Up Country

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Hanoi. An evocative name to people of my generation, as Berlin and Tokyo were to my father’s generation. Hardly a week went by during the war that didn’t have a news report of a Hanoi bombing raid. American bombers struck two miles from the center of Hanoi today, targeting a railway bridge over the Red River, a power plant, and suspected enemy surface-to-air missile sites. After about five or six years of these news stories, they ceased to be news, except for the pilots and the people on the ground.

The passengers around us were gathering their luggage and began filing off the train.

Susan and I remained seated and watched the platform.

There were a large number of uniformed Border Police on the platform scanning the departing passengers, plus some plainclothes guys, who were easy to spot. I said to Susan, “Some of those guys have what could be photos in their hands.”

She kept staring out the window and said, “This is not an uncommon sight at transportation terminals… we shouldn’t automatically assume they’re looking for us… but they are looking at Westerners.”

“Right.” I also assumed they had the photographs from Pyramide Island, so maybe they wouldn’t recognize us with our clothes on. In fact, a few of the cops seemed more interested in the photos than the departing passengers.

I said, “Let’s hook up with that American group you were talking to.”

We stood, got our backpacks, and made our way to Car 6 where the American group was filing out with their Vietnamese tour guide.

There was a Viet lady standing in front of Susan as we shuffled out, and Susan spoke to the woman in Vietnamese, then spoke to me. Susan discovered that Long Bien Station was located in a remote district on the east side of the Red River, and the passengers from our train needed to board a standard-gauge train to the central station if they were going to downtown Hanoi. There were also buses and taxis available. And police cars.

One of Susan’s most striking features is her straight shoulder-length hair, and she asked me to tuck it under her quilted jacket.

I have many striking features, but I couldn’t wrap them all in scarves without attracting attention or running out of scarves, so I just wrapped a dark blue Montagnard scarf around my neck and chin. Susan did the same.

“Separate when we get out.”

We got out on the platform, separated, and placed ourselves in the center of the group of about twenty Americans with their guide.

Susan was chatting with the people around her, and I struck up a conversation with two guys while my eyes followed the cops. A few of them were looking at our group, but not showing any signs of recognition.

The tour group was assembled, and we began moving off the platform. We might just make it, but I held my breath anyway.

The railway station was a combination of old and new, and I could see where bomb damage had been repaired with newer concrete. A country that has seen war never looks quite the same again, at least not to the people who remembered how it used to look.

The weather was overcast, and a lot warmer than it had been in the mountains. This country needed a sunny day. I needed a sunny day.

I noticed a taxi stand to my left, where two Border Police and a plainclothes guy stood, looking at Westerners who were getting in the cabs.

Our American tour group was moving toward a waiting bus whose sign said Love Planet Tours. I wasn’t feeling any particular love at the moment, but fugitives can’t be choosy.

Our group began boarding the Love Planet bus. Susan was ahead of me, and she spoke to the Viet tour guide for a moment, handed him some money, which made him smile, and she boarded. I reached the guide and handed him five bucks. He smiled and nodded.

I boarded the bus. The driver, who had never met this group, didn’t pay any attention to me, but if he had, he’d have gotten a few bucks, too.

The bus could hold about forty people, and there were lots of empty seats, but Susan had placed herself in an aisle seat beside a middle-aged woman wearing Montagnard hoop earrings. I took the seat across the aisle from Susan and threw my backpack on the empty window seat. I could hear the luggage being thrown into the compartment below my feet.

It took forever for the poky Americans to board, and I watched the Border Police outside moving around, still staring at pictures and still looking for someone.

The bus was finally loaded, and the Viet guide came aboard. He said, “Okay, every person here?”

The tour group replied in unison, “Yes.”

I hate tour groups, but the alternative in this case — a police car — might actually be worse, but not by much.

I saw a border cop walking toward the bus, and he got on.

