“Okay.”
“I’ll explain this number further in a few minutes. After you leave Saigon on Monday, you have until Saturday to look and act like a tourist. Do what you want, but you should visit some of your old battlefields.” He added, “I believe you served part of your tour in the Bong Son area.”
I said, “If that’s not part of this mission, I’ll skip that.”
He looked at me a long time and said, “Well, that’s not an order, but it is a strong suggestion.”
I didn’t reply.
Mr. Conway leaned toward me and said, “FYI, I was there in ’70—Fourth Infantry Division, Central Highlands and the Cambodian invasion—and I went back last year to come to terms with some stuff. That’s why they sent me to brief you. We’re bonding. Right?”
“Not quite, but go on.”
Mr. Conway continued, “During these five days of travel, you will determine if you’re being watched or followed. But even if you are, don’t presume anything. Often, they just follow and watch Westerners for no good reason.”
“Especially Americans.”
“Correct. Okay, after five days on the road, you arrive in Hue on Saturday, which is Lunar New Year’s Eve—Tet—where you are booked at the Century Riverside Hotel. At this time, regarding the number you got from your contact in Saigon, you look at the city map of Hue in your guidebook, which has a numbered key to various sites around the city, and that’s where you go at noon the following day, Sunday, which will be New Year’s Day, a holiday with lots of crowds and few police. Okay?”
“Got it.”
“There are alternative rendezvous points, and I’ll explain that now.” Conway gave me the details of my meeting in Hue and concluded, “This person you meet in Hue will be a Vietnamese national. He will find you. There’s a sign and countersign. He will say, ‘I am a very good guide.’ You will reply, ‘How much do you charge?,’ and he will reply, ‘Whatever you wish to pay.’ ”
I asked, “Didn’t I see this in a movie once?”
Mr. Conway smiled and said, “I know you’re not used to this kind of stuff, and to tell you the truth, neither am I. We’re both cops, Mr. Brenner, and this is something else. But you’re a bright guy, you grew up during the Cold War, we all read James Bond, watched spy movies, and all that stuff. So this isn’t totally alien to people of our generation. Right?”
“Right. Tell me why I need a contact in Saigon if all I need is a number? You can fax me a number.”
“We decided you might need a friend in Saigon, and we need someone there we can be in touch with in case you fall off the radar screen.”
“Gotcha. Do we have a consulate in Saigon yet?”
“I was about to get to that. As you know, we’ve just re-established diplomatic relations with Vietnam, and we have a new embassy building and a new ambassador in Hanoi. The embassy will not contact you directly, either in Hanoi or during your trip. But, as an American citizen, you can contact them if you need to, and you will ask for John Eagan, and no one else. Regarding Saigon, aka Ho Chi Minh City, we’ve recently sent a consular mission there, and they’re located in some temporary, non-secure rented space. You’ll have no contact with the Saigon consulate, except through your contact person in Saigon.”
I said, “So I can’t run into the American consulate in Saigon and ask for asylum?”
He forced a smile and replied, “They don’t have much office space, and you’ll be in the way.” He added, apropos of something, “Vietnam is becoming important to us again.”
I didn’t ask him why, but important to the American government always meant oil, sometimes drugs, and now and then strategic military planning. Take your pick.
Mr. Conway was looking at me, anticipating a question about “important,” but I said, “Okay. What else?”
He said, “Another thing to keep in mind, as I said, it’s the Tet holiday season, Lunar New Year—you remember Tet ’68. Right? So, the whole country is visiting graves in their native villages, and whatever else they do. Transportation, communication, and accommodations are a nightmare, half the population is not at work, and the normal inefficiency is worse. You’ll need to be resourceful and patient. But don’t be late.”
“Understood. Tell me more about the guy in Hue.”
