Up Country

by Nelson DeMille

  “Okay.” She stood. “Let’s fax.”

  She went to the fax machine in the alcove, and I followed. She wrote something on a sheet of company letterhead, then handed it to me. It said, “Weber—64301.” She informed me, “That’s my code so they know it’s me, and that I’m . . . something . . .”

  “Not under anyone else’s control.”

  “Right. If the number has a nine in it, it means I’m under duress. Am I under duress?”

  “No comment. Now I’m supposed to sign it, right?”

  “Right. I guess somebody there knows your signature.”

  “I guess so.” She gave me a pen, and I signed the sheet.

  She said, “This is exciting.”

  “You’re easily excited.”

  She fed the paper into the fax machine, and I watched her dial the 703 area code for northern Virginia, then the number, which I didn’t recognize. The fax rang, then started to grind away. She said, “Not bad. First try.”

  The fax went through, and Susan said, “That calls for a drink.”

  She left the alcove and went to the sideboard where she made two fresh drinks. As she returned, the fax rang. She handed me my drink, then took the fax she’d sent and put it through the shredder.

  The return fax came through, and I took it out of the tray. The familiar handwriting said: Hello, Paul—You had us worried for the last fifteen minutes. Glad to hear from you and hope all is well. We can continue this communication via e-mail. Ms. W has instructions. Regards, K.

  I stared at the message, words from another galaxy, as though I’d been contacted by aliens, or by God. But it was only Karl; I’d recognize his tight, anal handwriting anywhere.

  Susan was already sitting at her desk and was going online. I shredded Karl’s message.

  I left the alcove and wheeled a chair beside Susan. She said, “Okay, we’ve made contact. He wants you to go first. What do you want to say?”

  “Tell him I have an appointment at the Immigration Police headquarters tomorrow at oh-eight-hundred—purpose unknown.”

  She typed and sent, waited and got his reply, which said: Do they still have your passport?

  “Yes, and my visa.” She typed the reply, and I said to her, “Let me sit there, Susan. You’ll have to move away from the screen.”

  She glanced at me, then stood, took her drink, and sat in the chair opposite her desk.

  Karl replied: Tell us what happened at the airport.

  I took another swallow of Scotch and began typing, relating the encounter fully, but succinctly. It took me ten minutes to type all of this, and I ended with: I believe this was a random stop and question. But it may have compromised the mission. Your call.

  The reply was some time in coming, and I could picture Karl in an office with a few other people: Conway, maybe, some other FBI types, and CID people, and people who I could only guess at.

  Finally, his reply came, a lot shorter than the conversation in Virginia that led up to it. It said: Your call, Paul.

  I tapped my fingers on the desk and took another swig of Scotch. I didn’t want to let too much time go by, as if I was hesitating. Yes or no? Simple. I replied: It may be Colonel Mang’s call. I realized that was a bit of a cop-out, so I added: If I get my passport back, I’ll go forward with the assignment. I pushed send.

  The reply came quickly: Good. If you’re expelled, we know you did your best.

  I replied: There is a third possibility.

  They thought about that in Virginia, then Karl replied: Be sure to have Ms. Weber in a position to know if you are detained. Set up a meeting time or phone call with her, and tell her to contact us if you don’t make your contact with her at the scheduled time or place.

  I replied: I know how to set up a failure-to-show alert. Thank you.

  Karl, true to form, wasn’t going to be baited, and he replied: Is Ms. Weber under any surveillance? Has she been seen with you other than at the Rex rooftop?

  I glanced at Susan and said to her, “They want to know if you think you’re under surveillance.”

  “How do I know? I don’t think so. It’s not my turn this month.”

  I typed: She doesn’t believe she is. Because I’m a pro, and I don’t ignore sticky parts of multiple part questions, I typed: We spent the day sightseeing. Saigon, Cu Chi.

  I could hear Karl’s voice, “What? You did what? Are you insane?”

  His actual response was: I hope you had a pleasant day, but I know Karl. He was pissed.

