Up Country

by Nelson DeMille

  Everyone looked at me, and I made brief eye contact with Susan. This is what is called a defining moment. My personal life has always been a shambles, and my professional life has been marked by brilliant triumphs that I’ve always managed to eclipse later through some stupid stubbornness, or a run-in with authority. I didn’t see why this case should be any different from any other, so I said, “As Bill probably told you, I’m on thin ice, and all I have to hold on to is the Vice President’s nuts.”

  There was some throat-clearing and a little squirming around in the seats. Susan had her hand over her face, and I couldn’t tell if she was upset or smiling.

  I said, “Let me make it clear that Susan Weber did her job in regard to the mission, Tran Van Vinh, and me. I was totally in the dark about the subject of my investigation until the very end when I discovered among Mr. Vinh’s war souvenirs a MACV company roster that listed Lieutenant William Hines and Captain Edward Blake. At that time, I indicated to Susan that I understood what this was about, and that I also understood the necessity of keeping the information secret and limited. She made an evaluation, based on my representation, that I was going to be a team player, though that’s not what I—”

  Susan interrupted, “Paul, your memory is not good. You went totally bonkers when you discovered that Edward Blake was a suspect in a murder case. You wanted to blow the whistle, and I told you you’d be nuts to do that. We argued, and you won. I agree with you. We need to uphold the law. It’s really that simple.”

  There was a long silence in the room, and I could see that no one was happy, least of all Bill, who’d undoubtedly vouched for Susan. Karl, too, was having disturbing thoughts about his best agent, and both he and Colonel Goodman were waving good-bye to their general’s star. Only John Eagan seemed cool, and by now I was certain he wasn’t the FBI guy sent here to train Viet narcs.

  I looked at Susan, who had just put herself in a very bad situation. She winked at me.

  I said, “I’m a cop, so I’m going to pretend this is a CID staff meeting, and I’m going to pretend that all of you want me to present my evidence regarding a murder case. There are no personal or political considerations in this case, and no bullshit about national security or anything but the law.”

  John Eagan said, “You can present your case any way you wish, Paul. That doesn’t change the reality.”

  “In fact, it will change your reality. And you can deal with it. It’s not my problem.”

  No one offered any new realities, so I continued, “I was contacted two weeks ago by Colonel Hellman, who asked me to conduct an investigation of a possible wartime murder. During the course of this briefing, I concluded that there was more to this than a thirty-year-old murder. But I took the case anyway, which may have been my first mistake.”

  I continued with my little tale, using the language of the criminal investigator. I skipped over our journey up country from Saigon, but I did mention Mang, the Highway One incident, and the Route 214 incident. I left out the sex because I’m a gentleman, it was irrelevant, and Bill was in the room. Marc Goodman and John Eagan, however, had probably figured out that Susan and I were more than partners, and they were factoring this in.

  I jumped ahead and described in a little detail our last interrogation by Colonel Mang and gave the impression that Mang still thought this had to do with the FULRO.

  I moved back to Dien Bien Phu and Ban Hin and the house of Tran. I went into enough detail so that they understood that if I was in front of a congressional committee or people from the Justice Department, I’d sound believable.

  I concluded with, “Tran Van Vinh, in my opinion, is a reliable and believable witness. The translation of the letter that was given to me by Colonel Hellmann, though edited for my benefit and not an original document, is an important document. So much so, that I faxed it from Dulles Airport to a friend with a note asking him to hold it for me.”

  This bullshit got a few heads turning toward one another.

  I went on, “As for the physical evidence, it consisted of the personal effects of Lieutenant William Hines. A wallet, a wedding ring, a canvas pouch containing letters, unread by me or Susan, a logbook in which Lieutenant Hines described Captain Blake in unflattering terms—called him a black marketeer and a good customer of the local hookers.”