Doug Conway explained, “The contact in Hue will tell you where to go next, if he knows. Tran Van Vinh, if he’s alive, is most probably in the north, so you can expect to travel north from Hue. Foreigners, especially Americans, are not particularly welcome in the rural areas of the former North Vietnam. There’ll be a lot of travel restrictions, not to mention non-existent transportation. But you have to overcome this if your destination is a rural area. Okay?”
“No problem.”
“Well, it is. First of all, it’s illegal for foreigners to rent cars, but you can get an official government-licensed car and driver through the state-run travel agency called Vidotour—but you don’t want that for the secret part of your mission. Right?”
“Makes sense to me.”
“There are private travel agencies, and private cars and drivers, but the government does not officially recognize them, and sometimes in some places they don’t exist, or you can’t use them. Understand?”
“Can I rent a bicycle?”
“Sure. The country is run by the local Party chiefs, like old-time warlords, and they make up the rules, plus the central government in Hanoi keeps changing the rules for foreigners. It’s chaos, but you can usually get around some of the restrictions by making donations to key individuals. When I was there, five bucks usually did the trick. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“There are also intercity buses—torture buses, they call them, and you’ll see why if you need to get on one. And there’s the old French railroad along the coast, which is now up and running. There will be no tickets available on any public transportation during the Tet holiday, but a fiver will get you on board anything that moves, except an aircraft. You should avoid local airports in any case. Too much security there.”
“Did I mention that I had plans to go to Aruba?”
“This is much more meaningful, and the weather will be just as nice.”
“Right. Please continue.”
“Thank you.” He continued, “Regarding travel, bribes, and so forth, you may ask your Saigon contact for advice. This person should know the ropes. But don’t be too specific.”
“All right.”
“By the time you get to Hue, with luck, we’ll have for you at least the location of Tran Van Vinh’s native village of Tam Ki. Because it is the Tet holiday, the chances are very good that you will find many people of the family of Tran in that village.” He looked at me. “Right?”
I replied, “It occurs to me, Mr. Conway, that the information about this murder didn’t come to light a few days ago, but perhaps a few weeks or months ago, and you’ve waited until the Tet holiday to send me to Vietnam because that’s, as you say, when people return to their native villages, and that’s also when the security forces and police are least effective.”
Mr. Conway smiled at me and said, “I don’t know when we got this information, and what your bosses know that you—and perhaps I—don’t know. But it is fortunate that you’ll be in Vietnam at this holiday time.” He added, “During Tet of ’68, the Communists caught you guys with your pants down. Maybe you can return the favor.”
“An interesting thought. Sort of symmetrical, like the balanced Scales of Justice. But I really don’t give a rat’s ass about revenge, or any of that. The fucking war is over. If I’m going to do this, I don’t need or want a personal motive. I’m just doing the job I said I’d do. Understood?”
“Don’t rule out some personal motivation once you get there.”
I didn’t reply.
“Okay, you make your rendezvous in Hue on the Sunday, but if it’s a no-go for any reason, then Monday is the backup day, and you’ll be contacted in some way at your hotel. If you’re not contacted,
then it’s time to get out of the country, quickly. Understand?”
I nodded.
Mr. Conway said, “All right, assuming all is going well, you leave Hue on Tuesday. This is the difficult part of the trip. You need to get to Tam Ki by any means possible, and to be there within two days, three latest. Why? Because the Tet holiday lasts for four days after New Year’s Day, so everyone who has returned to their ancestral homes should still be there before heading back to wherever they live at the moment. This guy Tran Van Vinh may live full-time in Tam Ki, but we don’t know that. Best to be there when you know he’ll be there. Understand?”
Again, I nodded.
Mr. Conway continued, “In any case, win, lose, or draw, you need to be in Hanoi no later than the following Saturday, which is the fifteenth day of your trip. You are booked into the Sofitel Metropole, and I have a voucher for you for one night.” He tapped his plastic bag and said, “You may or may not be contacted in Hanoi. More importantly, you will leave the next day, Sunday, the sixteenth day of your trip, well before your standard twenty-one-day visa expires. Okay?”
