Up Country (83 page)

The house was a three-story French villa with a slate mansard roof. The cream-colored stucco was molded to look like stone blocks, and there were French ornamental details on the facade, including wrought iron balconies and louvered shutters. An illuminated American flag flew from a pole near the front entrance. A breeze snapped the flag, and I felt a little tingle run down my spine.

A Vietnamese man dressed in a dark suit stood at the entrance. He smiled and said, “Good evening.”

Susan replied in English, “Good evening.”

I like people who don’t show off their second language whenever they get a chance. Nevertheless, I said to him, “Bon soir,” so he could tell his friends about a Frenchman who came to the American Ambassador’s reception dressed like a pig.

He replied, “Bon soir, monsieur.” He opened the door and we entered.

We went up a short flight of marble stairs, at the top of which was yet another Viet, this one a woman in a blue silk ao dai, who also greeted us in English and bowed. She said, “Please follow me. The reception is in the garden.”

Susan said to her, “I’d like to use the ladies’ room.”

The Viet lady probably thought that was a good idea.

She bowed us toward a sitting room to the right, off of which was a staircase that went up to the next floor, but Susan passed it and kept going.

As we crossed the well-appointed sitting room, Susan motioned to a set of closed double doors on the left-hand wall and said, “The Ambassador’s office.”

She opened another door that led to a big bathroom and said, “Come on in. I’m not shy.”

We both entered the bathroom and I locked the door.

Susan made right for the toilet.

There were two marble washbasins along the wall, with soap and towels, and I washed the grime and blue dye off my face and hands. I looked in the mirror and a very tired unshaven man looked back at me. This wasn’t the worst two weeks of my life—the A Shau Valley still held first place—but it might have been the most emotionally draining. And it wasn’t over. Nor would it ever be.

Susan stood at the basin beside me and looked at herself in the mirror. “I look good without makeup . . . don’t I?”

“See if the Ambassador hits on you again.”

I didn’t see any mouthwash, so good soldier that I am, I bit off a piece of soap, put a handful of hot water in my mouth, and gargled. The soap foamed around my lips.

Susan laughed and said, “What are you doing?”

I spit into the sink. “Gargling.”

She washed up and tried the soap in the mouth. “Ugh.”

I went to a window that overlooked the front garden where we’d come in. I could see the marine guards at the entrance, the two marines at the guardhouse, and the American flag flapping outside the window. Over the wall was Hanoi, Mang territory.

I said to her, “We need to stay here tonight. Or in the embassy.”

Susan came up beside me with a hot, wet towel and put it on the back of my neck. “How’s that feel?”

“Great.”

She looked out the window and said, “You know, Paul, you don’t have to have a confrontation here. Why make yourself persona non grata in the embassy?”

“Why not? I’m persona non grata in the rest of this country. Am I persona non grata in this bathroom?”

She smiled. “Your safety zone is definitely shrinking. You know, Colonel Mang might do the job for you.”

“I need a drink.”

We left the bathroom and went back to the Viet lady, who led us down a hallway past a large living room or salon, beyond which I could see a larger dining room. The furnishings here were top-notch, a mixture of French and East Asian, though a lot of bad modern paintings hung on the walls.

We came to a long gallery that ran along the rear of the house, and the lady motioned us toward a set of French doors. I could hear music and talking out in the garden.

As Susan and I walked toward the doors, she said to me, “Bill is supposed to be here.”

“I kind of figured that out.”

“Does that bother you?”

“No. We were classmates at Princeton.”

We went through the doors onto a set of marble stairs flanked by pink granite banisters. I said, “You could buy a B-52 bomber for what this place costs.”

Susan took my hand, which was a very nice gesture, and we moved halfway down the stairs. There was a big pavilion pitched in the yard, which was all lit up with Chinese lanterns. The yard was surrounded by walls and gardens, which were also lit. To the left, I saw a big lighted swimming pool. I could be the next ambassador to Vietnam if I played my cards right.

Susan looked out over the crowd of about two hundred people, none of whom wore jeans or polo shirts. She said to me, “There’s the Ambassador . . . and there’s Anne Quinn . . . I don’t see the Vice President . . . but wherever you see a crowd and hear the kissing of ass, he should be in the center.”