  I saw a little squirming from John and Bill. Colonel Goodman, too, seemed uncomfortable. I said, “I’m not being judgmental, though Lieutenant Hines was. I admit to some whoring myself when I was here, and a little cannabis to take the edge off. But no black marketeering.”

  John said, “This is not relevant.”

  I informed him, “Nearly everything in a homicide investigation is relevant if you want to find out why one man killed another.”

  Karl, my good buddy, agreed. “Everything is relevant, and the most inconsequential things, when put together, give a picture and establish the motives and the personalities of the victim and the suspect.”

  I said, “Very good, Karl. In fact, from what I could glean from the effects of the deceased, William Hines was a Boy Scout, and Edward Blake was a bad boy. No, that doesn’t make him a murderer. But we have some facts that point to him as a suspect. We have the MACV roster, which shows that both men were in the same small advisory group at the same time, and there was only one captain in the group. Army records will back this up—if they haven’t been destroyed in that famous and convenient storage fire. We have the testimony of the witness, who saw and identified an American army captain of the First Cavalry Division shoot and kill a lieutenant, now identified as William Hines, who wore the same shoulder patch as the captain, and whose personal effects this witness took.”

  I milked this thin evidence for all it was worth, but if this group was a jury, and I was a prosecutor, I’d be worried. So, when you’re losing your case, you make shit up. I said, “As Susan may have told you, Tran Van Vinh identified the photos of Edward Blake as the killer.”

  I glanced at Susan, who said, “Positive identification.”

  Bill, John, and Marc seemed upset; Karl seemed skeptical, as he should be.

  I finished my presentation with, “And then there’s the loot from the treasury. Someone will need to investigate Edward Blake’s financial past, specifically after he returned from Vietnam. There was jewelry in the treasury vault, and that may be traceable, or still in the possession of Mr. Blake or his former lady friends or his present wife.”

  There was silence in the room, then Bill spoke. “It sounds to me that this evidence is not only circumstantial, but also weak and inconclusive, not to mention three decades old. I certainly wouldn’t make an accusation based on what I’ve heard.”

  John Eagan agreed and said, “An accusation this serious against Edward Blake wouldn’t stand up in court, but it would result in a field day for his political enemies and the media.”

  Marc Goodman seemed deep in unhappy thoughts, then asked me, “And in your opinion, this witness is reliable?”

  “I think he is. But I understand that an American jury may not.”

  John asked me casually, “Where is this witness?”

  I said, “Probably sleeping. He’s a peasant.”

  Bill, who had observed my wit earlier, asked in an annoyed tone, “ Sleeping where? In his village?”

  “I guess so. It wasn’t practical for us to bring him here.” I looked at Bill and John and said, “And it wasn’t practical for Susan to blow his head off.”

  No one, including Karl, feigned any shock or surprise, which was a treat. But neither did anyone comment.

  Colonel Goodman looked at Susan and asked, “And you and Paul have hidden this physical evidence?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  Susan replied, “If I told you, it wouldn’t be hidden.”

  Colonel Goodman smiled good-naturedly and said, “It doesn’t need to be hidden any longer.”

  Susan didn’t reply.

  Colonel Goodman asked, “Is it nearby?”r />
  Susan replied, “No. We anticipated having a police problem when we got off the Lao Cai train.”

  “So, you hid these items back in Lao Cai or near Ban Hin?”

  “Around there.”

  Bill was embarrassed by his ex-girlfriend’s lack of cooperation, and if Eagan was his boss, which he probably was, then Bill’s next assignment would be watching Russian ships off the coast of Iceland. Bill said sharply, “Susan, tell us where you hid the evidence.”

  She fixed Bill with a look that Bill had probably seen before. “I don’t like your tone.”

  He changed his tone. “Susan, can you describe for us the hiding place of Lieutenant Hines’s personal effects?”

  “Later.”

  “Susan—”

  John Eagan butted in and addressed a question to me. “Are you withholding evidence in a criminal case?”

