Up Country

by Nelson DeMille

  It was a little late for that advice.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The elevator doors opened onto a large reception area decorated with black lacquered furniture, rice paper prints, and a pink marble floor. The brass letters over the reception desk read American-Asian Investment Corporation, Limited.

  Susan said, “Welcome to AAIC, Mr. Brenner. Would you like to buy half of a fish canning factory?”

  “I’ll settle for a whole Scotch and soda.”

  Beneath the corporate sign hung a banner in gold metallic letters that read Chuc Mung Nam Moi, and beneath that, in English, Happy New Year.

  A small kumquat tree sat on the floor, and a few twigs of blossoms were stuck in what looked like an umbrella stand. Most of the petals had fallen to the floor.

  To the right of the desk was a set of red lacquered double doors, and Susan put her hand on a scanner. A chime sounded, and she opened one of the doors.

  I noticed a security camera sweeping the lighted reception area.

  I followed her into a large open space filled with desks and cubicles; a typically modern office that could have been anywhere in the world.

  The place was deserted, but the fluorescent lights were all on, and again I noticed cameras scanning the room. The air reeked of stale cigarette smoke, which I hadn’t smelled in an American office in two decades.

  She said as we walked, “We have the whole top floor with a terrace. The AC is turned off, so it’s a little stuffy in here.”

  We came to the rear of the floor where three widely spaced doors indicated large enclosed offices. She went to the door on the left whose brass plaque read Susan Weber, with no title. There was a combination lock pad on the door, and she punched in a series of numbers, then opened the door to her office.

  The office was dark, and she turned on the overhead lights, revealing a big corner office with windows on two walls. I glanced around for a video scanner, but I didn’t see one. “Nice office.”

  “Thank you.” She put her camera on the desk along with the exposed roll of film. She opened the top drawer and got a carton of cigarettes from which she took a pack of Marlboros. She lit up with a chrome desk lighter and took a long drag. “Ah . . .” She informed me, “I get strung out and bitchy if I don’t get my fix.”

  “What’s your excuse the rest of the time?”

  She laughed and took another pull on her cigarette. She said, “I went to New York six months ago for a meeting. Four hours in a no-smoking building, and I was also having PMS. I almost freaked out. How can I go back to the States to live and work?”

  It was a rhetorical question, but I answered it. “Maybe you can’t. Maybe this is it.”

  She looked at me, and our eyes met. She put out her cigarette and said, “I’ll send you copies of the photos we took if you give me your address.”

  I inquired, “Is your mail secure?”

  She replied, “We have a company pouch that goes out every day by FedEx, and the mail is sorted in New York and sent on. If you ever want to send anything to me, mail it to New York.” She gave me a business card with the New York address of American-Asian Investment Corporation. I memorized the address and gave the card back to her, saying, “It’s best if I’m not carrying this.”

  She looked at me. “We’re in the Manhattan directory, if you forget.”

  Susan sat at her desk, put on a headset, and called up her voice mail. She said, “Ice and mixers under that sideboard. I’ll have a gin and tonic.”

  I opened the cabinet, which revealed a small refrigerator, and I took out an ice tray and mixers. The glasses and liquor decanters were on the sideboard, and I made the drinks while she listened to her messages.

  On the wall above the sideboard were her two framed diplomas—Amherst and Harvard. Also hanging on the wall was a commendation from the American Chamber of Commerce—Ho Chi Minh City branch. This was mind-boggling, but my mind had been so boggled in the last twenty-four hours that if I’d seen she’d been awarded the Order of Lenin for increased profits, I wouldn’t have been surprised. Somehow I’d entered an alternate universe where we had won the war.

  On the sideboard itself were four framed photographs. The closest was one of Susan in a graduation cap and gown—crimson, so it must be Harvard, if my Boston memory served me right. In the photo, Susan looked younger, of course, but also . . . I guess you’d say not yet burned up by the corporate world in New York, or toughened by the years in Saigon. I have a high school graduation picture like that of myself, before I went to Vietnam.

