Up Country

by Nelson DeMille

  “Yes, I did. The American military attaché. Colonel Marc Goodman. He flew to Saigon and spoke to me.”

  “About what?”

  “He just wanted to be sure I had the right stuff.”

  “To do what?”

  “To . . . win your confidence.”

  “I’m not getting a clear picture.”

  “You’re putting me on the spot.”

  “My life is on the spot, lady. Talk to me.”

  “I wasn’t supposed to travel with you. But I was supposed to offer to meet you here in Hue, to tell you I had to go there anyway on business or whatever. Then I was to say I would meet you again in Hanoi.”

  “What if I didn’t like you?”

  “Most men like me.”

  “I’m sure. And what was the point of you meeting me here in Hue?”

  “To see if I could help you, to report on your health, your attitude, any problems with the police, the outcome of your rendezvous, and so forth. You know that.”

  “Okay. Did this military attaché guy, Colonel Goodman, and the CIA guy talk to each other in Saigon?”

  “They did. But I wasn’t there for that meeting.”

  “You understand that a military attaché is actually Military Intelligence?”

  She nodded.

  “Who’s the CIA guy in Saigon?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  Apparently everyone was in on this, but me. Army Intelligence and the CIA were talking to each other about a CID/FBI case that they weren’t supposed to know anything about; but obviously they did. What was the connection? Actually, the more I thought about Mr. Conway at Dulles, the more he seemed less FBI and more military; but they wanted to give the appearance of FBI involvement so that it seemed more like a homicide case and less like an international problem. Not only was Colonel Mang running around passing himself off as one thing when he was another, but so was Mr. Conway. And so was Susan. By this time, I wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that I was working for Colonel Mang.

  “Paul?”

  “What?”

  “Are you angry with me?”

  “Not yet. Okay, so when they motivated you to use your many charms to win my confidence, what did they tell you to motivate you?”

  “National security. My patriotic duty. Stuff like that.”

  “What else?”

  “Do you still love me?”

  “More than ever. What else?”

  “I’ve already told you a few times. It has to do with the emerging relationship between America and Vietnam. Business. Oil. Trade. Cheap labor. They don’t want it screwed up. Neither do I.”

  “Who’s trying to screw it up?”

  “I told you that, too. The hard-liners in Hanoi, and maybe in Washington.”

  “And did they tell you that my mission was going to help or hurt that cause?”

  “They indicated that you could help.”

  “I guess they did, or you’d have already pushed me off the roof of the Rex.”

  “Don’t be silly. I was told to help you.”

  “If I told you what I was doing here, do you think that my little piece of the puzzle and the little piece of the puzzle that you have might fit together?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you want to swap pieces of the puzzle? You go first.”

  “I have no need to know why you’re here, and no desire to know.”

  “Or, you already know.”

  “I don’t. Are you pissed off at me?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Still love me?”

  “More than ever.”

  “Good. Can I have a cigarette?”

  “Sure. Fire away.”

  She pulled a pack out of her purse and lit up. She took a long drag and exhaled, then sat back and crossed her legs. She said to me, “It has to do with Cam Ranh Bay.”

  “Okay.”

  “We built it, we want it back.”

  “I know that.”

  “The Philippines has kicked us out, and the Japanese are moving to reduce our presence. The Russian lease on Cam Ranh Bay expires in a few years, and they’re paying rent under the old 1975 lease price in new rubles, which are almost worthless. Hanoi wants them out.”

  “Real money talks English.”

  “Right. We’re talking about billions of greenback dollars to Hanoi for a long-term lease.”

  “Go on.”

  “The Viets hate and fear the Chinese. Always have. The Americans fear the Chinese. Strategic Pentagon projections show us at war with Red China within twenty years. We’re short on military bases in this area. Plus, there’s a lot of offshore oil here.”

  “So, this isn’t about coffee, rubber, or betel nuts?”

  “No. Oil and military bases.”

  “Got it. Continue.”

  “The Pentagon and others in Washington are very excited about this. The present administration is not. They don’t want to piss off the Chinese, who would go totally ballistic if we set up a military base at Cam Ranh Bay.”

  I nodded. I now had a little piece of the puzzle, but it didn’t fit my piece. I mean, it must, but there was another piece in between.

  Susan continued, “Hanoi is willing to sign Cam Ranh Bay over to us, despite some hard-line opposition from the old Reds who still hate us. But it’s the present American government who doesn’t have the balls to go for it, despite nearly everyone in the Pentagon and the intelligence community saying go for it. It’s crucial in case of a future war. It’s good for us, and good for the Vietnamese.”

  I didn’t reply, but the thought of American soldiers, sailors, and airmen back on Vietnamese soil was mind-boggling.

  She sipped her beer and lit another cigarette. She said to me, “You surprised me when you asked Captain Vu about American warships in the area.”

  “This is not rocket science. It’s Political Science 101. Some of it’s been in the news.”

  “Give yourself more credit, Paul.”

  “Okay. Let me guess how you know all this. You’re the CIA station chief.”