  “No. I just hid it.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re in a hostile country, John. I secured the evidence in a safe location.”

  “Which you will now reveal to us.”

  “Why? You don’t think much of it. Don’t worry about it.”

  He ignored that and repeated, “You will tell us now where you hid it.”

  “Why? Who are you?”

  Eagan looked at Karl, who said to me, “I’m making that a direct order, Paul.”

  “All right. I’ll tell you later. In private.”

  Karl was happy to be the only one who could control me, and happier to be the sole recipient of some important information. He said, “Fine. We’ll speak later.”

  Everyone had to be satisfied with that, and Colonel Goodman moved on and said to Karl, “You, Colonel, are an experienced and professional investigator. What is your opinion of this evidence? Would you recommend further investigation? The bringing of charges? Or a dismissal of the case?”

  Karl played with his lower lip for a moment, then answered, “You must factor in the passage of time, and the nature of the witness. He may seem reliable and believable, but I wouldn’t want him as my witness unless I had some other evidence to back up his testimony . . . and the single piece of relevant physical evidence described, an army roster, is simply not enough. If this was my case at this point, I’d drop it.”

  I said, “Karl, that’s not true and you know it. It is at this point that you do the only thing you can do. Question the suspect.”

  John Eagan jumped right in and said, “That will not happen, here or anywhere.” He looked at everyone and reminded us, “We’re losing sight of the most important issue. This . . . this matter could ruin the life and political career of an honorable man, a decorated veteran, a husband, father, and dedicated public servant. The American people do not need any more scandal or witch hunts. And there are international considerations. I dismiss this whole thing as unworthy of further discussion.”

  Colonel Goodman thought a moment, then said, “I’d like to know how each of us who have this information would proceed. John?”

  “Drop it and this meeting never took place.”

  “Bill?”

  “Drop it. And forget it.”

  “Colonel Hellmann? This is an actual case for you, is it not?”

  Karl Hellmann replied, “It never was official, and it never will be. Consider the file destroyed.”

  I thought I heard a sigh of relief.

  Colonel Goodman looked at me. “Paul?”

  “I want time with the suspect.”

  Goodman started to say something, then thought better of it and turned to Susan. “Ms. Weber?”

  “I have absolutely no experience with the law or criminal matters, and I wouldn’t know what constitutes good evidence or circumstantial evidence, or a reliable or unreliable witness. But I know that four murders and a robbery were committed by an army captain, and the only captain we have who might have done it is in the guest room upstairs. Common sense says to talk to him. He may be able to tell you where he was that day. I mean, he could have been on leave, or in a hospital, or with ten other guys. You need to dig a little deeper, and maybe you’ll be happy with what you find, or maybe you’ll find you need to dig even deeper.”

  Again, a long silence, then I said, “Look, I’m not convinced myself that Edward Blake is a murderer. I might even want to be convinced otherwise. Susan is right. There’s nothing lost by talking to the man.”

  Eagan said to me, “So, you want me to go upstairs and roust the Vice President of the United States out of bed so he can come down here and answer questions about his possible involvement in a murder?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, if I was him, I’d tell you to go fuck yourself.”

  “I’ve been told that many times, John. That’s when I get a subpoena.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Karl can answer that.”

  Eagan didn’t bother to ask Karl. Eagan said to me, “Look, if you want to get legal, you have no power and no authority to question anyone here, and certainly not the Vice President.”

  “Voluntary questionings are done all the time, John. You first ask the person if he wants to voluntarily answer some questions. If he doesn’t, then you get a little suspicious, then you get a little subpoena.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Army officers rarely swear, and Goodman said, “Language, please.”

  Eagan said, “Jesus Christ . . . I can’t believe this.”

  John Eagan was obviously the hatchet man here, and probably had the most to lose, except for Edward Blake. Eagan, if he was the CIA bureau chief, had planned most of this mission along with Bill, and if it came off okay, John and Bill would be at Edward Blake’s inauguration ball, and in private they’d call him Eddie.