  I glanced at her, and beautiful though she was, she looked a bit world-weary for her age. To be more charitable, her face revealed some character.

  The second photograph was a studio shot of a handsome well-dressed couple in their early fifties; her parents, obviously. Dad looked like an okay guy, and Mom was a looker.

  The third photo was a family shot, a Christmas tree and a fireplace in the background. There was Mom and Dad, Susan, her younger brother, and a sister who looked a little younger than Susan. They were all good looking, wore turtleneck sweaters and tweeds and were about as Protestant as they come; old line Yankees from West Waspshire.

  The fourth photo was taken outdoors, and it could have been a summer wedding—the entire clan was gathered, grandmas and grandpas, couples, kids and babies. I found Susan wearing a long white summer dress and short hair. Standing beside her, with his arm around her bare shoulder, was Harry Handsome, wearing a white dinner jacket and a bronze face. He could be a relative, but he didn’t look related, so it must be the boyfriend, or maybe even her fiancé since he was in a family shot.

  I noticed there was no photo of Beau Bill.

  I turned away from the sideboard and saw that Susan was now checking her e-mail. She glanced up at me and said, “That’s my family, obviously. They’re perfect in every way, except for some interesting eccentricities and undiagnosed mental disorders.” She laughed. “But I love them all. I really do. You’d like them.”

  We made eye contact, and she said, “They’d probably like you. Except for Grandpa Burt who thinks the Irish should be deported.”

  I smiled.

  She went back to her e-mail and said, “Have a seat over there. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  I sat in a swivel chair near the windows at an oval table with a black granite top. I watched Susan at her desk, clicking away at her keyboard. She’d shifted into a different personality almost as soon as we’d entered the lobby of the building.

  I looked around at the office as I sipped my Scotch and soda. The carpet was a plush jade green, the furniture was burled wood, and the walls were covered in yellow silk with a subtle pattern of bamboo.

  Through the east-facing windows, I could see the waning moon. In less than a week, there would be no moonlight, which, if I was in open country, might serve me as well as it did the enemy at Tet 1968.

  In a large alcove, I noticed a fax machine, a photocopier, a shredder, and a floor safe. To have your own items like this was not just a status symbol, but an obvious sign of security consciousness. Nothing important had to leave or come into this office from the cubicle farm. I recognized the setup.

  Susan got up from her desk and sat in a chair across from me. She picked up her gin and tonic and said, “Cheers.”

  We touched glasses and drank. She lit another cigarette and left it burning in the chrome ashtray, which I noticed was half full of butts. The trash can, too, was half full, and there had been petals on the rug in the reception area. No cleaning or maintenance was done here before or after business hours. They had obviously hired a security advisor. Or maybe they didn’t need any outside advice.

  Susan said, “Do you have any wallet photos?”

  “Of what?”

  “Your family.”

  “If I don’t carry business cards into enemy territory, why would I carry pictures of my family?”

  “Right. You’re in enemy territory. I’m not.” She smiled and said, “I thought you w
ere a tourist.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  I changed the subject and said, “Your parents must have at least approved of your office.”

  “How could they not? I have arrived in the corner office years before I would have in the States.”

  In that respect, Susan and I had similar Vietnam experiences. When I was in the infantry in ’68, you made rank fast, mostly because of sudden personnel losses. ’Nam was a good career builder, but you needed to go home to get back into the mainstream of army life—the real world. Susan Weber hadn’t yet made that transition.

  American-Asian Investment Corporation aroused my curiosity, and I asked her, “Who has the other two offices?”

  “My boss, Jack Swanson, and a Viet. We have three other Americans—two guys and a young woman, Lisa Klose, with a new MBA.”

  “Ivy League, I hope.”

  “Of course. Columbia. Plus there’s a Canadian woman, Janice Stanton, who is our financial officer. Also, we have two Viet-Kieus with us. Do you know Viet-Kieu?”