  She smiled. “No. I’m just a kid, a spoiled, upper-class MBA expat, looking for adventure.” She put her cigarette in the ashtray and without looking at me said, “The CIA station chief in Saigon is Bill Stanley. Please don’t tell anyone I told you.”

  We made eye contact, and I asked her, “Does Bank of America know about that?”

  “He doesn’t work for Bank of America. You arrived in Saigon on a weekend so you couldn’t check things out, but I did take you to my office.”

  “Yes, you did. And are you and Bill . . . involved?”

  “That part is true. Was true.”

  “Are you having fun?”

  “Not if you’re angry at me.”

  “Me? Why should I be angry at you?”

  “You know. Because I lied to you about some things.”

  “Really? Are you still?”

  “I’ve told you everything I know. They’re going to fire me.”

  “You should be so lucky. Tell me why I’m here.”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “Does Bill know?”

  “He must know something.”

  “But he didn’t share that with you?”

  “He did not.”

  “Why were you supposed to meet me in Hanoi?”

  “I’m not sure. They said you might need someone to talk to in Hanoi that you could trust. Not an embassy person. They said if you returned from your mission, you might be . . . upset by what you discovered.” She added, “I’m supposed to tell the embassy your state of mind, what you’re thinking.”

  “And you just let that statement slide by?”

  “I understand that the less I know, the better.”

  “Where did you get the gun?”

  “From my company safe. That was the truth.”

  “Do you realize that about half of what you’ve said to me over the last week has been lies, half lies, and bullshit?”


  She nodded.

  “So? Why should I believe anything you say now?”

  “I won’t lie to you anymore.”

  “I really don’t care.”

  “Don’t say that. I was just doing a job. Then I fell in love. Happens all the time.”

  “Does it?”

  “Not to me. But to people. I really hated myself for not being honest with you. But I thought you figured it all out anyway. You’re very bright.”

  “Don’t try to butter me up.”

  “You are pissed at me.”

  “You bet.”

  “Do you still love me?”

  “No.”

  “Paul? Look at me.”

  I looked at her.

  She gave me a sort of sad smile and said, “It’s not fair, you know, if the gods in Washington come between us. If we part, we’ll both turn to stone.”

  She had a point there about Washington, and I suppose you could say we were both being manipulated and lied to. I said to her, “Of course I love you.”

  She smiled.

  I asked her, “What orgasm did you fake?”

  She smiled wider. “You tell me.” She added, “I won’t do it again.”

  So, we sat there, had another round, and retreated into our own thoughts, trying to figure it all out.

  Finally, she asked me, “Did you get any messages today?”

  “No.”

  “Why do they want you to drop me?”

  “Don’t know. Do you know?”

  “Probably because they don’t like what happened between us. They really don’t want us pooling information.” She added, “I’m supposed to be working for them, but they don’t trust me anymore. And neither do you.”

  I didn’t reply to that last statement and said, “I think on a personal level, your friend Bill was pushing Washington to push me to dump you.”

  “I’m sure of it. He’s really pissed at you.” She laughed.

  “He should thank me for getting his headache.”

  “That’s not nice.”

  I didn’t reply. I asked her, “Did you get a message?”

  “Yes. They know I’m here, of course. Message from Bill ordering me to return to Saigon. Business jargon. Said I’d be fired and disciplined and so forth if I didn’t report to work Monday. There’s a ticket waiting for me at Hue”Phu Bai Airport.”

  “You should go straighten that out.”

  “I should, but I’m not. I want to go with you to Quang Tri.”

  “Fine. I booked a four-wheel drive and driver, 8 A.M., to take us to the A Shau Valley, Khe Sanh, and Quang Tri. I requested Mr. Cam.”

  She laughed and said, “Mr. Cam is home now in front of the family altar, asking the gods to erase us from his memory.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Paul?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can I give you some advice?”

  “Is it free?”

  “Yes. And from the heart. Don’t go where they’re sending you. Come back to Saigon with me.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s dangerous. You know that. That’s not what I’m supposed to tell you. That’s from me personally.”

  I nodded. “Thank you. But as they may have told you, I’m counter-suggestible.”

  “I don’t know about that. But I know that you think this is a personal test of your courage, and maybe you have a lot of other personal reasons for pushing on. This is no longer about duty, honor, and country, if it ever was. Well, you’ve proven your courage to me, and I’ll write a full report about Highway One and everything else that’s happened. You have to make the decision to abort. We’ll go to Quang Tri and the A Shau Valley tomorrow and Khe Sanh, and you’ll put that to rest. Then we’ll go back to Saigon together, take a bunch of crap from everyone, then . . . you go home.”

  “And you?”

  She shrugged.

  I thought about that tempting offer for about half a second, then replied, “I’m finishing the job. End of conversation.”

  “Can I go with you?”

  I looked at her and said, “If you thought Highway One was bad, wait until you see this trip.”

  “I really don’t care. I hope by now you know I can handle it.”

  I didn’t reply.

  She informed me, “You’ll increase your chances of success by about five hundred percent if I’m along.”

  “But can I double my money?”

  “Sure. Look, Paul, there’s no downside to having me along.”

