Up Country pb-2

by Nelson DeMille

“What were you told you could do?”

  “Take and deliver a message.”

  “What’s the deal on me faxing a message out of here?”

  “You mean in the hotel? You just fax it.”

  “Do they look at it? Make a copy?”

  She thought a moment, then replied, “They do. They won’t give your sheet back until they’ve made a copy. But I can send a secure fax or e-mail from my office.” She added, “That’s what I did last night.”

  “Are you also supposed to fax someone regarding this meeting?”

  She nodded. “A 703 area code. Virginia.”

  “Right. Okay, along with your rendezvous report, say that I was stopped at the airport, and they took my passport, but I think it was a random stop, and I’ll be leaving Saigon on time, if I have my passport. Okay?”

  She looked at me, then repeated the message, and said, “I’m not supposed to ask you any questions, but—”

  “Don’t ask any questions. And if you get a reply to the fax, memorize it. Do not carry it with you to this hotel. Contact me and we’ll meet somewhere. Okay?”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. So, they stopped you at the airport? That’s why you were late.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m not surprised. You look shifty.” She laughed and asked, “Did they want an arrival tax?”

  “Twenty bucks.”

  “Did you give it to them?”

  “I did.”

  “You shouldn’t have. They understand no if you’re firm about it.”

  “I made this little security guy carry my luggage to the cab.”

  She laughed. “That’s great. I love it.” She added, “You know, the passport guy and everyone split the loot. That’s the scam.”

  I asked her, “So, you think it was just a random shakedown?”

  “Sure… except they hardly ever take a passport.” She thought a moment, then said, “You’ll hear from them again.”

  “I hope so. They have my passport.”

  She lit another cigarette, and I had the impression she wasn’t in a hurry to leave. I said, “Offer me the newspaper, and then you can take off for your next appointment. I need your business card and Bill’s.”

  She looked at me, and we held eye contact awhile, then she put out her cigarette and said, “My business card is in the newspaper. I’m not sure you’re supposed to know anything about Bill. Call me, and I’ll let you know about that.”

  “Okay.”

  She stood and picked up her attaché case from the chair. She said, “Thank you for the drinks.”

  I stood. “My pleasure.”

  She said, “I have an English language newspaper I’m finished with. Do you want it?”

  “Sure. I can use something to read.”

  She took her International Herald Tribune from her attaché case and put it on the table. “It’s a day old, but it’s the weekend edition. You won’t see another one until Monday night.”

  “Thanks.”

  She put out her hand and we shook. She said, “Good luck.”

  I replied, “Chuc Mung Nam Moi.”

  She smiled and said, “Chuc Mung Nam Moi.” She turned and left.

  I sat down and left the newspaper where it was, waiting for something unpleasant to happen as I sipped my beer.

  I waited a full minute, nothing happened, and I picked up the newspaper and unfolded it. I palmed her business card and slipped it in my jacket pocket as I extracted my handkerchief and wiped my forehead. I sat sideways to the table and read the front page by the light of the table candle.

  Well, so far, so good. I’ve never worked a case in a hostile country, though to be truthful I’ve worked cases in friendly countries that I’ve made hostile. In any case, I thought my spy craft was pretty good, considering I was just a cop. Mr. Conway was right — it’s in the blood of my generation. Too many spy novels and movies. What would James Bond do now?

  Well, James wouldn’t have let Ms. Weber get away, for starters. But when you’re working for the CID or the FBI, as I’d done a few times, you keep your cork in your shorts. And then, of course, there was Cynthia. And Bill, whoever he was. Plus, Ms. Weber didn’t need any more trouble than she might already be in.

  I looked up and noticed that Susan Weber had returned to the table. She sat down. She said, “Mr. Ellis has canceled our appointment. Also, I was supposed to tell you not to hesitate to call me if you need anything and to let me know when you’re about to leave Saigon on Monday morning. But the phones in most foreign business offices are presumed to be tapped — not necessarily for security reasons, but in hopes they can hear something that will give them a business advantage. Still, you have to be careful what you say on the landline phones. My cell number is on my card, but you’ll need a cell phone to call me, if you don’t want the conversation monitored. If you call me from a landline, and you need to say something important, I can meet you. I’ve been asked to stay in Saigon all weekend. Okay?”

  “You forgot all that?”

  “Well, I said you could call me, if you need anything. I’m just elaborating.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “It’s Saturday night and I don’t have a date.”

  “Where’s Bill?”

  “I told him I might be busy, depending on what happened tonight.”

  “Am I missing something?”

  “I wanted to see if you were interesting or not.”

  “Well, then, I guess this is good-bye.”

  She smiled. “Come on. Don’t give me a hard time.”

  “Look… Susan… my instructions were—”

  “I have new instructions. They want me to brief you about the country so you don’t get totally lost and confused after you leave Saigon.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Would I lie to someone from my home state?”

  “Well…”

  “I’m not used to no.”

  “I don’t imagine you are. Will you join me for dinner?”

  “I’d be delighted. How nice of you to ask.”