  Washington has a different system of rewards and punishments, and it goes like this: If I know you did something wrong and I don’t punish you, then I want a reward. That, however, is not how I or the law works.

  I said to Karl, “You and I, Karl, are sworn officers of the law. We are on United States property. The alleged crime was committed while the suspect was in the military. Do we have the right to ask Edward Blake to voluntarily answer some questions?”

  Karl wanted to shake his head, but his training called for a nod. The result looked like a neck spasm. Finally, he said, “There may be a jurisdic-tional question.”

  I said to Eagan, “Are you FBI?”

  “No.”

  “Who’s the FBI guy in the embassy?”

  Eagan replied, “Who gives a shit? You’re pissing me off, Paul.”

  Bill asked me, “Are you showing off for Susan?”

  Before I could say “Fuck you,” Susan said, “No, he’s been a pain in the ass about this since he discovered the truth. He really means it.”

  I slid off the desk and said, “I’m going upstairs to find Edward Blake.”

  Eagan stood. “You take one step up those stairs, and you’re history, pal.”

  “John, don’t make me hurt you.”

  Everyone was standing now, and Colonel Goodman, our discussion leader, said, “That’s quite enough from both of you.” He looked at me and asked, “Paul, if I can arrange for the Vice President to join us, do I have your word that you’ll be satisfied that this investigation is concluded?”

  I can see why Military Intelligence has a bad reputation. But I’m not stupid and I answered, “Of course.”

  “And I have your word that you understand that anything that has been said tonight is for all time classified information?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And your two weeks in Vietnam were tourism and nothing else.”

  “Correct.” I noticed Bill and John looking at each other. They weren’t protesting, so that meant I’d won. Actually, it meant I was dead.

  Colonel Goodman walked to the door and said, “I’ll get a Secret Service man to speak to the Vice President.” He left.

  Karl said to me, “Paul, you may want to reconsider.”

  I replied, “I just wa
nt to meet the VP. And get an autograph for my nephew.”

  Susan stood and came over to me. She said, softly, “If you had one day left in Vietnam before you went home, would you volunteer for a dangerous mission?”

  “No. But I’d follow orders. My last orders were to find a murderer.”

  “I think Karl would like you to stop looking.”

  “Fuck Karl. How about you?”

  “I’m on your side. Do what you need to do.”

  Goodman returned and said, “The Vice President will be joining us shortly.” He said to me, “You have ten minutes. You will be polite and respectful.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You will not make any accusations. You will present the facts, and if the Vice President wants to make a statement, he will. If not, it’s his right to remain silent.”

  “Yes, sir. I do this all the time.”

  “Good.”

  The door opened, and everyone stood, but it was only my little friend Scott Romney. He looked around, gave me what was supposed to be a tough look, then left.

  A few seconds later, Vice President Edward Blake walked in the Ambassador’s office. He was about my height and build, but not as good-looking as I am. He wore suit pants, a white dress shirt without the tie, and a silly silk kimono.

  Edward Blake did not look annoyed, impatient, or puzzled, and certainly not personally worried, only officially concerned, like some crisis might be developing. He said, “Good evening. Problem?”

  Colonel Goodman cleared his throat and said, “No, sir . . . nothing like that. May I introduce everyone?”

  Goodman had given some thought to the intros, and introduced Susan Weber first as a Saigon resident and a friend of the Quinns’. Goodman then introduced Bill Stanley and Karl Hellmann, explaining, “Bill is here from Saigon and is a friend of Susan’s and also a colleague of John’s, whom you know. Colonel Hellmann is army, just in from D.C.” He saved the best for last and said, “This is Paul Brenner, also a friend of Ms. Weber’s, and a colleague of Colonel Hellmann’s.”

  I shook the future president’s hand, and he said to me, “Ah, I know who you are. My wife spoke to you.”