The Three-Nine Line

by David Freed

  I felt honored knowing the guy.

  I pocketed my phone and checked my watch. We still had another five hours to go before landing in Taipei. A one-hour layover there was followed by a two-hour connecting flight across the South China Sea to Hanoi. There was a small, high-resolution entertainment screen on the seatback in front of me and a remote control built into my armrest. I spooled up a preposterous action thriller in which the famous movie star I’d taken whale watching portrays a blind ex-Green Beret who teams up with a janitor (played by a wise-cracking, African American comedian) to save the Pentagon from terrorist attack. I made it through about ten minutes before nodding off.

  V

  There’s an adage among Special Forces tacticians that applies to life in general: If it’s stupid but it works, it isn’t stupid.

  I was convinced that the Vietnamese would never buy my slapdash psychologist ruse, and that I’d be arrested as a spy upon landing. Hanoi’s stylishly steel and glass Noi Bai International Airport could’ve been just about any big city airport but for the fact that you could spot with a satellite the numerous counterintelligence agents posing as maintenance workers and airline ground crew. They surveyed my fellow passengers and me a bit too intently as we proceeded from the airliner, down a long narrow concourse, and into the terminal’s customs and immigration area. To my surprise, no one stopped me. Nor did they try while I paid the required forty-five dollar entrance fee and waited, trying to look nonchalant, as they ran my visa application through their computers. After about ten minutes, a sharp-featured young man wearing a green, military-style uniform with red and gold epaulets slipped me back the passport through an opening under the glass partition behind which he was standing. Affixed to an inside page of the passport was a sticker, granting me in both English and Vietnamese a thirty-day stay in-country.

  “Welcome to Hanoi,” he said and smiled.

  “Good to be here.”

  I grabbed my suitcase off the carousel and passed two government officials whose sky blue shirts and dark blue trousers reminded me of the uniforms I wore at the academy. They gazed at me sternly with arms folded. The younger of the two held out his hand indicating I was to stop. He asked me something in Vietnamese. I gave him one of those I-have-no-idea-what-you’re-saying-I’m-just-a-dumb-foreigner kind of shrugs.

  “He say do you have anything to declare?” the older official said.

  “No.”

  The younger guy eyed me, then my suitcase for a long moment, apparently decided I was telling the truth, and tilted his head curtly toward the exit.

  I was free to go.

  Walking outside felt like someone had thrown a damp hot towel in my face. Not yet noon and the temperature was already well above ninety. The sky was hazy and the day thick with humidity. Taxis were cued up the length of the terminal. I climbed into the back of the first one in line.

  The ride into downtown Hanoi took about forty minutes. The cab, like most cars seem to be in Vietnam, was a Toyota Tercel with manual transmission. The air-conditioning did little more than spit out lukewarm air. My driver couldn’t have been more than eighteen, as thin as any waif you’d find in a Dickens orphanage. I handed him a slip of paper printed in Vietnamese that directed him to the hotel where I’d be staying. He uttered not a word.

  The road was rutted and chaotic with small motorbikes, some transporting entire families, maneuvering wildly around the occasional truck or car. Every driver seemed to be beeping his or her horn all at once while appearing to disregard anything even remotely resembling Western-style traffic laws, yet none of them seemed to get the least bit upset at anything, regardless of how boneheaded the other drivers were around them.

  Water buffalos grazed in rice paddies along the roadside where stooped old women in conical straw hats trudged along pushing rickety wooden carts filled with melons. Others walked with bamboo poles slung across their shoulders, balancing baskets laden with bananas and freshly cut pineapple. I saw lines of school children in their white shirts and red Communist Party neckerchiefs, some toting backpacks emblazoned with the American flag. I saw one kid on a bicycle wearing a Green Bay Packers jersey. Go figure.

  We passed over the Red River, as wide and muddy as the Mississippi in springtime. In English, a large sign on the bridge said, “Hanoi, City for Peace”—a rich irony given the pounding the city had taken forty-plus years earlier from American warplanes, including one piloted by my former professor, Steve Cohen. I wanted to ask the kid driving my taxi about that, but he was no talker. Even if he had been, what insights could he offer me? He hadn’t even been born yet when the war ended.

