Up Country pb-2

by Nelson DeMille

  I put the snow globe in my overnight bag to give to Susan as a thank-you present. As I was making a final check of the room, Susan’s cell phone rang in my pocket. I answered it and said, “Weber residence.”

  She laughed and said, “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

  “I did, except for the chay long rong parade outside my window, and the Ride of the Valkyries running through my head.”

  “Same here. I’m a little hungover.” She added, “Sorry if I got weepy.”

  “Don’t apologize.”

  She got down to business. “Okay, any taxi knows where the Immigration Police headquarters is. It’s actually in the Ministry of Public Security. Give yourself fifteen minutes because of rush hour. Don’t hold your taxi — they don’t like to hang around that building.”

  “Maybe Colonel Mang will offer me a ride back to the Rex.”

  “He may actually do that if he wants to see some kind of ticket to Nha Trang. But most likely he’ll instruct you to report to the Nha Trang Immigration Police.”

  “If he does come back to the Rex, make yourself scarce.”

  “Let’s see how it plays.”

  I asked her, “Are you glad you got involved with this?”

  “Beats going to work. All right, I have an e-mail from my travel agent, and she’s working on transportation to Nha Trang. Leave my cell phone with the front desk, and I’ll pick it up when I get there.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now, regarding Colonel Mang — try not to piss him off. Tell him you saw the Cu Chi tunnels, and you’ve earned a new respect for the people’s anti-imperialist struggle.”

  “Screw him.”

  “When you get to the Ministry of Public Security, you want Section C — that’s the Immigration Police. Stay away from A and B, or we may never see you again.” She chuckled, but she wasn’t kidding.

  She continued, “You’ll be directed to a waiting room, then you’ll be called, but not by name. It’s random, but old people go first in Vietnam, so you’ll be called first. You then go into another room, and the guy there asks what you want. He’s nasty. Most people are there because they’ve been stopped with an expired visa, or they need visa extensions, or work or residence permits. Low-level stuff.”

  That didn’t explain why I was told to go there, but I didn’t point this out.

  She continued, “You have an appointment, so ask the nasty guy for Colonel Mang. The word for colonel is dai-ta. You ask for Dai-ta Mang. Give the nasty guy something with your name on it.”

  “They’ve got everything with my name on it.”

  “Give them your driver’s license or your hotel bill or something. They’re supposed to speak foreign languages for their job, but they don’t, and they don’t want to look stupid. So make it easy for them.”

  “You’ve been to this place?”

  “Three times after I first got here. Then, somebody in my office told me to stop answering their summonses. So I did, and now they come to my office or my apartment every few months.”

  “Why?”

  “Paperwork, questions, and a tip. They call it a tip, like they just did me a service. Usually takes me about ten minutes and ten bucks to get rid of them. But don’t offer Colonel Mang any money. He’s a colonel, and maybe a pure and true Party member. You could get arrested for bribery, which is the biggest joke in this country because you usually get arrested for non-bribery.”

  “Right.”

  “But if he asks for money, give it to him. The going rate to ransom your passport and visa is fifty bucks. Don’t ask for a receipt.”

  I thought about this and about my conversation with Colonel Mang at the airport, and I was fairly certain that money was not what Colonel Mang was after.

  She continued, “Some of these guys are nothing more than corrupt former South Vietnamese police who’ve managed to stay on the job with the Reds. But some of them are northerners, trained by the KGB, and they still have KGB heads. Also, the higher the rank, the less corrupt. Be careful with Colonel Mang.”

  “Right.” And this raised the question of how I got lucky enough to meet Colonel Mang in the first place.

  Susan asked me, “Did he seem old enough to have fought in the war?”

  “He remembers the war quite well.”

  She stayed silent for a few seconds, then said, “Maybe you can turn your shared experiences into something positive.”

  “Yeah. Look, I’m not going there to bond with the guy — I just want my papers, and I want out of there.”

