Up Country (85 page)

Bill said to me, “I’m staying at the Metropole.”

“Good choice.”

“When I checked in yesterday, there was a sealed envelope waiting for me, sender unknown.”

“Really? You shouldn’t open packages without a return address.”

“Yes, I know that. But I did. Inside the envelope were twenty photographs of you and Susan at a beach, labeled Nha Trang, Pyramide Island.” He added, “All you were wearing were your smiles.”

Whoops.
I said, “Well, I remember being at the beach, and we were wearing bathing suits. Those pictures must have been digitally altered.”

“I don’t think so. What the hell possessed you two to cavort publicly in the nude when you knew you were being followed? Did they teach you anything at whatever school you went to?”

The man had a point, so I said, “I admit to a lapse of judgment.”

“And then you tell me you and she had a platonic relationship until a few days ago.”

“Well, we just went skinny-dipping. It was my idea.”

“I’m sure. Haven’t you ever heard of telescopic lenses?”

“I really don’t want a lecture from you.”

“These photographs could be used for blackmail.”

“Actually, I think the police are sending them to everyone, yourself included, to embarrass Susan. So that rules out blackmail.”

“My God . . .” He asked me, “Have you seen these photographs?”

“Actually, I have. Colonel Mang was kind enough to give us a sneak preview.”

He shook his head and seemed lost in thought. He said to me, “You may not care, but Susan comes from a good family with some social standing, and—”

“Bill, cut the Ivy League, Junior League shit, before I lose my temper. We both care about Susan. End of discussion.”

“All right . . .” He looked at me. “Susan told me she loves you. Certainly she told you that.”

“Yes, she did, but this was such an artificial situation. She should think about it.”

“How do you feel about her?”

“Conflicted.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that I keep discovering new facets of her personality.” I think it’s called bipolar disorder, but Bill already knew that. To be honest, I’m not always sane myself, and that’s when Susan really appealed to me. But to be more loyal to Susan, I said to Bill, “She’s a remarkable woman, and I could easily fall in love with her.”

He mulled this over. My five minutes of “Days of Our Lives” was drawing to a close, so I said to him, “I think this may be Susan’s decision and not ours.”

Bill didn’t really know me at all, and he probably took everything I said at face value, despite what was in his briefing memo about me. He said to me, “I had the impression from Susan that you . . . that you felt the same way about her.”

Before I could reply, Susan joined us and said, “I think that’s enough.”

Time for a commercial break. I said, “I have to insist that nothing further is discussed about this case that I’m not privy to.”

Bill replied, “That’s absurd and outrageous.”

“Nevertheless, I insist.”

Bill snapped, “For your information, you have no say over who speaks to whom. Susan does not work for you, and neither do I.”

I asked him, “Who does Susan work for?”

“Not for
you
.”

Susan said, “Please, both of you—”

I interrupted, “Look, Bill, it’s time for you to take a reality check. Fate, luck, and hard work have put Edward Blake’s balls in my hand. I didn’t ask for this, and I didn’t want it. But there it is.” I held out my hand palm up and curled my fingers. “Now, I fully understand this is dangerous information, so I really need to be careful about who, what, where, when, and how it’s disseminated. Everyone will thank me later for my diligence and foresight. Including you, Bill. So, we have our choice of all three of us hanging out together until midnight, which is not my first choice, or all of us going our separate ways with no cheating, or Susan and I keeping each other company. Someone make a decision.”

Susan said to Bill, “Paul and I are going to have a drink. We’ll see you later.”

We left Bill Stanley smoking, and he didn’t even have a cigarette.

As Susan and I moved to a bar, she asked, “So, who won me?”

“We’re going to flip a coin later.” I said to her, “Regarding this meeting, I do
not
want you to back me up. Just stay neutral or pretend you’re voting for Edward Blake in the next election.”

“If that’s what you want.”

We got a drink, and Susan said, “I think my days as a contract employee are over.”

“Is that what you are?”

“I told you, I’m a civilian. No direct government involvement.” She thought a moment and said, “They’ll also get me fired from my day job.”

I said to her, “Look, sweetheart, there are maybe ten people in this world who know what this is about, and we’re two of them. The other eight think we have the evidence and they want it. If we had it, we could cut a deal. Also, if we’d told them there was no evidence, they might have believed us. But you told Bill we found the evidence and hid it. Now, we’re in the worst possible situation in regard to our health. Bottom line, all we have is too much knowledge and nothing to trade.”

“Well . . . that’s one way to look at it.”