  I sat back and watched two Vietnamese men whiz past on a motor scooter with perhaps two dozen chickens in wire cages draped over the handlebars. The passenger on the back was balancing a full-sized grandfather clock on his thighs.

  V

  My hotel was situated in Hanoi’s Old Quarter, a neighborhood of narrow streets and three-story, tin-roofed shanties— apartments above, businesses below—stacked cheek-to-jowl, one to the next. The buildings had faded canvas awnings and balconies with wrought iron railings shaded by lush, broadleaf trees. But for the red Vietnamese flag with its yellow star hanging limply here and there, the place reminded me more than a little of New Orleans’s Bourbon Street. Riding there in that cab with the windows open, nobody gave me so much as a second glance despite my face looking radically different from virtually every other face in sight. It was not lost on me the fact that their reaction to me was in profound contrast to what it must’ve been like during the war, when captured American pilots were paraded in chains through angry mobs before arriving at the infamous prison camp that came to be known ubiquitously and derisively as the Hanoi Hilton.

  By all appearances, the Yellow Flower Hotel that would serve as my home away from home was a stylish and modern eight-story oasis in an otherwise frenzied, grossly overcrowded city. As we pulled up, I saw no signs of military or law enforcement presence, nothing to suggest on the surface that inside the hotel, two former American POWs were being held pending murder charges.

  I paid the cabbie the equivalent of about twenty dollars for the ride in from the airport. A uniformed doorman with dark hair slicked back Elvis Presley-style fetched my suitcase from the trunk while another eagerly held open one of two big glass doors leading into the hotel. The air inside was pleasantly chilled. The floors were polished inlaid marble. Crystal chandeliers hung from a fifteen-foot ceiling over a compact but handsomely appointed lobby. Adjacent to the front desk was a reception area decorated with club chairs and ornate, fresh flower arrangements. As I walked in, the manager and two clerks on duty got to their feet from behind the front desk, smiling at me in welcome. The clerks were young women, slim and dark-haired and garbed in identical black slacks and yellow high-necked, thigh-length Vietnamese silk tunics slit up the sides. One wore glasses. With purple-tinted lenses. Her name tag identified her as Cara. The other, Nu, was about seven months pregnant. Big round clocks hung on the wall behind the front desk indicating the time in Dubai, London, New York, and locally.

  The manager was about thirty and wore a dark suit, white shirt and yellow tie that matched the pattern on his clerks’ tunics. His gold name tag said, “Dan.” He looked more like a Duk or a Duong. His aftershave smelled like limes, or maybe it was the stuff he used to slick back his hair that smelled. His wide smile revealed flawless teeth.

  “We have your reservation right here, Dr. Barker,” Dan said, studying a computer screen. I discerned a hint of West Texas twang in his accent. “What brings you to Hanoi? Business or pleasure?”

  “Hopefully a bit of both,” I said, lying.

  “And, may I ask, what sort of doctor are you?”

  “A damned fine one.”

  “I meant your specialty. Heart? Lungs?”

  “I’m a psychologist.”

  “I see.” He seemed somewhat disappointed by my answer. “Well,” Dan said, still peering at his computer, “it appears as thoug
h your room has been prepaid, and that you will be staying with us for seven nights. Is that correct?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “Very good, sir. All I need, then, is a credit card for incidental expenses and your passport, to make a copy for our records.”

  I gave him my Buzz-issued passport and Buzz-issued Visa card. He thanked me and gestured with an outstretched hand to the reception area. “Please, Doctor, would you be kind enough to make yourself comfortable momentarily while we finalize the necessary paperwork?”

  I walked over and parked myself in a club chair. Nu, the pregnant desk clerk, brought me a steaming cup of sweet tea without my asking. She smiled graciously in response to my nod of thanks and returned to the front desk, leaving me with an unobstructed view of the hotel’s main entrance and the street beyond.