  “But you don’t want him to kick you out of the country.”

  “No, and he has no intention of doing that. I’m not going home today — I’m going to Nha Trang, or to jail — so be prepared to fax my firm either way.”

  “I understand.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, that’s about it. See you later.”

  “Okay… look, Susan… if I don’t see you later… thanks—”

  “See you later. ’Bye.”

  I hung up, turned off the cell phone, and put it in my jacket pocket.

  I gathered my bags and took them down to the lobby. I went to the front desk and saw that one of the clerks was Lan, the same woman who had checked me in. I gave her my room key and said, “Checking out.”

  She played with her computer and said, “Ah, yes, Mr. Brenner. I check you in.”

  “You did.”

  “Did you enjoy your stay?”

  “I really did. Saw the Cu Chi tunnels.”

  Lan made a face and didn’t reply. As the bill printed out, she asked me, “Can we assist you in any way with your travel plans?”

  “Yes, you can. I need to go now to the Immigration Police to get my passport. You remember all that.”

  She nodded, but said nothing.

  “So, I’ll leave my luggage here and with luck — ba ba ba — I’ll be back shortly to collect it.”

  Again, she nodded, then handed me my bill. She said, “Your room has been pre-paid. How would you like to settle the extra charges?”

  I scanned my bill and felt I needed to explain that I hadn’t gotten a blow job in the spa, despite the big charge. But I replied instead, “I’ll settle it when I return with my passport and visa, and collect my luggage.”

  Lan thought about that a moment and replied, “As you wish.”

  It’s got to be tough running a four-star hotel in a totalitarian state. I mean, your guests disappear without a trace, the police come to search the rooms and upset the maids, and there are so many phone taps that you can’t make a dinner reservation without getting a cop on the line.

  I gave Lan Susan’s cell phone and said, “A young lady, an American, will be along shortly to pick this up. Please see that she gets it.”

  “Certainly.”

  I took the snow globe out of my overnight bag and gave it to Lan. “Also, please give this to her and tell her I said thank you.”

  Lan examined the snow globe, but didn’t comment on it. To a Vietnamese, it may have looked like a layer of rubble around a partially destroyed building.

  Lan called over a bellboy, who gave me two receipts for my luggage and who got a dollar in return. Lan said to me, “Thank you for staying with us. The doorman will call a taxi for you.”

  I went out to the sidewalk and a taxi appeared. I said to the doorman, “Tell the driver I need to go to police headquarters. Ministry of Public Security. Biet?”

  The doorman hesitated for a beat, then said something to the taxi driver as I got in.

  We pulled away from the curb and headed west on Le Loi Street.

  We drove through a section of the city that looked as if it held every cheap hotel and guest house in Saigon, and between the cheap lodgings were cheap eateries. The area was filled with young backpackers of all races and colors, boys and girls on a great adventure; a far different Vietnam experience than my own at that age, when I, too, carried a backpack.

  The taxi turned into a street named Nguyen Trai, and
continued on. I looked at my watch: It was five minutes to eight.

  We pulled over and stopped near a three-story building of dirty yellow stucco, set back from the street behind a wall. The driver motioned to the building, and I paid him and got out. He sped off.

  The structure was big and seemed to be part of a larger compound. There was a flagpole out front that flew a red flag with a yellow star.

  There were two armed policemen at the open gate in the wall, but they didn’t challenge me as I passed through. I guess no one tries to break into this place.

  I crossed the small forecourt and entered the building into a sparse lobby.

  In front of me was a high, ornate wooden desk, like a judge’s bench, which looked very Western, like it had been left over from the French. A uniformed guy sat there, and I said to him, “Immigration Police.”

  He stared at me awhile, then handed me a small square of green paper that had the letter C on it. He pointed to my left and said, “Go.”

  So, off I went, thinking, “Go directly to jail. Do not pass Go.”

