Up Country

by Nelson DeMille

  “I suppose not.”

  The door opened and the goon returned with a female in uniform. She spoke to Susan in Vietnamese, and Susan let herself be subjected to a pat-down, which seemed to satisfy the requirements of a search without giving Susan too much to talk about at the Ambassador’s reception.

  It was my turn, and the male goon patted me down.

  All we really had on us were our wallets, and Mang examined the contents of both, then threw them on his desk. He said, “Take your wallets and leave.”

  We both took our wallets and began packing our backpacks.

  Mang said, “You know you are not taking any of that.”

  I said, “We need the personal effects of Lieutenant Hines.”

  “So do I. Leave.”

  “I need my airline ticket.”

  “You have no use for it.”

  “We need our jackets.”

  “Leave. Now.”

  Susan said, “I want my film and camera.”

  He looked at her, then at me and said, “Your arrogance is absolutely astounding. I give you your life, and you argue with me about what I have taken in exchange for your life.”

  He had a point, and I took Susan’s arm.

  He said, “Wait. There is something you can take with you to your party. Take the photographs from the floor.”

  I could almost hear Susan telling him to go fuck himself, so I said quickly, “Ms. Weber already sent her set to the commercial attaché at the embassy. Thank you.”

  He smiled, “And I will send this set to Ambassador and Mrs. Quinn. They should know they are hosting a whore in their house.”

  Susan smiled sweetly and said, “I’ll pass on your regards to the Interior Minister.”

  “Thank you. Be sure to tell him that his friend Edward Blake is a murderer and a thief.”

  I shouldn’t have replied, but I said, “You should tell him yourself, Colonel. You have the evidence and you have Tran Van Vinh. But be careful. You have a tiger by the tail.”

  We made eye contact, and in that brief moment, I think we saw ourselves in each other’s faces; we, he and I, America and Vietnam, kept bumping into each other, at all the wrong times, in all the wrong places, and for all the wrong reasons.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  The goons escorted us down to the lobby and out the front doors. Susan said something they didn’t like, and they said good-bye with a push.

  We stood in the dark street a second, then Susan took my hand, and we moved toward a lighted avenue a few blocks away. Susan said, “Why didn’t you tell him about the Ambassador’s reception sooner?”

  “I kept forgetting.”

  She squeezed my fingers together in a powerful grip and it hurt. She said, “Not funny.”

  I said, “I don’t think the Ambassador’s party is what got us out of there. Edward Blake got us out of there.”

  She didn’t reply.

  We put some distance between us and the Ministry of Fear, and reached a broad avenue named Pho Tran Hung Pao, which should be renamed.

  Susan got her bearings, and we turned right. We passed a big, ugly modern building that Susan said was the Cultural Palace, and where a lot of cabs and cyclos were parked. I said, “We should get a taxi.”

  “I need to walk. It’s not far.”

  We continued down the busy avenue. She took her cigarettes out of her jeans and lit up with a match. She said, “At least he didn’t take my smokes.”

  “He’s not that sadistic.”

  We continued along the busy avenue, and because the weather was cool many of the men wore sweaters or heavy sports jackets, and most wore berets or pith helmets. No one was wearing a smile, including me. This place somehow wiped the smile off your face, especially if you’d just come from Yet Kieu Street.

  Susan said, “He’s got all our evidence. What do you think he’s going to do with it?”

  “That’s the question.”

  “We go through hell to get that stuff, and now he’s got it, and he figured it out . . .” She said to me, “Washington is going to have a fit.”

  I didn’t reply.

  She asked me, “So, what’s the plan now?”

  “I need a drink.”

  “I’ll get you one at the reception.”

  “Do you really know the Ambassador’s wife?”

  “I do. I met her twice here in Hanoi, and I went shopping with her and her friends in Saigon, and we went to dinner. Do you play the guitar?”

  “I lied. Do you know the Ambassador?”

  “I met him in Hanoi at the embassy once, and at his residence another time.”

  “Would he remember you?”

  “Probably. He hit on me.”

  “How’d he do?”

  “He was doing fine until Bill butted in.” She laughed and put her arm through mine. “I can be a handful. But you can handle me.”

  We came to another wide avenue that Susan recognized, and we turned left and continued walking. We approached a big lake surrounded by parkland and vendors, and people playing chess. On the lighted lake were an assortment of small boats, and I could see an island in the lake where a pagoda stood, topped with a red star. I asked, “Is this the lake where the B-52 bomber is?”

