and the train started to move. We stood there and looked at each other as the train began gaining speed, moving away from the station.

I asked, “How much do I owe you for the ticket?”

She smiled. “We’ll settle later.”

I said, “I really didn’t see this coming.”

“Of course, you did. You’re a spy. You saw that I wasn’t dressed for the office. I held the tickets. I already called the consulate. I stopped mentioning that I wanted to go with you. I came to the station. I held a taxi with your luggage in the trunk—along with mine. So what was your first clue?”

“All of the above, I guess.”

“So, stop acting surprised.”

“Right.”

“Do you want me along?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll only stay in Nha Trang a few days, then I’m going back to Saigon.”

“Did you get a hotel?”

“No, we’ll find that hotel you stayed at on your R&R—if it’s still standing.”

I looked through the window of the vestibule door and saw that the coach was packed with people, luggage, crates, and just about everything except farm animals. I said, “We may be better off standing.”