  I don’t like having to explain myself, but I typed: It was good cover, and an opportunity for me to take advantage of her knowledge of conditions up country. I added: I don’t have my platoon with me this time.

  Karl’s reply was terse: Roger.

  There was nothing further on that subject, so I typed: Ms. Weber’s boyfriend has contacted or will contact the consulate on my behalf.

  Karl replied: We’ve already done that, obviously. Are you forming an entire spy ring there?

  My, my. We were becoming a little snippy. In conversation, I wouldn’t even reply to that, but with e-mail, you had to reply, so I typed: :).

  Karl, obviously in a jocular mood and with an audience, replied: :( .

  I asked Susan, “Can this keyboard give the finger?”

  She laughed and said, “Are they giving you a hard time?”

  “They’re working at it.” I mean, my ass is on the line here, and they’re busting my balloons. I typed: Do you have any further information for me regarding my assignment?

  Karl replied: Not at this time.

  I asked specifically: Haven’t you located that stupid village yet?

  Herr Hellmann replied: That’s irrelevant if you’re not at liberty to travel, and that is information you shouldn’t have before you meet Colonel Mang. We’ll let you know when and if you get to Hue.

  I thought about that and concluded that they had located the village, or always knew its location. Also, the name of the village was not and had never been Tam Ki. They’d changed that in the letter, of course, so if anyone here were squeezing my nuts, and if I gave it up, it wasn’t my actual destination. In fact, Tam Ki might not exist. Fairly certain of my conclusion, I asked Susan, “Does Tam Ki mean anything in Vietnamese?”

  “Spell it.”

  I spelled it.

  She said, “The whole language is based on accent marks, diphthongs, and stuff like that—compliments of the French who gave them the Roman alphabet. Unless you pronounce it right, or know the accent marks, I can’t translate it.”

  “Can it be a village? A place name?”

  “Could be, but for instance, T-A-M can mean to bathe, or a heart, depending on the pronunciation, which is based on the accent marks. Tam cai is a toothpick, tam loi is an air bubble. See what I mean?”

  “Yeah . . . how about K-I?”

  “K-I is usually a prefix—ki-cop is stingy, ki-cang is carefully, ki-keo is to bargain or complain.”

  “Could this just be a made-up name?”

  “Could be. Doesn’t sound like a place name.”

  I looked back at the screen and saw: Acknowledge.

  I replied in the military style: Affirmative, which has different shades of meaning, depending on who’s talking to whom, and how the conversation is going. In this case, it meant: Yeah. I added, to see what he’d say: Do you want me to research the location of this village?

  The reply was immediate: Negative. Do not ask and do not look at maps. Maps are inaccurate and many villages have the same name. We will contact you if and when you get to Hue.

  I replied: Roger. How are you making out with names of suspects and name of victim?

  Karl replied: Narrowing list. Then: If at liberty, where will you go tomorrow?

  I replied: Narrowing list.

  He answered me: Colonel Mang wants an itinerary and so do we.

  I looked up at Susan and asked her, “Where would be a good place to go from here tomorrow to kill a few days?”

  “Paris
.”

  “How about a little closer to Saigon? Someplace where Westerners go.”

  “Well, Dalat, the French mountain resort. The rail line is still blown up, but you can get there by car or bus.”

  “Okay, any place else?”

  “There’s the old French beach resort of Vung Tau.”

  “So, I have my choice of the mountains or the beach. Where’s Vung Tau?”

  “A little south of here. I can take you with my motorcycle. I go there on weekends.”

  “I need to head north.”

  “Why don’t you call your travel agent?”

  “Come on. Help me out.”

  “You didn’t want my help.”

  “I apologize.”

  “Say please.”

  “Please.” I couldn’t believe I’d gotten myself in this situation; hounded by a Vietnamese version of Lieutenant Colombo, apologizing to a sulky upper-middle-class snot, and Karl shoveling shit at me over the Internet. Where is my M-16 when I need it?

  I calmed down and asked Susan, “How about Nha Trang?”

  She nodded. “Not bad. Not too far, nice beach, and lots of places to stay. Do you know it?”