“I wanted to sightsee in Hanoi.”
“No, you want to get out of there as soon as possible.”
“Sounds even better.”
He said, “You are booked on Cathay Pacific from Hanoi to Bangkok on Sunday. You’ll be met in Bangkok and be debriefed there.”
“What if I’m in jail? Do I need an extension on my visa?”
Mr. Conway smiled, ignored me, and said, “Okay, money. There’s an envelope in this bag with one thousand American dollars, in singles, fives, and tens, all non-accountable. You may legally use greenbacks in the Socialist Republic of Vietnam. In fact, they prefer it. Also in the bag is a million dong, about a buck-fifty—just kidding. About a hundred bucks, to get you started. The average Vietnamese makes about three or four hundred dollars a year, so you’re rich. And there’s another thousand in American Express traveler’s checks, which better hotels and restaurants will accept, and which some banks on some days will exchange for dong, depending on their mood. There is an American Express office in Saigon, Hue, and Hanoi. That’s all in your guidebook. Use your own credit card whenever you can. You’ll be reimbursed. The army has authorized you temporary duty pay of five hundred dollars a day, so you should see a nice check when you return.” He added, “Jail time is double pay.”
I looked at Conway and saw he wasn’t joking. I asked, “For how many days?”
“I don’t know. I never asked. Do you want me to find out?”
“No. What else?”
“A couple of things—like getting you out of the country. As I said, Cathay Pacific from Hanoi, but as I also said, it may develop that you need to leave earlier and more quickly from some other place. We have a few contingency plans for that. Want to hear them?”
“On this subject, you have my undivided attention.”
Mr. Conway outlined some other methods of leaving Vietnam, via Laos, Cambodia, China, by boat, and even by cargo plane out of Da Nang. I didn’t particularly like or believe in any of them, but I said nothing.
Conway said, “Okay, Tam Ki. That is your destination before Hanoi. One way or the other, we will locate this place, and get the information to you in Hue, at the latest. Once in Tam Ki, you will, as I said, probably find many people whose family names are Tran. You might need an interpreter before you get to Tam Ki because they won’t be speaking much English there. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“You know a little French, correct?”
“A real little.”
“Sometimes the older folks and the Catholic clergy speak some French. But try to get an English-speaking guide or interpreter. Now, I don’t have to tell you that an American asking around about a guy named Tran Van Vinh in a tiny village of Trans might draw some attention. So think about how you’re going to handle that. You’re a cop. You’ve done this before. Get a feeling for the situation, the people—”
“I understand. Go on.”
Mr. Conway went on, “Okay, my personal belief is that Tran Van Vinh is dead. Got to be. Right? The war, his age, and so forth. If he was killed in the war, chances are his body is someplace else, like his brother’s was in the A Shau Valley. But there will be a family altar in his memory. We need you to make an absolute confirmation and verification of death. Sergeant Tran Van Vinh, age between fifty and sixty, served in the People’s Army, saw action at Quang Tri, deceased brother named Tran Quan Lee—”
“Got it.”
“Okay. On the other hand, he may be alive—in Tam Ki or elsewhere.”
“Right. This is where I’m a little unclear about my mission and my goal. What am I supposed to do with Mr. Tran Van Vinh if I find him alive?”
Conway made eye contact with me and said, “What if I told you to kill him?”
We maintained eye contact. I said, “Tell you what—I’ll find him, you kill him. But you’d better have a good reason.”
“I think when you talk to him, you might discover the reason.”
“Then someone whacks me.”
“Don’t be melodramatic.”
“Sorry, I thought we were being melodramatic.”
“No, we’re being realistic. Here’s the mission in clear English—you first determine if this guy is dead or alive. If dead, we’d like some proof; if alive, establish if he lives in Tam Ki or elsewhere, then talk to him about this incident of February 1968 and see what he remembers, and see if he can identify the murderer from a photo pack that we’ll try to get to you. Also, as you will read in the letter, Tran Van Vinh took a few things from the murder victim. We took souvenirs from the dead, they took souvenirs. He probably still has these items, or if he’s dead, his family will have them—dog tags, wallet, whatever. This will identify the murdered lieutenant for us, and it will also connect Tran Van Vinh to the murder scene, and if he’s alive, make him a credible witness.”