  I walked down a wide corridor that had offices on either side, and through the window of an open office I could see a large interior courtyard. The Ministry of Public Security was obviously a big and important place with much work to do. I had no doubt that the courtyard was used for executions under the French, and maybe under the South Vietnamese, and the Communists.

  I passed a few uniformed cops, and a lot of badly dressed bureaucratic types with attaché cases. They all eyed me, but the little green pass got me to the end of the corridor to a door marked C. Above the door was a sign that said Phong Quan Ly Nguoi Nuoc Ngoai. Nuoc, I know, means water, and Ngoai is foreign, according to Susan’s license plates — so this was either the ministry that imported foreign water, or it was the place where foreigners from overseas had to report. Betting on the latter, I walked through the open door and entered a medium-sized waiting room. The room held about two dozen plastic chairs and nothing else. There were no windows, only louvers near the ceiling, and no fans. Also, there were no ashtrays, judging by the cigarette butts all over the tile floor.

  Four of the chairs were occupied by young backpackers, with their packs on the floor. They were chatting with one another — three guys and a girl. They looked up at me, then went back to their conversation.

  I took a seat. On one wall was a big poster showing a condom. The condom had a face, two feet, two arms, and was carrying a sword and a shield. Dangling from the sword was the word AIDS, and written on the condom was the word OK. Some comedian had written on the condom in English, Vietnamese Fighting Meat Puppet Show — People’s Theater.

  On another wall was a poster of a Vietnamese woman and a Western gent embracing, and the words in English said AIDS Can Kill You.

  On the far wall was a poster of Ho Chi Minh surrounded by happy peasants and workers, and next to that was a sign in English that said Not to cause big disturbances and not with radio. This enigmatic message was repeated in several languages, and I hoped that at least one of them made sense.

  A few more people entered the room, mostly young people, but then a middle-aged Vietnamese couple entered, and I guessed they must be Viet-Kieus with a visa problem.

  The young people were all chatting with one another in English, and with various accents ranging from American to Australian to several European-sounding accents. I heard the word “fuck” pronounced six different ways.

  Also, from what I could overhear, most of these kids were looking for a visa extension, but some of them were looking for their visas and passports that had been officially stolen by the police. None of them seemed particularly concerned. The Viet couple, however, looked frightened, and also astounded at the backpackers who didn’t. Interesting.

  It was ten after eight, and I decided to give it ten more minutes before I caused big disturbances not with radio.

  A few minutes later, a guy in a khaki uniform entered the room and looked around. He saw me and motioned for me to come with him. It’s a pretty good deal being old in a Buddhist country.

  I followed the guy out into the hallway, then into another room, an office, across the hall.

  A uniformed officer in khakis with shoulder boards sat behind a desk, smoking. He said to me, “Who you? Why you here?”

  This must be the nasty guy. I looked him in the eye and said in slow, simple English, “I—” I tapped my chest, “here to see Dai-ta Mang.” I tapped my watch, “Appointment,” then gave him my hotel bill. I didn’t want to give him my driver’s license because these clowns had enough of my official identification, and I pictured myself out in the street with no ID, except my monogrammed handkerchief.

  In any case, the guy seemed okay with the bill, which he examined for some seconds. He then looked at a sheet of paper and seemed to be trying to match names. His cigarette ash broke off and landed on my hotel bill. I looked around for a fire extinguisher, or an exit sign.

  Finally, Nasty looked up and said something to the guy who’d brought me in, waved the hotel bill around as if he was an unsatisfied hotel guest, and the other guy took the bill and motioned me to follow him. And we complain about rude civil servants.

  So, I followed this guy down the long, straight hallway, wondering if I’d gotten my message across, or if they thought I was a bill collector from the Rex looking for a deadbeat named Mang. I hadn’t realized how useful it was to have Susan with me.

  Anyway, this guy stopped and knocked on a door numbered 6. The guy opened the door, but motioned me to stand back. He entered, I could hear talking, then the guy came out and pointed inside.