  I signaled a waiter and asked for menus. I said to my new friend, “How’s the food here?”

  “Actually, not bad. They have Japanese, French, Chinese, and, of course, Vietnamese. This is the Tet holidays, so there’ll be a lot of specialty holiday foods offered.”

  The menus came, and I asked her, “What’s the word for dog meat?”

  “Thit cho.” She smiled and picked up her menu. “What do you want? Chinese, Vietnamese, or French?”

  “I want a cheeseburger and fries.”

  “I’ll order for us from the holiday menu.”

  The maître d’ appeared, and they had a conversation about the menu, punctuated by some laughs and glances toward me. I said, “No thit cho.”

  The maître d’ laughed again and said something to Susan. To show I understood the language, I told him in Vietnamese to put his hands up.

  The guy left and Susan said, “I ordered a lot of little things so you could taste everything and eat what you like.” She asked me, “Why did you tell him to put his hands up?”

  “Just practicing.”

  She asked, “Don’t they have lots of Vietnamese restaurants in Washington?”

  “Why do you think I live in Washington?”

  “I assume you work for Washington.”

  “I live in Virginia. I’m retired.”

  “Did you have Vietnamese food when you were here in the army?”

  “I had C rations. You weren’t allowed to eat the local stuff. Army regulations. Some guys got very sick on the food.”

  “Well, you still have to be careful. Drink lots of gin and tonics, bottled water, beer, and Coca-Cola. I was really sick when I first got here. We call it Ho Chi Minh’s revenge. But I haven’t been sick since then. You build up immunities.”

  “I won’t be here that long.”

  The food came, course after course. Ms. Weber ate like a
Vietnamese with the bowl up to her face, shoveling in everything with chopsticks. I used my knife and fork.

  We made small talk, mostly about Saigon and her job. She explained what she did, but I being a government employee with no business background, none of it made sense to me. It had to do with giving advice and arranging loans for mostly American investors who wanted to do business in Vietnam. Even though it made no sense to me, it made sense to her, and I concluded that she really was an investment advisor. I can usually tell when someone’s faking it because many of my assignments require me to take on an undercover role and pretend I’m a clerk, or an armory sergeant, or anything that will get me close to the suspect.

  After a while, I think we felt comfortable with each other. She said to me, “I know I’m not supposed to ask you questions, so I don’t know what to ask you to make conversation.”

  “Ask me anything you’d like.”

  “Okay. Where did you go to school?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  She smiled. “You think you’re funny.”

  “I am funny. Where did you go to school?”

  “Amherst. Then Harvard for my MBA.”

  “And then?”

  “I worked in New York with an investment bank.”

  “For how long?”

  “If you’re trying to figure out my age, I’m thirty-one.”

  “And you’ve been here three years.”

  “Three years next month.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not? It’s a good résumé builder, and no one bothers you here.”

  “You like it here?”

  “Actually, I do.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged, thought a moment, then said, “I guess… being an expat is who I am. You understand?”

  “No.”

  “Well… it’s part of my identity. In New York, I was nobody. Just another pretty face with an Ivy League MBA. Here, I stand out. I’m exotic to the Vietnamese and interesting to Westerners.”

  I nodded. “I think I understand. When are you going home?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think about it.”

  “Why not? Don’t you get homesick? Family? Friends? Fourth of July? Christmas? Groundhog Day?”

  She played with her chopsticks awhile, then said, “My parents and my sister and brother come and visit at least once a year. We get along very well now because I’m here and they’re there. They’re all very successful and competitive. Here I can be my own person. A few good friends have visited, too. Also, the American community here goes out of its way to celebrate holidays, and somehow the holidays are more special and more meaningful. You understand?”

  “I think so.”

  “Also, this isn’t just a Third World country. It’s a semi-totalitarian state, and the Westerners here feel like they’re living on the edge, so every day is interesting, especially when you beat these idiots at their own game.” She looked at me. “Am I making any sense, or have I had too much to drink?”

  “Both. But I understand.”

  “You should. You’re a spy.”

  I informed her, “I’m a retired army person, I served two tours here in ’68 and ’72, and I’m back here as a tourist.”

  “Whatever. Does this place bum you out?”

  “No.”

  “Did you have a bad time when you were here?”

  “I’ve had better times.”

  “Were you wounded?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Did you ever have any post-traumatic stress?”

  “I have enough everyday stress to keep me happy.”

  “Where were you when you were here?”

  “Mostly up north.”

  “You mean Hanoi?” she asked.

  “No. Hanoi was in North Vietnam. We never fought there.”

  “You said north.”

  “The northern part of the old South Vietnam. The DMZ. Did they teach you any of this in school?”

  “In high school. I didn’t take history in college. So, where were you stationed?”

  “In ’72, I was at Bien Hoa. In ’68, I was mostly in Quang Tri Province.”

  “I’ve been as far north as Hue. Beautiful city. You should try to get there. I’ve never been to the Central Highlands. I did fly to Hanoi once. They hate us in Hanoi.”