I needed to tie my shoelaces, which I did, and so did Susan. Meanwhile, the woman next to her was keeping up a non-stop rap and to the cop it must have looked like she was talking to herself.

I could hear the tour guide and the cop exchanging words, and I figured it was only a matter of seconds before the cop would be tapping me on the shoulder. I glanced at Susan, who was looking at me, and we kept eye contact.

After what seemed like eternity plus a few minutes, I heard the hydraulic sound of the door closing. A second later, the bus was in gear and moving. Nevertheless, Susan and I kept tying our shoes until the bus was out of the station area and on the road.

I sat up, and so did Susan. I said to her, “Hi, I’m Paul. Is this your first time in Vietnam?”

She closed her eyes, put her head back on the headrest, and took a long, deep breath. The lady next to her never missed a beat and kept jabbering.

The bus headed south, and the setting sun came in through the right-side windows. We both took off our blue Montagnard scarves and put them in our backpacks. I said to Susan, “Where you from?”

She replied, “Please shut up.”

The woman beside her took offense, shut up, and turned toward the window.

Susan said to her, “Sorry. I was talking to this pest.”

The woman turned toward me and gave me a hard look.

I glanced at the tour guide, who was standing near the driver, facing the rear. I saw that he was looking at me, and our eyes met for half a second, then he looked away.

I had no idea what motivated him to keep his mouth shut, but it probably had a lot to do with fear; not of Susan and me, but of the cop. Taking a few bucks from unauthorized passengers was a small offense; harboring fugitives, even unintentionally, could get him fined, fired, and arrested. This was a country that was running scared, and I’ve been in countries like that, and that could work for or against the authorities. This time, it worked against them. Next time, we might not be so lucky.

The bus continued on a wide street, and the guide said, “So, we now come to Chuong Duong Bridge, who go over Song Hong — Red River. Beautiful river. You take picture.”

Everyone dutifully took photos of the bridge and the Red River. The guide said, “We go now Hanoi. Hoan Kiem District — Old Quarter. Very beautiful. You take picture.”

We crossed the bridge into the Old Quarter of Hanoi, and the streets and sidewalks were crowded, but not nearly as bad as Saigon. In fact, instead of the frenzied, horn-honking suicidal motorists and pedestrians of Saigon, there was a quiet determination on everyone’s faces here, a slower and more purposeful movement of people and vehicles. I was reminded of army ants in a terrarium.

The buildings were mostly French colonial, very quaint, very run-down, but still charming. There were lots of leafy trees on the streets, and if it weren’t for the signs in Vietnamese, I could imagine I was in a French provincial town, which is where I’d rather be.

On the horizon, I could see the lights of towering new skyscrapers. I said to Susan, “It’s not as grim as I imagined.”

Susan excused herself from the one-way conversation with the woman and said to me, “Looks are deceiving.”

“Don’t be negative. Visualize success.”

She was in no mood for me and turned her attention back to Blabbermouth.

I looked out the window again. I recalled that we’d never actually bombed the center of Hanoi; just the military targets on the outskirts of the city, which is why it still looked French and not East German. I didn’t recall, however, the U.S. getting any favorable press for sparing the central city. It’s hard to put a good spin on bombing attacks, even sensitively planned ones.

The bus made its way through the narrow, winding streets. The guide was giving a running commentary, and he, too, didn’t congratulate the Americans for leaving the Old Quarter intact. People don’t appreciate Americans.

The guide said, “Tomorrow, we see Ho Chi Minh tomb, Ho Chi Minh house, Lenin monument, Army Museum, Air Defense Museum, and lake in city where American B-52 bomber crash and still in lake.”

I said to Susan, “We’re going to miss all of that.”

She didn’t reply.

I glanced out the window, then asked Susan, “Do you know where we are?”

She replied, “I have a general idea where we are. Do you have any idea where we’re going?”