“I think I see him.”

Susan said, “We’re a bit late for the receiving line, so we should first go and announce our presence to Mrs. Quinn.”

“You learn this in the Junior League? Can’t we hit the bar first?”

“No. Protocol before alcohol.”

We descended the last steps, and a few people noticed us, then a few more. There seemed to be a little lull in the noise level.

Susan went right up to the Ambassador’s wife, who was speaking to a group of men and women under the pavilion. Susan put out her hand and said, “Anne. How are you? You look fabulous.”

Anne Quinn was a handsome woman of about fifty with an expressive face. In fact, her face expressed something close to shock, but she recovered nicely and said, “Susan! How wonderful to see you!”

Barf.

They did a little air kiss, and Mrs. Quinn’s nose twitched, like she’d just smelled Vietnam.

The rest of the group seemed to be backing away.

Susan said to our hostess, “You’ll never guess what a week I’ve had.”

No, she never would.

Susan said, “Oh, Anne, please let me introduce you to my friend, Paul Brenner. Paul, Anne Quinn.”

I tried to stand downwind from her as I took her hand and said, “Very pleased to meet you. Chuc Mung Nam Moi.”

She smiled weakly and returned my New Year’s greeting.

I still had the taste of soap in my mouth, and I tried to blow a bubble, but it wasn’t working.

Susan said to Mrs. Quinn, “Please forgive us for arriving late. Paul and I spent a week traveling up country, and the train from Lao Cai was late, and to top it off, we had our luggage stolen.”

“Oh, how awful.”

I guess that explained our attire without mentioning it directly. Susan, I noticed, seemed to fit in here, and even her voice had changed from sexy to sort of chirpy. I needed a drink.

Mrs. Quinn glanced at me and started processing something. She said to Susan, “You . . . you traveled to where . . . ?”

“To Dien Bien Phu and Sa Pa. You absolutely must go there.”

“Well . . . yes . . .”

“Paul and I spent three wonderful days in Nha Trang. Have you been there?”

“No . . .”

“You must go. And don’t miss Pyramide Island. Then we went to Hue and stayed at the Century. Where you stayed last year.”

“Oh, yes . . .” She glanced at me again, then said to Susan, “Bill Stanley is here . . .”

The lady never finished a sentence. Probably never finished a thought.

Susan sort of looked around. “Oh, is he? I’ll have to say hello.”

“Yes . . . he was actually asking . . .”

Susan said to her and to the other people who were still moving backward, “Paul served in Vietnam during the war, and we visited some of his old battlefields.”

Mrs. Quinn looked at me. “How interesting . . . did you . . . find it difficult . . . ?”

“Not this time.”

Susan said to her, “Paul has been looking for a drink since Lao Cai. And I can use a few myself. Terrible train ride. If you’ll excuse us.”

“Of course.”

She took my arm, and we moved toward one of the bars. Susan said, “Lovely woman.”

“Don’t look for another invitation in the mail.”

We made our way through the crowd, and everyone was glancing at us. The thing about a beautiful underdressed woman is that she’s still beautiful.

We got to the open air bar where two Viet guys in white coats stood smiling. Susan ordered a gin and tonic, and I ordered a double Scotch on the rocks, which they understood.

I looked around. The crowd of about two hundred was mostly round-eyes, but there were also a good number of Vietnamese, a few in military uniforms, which reminded me of Colonel Mang. Maybe I should have invited him here. He would have enjoyed himself. Also, I could take him in the bushes and beat the shit out of him.

Most of the Westerners and even the Asians looked like business types, but I saw a number of people who could be from other embassies, East and West.

Bottom line here, Vice President Edward Blake was a big draw.

I made a mental note to find my FBI contact, John Eagan, though I was sure he’d find me first.

A four-piece Viet combo was playing “Moonlight in Vermont” out on the lawn, and I noticed a few guys around with earplugs and bulges under their coats, who were obviously Secret Service detailed to the VP. By now, some spotter somewhere was talking into their earplugs saying something like, “Two vagrants at the south bar. Keep an eye on them.”

Our drinks were made, and I turned around and bumped into one of the Secret Service guys, who had removed his earplug so he could talk to me. He looked about fifteen, and he was smiling. He put out his hand and said, “Hi, I’m Scott Romney.”