“And we don’t want a live credible witness.”
Mr. Conway did not answer.
I finished my coffee and said, “So, if I find Tran Van Vinh alive, I see if he can ID some photos that maybe I’ll get along the way, and see if I can look at his souvenirs, and maybe buy them from him, or his family if he’s dead, and maybe get this guy out of the country, maybe videotape him, and/or leave him where he is, or maybe give Mr. Eagan in the Hanoi embassy this guy’s address and whatever happens to Tran Van Vinh happens. And if he’s dead, you want proof.”
“That’s about it. We’re playing it by ear. We’ll get in touch with you over there, in Saigon or Hue latest. There’s still some debate here about the best course of action.”
“Be sure to let me know what you decide.”
“We will. Any further questions?”
“No.”
Mr. Conway asked me, in an official tone, “Mr. Brenner, do you understand everything I’ve told you so far?”
“Not only that, I understand some stuff you’re not telling me.”
He ignored that and continued, “And you remember all of these verbal instructions I’ve given you?”
“I do.”
“Do you have any further questions for me at this time?”
“Can I ask you why you want this guy whacked?”
“I don’t understand the question. Anything else?”
“Nope.”
Doug Conway stood, and I also stood.
Conway said, “Your flight leaves in an hour, you’re traveling Business Class, which isn’t too extravagant for your station in life. The occupation on your visa says ‘Retired,’ the purpose of your visit says ‘Tourism.’ Understand, there’s some chance of a man your age traveling alone getting stopped at Tan Son Nhat and being questioned. I spent half an hour with a paranoid little gent in an interrogation room when I went back. Keep cool, don’t get hostile, stick to your story, and if the war comes up, give him some bullshit about how terrible it was for his country. Express remorse or something. They love that. Okay?”
�
�So, I shouldn’t mention that I killed North Vietnamese soldiers.”
“I wouldn’t. That might get you off on the wrong foot. But be honest about being a Vietnam veteran and wanting to visit some of the places you saw as a young soldier. Tell the interrogator you were a cook or a company clerk or something. Not a combat soldier. They don’t like that, as I found out the hard way. Okay?”
“Got it.”
Conway continued, “When you get to your hotel, do not contact us. The hotels sometimes keep copies of faxes that you send, and the local police sometimes look at these faxes. Same with phone calls. All dialed numbers are recorded for billing purposes, like anywhere else in the world, but they’re also available to the police. Plus, the phones may be tapped.”
I already knew all of this, but Conway had a mental checklist he needed to go through.
He informed me, “Regarding your arrival, your contact in Saigon will verify that you checked in at the Rex. It won’t arouse any suspicion if the call comes in locally. The contact will then notify us via a secure fax or e-mail from an American-owned business. So, if somehow you don’t check in at the Rex, we’ll know.”
“And do what?”
“Make inquiries.”
“Thanks.”
“Okay, in this plastic bag is a twenty-one-day supply of anti-malarial pills. You were supposed to start taking them four days ago, but not to worry—you’ll be in Saigon for three days, where there aren’t many malaria mosquitoes. Take a pill now. There’s also an antibiotic, which I hope you don’t need. Basically, don’t drink the water and be careful of uncooked food. You could pick up hepatitis A, but by the time you experience symptoms, you’ll be back home. If we knew sooner that you were leaving, we’d have gotten you a hepatitis vaccine—”
“You knew some time ago that I was leaving—I’m the one who didn’t know.”
“Whatever. Read your Lonely Planet Guide on the flight. There’s also a copy of the translated letter in this bag. Read it, but get rid of it on your layover in Seoul.”
Up Country Page 6