“Tell me the other way so I know if I should bother to make my next car payment.”

“Well . . . tell them the truth. Colonel Mang has the evidence and the witness, and he’s put two and two together. They’ll go nuts, but that takes the pressure off us. They’ll have to deal with Mang. Best scenario, Mang blows the whistle, Blake is ruined, the CIA kills Mang, and we live happily ever after.”

“I don’t think life works like that. Look, there were two reasons to use civilians—one was plausible deniability if things went bad, the other was that they rarely whack one of their own. But if they think they have to, they’d whack us in a heartbeat.”

“They’re not that ruthless.”

“The CIA and Military Intelligence assassinated over 25,000 people here during the war.”

“No they didn’t.”

“You want to dance?”

“Sure.”

We put our drinks down and went out to the small dance floor in front of the band. They were playing another American name place song, Ray Charles’s “Georgia on My Mind,” and I pictured Edward Blake tallying electoral votes in his mind.

A lot of people were looking at us dancing, and the public affairs photographer took a picture of us, which I could see in the
Washington Post
captioned:
“Paul Brenner and Susan Weber, Hours Before Their Disappearance.”

I caught a glimpse of Edward Blake looking at us, but he didn’t seem particularly disturbed. I was starting to think that he was clueless about his problem.

The band swung into “Moon Over Miami,” where there were lots of votes. I saw Bill talking to John Eagan, and they kept glancing at Susan and
me as though they were trying to decide what size air shipment coffins we needed.

Susan said, “I wish we were back in Saigon dancing on the Rex roof, and that I’d told you then all I knew.”

“That would have been a long dance.”

“You know what I mean.”

I didn’t reply.

“Did you tell Bill you loved me?”

“I don’t share my feelings with other guys.”

“Okay, share them with me.”

For some reason, I remembered an old army expression: The enemy diversion you are ignoring is the main attack.

But that was being cynical and paranoid again. I said to Susan, “I do love you. And you know what? Even if you’re still deceiving me, and even if you betray me, I’ll still love you.”

She held me tighter as we danced, and I could tell she was crying. Hopefully, these were tears of joy, and not premature remorse.

A
t about ten minutes to midnight, the last of the guests were leaving, the band was packing, and the bartenders were corking the Chardonnay.

Susan and I went into the ambassador’s residence and made our way through the quiet house toward the sitting room.

There were a few Secret Service guys standing around in the salon. I saw my young friend, Scott Romney, near the staircase, and he tensed up when he saw me. I said to him, “There are milk and cookies in the kitchen.”

We entered the sitting room, and Bill Stanley and John Eagan were already there. Also there was a man in an army green dress uniform whose rank was colonel, and whose nametag said
Goodman
. This was the Military Intelligence guy, Marc Goodman, and he would not normally have any interest in a homicide investigation. I guess it was Cam Ranh Bay that he was interested in.

He was a tall, lanky man, a few years older than me. I remembered seeing him out on the lawn. He recognized Susan from their meeting in Saigon, and they shook hands, and she introduced me.

The door to the Ambassador’s office was closed, and John Eagan said, “The Ambassador is with someone and will be finished shortly.”

Colonel Goodman said to me, “I understand you and Ms. Weber had a bit of trouble.”

I replied, military style, “Nothing we couldn’t handle, sir.”

Goodman wore the insignia of an infantry officer and had enough ribbons to make a bed quilt. I saw, too, the Combat Infantryman’s Badge,
which I also owned, and the Silver Star, Bronze Star, and two Purple Hearts. My instinct said this guy was okay, but my instincts had also said that about Edward Blake.

Neither Bill nor John Eagan felt like making small talk, but Goodman said to me, “So, you were with the First Cav in ’68.”

“Yes, sir.” I called him sir because I was ex-army on an army assignment, and he outranked me. In about two days, if I saw him again, he’d be Marc.

He asked, “Saw action where?”

I told him, and he nodded. We exchanged a few details about our military careers, and he asked me, “Do you miss the CID?”

“Not recently.”

“Are you pursuing a career in civilian law enforcement?”

“I’ve thought about it.”

“I’m sure you’ll have no trouble landing a job in federal law enforcement after this assignment.”

That sounded like a joke, but he wasn’t smiling. So, maybe it was an incentive to be cooperative. I didn’t reply.

He said to Susan, “Have you been properly thanked for volunteering to be a translator and guide?”

Susan replied, “I was happy to help.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t easy for you to leave your work.”