I ignored his hand and said, “I’m an American citizen.”

He kept his smile plastered on his face and said, “Sir, do you think we could have a word inside?”

“No, I don’t think so, sonny.”

Susan interrupted my fun and said to him, “Go speak to Mrs. Quinn. She knows us personally.”

He looked at Susan and still smiling said, “Yes, ma’am. I’ll do that.” And off he went.

I took a sip of my Scotch, gargled, and swallowed.

Susan made me hold her glass while she lit a cigarette. She said, “I’m almost out of smokes.” She took her glass and said, “I told you, you look suspicious. That’s never happened to me before.”

I smiled.

She puffed away and said, “You want to meet the Ambassador now?”

“I want to finish my drink.”

“He’s coming this way.”

I looked to my right toward the pool, and saw a man who must be Patrick Quinn coming toward us alone, but followed at a distance by a few other men. He was about my age and my height, well built, and not bad looking. He was wearing a dark blue suit, like almost every other guy here, and he was beaming a smile at Susan. He came right up to her and shouted, “Susan!” and gave her a big hug and kiss. He said, “You look lovely! How are you?”

He was able to finish short sentences by raising his voice at the end.

Susan replied, “I’m wonderful. You look very fit and tan for February.”

Barf.

He replied, “Well, my secret is a tanning lamp and a new gym in the basement. You look very tan yourself. Where have you been?”

“To Nha Trang. With this gentleman. Mr. Ambassador, may I introduce you to my friend, Paul Brenner.”

He never missed a beat or batted an eye as he turned to me and stuck out his hand. “Paul! Great meeting you!”

He had a good grip, and he liked to pump, so my Scotch splashed around. He said, “Welcome to our little gathering. Glad you could make it, Paul.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Call me Pat. So, you and Susan were in Nha Trang?”

“For a few days.”

“I have to get there. God, I’d love to travel more around this country.”

“It’s an adventure,” I told him.

“I’m sure it is. I’m sure it is.”

You can say that again. “It is.” I couldn’t tell if he knew who I was, or why I was in Vietnam, or if my appearance here was a surprise, a shock, or meaningless. The ambassador is almost always kept in the dark about what the spooks are doing, so he can deny it all later and sound sincere. But it struck me as odd that with two hundred other people here, he’d gone out of his way to charge across the lawn toward Susan. Of course, he probably wanted to fuck her, which could also explain his enthusiasm.

Susan was telling him about the Lao Cai train and the luggage, and he was hanging on every word and nodding sympathetically. He definitely wanted to fuck her, but that was the least of my problems, and in fact, maybe not my problem at all.

He said to Susan, “I’m sure Anne has something for you to wear.”

Susan replied, “I actually like my old jeans.”

He laughed. Ha ha. He turned to me, “Paul, can I get you a sport jacket?”

“Not if the lady is in jeans. I’m not that brave.”

Ha ha.

Susan told him, “Paul served with the army in Vietnam. We visited his battlefields.”

“Ah. Is this your first time back?”

“It is.”

“I was here with the navy. Off the coast. Never saw any real action.”

“You didn’t miss anything.”

He laughed and slapped my shoulder. He said, “As you know, Vice President Blake saw combat, too. Remind me later to introduce you. Well, I’m glad you both came despite your misadventures. Get yourselves something to eat. The Metropole is catering.”

He turned to Susan and said in a softer voice, “Bill Stanley was asking about you.” He looked at her. “You should let him know you’re here.”

“I will.”

Patrick Quinn moved back to his group on the lawn.

I finished my Scotch and said to Susan, “Is that guy for real?”

“He’s very charming.”

“Your taste in men worries me.”

She smiled and looked around. “There’s a buffet table. Do you want something to eat?”

“No. I get silly when I eat.” I handed my empty glass back to the bartender and he refilled it.

Susan asked, “Do you mind if I go find Bill?”

“Bill will find you, darling.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No, I just feel so much safer when you’re at my side.”

She shrugged.

We moved around a little, and Susan knew a few people, mostly American businessmen and women who lived in Hanoi. There was a guy there from her Hanoi office, and they chatted awhile.