I hadn’t actually thought much beyond the immediate problems as they had evolved. In truth, I never thought we’d get this far, but we had, so now I needed to figure out where we were going to spend the night. I said to her, “Well, we can’t go to the embassy or the Metropole if they’re looking for us. How about your Hanoi office?”

She replied, “My office is closed, I don’t have a key, and it may be watched.”

“Can you call one of your employees at home?”

She said, “I don’t want to get them involved.”

“You mean none of them are working for the CIA?”

She didn’t reply.

I said, “Well, I have a contact in the embassy. His name is John Eagan, FBI guy here on assignment. I’ll call him tomorrow from a pay phone and arrange a rendezvous somewhere.”

She said, “You know the embassy phones are tapped. Don’t you have a pre-arranged rendezvous?”

“No. But I can work it out.” I asked her, “Do you know what a big ugly fucker is?”

“I’m sitting across from one.”

I smiled. “It’s a B-52 bomber. Military slang. Someone in the embassy should know that. The military attaché, Colonel Marc Goodman, will know.”

The lady next to Susan was eavesdropping on our conversation, and her hoop earrings were sticking straight up.

I asked Susan, “Do you know the lake where the big ugly fucker is?”

The lady’s eyes widened. Susan smiled and nodded.

“Good. That’s our rendezvous. Eagan is the guy. Just in case we’re separated. Okay?”

Again, she nodded.

I asked her, “Who’s your contact in the embassy?”

She didn’t reply for a second, then said, “Also Eagan.”

I didn’t pursue that.

I said, “As for tonight, we should try to find an American who will let us share his or her hotel room. But not this group.”

She replied, “I’ll have no problem finding someone who will share his hotel room with me. Where are you sleeping?”

“Brothel.”

“Not in this city.”

Susan seemed to be thinking, then said to me, “Actually, there is a place we can go tonight…”

By the expression on her face, I thought she meant an old lover, which would not have been my first choice of overnight accommodations. But then she said, “I was invited to a reception tonight… at the American ambassador’s residence.”

“Really? Am I invited?”

“That depended.”

“On what?”

“On whether or not we got to Hanoi tonight.”

I think it mostly depended on whether I was alive or dead. I said, “I thought you told me everything.”

She didn’t make eye contact and replied, “My presence at this reception was tentative, and not important.”

“I see. So, let me guess who’s at this reception. Well, since the Vice President is in town, I’ll take a wild guess that Edward Blake is the guest of honor.” I looked at her.

She nodded.

“And you are supposed to brief him about some subjects that he may have some interest in.”

“Not him directly.”

The lady beside Susan was leaning so far left, I thought the bus might flip over.

I said to Susan, “Am I dressed for a diplomatic reception?”

She smiled and replied, “You’re so sexy, Paul, you could show up in dirty jeans, running shoes, and a muddy leather jacket.”

“Good. What time is this soiree?”

“Starts at eight.”

I looked at my watch, which was still on Mr. Vinh’s wrist. I said, “What time is it?”

She looked at her watch. “It’s 7:15.”

“Can I buy a watch in this town?”

“I’ll buy you one.”

The bus pulled over on a narrow street and stopped. The guide said, “We here at hotel. Good hotel.”

I looked out the window and saw an old stucco hotel that the Michelin Guide may have overlooked.

Our tour guide said, “We register in hotel, then meet in lobby, and go to good dinner at Italian restaurant.”

This got a round of applause from the group, which had probably been eating rice and weasel up country for the last week. I applauded, too.

Everyone began filing out of the bus, and I found myself behind Susan’s chatty friend. She turned her head toward me and gave me a look like I was an unshaven, mud-splattered, smelly pervert. She asked, “Are you with our group?”

“No, ma’am. I’m Canadian.”

We stepped off the bus and encountered our guide. He looked away from Susan and me, but I took a twenty and pressed it in his hand as we passed by him.

So, there we were, in Hanoi, on a narrow street crowded with pedestrians, cyclos, and a few motor vehicles. It was dark now, and the streetlights were on, but the trees blocked most of the light, so the street was in shadow.