This conversation had a surreal quality to it, the way all government meetings do, especially if the subject is sensitive; the art of innuendo, double-talk, evasive phrasing, and arcane code words. You could think you were being asked to go out for coffee, when they really meant you should assassinate the President of Colombia. You had to pay attention.

Bill struck me as a quiet sort of guy, which might be the only thing I liked about him. Nevertheless, he decided to speak. He said to Susan, “I’ve indicated to Colonel Goodman, and to the Ambassador, that you may be leaving the country involuntarily.”

She said to all assembled, “I’d like to stay. But as you know, my resident work visa has been taken by the police, and my status here is uncertain.”

I clarified this by saying, “We were arrested and may be arrested again.”

John Eagan said, “I’ve spoken to the Ambassador about both of you staying here tonight.”

“Good. It’s either here or Yet Kieu Street.”

Everyone knew that address, and it needed no further explanation. I
said to Bill, “Where is your boss?” meaning the resident Hanoi CIA bureau chief—top spook in Vietnam.

He replied, “He’s out of town.”

Why he would be out of town at the culmination of a very important mission was a little mysterious. It could be that he wasn’t on the Blake team and was unreliably honest and couldn’t be trusted. But I had another thought, and I looked at John Eagan. I asked him, “How long have you been with the FBI?”

“Not long.”

“About two weeks?”

He didn’t reply directly, but said to me, “Paul, I know you have some issues with the world of intelligence, and it all probably seems like silly cloak-and-dagger stuff to a cop. But there are lots of good reasons why nothing is as it seems. It works for everyone, yourself included.”

“It’s not working for me, John.”

“It really is, Paul.”

There was a coffee bar in the sitting room, and I poured myself a cup. Susan went to the bathroom to smoke.

Bill took the opportunity to ask me to step out into the hallway, which we did. He said, “We can get you out of here in a day or two. Susan will be staying a few days longer.”

“Says who?”

“She’ll need some time to wrap up her personal and business affairs in Saigon. From here, of course. Then, we’ll arrange her safe exit from the country.”

“In other words, she’s a hostage.”

“I’m not following you.”

“We’re leaving together.”

“Not possible.”

“Make it possible.”

He told me something I already knew. “You’re on thin ice. Don’t stomp your feet.”

I asked Bill, “How worried are you right now?”

He turned and walked back into the sitting room.

I finished my coffee in the hallway and returned just as Susan came out of the bathroom. She’d found a tube of lipstick somewhere and had repainted herself.

One of the double doors to the Ambassador’s private office opened, and Patrick Quinn exited without his usual smile. He looked around, found his smile, and said, “Bill, Marc, John, Paul, Susan!”

He was into first names, like he’d aced the Dale Carnegie course. He said, “I know you have some business to attend to, so please make yourselves comfortable in my office.”

Everyone mumbled their thanks. I said to Patrick Quinn, “I was to remind you to introduce me to your friend, the Vice President.”

He looked at his watch and said, “I’ll see if he’s available.” He said to Colonel Goodman, “Marc, if you need anything, ring the guardhouse or the kitchen.” He said to everyone, “Thank you all for joining us tonight.” He left.

Whoever he was with in his office was still there, or had exited from the window.

We all moved toward the open door, Susan first, followed by Bill, Marc, and John.

I entered the dimly lit office last, and the first thing I noticed was a man sitting in a leather wing chair in the corner. He bore a striking resemblance to Karl Hellmann.

He stood and moved toward me with a smile. He put out his hand and said, “Hello, Paul.”

He even
sounded
like Karl, right down to the accent. I took his hand and said, “Hello, Karl.”

We were so thrilled to see each other, we could barely speak. I finally found my voice and said to him softly, “You’re a lying, double-dealing, devious son of a bitch.”

He replied, “I’m glad to see you’re well. I was worried about you. Please introduce me to Ms. Weber.”

“Introduce yourself.”

He turned to Susan and said, “I am K. Karl Hellmann. We’ve communicated by fax and e-mail.”

Susan said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Paul speaks so highly of you.”

“We hold each other in mutually high regard.” Karl said to the others, “Thank you for inviting me.”

Karl shook hands with Bill, Marc, and John, and from the snatches of conversation, I was able to determine that they’d never met, or pretended they’d never met or communicated, and that they were happy to make one
another’s acquaintance. Karl said, “My flight arrived only an hour ago, and I haven’t checked into my hotel. So please bear with me if I seem somewhat forgetful.”

Everyone understood that bullshit.