  “Nope.”

  “Former Vietnamese refugees who’ve returned. Some of them are so homesick, they’d rather be here in a poor, totalitarian country than wherever it was they’d escaped to. Our Viet-Kieus are a man and a woman, both from California, both speak perfect English and Vietnamese. They’re an important part of a lot of multinational businesses here, a cultural bridge between East and West.”

  I asked, “How are they treated here?”

  She replied, “The Communists used to harass them, called them traitors and American lackeys and all that. But for the last five or six years, the Viet-Kieus have been officially welcomed back.”

  “And how about next year?”

  “Who the hell knows? Every time the politburo or the National Assembly meet, I hold my breath. They’re just totally unpredictable. Business doesn’t like unpredictability.”

  “Maybe you should address the politburo and tell them that the business of Vietnam is business. Screw this Marxist stuff.”

  “I detect a little anti-capitalism in you, Mr. Brenner.”

  “Not me. But there are more important things in life than making money.”

  “I know that. I’m not that shallow. And the reason I’m here doesn’t have a lot to do with money.”

  I didn’t ask her what it had to do with; I already knew some of it, and the rest of it she probably wasn’t sure of herself, though it might have to do with a guy. Maybe Harry Handsome in the photo.

  Ms. Weber got back to the subject of staff and said, “We also have about fifteen Viets working for us, mostly female secretarial. We pay them twice the average wage.”

  “And you don’t trust any of them.”

  She didn’t reply for a moment, took another drag on her cigarette, and said, “They’re under a lot of pressure to take things out of here that shouldn’t be taken. We help them by removing the temptation.”

  “And the phones are monitored, the doors can only be opened by the round-eyes, maintenance and cleaning are done only during business hours under round-eye supervision, and the cameras record everything.”

  She looked at me awhile, then said, “That’s right.” She added, “But there are no cameras or bugs in this office. I am a member of the Inner Party.” She smiled. “You can speak freely.”

  I observed, “This place could be a CIA front.” I added, jokingly, “AAIC backward is CIA.”

  “How about the other A?”

  “That’s the disguise.”

  She smiled. “You’re nuts.” She stirred her drink and said, “Anyway, the Americans, Europeans, and Asians are here just to make a fair profit, not to corrupt or undermine the government or the country. If that’s what’s happening, it’s because of their greed, not ours.”

  “Was that in your company handbook?”

  “You bet. And I wrote it.”

  I looked out the window and saw the huge lighted advertising signs all over Saigon. If someone had told me thirty years ago that I’d be sitting here like this in the plush office of an American woman with an MBA from Harvard, I’d have recommended them for a psychiatric discharge.

  I hated to admit it, but in some ways, I liked the old Saigon better; for sure, I liked the image of the younger Paul Brenner with an MP uniform patrolling the streets of Saigon instead of the older Paul Brenner looking over his shoulder for the fuzz.

  Susan broke into my thoughts and said, “So, you can see why I’m here. I mean, from a career point of view. I’m in charge of charming the foreign investors, private and corporate. Do you have any money? I could double your money.”

  “You could triple it, and it still wouldn’t amount to anything.” I asked, “Do you have an office in Hanoi?”

  “We have a small office there. You have to be where the political power is. Also, an office in Da Nang. The Americans left a great port facility there, plus a great airfield and other infrastructure.”

  “I actually left the country in 1968 from Da Nang.”

  “Really? Are you going there?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Did you get to China Beach?”

  “No, I was anxious to get to Boston.”

  “Right. If you get to Da Nang, don’t miss China Beach this time.”

  “I won’t. So what about the Viet guy in the corner office?”

  “You guess.”

  “He’s the son of an important government official, and he comes in only on Wednesdays in time for lunch.”

  “Close. But he does have the contacts. Everything in this country has to be a joint venture, which means buying part of a company that the government confiscated from the rightful owners in 1975, or starting a new company and giving the government a share for peanuts. I mean, it’s more complex than that, but there’s nothing that can happen here without some government involvement.”