  I entered a small windowless room. Sitting at a wooden table was Colonel Mang, and on the table was the hotel bill, a newspaper, his attaché case, a teapot and cup, and an ashtray overflowing with butts. This was obviously not his office, which I suspected was in Section A; this was an interrogation room.

  Colonel Mang said, “Sit.”

  I sat in a wooden chair across from him.

  Colonel Mang looked as unpleasant as I remembered him at the airport. The narrow eyes, high cheekbones, sneering, thin lips, and taut skin made him look like he’d had six facelifts. His voice also still annoyed me.

  Colonel Mang pretended to be looking at the papers on his desk, then looked up at me and said, “So, you have brought for me your itinerary.”

  “Yes, I have. And you’ve brought for me my passport, and my visa, which you took from the hotel.”

  Colonel Mang looked at me a long time, then said, “Your itinerary.”

  I replied, “I leave for Nha Trang today. I will stay there for four or five days, then I go to Hue.”

  “Yes? And how do you travel to Nha Trang?”

  “I’ve asked a travel agent to find me transportation. My ticket will be waiting for me at the Rex.”

  “And you have no ticket to show me?”

  “No.”

  “So, you may go by automobile.”

  “I may.”

  “If this is the case, you must go through Vidotour, the official tour agency. This is the authorized way to travel by automobile and driver in Vietnam. You may not hire a private car and driver.”

  “I’m sure my travel agent knows that.”

  “They know. But they do not always follow this procedure. If you travel by automobile, you must book through Vidotour, and you must tell Vidotour office to call this office and report the name of your driver and the automobile license plate number.”

  “Sounds very reasonable.” The good news seemed to be that I was free to go to Nha Trang. The bad news was that I was free to go to Nha Trang.

  Colonel Mang asked me, “Who is this travel agent?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why do you not know?”

  “I asked an American acquaintance in Ho Chi Minh City to assist me.”

  “Yes? And who is this American acquaintance?”

  “Bill Stanley. Bank of America.”

  Colonel Mang hesitated
a moment, then made a note of this. Bill Stanley now had something in common with Sheila O’Connor, who I’d ratted out to Father Bennett in another lifetime. Sometimes you’ve got to rat someone out, but never rat out a friend. Pick an Ivy League grad whenever you can.

  Colonel Mang asked me, “How do you know this man?”

  “We went to Princeton together. College.”

  “Ah… and you say he is with the Bank of America?”

  I was getting a bad vibe about this for some reason. I replied, “I believe that’s what he said.”

  Colonel Mang nodded, then said to me, “Inform your travel agent that he or she must telephone this office this morning and ask for me.”

  “Why?”

  “You ask too many questions, Mr. Brenner.”

  “You ask too many questions, Colonel Mang.”

  This pissed him off, but he kept his cool. He looked at me and said, “You are the one who is raising questions in my mind.”

  “I have been completely truthful and cooperative with you.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  I didn’t reply.

  He repeated, “Tell your travel agent to call me. Where are you staying in Nha Trang?”

  “I have no reservations at this time.”

  “You must have an address.”

  “I’ll get an address when I get there.”

  “Why do you wish to go to Nha Trang?”

  “It was recommended as the best beach in Southeast Asia.”

  This seemed to please the little shit, and he said, “It is. But you did not come all this way to go to the beach.”

  “I was there in 1968.”

  “Ah, yes, where the combat soldiers would go for rest.”

  I didn’t reply.

  Meanwhile, the guy was chain-smoking, and the air was thick with smoke, not to mention humidity and the smell of sweat, which may have been my own.

  Colonel Mang made another note on a piece of paper and said to me, “When you arrive at Nha Trang, you will report to the Immigration Police and give them your address. If you do not find accommodations, inform them of this.” He looked at me and said, “They will see to it that you have a place to sleep.”