I said to Karl, “Could I have a word with you?”

“Of course.”

We moved out into the sitting room, and I closed the door. I said to Karl, “You almost got me killed.”

“How could that be? I was in Falls Church. You look tired.”

“I’ve spent two fucking weeks in this hellhole, the last few days on a motorcycle on the run from the cops.”

“How was Nha Trang, by the way? Did I tell you I had a three-day R&R there?”

“Why are you here?”

“They asked me to come.”

“Why?”

“So you could be fully debriefed here, rather than Bangkok.”

“Why?”

“They’re very anxious about this.”

I pointed out, “They could debrief Susan here. She’s probably working for the CIA.”

“Well . . . it appears that you and she have developed a friendship, and they felt they needed to do this here and now.”

“What you mean is that they want to see whose side I’m on.”

“Whatever.”

“Can I assume you know what this is about?”

He saw the coffee setup and poured himself a cup. He asked me, “Do you think I could smoke here?” Without waiting for my answer, he lit a cigarette.

“Karl, do you know what this is about?”

He exhaled a stream of smoke and replied, “Actually, I was the first person to know. When the Tran Van Vinh letter landed on my desk, I thought about who to assign the case to. But the more I read the letter, the more intrigued I became with it. So, I assigned it to myself. I was able to determine the identity of the murdered man from my investigation of army files, combat records, and official unit histories. As you suggested in Washington, it was a fairly simple case of narrowing the list of men who served in Quang
Tri City in February 1968. Lieutenant Hines, a MACV advisor, was killed in action at the Citadel on or about 7 February 1968. And his name is on the Wall. And then I came across the name of Captain Edward Blake, and I realized, of course, that I’d possibly found something of immense importance. Captain Blake was William Hines’s commanding officer, and most probably the only American First Cavalry captain he’d be in close contact with. Of course, I couldn’t be sure of that, and in fact, we’re still not sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Don’t be so sure.” He reminded me, “You don’t convict a man of murder on flimsy circumstantial evidence.”

“No. You blackmail him and let him become president of the United States.”

He looked around for an ashtray as he changed the subject and said, “She’s quite beautiful.”

“You haven’t seen her at 7
A.M.
with a hangover.”

“She would still be beautiful. Is Mr. Stanley upset with you?”

“He may be actually relieved.”

“Ah.” Karl smiled, just a little, and flipped his ash in a potted plant. He said, “She strikes me as the type who may be too much to handle for any man. Even you.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“It was meant to be. So, I have just arrived and know almost nothing, except what the Ambassador has just told me.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Only what he knows and what Bill Stanley told him, which is that you were investigating a wartime murder, and that your investigation was fruitful. True?”

“Depends on your definition of fruitful.”

“Have you found Tran Van Vinh?”

“I have. In Ban Hin.”

“And he had some war souvenirs.”

“He did.”

“And you have these?”

“How is Cynthia?”

The shift in the subject didn’t bother Karl. He replied, “She’s well and sends her love. She was disappointed that you changed your Hawaii plans. But I see why you did that.”

“Don’t make assumptions based on flimsy evidence.”

“I never do.” He drank his coffee and flipped his ash in the cup. He continued, “Mr. Stanley told the Ambassador that you had committed some sort of travel violation, and that the police had questioned you.”

“That’s correct.”

“Was this a serious violation?”

“I killed two policemen, and two soldiers.”

Karl didn’t seem shocked or upset. “I assume the police are not sure about this.”

“It really doesn’t matter here.”

“This is true. The Ambassador seems upset about having you as his houseguest, but he seems to look forward to Ms. Weber’s company.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“We need to get you out of this country before the government discovers that you are in residence here and asks for you to be turned over to the police.”

“Which government?”

“The Hanoi government, of course. Are you having paranoid delusions?”

“No, I’m quite certain some people in Washington want to kill me.”

“If anyone did want you dead, they’re probably all here. Starting with Mr. Stanley, but not for the reasons you think.”

“Karl, your warped sense of humor is not appreciated at this time. Plus, I’m pissed off at you.”

“You’ll thank me for this someday. I see you’ve lost some weight. Did you not eat well?”

“Look, Colonel, I want to be out of here by tomorrow night, latest. I got the short-timer shakes, and the single-digit fidget. Biet?”

“Oh, I remember that feeling too well. Do you think I should go down to Cu Chi and Xuan Loc?”

“Why not? You’re here. Also, I want Susan out with me.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“It is now.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He asked me, “Is this Colonel Mang the cause of your problems?”