  “Is it worth it?”

  “It could be. Lots of natural resources, a hardworking, low-paid population, mostly all literate, thanks to the Reds. The harbors are terrific—Haiphong, Da Nang, Cam Ranh Bay, and Saigon—but the rest of the infrastructure is a mess. The American military put in some good infrastructure during the war, but whenever an area was contested, the bridges, roads, rail lines, and everything else got blown up again.”

  “It’s sort of like playing Monopoly, but everyone gets a hammer.”

  She didn’t reply, and in fact looked a little impatient with my sarcasm.

  I thought about all of this, about Vietnam Incorporated. To the best of my knowledge, this was the only country in Asia where the Americans had a distinct business advantage over anyone else, including the Japanese, who the Viets were not fond of. The Soviets who were here after 1975 screwed things up, the Red Chinese weren’t welcome, the Europeans were mostly indifferent except for the French, and the other East Asians either weren’t trusted or were disliked.

  So, in some ironic way, for reasons that were partly historical and nostalgic, and mostly financial and technical, the Americans were back. Ms. Weber and her compatriots, armed with MBAs, engineering degrees, letters of credit, and lots of hustle, were racing around Saigon on their motor scooters, carrying satchels of money instead of satchel charges of plastique. Swords into market shares. And what did this have to do with me? Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

  Susan said, “Are you sulking about something?”

  “No. I’m just processing. There’s a lot to take in.”

  She observed, “If you’d never been here, this wouldn’t seem so strange to you.”

  “Good point.”

  She looked at me and said, “We won the war.”

  I wasn’t going to reply to that statement, then I said, “Fifty-eight thousand dead men would be happy to know that.”

  We sat in silence while I thought about AAIC. The place looked legit, and Susan sounded legit, but . . . But stay awake, Brenner. The bamboo was clicking in my brain again, and the vegetation swayed without a br
eeze. I looked at my watch. It was ten after eight. “Time to fax,” I said.

  “We’ll finish our drinks and relax. They’re not going anywhere.”

  Ms. Weber seemed indifferent to my fate, but she was right; they weren’t going anywhere. I asked her, “Where’s your apartment from here?”

  “On Dong Khoi Street. South of Notre Dame, not far from the Rex.”

  “Don’t think I know it.”

  “Sure you do. It was once Tu Do Street, heart of the red-light district.” She smiled. “You may have seen it once or twice.”

  In fact, I had, of course. My Vietnamese lady friend had lived in a little cul-de-sac, right off Tu Do. I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember her name, but like a lot of the Viet ladies, she’d adopted an Anglo name. I knew it wasn’t Peggy, Patty, or Jenny, or I’d have remembered it. In any case, I remembered what she looked like, and our times together, so I wasn’t senile yet.

  “Are you remembering Tu Do Street?”

  “Actually, I was there a few times. Professionally. I was an MP on my tour of duty in ’72.”

  “Really? And how about the other time? Sixty-eight, right?”

  “Right. I was a cook.”

  “Oh . . . I thought you did something dangerous.”

  “I did. I cooked.” I asked her, “So you live in a red-light district?”

  “No, it’s quite nice now. According to the guy I rented it from, it was once called Rue Catinet, during the French time. It was fashionable then, but very sinister, with spies, double agents, murky bistros, high-priced courtesans, and private opium dens. It went downhill from there during the American period, then the Communists cleaned it up and named it Dong Khoi—General Uprising Street. I love their stupid names.”

  “I vote for Rue Catinet.”

  “Me, too. You can still call it that, or Tu Do, and most people know what you’re talking about.” She added, “My apartment was built by the French—high ceilings, louvered windows, ceiling fans, and beautiful plaster moldings that are crumbling, and no air-conditioning. It’s very charming. I’ll show it to you if we have the time.”

  “Speaking of time . . .”