  “Yeah. I actually had a three-day in-country R&R there in ’68.” I asked her, “Are there any Western tourists there?”

  “Usually. It’s still warm enough to swim there. You won’t stand out, if that’s what you mean.”

  “That’s what I mean.” I also meant I didn’t want to wind up in some godforsaken place where the fuzz could pick me up without any of my compatriots around to witness it. But that was negative thinking. Visualize success. I asked Susan, “Can I get there easily?”

  “I can get you there, and I can find you a place to stay. Money talks, and I have a good travel agent who does business with the firm.”

  “Okay. Nha Trang. Thanks.”

  I started typing, and she said, “Tell them I’m going with you.”

  “Yeah. Right.” I typed: My intended destination is Nha Trang—unless transportation or accommodations are not available. If it changes, Ms. W will let you know ASAP.

  Karl replied: Understand. Suggest you stay in Nha Trang or alternate until Hue rendezvous. The less movement, the better. Fax Ms. W your Nha Trang or alternate address when you arrive. Instruct her to give it to the consulate.

  Susan said to me, “Did you tell them?”

  “I did. They said flat out no.”

  “You didn’t ask them. Tell them you need a guide and interpreter.”

  I typed: I will attempt to keep to the itinerary I give to Mang until the time I leave Hue for Tam Ki. The missing days between Hue and Hanoi may cause some problems when I show up in Hanoi.

  Karl replied: If you’re still having a police problem when you get to Hanoi, contact Mr. Eagan at embassy. But do not go to embassy unless instructed. Acknowledge.

  Roger. I pictured myself living in the American embassy for five years while the State Department negotiated my safe departure from the Socialist Republic. This really sucked. I asked: Should I contact you from Hue—directly or through Ms. W?

  The reply came: Negative. If you don’t check in at the designated hotel in Hue, we will know and will assume a problem. When you do check in, you’ll be instructed regarding further communication.

  Instructed by whom?, I asked.

  Karl replied: You’ll be contacted.

  I typed: Anything further regarding my Hue contact?

  Karl responded: Negative. Do you understand your rendezvous times and places?

  I answered: Affirmative. 32 down. The word was rotisserie.

  Karl replied: The word had nothing to do with it. Do you understand your instructions?

  I replied: I do. :). I added: Hey, I saw the Cu Chi tunnels, Highway 13, the Michelin plantation. Good tank country. Did you have fun?

  Karl replied: :( .

  I typed: We should come back together.

  He replied: I’ll think about that. Remember, we need to know what happens tomorrow re Mang. Are you confident in Ms. Weber’s understanding of what she needs to do?

  I replied: She’s very savvy, resourceful, motivated. Give her a raise.

  He replied: I have nothing further. You?

  Yeah. What the hell is this all about? But I typed: Cynthia? Honolulu?

  I waited for the reply, and it seemed a long time before it came up on the screen. It said: We have not been in contact with her. But your travel arrangements are made from Bangkok to Honolulu, then Maui.

  I typed: Contact her.

  Karl’s reply was: She’s on a case. But if she intends to meet you in Honolulu, the army will approve her leave quickly, and get her to Hawaii. He added: Focus on mission.

  I typed: Let me know by Hanoi.

  He replied: By Bangkok, latest.

  I replied: Roger.

  Karl sent me an early valentine: Good luck, Paul, God speed, and safe home.

  I sat at the keyboard a long moment, knowing this might be the last message from home for a long time. I knew that feeling, from the last two times, when I spoke to my parents on a special radiophone that the GIs could use about twice a year. I typed: I’m glad I came back. I’m confident I’ll be successful and home on time. Love to Cynthia.

  Karl replied: Roger. Further?

  Negative.

  Out.

  I signed off, deleted everything, and sat there awhile, then stood and went to the sideboard. I made myself a Scotch on the rocks and skipped the soda.

  Susan asked me, “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes.”

  She thought a moment and said to me, “If you’re not able to travel tomorrow . . . if they keep you here for a few days, I can make a business trip for you. Meet someone, or whatever.”