We walked away from the hotel, and I asked Susan, “Do you know where we are?”

She said, “Not far from the ambassador’s residence.” She suggested, “Let’s find a place to have a drink, use the facilities, and wash up. Also, I want to make a call to the embassy duty officer.”

“Good idea.” I looked across the street for a café or bar, then something made me turn back toward the hotel about fifty meters away. Parked in front of the bus was an olive drab car, a sedan, which you don’t see many of in this country. I had the impression it was some sort of official vehicle. There was a uniformed man standing on the sidewalk with his back to us, and in the light from the hotel marquee, I could see he was speaking to our guide and to the bus driver. I didn’t like the looks of this; I liked it even less when the bus driver pointed toward Susan and me. The uniformed guy turned around and looked toward us. It was, in fact, Colonel Mang.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Colonel Mang walked toward us and called out, “Mr. Brenner! Miss Weber!”

I said to Susan, “Did he say something?”

“Oh, shit… Paul… should we make a run for it?”

Before I could decide, the sedan moved up and stopped beside us. The uniformed guy in the passenger seat pulled a pistol and pointed it at me.

Colonel Mang came strolling down the sidewalk, wearing his green dress uniform, but no gun holster. He motioned for his goon in the car to put away his gun, then stopped a few feet from us and said, “I was afraid I had missed you at Long Bien Station.”

I replied, “In fact, you did.”

“Yes. But now I have found you. May I offer you both a ride?”

He may have been feeling bad about leaving us stranded in Quang Tri, and now he wanted to make it up to us. I said, however, “That’s okay. I need the exercise.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the Metropole.”

“Yes? The Metropole is the other way. Why did you ride on that tour bus?”

I replied, “I thought it was a city bus.”

“You know it is not that. In fact, you are acting as if you are running from something.”

“No, we’re going to the Metropole. That way, correct?”

He looked at Susan and inquired, “Did you get my message at the Century Hotel?”

She didn’t reply.

Colonel Mang said, “Mr. Tin told me he delivered it to you via telex to the post office of the city of Vinh. What were you doing in Vinh?”

Susan replied, “Visiting Ho Chi Minh’s birthplace.”

“Ah, yes. You are both Canadian historians, as I recently discovered.”

Neither of us replied. And neither of us were happy with that statement.

Colonel Mang lit a cigarette. Maybe he’d drop dead of a heart attack.

I noticed over Mang’s shoulder some Americans from the tour bus looking at us as two uniformed men in front of the hotel motioned them inside. Also, I saw that the bus driver and the guide had disappeared; they were probably on their way to where we were going, and it wasn’t the Metropole Hotel.

I noticed, too, that pedestrians were crossing to the other side of the street to avoid whatever police state activity was happening on this side.

Colonel Mang said to me, “You both left very early from the Century Hotel in Hue.”

“So what?”

He ignored my snotty reply, but he had to get even with me so he said to Susan, “Unfortunately, there are no naked beaches for you here on the Red River.”

Susan snapped, “Go to hell.”

He smiled unexpectedly and said to her, “You have become very popular with the men of my department who have closely studied the photographs of you on Pyramide Island.”

“Go to hell.”

Colonel Mang remained composed, and I figured he didn’t want to start a screaming match in front of his men, who probably didn’t understand that Susan was telling him to go to hell.

Mang looked us over and said, “You appear to have spent some time in the countryside.”

Neither of us replied.

He asked me, “Where is your luggage?”

“Stolen.”

“Yes? And where did you both get those coats which were not in your luggage?”

“Bought them.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“And I see blue dye on your face and hands from Montagnard scarves. It appears to me that you are both trying to disguise yourselves.”

“As what?”

“I do not like your replies, Mr. Brenner.”

“I don’t like your questions.”