  “No. There are lots of lakes in Hanoi. This is the Lake of the Returned Sword.”

  “Is there a Lake of the Returned Evidence?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  We walked along the lake, and Susan asked again, “Paul, what is the plan?”

  “Whatever it is, it’s my plan.”

  She didn’t respond for a while, then said, “You still don’t trust me.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “After all we’ve been through together . . .”

  “That’s the point.”

  She stopped walking, and I stopped and turned to her. We looked at each other, and I could see she was upset. She said to me, “I would and did risk my life for you.”

  “You did risk your life.”

  She didn’t pursue that and asked me, “Do you really love me?”

  “I do, but I don’t have to trust you.”

  “You can’t have love without trust.”

  “That’s female bullshit. Of course you can. Let’s go.” I took her arm, and we continued on.

  She pulled away from me and said, “I’m going to the hotel. You go to the reception.”

  This sounded like something from my last three or four relationships. It must be me. I said to her, “I need you there.”

  “Try again.”

  “You have the invitation, and you know the way. You know the host and hostess.”

  “Try again.”

  “I want you there.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. But you know. Tell me what was supposed to happen tonight.”

  She didn’t answer for a few seconds, then said, “If I made it this far, I was supposed to go to the reception and tell someone whether or not I was successful, and turn over whatever I have.”

  “Was I supposed to make it this far?”

  She thought a moment and replied, “Situation A was we didn’t find Tran Van Vinh or we didn’t get any evidence. Then you go to Bangkok, and I go back to Saigon. Situation B, we found what we were looking for, but you don’t know what it means. You go to Bangkok, I go to Saigon. Situation C, you understand what we discovered, and you’re okay with it. You talk it over in Bangkok, I go to Saigon. Situation D is where you want to be a hero and a Boy Scout, and you and I go to Bangkok together. That’s the situation now.”

  I watched the boats racing, or maybe engaging in mock naval battles; it was hard to tell with the Vietnamese.

  “Paul?”

  I looked at her.

  She said, “Of course, it got complicated because I fell in love with you.”

  “Everyone does. That’s Situation E.”

  “All right. Situation E.”

  I said to her, “Let’s go back to D. What are you supposed to
do when I tell you that I’m going to report everything I’ve found out to my boss, then to the FBI, and to the Justice Department, and to the press, if I have to?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “And this will result in an official investigation, and possibly an indictment of Edward Blake, and his trial for murder, which might upset his plans to become president. Okay, if I told you this, which I did, then what were you supposed to do?”

  “Reason with you.”

  “I’m unreasonable. Then what?”

  “You’re putting me in a difficult position.”

  “Welcome to a difficult position. Talk to me.”

  “What do you want me to say? That I was supposed to kill you? I told you, I was just supposed to keep an eye on you until I got you to Bangkok.” She paused, then said, “After that, I had no idea what they intended to do with you.”

  “That’s pretty cold and heartless.”

  “I know. But it sounded all right in the briefing. Haven’t you ever been to a briefing where tough decisions are discussed very logically and matter-of-fact, and they sound right, but then you go out and see the people you’re supposed to get tough with.” She looked at me.

  In fact, most of my professional life, from battle briefings to JAG meetings, have been like that. I said, “I understand, but what you’re talking about is illegal, not to mention immoral and dishonest.”

  “I know.”

  “What was your motivation?”

  She shrugged. “Stupid things. Excitement, adventure, the feeling that important men trusted and relied on me.” She looked at me. “I see you’re not buying that.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Good. You’re not as stupid as you look.”

  “I hope not. Where’d you learn to use a gun?”

  “Lots of places.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “I really can’t tell you, and it doesn’t matter.” She added, “Don’t bother to ask again.”

  I didn’t reply.

  She said, “Look, Paul, you were ordered to lie to me from day one, and I was ordered to lie to you from day one. You have no right being pissed off at my lies while thinking your own lies are justified.”

  I nodded. “Okay. But that’s why I’m out of this business.”

  “You should consider staying in. You did a brilliant job with Tran Van Vinh, and with Colonel Mang, and with putting two and two together.”

  “It’s good to quit when you’re ahead and alive.”

  She looked at me and said, “I told you when we stood there in the Na Valley, when I gave you the gun, that I’d help you expose Edward Blake, though that is not what I’m supposed to do. I meant that, and I’ll do it, because it’s the right thing to do, and because . . . I’ll do anything you ask me to do. Even if you and I never see each other again, I want you to think well of me . . .”