  Guests came and went—out-of-shape European and Australian tourists, mostly, clad in walking shorts and sandals. They lugged expensive backpacks and slung their camera bags across their chests so as to deter the pickpockets and all the many other thieves they’d no doubt heard populate the streets of Hanoi. Most of the tourists wore vaguely worried expressions— mouths tight, eyes peeled—the consequence, I suppose, of obtrusiveness, non-Asians in an Asian land.

  I expected to see soldiers or police investigators milling about the lobby, but observed none.

  After a few minutes, Dan came over and sat down beside me with my credit card and passport, along with an authorization form to sign that would permit the hotel to bill me should I decide to raid the minibar. Nothing in his demeanor suggested that his hotel stood at the epicenter of a looming international crisis. After I scrawled Dr. Bob Barker’s name on the agreement, Dan handed me an electronic key card in a small envelope with the room number printed on it.

  “We have you in 508, a deluxe room on the fifth floor. Your room key also affords you access to the exercise and business centers, both of which are located on the second floor. A buffet breakfast is served in the dining room downstairs each morning from seven until nine thirty a.m. Room service is available until eleven p.m. One of my staff has already taken the liberty of moving your luggage to your room for your convenience.”

  “I would have preferred to handle my own luggage.”

  “My apologies,” Dan said. “I was merely trying to make your arrival a bit more pleasant after what I’m sure has been a very long journey.”

  “I appreciate the gesture. Next time, though, I’d appreciate you asking me first.”

  “Of course. May I ask, Doctor, have you been to Vietnam before?”

  “First time.”

  “Ah, I see. Y’all might be pleased to know, then, there is generally no tipping in Vietnam.”

  The guy was accusing me of being tight with a buck, of trying to avoid having to tip the bellman. I won’t lie: he was partially correct. But the real reason I didn’t want anyone else touching my suitcase was that I was concerned about their planting an eavesdropping device. I couldn’t very easily tell Dan that, though. I said nothing.

  “We are honored you’ve chosen to stay with us during your visit to the lovely and peaceful city of Hanoi, Dr. Barker. If there is anything you require, anything at all, please do not hesitate to contact me directly. I will be only too happy to make your stay with us as comfortable as possible.”

  “I do have one question,” I said.

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “What’s with the ‘y’all’?”

  Dan beamed proudly. “Texas Tech. Bachelor of science in hotel management.”

  Vietnam’s deified communist leader, the late Ho Chi Minh, would’ve been rolling over in his grave. That’s what I wanted to say, anyway, but I didn’t.

  We shook hands, and Dan excused himself to return to his desk duties.

  Somewhere above me in the hotel, unless they’d been moved to another location, two American heroes, including my former philosophy professor, were being held against their wills. I needed to make contact with them quickly.

  FIVE

  A pair of elevators stood in plain view of the front desk. I told Dan and his clerks that I wanted to check out the hotel’s gym before heading to my room. If my intentions seemed suspicious, it didn’t register on their faces. They smiled and all wished me a pleasant day. I stepped into the first elevator that opened and pushed the button for the second floor.

  The Yellow Flower’s “exercise center” was only slightly larger than the walk-in storage locker that served as my office in Larry Kropf’s hangar back home. Like my office, it was far from lavish: a tired treadmill, an older Universal weights machine mostly for upper-body work, and a watercooler. I would’ve expected something a little more elaborate given how nice the rest of the hotel seemed to be, but whatever. I’m not real big on working out, anyway. With a surplus of lifelong orthopedic souvenirs to show for the four years I spent playing college football, the last thing I feel like doing on most days is grunting and groaning through repetitious, weight-bearing exercises.

  The guest rooms on the second were aligned in a squared U-shape, eight rooms on the floor, with the two elevators at the top of the horseshoe. The halls were paneled in dark teak, the walls adorned with copies of French impressionist paintings hung every few feet in gilded frames. I walked from one end of the U to the other, the soles of my shoes treading silently on the marble tile. The door to each room was closed. The rooms themselves were quiet. There were no posted guards.

  I climbed the stairwell to the third floor. Same floor arrangement. Same silence.