  “That’s a joke—right? Look, I appreciate your willingness to risk jail and maybe even your life to be with me, but—”

  “I don’t want to spend the next week worrying about you. I want to be with you.”

  “Susan . . . this may sound very chauvinistic, but there are times when a man—”

  “Cut the crap.”

  “Okay. How’s this? I keep thinking of those photos in your office, and sometimes I see you as Mr. and Mrs. Weber’s little girl again, and I see the rest of your family back in Massachusetts, and even though I don’t know them, I could never face them or face myself if something happened to you because of me.”

  “That’s a very nice thought. Actually sensitive. But you know, Paul, if something happened between here and Hanoi, it would most probably happen to both of us. We’d have adjoining cells, adjoining hospital beds, or matching air shipment coffins. You won’t have to explain anything to my parents, or to anyone.”

  I looked at my watch. “I’m hungry.”

  “You can’t have dinner until you say yes.”

  I stood. “Let’s go.”

  She stood. “Okay, you can have dinner. I knew I should have asked you when we were in bed. I can get anything I want out of you in bed.”

  “Probably.”

  We went outside, and it was raining, so we took a taxi across the river into the Citadel where Susan said she’d made a dinner reservation.

  The restaurant was called Huong Sen and was a sixteen-sided pavilion built on stilts in the middle of a lotus pond.

  We got a table by the rail, ordered drinks, watched the rain fall on the water, and listened to bullfrogs croaking. It was a very nice, atmospheric place, lit with colored lanterns and candles on the tables. Romantic.

  Neither of us mentioned a word of business or anything that had been said in the cocktail lounge.

  We had dinner and talked about home and about friends and family, but not about us or about any future plans.

  Somewhere back there in the cocktail lounge, I think I used the “L” word, and I was trying to remember what I’d said. Maybe I didn’t actually use it, but I remembered agreeing to it.

  Susan was staring out at the rain on the pond, and I looked at her profile.

  I should have been incredibly angry at her; but I wasn’t. I shouldn’t trust another word she said; but I did. Physically, she was flawless, and intellectually she gave me a run for my money. If I were writing an officer’s evaluation report on her, I’d say: brave, intelligent, resourceful, decisive, and loyal. Divided loyalty, to be sure, but loyal.

  But was I in love?

  I think so. But what happened here could probably not happen elsewhere, and maybe could not be transplanted. And then there was Cynthia.

  Susan turned and saw me staring at her. She smiled. “What are you thinking about?”

  “You.”

  “And I’m thinking about you. I’m trying to think of a happy ending.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Can you think of a happy ending?”

  “We’ll work on it.”

  We looked at each other, and we both probably had the same thought that the chances of a happy ending were not good.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The following morning, Monday, Susan and I waited in the hotel lobby for our car and driver. We both wore jeans, long-sleeve shirts, and walking shoes. Susan had her tote bag filled with things for the road.

  The lobby was full of tourists waiting for their buse
s, cars, and guides. Hue was a tourist mecca, I realized, a destination between Saigon and Hanoi, and as it turned out, a good place for my rendezvous.

  She asked me, “How are you getting to where you need to go tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know yet. We’ll talk about it later.”

  “Does that mean you’d like my help?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’ll give you some advice now—do not hire a car with a Vidotour driver. You might as well have Colonel Mang along.”

  “Thank you. I already figured that out.”

  We walked outside, and it was another gray, overcast day, cool and damp, but no rain.

  Susan said to me, “You really pumped me last night.”

  “I was very horny.”

  “I wasn’t talking about that. I meant in the lounge.”

  “Oh. That was overdue, darling.”

  An open white RAV4 pulled into the circular driveway and stopped. A guy got out and spoke to the doorman, who pointed to us.

  The driver came over to us, and Susan spoke to him in Vietnamese. They chatted for a minute, probably about price, which is Susan’s favorite subject with the Viets.

  He was a man of about forty, and I’d gotten into the habit of matching the age of a Viet with his or her age in relation to the war. This guy had been in his mid-teens when the war ended, and he may have carried a rifle, either for the South Vietnamese local defense forces, made up mostly of kids and old men, or for the Viet Cong, who had lots of boys and girls in their ranks.

  Susan introduced me to our driver, whose name was Mr. Loc. He didn’t seem particularly friendly and didn’t offer to shake my hand. Most Viets, I noticed, in their dealings with Westerners, were either very slick, or very good-natured. Westerners equaled money, but beyond that, the average Nguyen was polite until you pissed him off. Mr. Loc did not look or act like a hired driver; Mr. Loc reminded me of the close-faced guys I’d seen in the Ministry of Public Security in Saigon. In my job as an army criminal investigator, I assume many roles, and I’m good at it; Mr. Loc wasn’t very good at getting into his role as a driver, any more than Colonel Mang was at trying to pretend he was an immigration cop.

  Susan said to me, “Mr. Loc needs to know where we’re going now so he can telephone his company.”

  I spoke directly to Mr. Loc and said, “A Shau, Khe Sanh, Quang Tri.”

  He barely acknowledged this and went into the hotel.