  “Can’t imagine why.”

  “Well, whatever you did, they still hate us.” She looked at me. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “So, are you going to visit those places?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You should. Why else would you come here? Oh… I forgot, you’re…” She put her finger to her lips and said, “Shhh,” then laughed.

  I changed the subject. “Do you live in central Saigon?”

  “I do. Most Westerners do. The surrounding districts can be a little too native.” She changed the subject back and asked me, “What did you do here in Vietnam?”

  I said, “I’d rather not talk about the war.”

  “Do you think about it?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Then you should talk about it.”

  “Why? Because I think about it?”

  “Yes. The point is, men keep things to themselves.”

  “Women talk about everything.”

  “That’s healthy. You need to talk things out.”

  “I talk to myself, and when I do that, I know I’m talking to an intelligent person.”

  “You’re a tough guy. Old school.”

  I looked pointedly at my watch. Somehow, Ms. Weber and I had become familiar, which may have been a result of too many beers. I said, “It’s been a long day.”

  “I’m having dessert and coffee. Don’t run off.”

  “I’m jet-lagged.”

  She lit a cigarette, ignored me, and said, “I never smoked before I got here. These people smoke like chimneys, and I got hooked. But I don’t do grass or opium. I haven’t gone completely native yet.”

  I watched her in the flickering light of the candle. This was a somewhat complex woman, but she seemed to be a straight shooter. I never compare Woman A to Woman B, but Susan reminded me a little of Cynthia — the straightforwardness, I think. But whereas Cynthia was formed by the army, as I was, Susan came from another world, Lenox, Amherst, Harvard. I recognized the upper-middle-class accent and bearing, the other Massachusetts that Southies used to laugh at, but also envied.

  She signaled a waiter and asked me, “Coffee or tea?”

  “Coffee.”

  She said something to the waiter, and he left. She said to me, “The native coffee is good. It’s from the highlands. You want dessert?”

  “I’m stuffed.”

  “I ordered fruit. The fruit here is out of this world.”

  She seemed to be enjoying my company, or enjoying herself, and that’s not always the same thing with women. In any case, she was kind of fun, except she’d had a beer too many and was starting to get silly.

  It was cooler now, a beautiful, star-filled evening, and I could see the last sliver of the waning moon. I said to her, “New Year’s Eve is next Saturday night. Correct?”

  “Yes. You should try to be in a major city that night. It could be fun.”

  “Like New Year’s Eve at home?”

  “More like Chinese New Year in Chinatown in New York. Fireworks, noisemakers, dragon dancing, puppet shows, and all that. But it’s also very solemn, and a lot of people go to pagodas to pray for a good year and honor their ancestors. The party ends before midnight because everyone goes home to be with their families at midnight. Except that the Catholics go to midnight mass. Are you Catholic?”

  “Sometimes.”

  She smiled. “Well, then go to midnight mass if you’re near a church. Someone will invite you to come home with them and share a meal. But the first visitor who crosses the threshold of a Vietnamese home after midnight must be of good character, or the family will have an unlu
cky year. Are you of good character?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you can lie.” She laughed.

  I said, “And I understand that the celebration lasts for a week afterward.”

  “Officially four more days, but in reality about a week. It’s a tough week to get anything done because just about everything is closed. The good news is that all the pre-holiday traffic and congestion come to an end, and most places look like ghost towns. The restaurants and bars are usually open only at night, and people party hard every night. But each city and region has some differences in how they celebrate. Where do you think you’ll be for Tet?”

  I thought, Probably in jail. I said, “I’m not sure about my itinerary.”

  “Of course.” She thought a moment, then said, “You must have been here for a Tet holiday if you were here twice.”

  “I was here for Tet ’72 and ’68.”

  She nodded. “I know about Tet ’68. I’m historically challenged, but that I know about. Where were you?”

  “Outside Quang Tri City.”

  She said, “I understand it was very bad in Quang Tri and Hue. Maybe you can be in Hue for Tet. That’s a very big celebration.”

  I replied, “I’m not sure where I’ll be.”

  “Do you at least know what you’re doing tomorrow?”

  “I’m sightseeing tomorrow.”

  “Good. You need a guide and I’m available.”

  “Bill might be annoyed.”

  “He’ll get over it.” She laughed again and lit another cigarette. “Look, if you’re going up country, you need some tips. I’ll give you some good advice.”

  “You’ve been helpful enough.” I asked her, “Do you use that expression? Up country?”

  “I guess so. I heard it here. Why?”

  “I thought it was only a military expression.”

  “The Westerners use it here. Up country. Means someplace out of Saigon or any major city — usually someplace that you’d rather not be — like in the wilds. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “So, if you’d like, I’ll show you the real Saigon tomorrow.”

  “That’s above and beyond the call of duty.”

  She looked at me through her cigarette smoke, then said, “Look, Paul, I’m not… I mean, I’m not coming on to you.”

  “That never crossed my mind.”

  “Right. Are you married? Am I allowed to ask that?”