  On the fourth floor, I encountered an elderly housekeeper transferring fresh linens from her cart to the room she’d been cleaning. She had a wrinkled face and looked up at me as I passed by. I wondered if I’d seen that same face in photo essays about the war—a rifle-toting, pajama-clad guerilla fighter. North Vietnamese women often fought alongside their men, battling the French and, later, American and South Vietnamese forces. I nodded my head in greeting. She smiled in a friendly way and said something in Vietnamese. I assumed it was hello. You get a good vibe from certain people and you don’t really know why. A primal thing, maybe. She was one.

  Waiting for the elevator on the fifth floor was an attractive Asian woman wearing five-inch stiletto pumps and a tailored, cream-colored pantsuit that highlighted her every curve. She was texting on her BlackBerry and barely seemed to notice me. I noticed plenty: early forties, almond eyes, full lips, dark, shoulder-length hair with subtle red highlights parted to her left, long fingernails the color of oxidized blood, no wedding band. Gorgeous didn’t begin to describe her.

  “Apparently, you didn’t get the memo.”

  “What memo would that be?” she asked, not bothering to look up from her texting.

  “The memo that said the BlackBerry is a dinosaur.”

  “Hmm.” I couldn’t tell by her pursed lips if she was annoyed by me or mildly intrigued. “And where did you see this memo?”

  “Actually, it wasn’t a memo. It was an article in an in-flight magazine. I read it coming over here.”

  “I see.” She stifled a smile and looked up at me for the first time. “Well, I’ll just have to look into that, won’t I?”

  The British influence in her accent suggested she was from Singapore, possibly Hong Kong. I was tempted to ask if she was staying in the hotel and whether she might be interested in getting together later for a drink or dinner so that I might share with her my vast knowledge of cellular technology, of which, in fact, I know nothing, but it wasn’t the right time or the place. I was on a government assignment. And, besides, I still mourned Savannah.

  “You have yourself a great day,” I said.

  “You as well.”

  I strode around the corner to my room and swiped the card key through the slot in the electronic door lock. The temperature inside felt like about forty degrees. I turned up the thermostat and introduced myself to the bathroom.

  My suitcase was resting on one of those little folding luggage stands
near the foot of the queen-sized bed. The furniture was rosewood. On the desk was a bamboo bowl with two bananas and a little sign that said, “Welcome, Compliments of the Yellow Flower.” Inside the closet was a small safe with a digital lock. Room safes are essentially worthless, their combination locks easily manipulated. I’d stash my wallet and passport where I always kept them while staying in foreign hotel rooms: in a Ziploc plastic bag hanging behind the water tank of the toilet.

  When I went up to the sixth floor where the two former POWs were being held, I found myself standing face-to-face with a young Vietnamese soldier clutching an AK-47.

  Startled, he jumped up from the plastic chair he’d been leaning back in as I emerged from the stairwell and brought his assault rifle to bear, ordering me in a high-pitched voice to halt. That was how I interpreted his words, anyway. He spoke no English.

  “I’m a psychologist. I’m here to see the Americans.”

  I could’ve just as easily told him I was a cosmonaut or the pope. I probably would’ve drawn the same response. He began shouting over his shoulder, summoning what I assumed were reinforcements. They arrived within seconds in the form of another young soldier, similarly armed, and a junior officer of about twenty-five. Given his age, I figured he was probably a lieutenant. He, too, was yelling at me in Vietnamese, gesturing that I was to return immediately to the stairway from whence I’d come.

  I raised both hands, palms out, and offered my best soothing, mental health professional smile.

  “I’m here to help.”

  The lieutenant had a pinched face and hair that looked like it’d been trimmed in a machete factory. “Who are you? What do you want?” he demanded in passable English.

  “I’m a psychologist. I have permission from your government to visit the men you’re holding, to make sure they’re doing okay.”

  I started to reach for the letters of authorization from the Vietnamese ambassador that Buzz had given me, which were folded up in the right front pocket of my Dockers. The lieutenant didn’t like that. He drew his pistol while his two soldiers raised their weapons to fire. All three were now screaming at me. Nothing, I’ve discovered, sends a chill down your spine faster than staring down the business end of three fully loaded firearms.