  I could see tears running down her face, and she wiped them with her hands.

  I said, “Let’s go.”

  We continued past the lake, and Susan knew the way. We turned up a street called Pho Ngo Quyen, and came to the Metropole Hotel on a corner. Susan said to me, “I can check in, and we can shower, and if you’d like, we can make love.”

  “Why spoil such a perfect day?”

  “Are you being cruel or funny?”

  “Funny. Let’s get to the Ambassador’s digs and get this over with.”

  “We’re dirty and we smell.”

  “So does this job. How far is this place?”

  “Another block.”

  We passed the Metropole, made a turn, and continued down a small tree-shaded street. Up ahead, I could see a well-lighted area that I knew must be the ambassador’s house.

  Susan stopped and looked at me. She said, “I’m upset, and I can’t go in there looking upset.”

  “You look fine.”

  “I have no makeup on, I’ve been crying, I’m not dressed, and you’re making me miserable.”

  “You can borrow some lipstick.”

  “Look at me.”

  “No.”

  “Paul, look at me.”

  I looked at her.

  She said, “Three things—I’m on your side, you can trust me, and I love you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Kiss me.”

  I kissed her, and we put our arms around each other and held the kiss. How far back was that hotel?

  We separated, and she looked at me. She said, “Three more things— we have no evidence, Tran Van Vinh is under Colonel Mang’s control, and when you do get out of Hanoi, you need to be as careful in Bangkok as you were here.”

  I said, “Which is why I want you to just keep quiet and make yourself scarce. You don’t need to get involved with my Boy Scout merit badge.”

  She didn’t reply.

  We walked the short distance along a high stucco wall toward a set of wrought iron gates at the entrance to a driveway.

  There was a Viet police booth along the wall, and a guy in plainclothes approached us and said in English, “Passports.”

  We gave him our passports, which he examined with a flashlight. He looked at us as though he knew who we were, as though Colonel Mang had called ahead.

  If Colonel Mang had changed his mind, we’d be on a return trip to the Ministry of Public Security. I could see the gates of the ambassador’s residence not twenty feet away, and I saw two United States Marine guards standing there.

  The plainclothes cop wasn’t saying anything, and I couldn’t determine if I needed to kick him in the balls and make a dash for the gates. There were two uniformed cops outside the police booth, both armed, and they were watching us.

  The plainclothes cop said to me, “Where are you going?”

  “To the American Ambassador’s reception.”

  He looked at our clothing, but said nothing.

  I put out my hand and said, “Passports.”

  He slapped both passports in my hand, turned, and walked away.

  We continued toward the gates, and I said to Susan, “Getting out might not be so easy.”

  “I had the same thought.”

  The gates were open and the two marine guards in dress blues were a welcome sight, though I’d never tell that to a marine.

  The marines were at parade rest with their hands clasped behind their backs, and they looked us over. They didn’t come to attention and salute, but our round eyes got us through.

  A few yards past the gate on the right was a guardhouse where another marine stood in an olive drab uniform, armed with an M-16 rifle. A marine sergeant approached us and said, “Sorry, folks, this is private property.”

  Susan said, “We’re here for the Ambassador’s reception.”

  “Uh . . .” He looked us over. “Uh . . .”

  Susan said, “Weber. Susan Weber. And this is my guest. Mr. Paul Brenner.” She added, “Chief Warrant Officer Paul Brenner.”

  “Okay . . . uh . . .” He looked at the clipboard in his hand with a penlight and said, “Yes, ma’am. Here you are.” He looked at her, then at me and asked, “Can I see some form of identification?”

  I gave him my passport, which he studied with the penlight, then handed the passport back and said, “Thank you, sir.”

  Susan handed him her passport and he checked it out and handed it back to her. He said, “Uh . . . the event tonight is business attire.”

  Susan said, “We’ve just come in from the country, and there are clothes waiting for us here. Thank you, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He asked me, “Have you been here before, sir?”

  “Not here, no.”

  He pointed to the house and said, “You follow this circular driveway to the front door. The reception is in the garden tonight. Have a good evening.”

  I looked at this young marine sergeant and thought of Ted Buckley at Khe Sanh. The world had come a long way since the winter of 1968, but if you were never there, you wouldn’t know that.

  I was about to turn a
way when the marine asked me, “Did you serve here?”

  “I did. A long time ago.”

  He came to attention and saluted former PFC Brenner.

  I took Susan’s arm, and we walked up the stone-paved driveway.

  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.