  I looked at her and smiled. “Thank you. That’s a very nice offer, but it’s a lot more complex than that. Okay, how do I get to Nha Trang?”

  “I’ll e-mail the company’s travel agent and see what I can do.” She sat down at her desk. “Do you want me to try to book you a room somewhere, or do you want to wing it?”

  “I’ll need to give Mang an address.”

  “Not necessarily. Every major town has an Immigration Police office. Basically, they watch foreigners. So, if you tell Mang you have no address in Nha Trang, he will tell you to report to the Immigration Police either on your arrival, or after you’ve found a place to stay.”

  I thought about that, then said to Susan, “I’ll find a place to stay when I get there.” I added, “In fact, I’ll try to find the R&R hotel on the beach that the army took over during the war. That should be a nostalgia trip.”

  “Should be. What was the name of it?”

  “Don’t remember. An old French place. But I’ll recognize it. In any case, I’ll fax you here after I check in to someplace. If I don’t contact you within twenty-four hours of my departure from Saigon, contact my firm.”

  “I’m here to help.” She turned her attention to her computer and started typing. She said, “I’m asking my travel agent about a train or mini-bus reservation to Nha Trang for tomorrow. Planes have been booked for months. I’m offering twice the ticket price, which is already quadrupled for foreigners. Okay?”

  “It’s not my money.”

  “Good.” She continued typing and said, “I’m also asking her about a private car. There’s also a hydrofoil to Nha Trang, though I’m sure everything’s booked. But we’ll get you to Nha Trang, even if I have to put you on the torture bus.”

  “A private car sounds like the way to go. Money is no object. Will this travel agent get back to you ASAP?”

  “She’s in at 8 A.M.—Saigon starts early. You’ll be seeing Colonel Mang at about that time. I will meet you in the lobby of the Rex, and we’ll see if you need to go to Nha Trang, or the airport and home.” She added, “And if you’re not at the Rex by, say, noon, then I know who to contact.”

  “Do you mind if I give the instructions?”

  She looked up from her keyboard an
d said, “Mr. Brenner, this is not rocket science, and I learn fast. I’ve taken the responsibility of getting you out of Saigon, or reporting your detention or expulsion. Let’s do this my way.”

  My goodness. Ms. Weber really was a different lady in her office. Or maybe she was a little miffed at me for not wanting her along on the trip.

  She continued banging away at the keyboard and said, “I’m now e-mailing my boss, Jack Swanson, saying I won’t be in until tomorrow afternoon.”

  It seemed to me that there was a lot of typing going on for these relatively simple messages.

  Ms. Weber shut down her computer, stood, finished her drink, and said to me, “Let me take you to dinner.”

  “That’s very nice of you. But I do have an expense account.”

  “So do I. And I’m going to tell you why you should invest in Vietnam. It’s the Pacific Rim country with the most potential for growth.”

  I replied, “I’ve already invested enough in Vietnam.”

  She didn’t reply, walked toward the door, and put her hand on the light switch. “Ready?”

  I said, “Please print out the fax report and shred it.”

  “Oh . . . you’re a real pro.” She went to the alcove, printed out the fax activity report, and ran it through the shredder.

  I took the camera and the exposed roll of film from her desk and said, “Please put this in your safe.”

  She punched the keypad on her safe, and I gave her the film and the camera, which she put in the safe and closed the door.

  We left the office and walked around the perimeter of the suite. Susan pointed out the library, the conference room, and a lunch room that looked like a French café.

  She said, “We treat ourselves well here. It’s cheap, and it’s a mental health perk. Here’s the workout room and the showers.” We entered a room with a few exercise machines. Through an open door, I saw a massage table.

  I thought we were going to our respective places of residence to clean up, but Susan indicated a door that said Men, and informed me, “There’s everything you need in there. I’ll be in the ladies’ shower.”

  “If I need anything.”

  “Behave. See you here in the exercise room.”

  I went into the men’s locker room, got undressed, and stepped into a big shower stall. I turned on the water, got a handful of soap from a liquid dispenser, and washed off the grime of the last twelve hours.