“You never do.” He switched subjects and said, “Your reservation at the Metropole, Mr. Brenner, is for tomorrow. Why did you arrive a day early?”

Susan replied, “Colonel, we have an invitation—”

“Later,” I interrupted. The reception at the ambassador’s residence was an ace, which could only be played once, and this might not be the right time.

Susan understood and said to Mang, “I have an early appointment tomorrow at the embassy.”

“With whom?”

“To speak to the commercial attaché.”

“About what?”

“About commerce, obviously.”

He gave Susan a hard stare, then said to her, “I made some inquiries and discovered that you are also booked at the Metropole, but for today.”

Colonel Mang had more information than I did about Ms. Weber’s travel itinerary. But to be fair, she had mentioned to me in Nha Trang something about business in Hanoi, although by now I didn’t think it had anything to do with the commercial attaché.

Colonel Mang, who enjoyed his own sarcasm, said to Susan, “Since Mr. Brenner has no room tonight, I could suggest that you share your room with him, but that would give the appearance of impropriety.”

Susan suggested, “Go to hell.”

It was time to see if this guy was fishing, hunting, or setting traps. I said to him, “Colonel, I appreciate your going out of your way to welcome us to Hanoi, and if there’s nothing further, we’ll be on our way.”

He didn’t reply.

I added, “You’re frightening the tourists.”

“Yes? But I do not seem to frighten you.”

“Not even close.”

“The night is young. Have you ever been to Hanoi, Mr. Brenner?”

“No, but friends of mine flew over during the war, though they didn’t stop.” Good one.

He smiled and said, “In fact, some did stop and were lodged in the Hanoi Hilton.”

Not bad. I love pissing contests. It was my turn, and I said, “I wanted to see the Air Defense Museum, but I was told there was nothing to see.”

He asked me, “Would you like to see the inside of the Ministry of Public Security?”

“Thank you, but I’ve already seen the one in Saigon.”

“Ho Chi Minh City.”

“Whatever.” He seemed reluctant to act on his threat, or maybe he was having too much fun here on the street. In any case, I said to him, “Ms. Weber and I have called the duty officer at the embassy to register our presence in Hanoi. Perhaps you and I can speak tomorrow. Let’s say cocktails at six, Metropole bar. I’ll buy. Date?”

He stared at me in the dim light and said, “You did not call your embassy.” He continued, “I understand that you think I am influenced by diplomatic considerations. But I tell you this, Mr. Brenner, if I have fifteen minutes alone with you and Miss Weber, I will prove that both of you are in this country on behalf of your government and that you are acting against my country.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“I will be very specific when I have you in an interrogation room.”

We seemed to be at an impasse here. I wanted to go to a five-star hotel, and Colonel Mang wanted me in jail. But he wanted to be sure he wasn’t making a bad career decision, so we were chatting on the street, and he wanted me or Susan to do or say something to justify an arrest. I’ve been there myself, but I wasn’t too sympathetic to his dilemma.

Colonel Mang had a solution and said to me, “I would like both of you to accompany me, voluntarily, to the Ministry of Public Security for a discussion.”

I’ve said this thousands of times to suspects, and most of them never went home that day. I replied, “This is a joke. Right?”

“No. It is not a joke.”

“Sounds like a joke.”

He seemed either confused or annoyed that I’d turned down his invitation. He said, “If you come voluntarily, I promise you, you will be free to leave within an hour.”

Susan reminded him, “You said you needed only fifteen minutes with us.”

I’d gotten to the point where I could read Colonel Mang, and I saw that he was really pissed. I noticed, too, that Susan pissed him off more than I did. I don’t think Mang and I had actually bonded, but I was certain he hated Susan. For this reason, among many others, I didn’t want her in his clutches. I said to him, “Colonel, I have a suggestion. Take us to the embassy and let Ms. Weber go inside. Then, I’ll go with you voluntarily to the ministry.”

He didn’t think too long about that and said, “No.”

Susan, too, said, “No, wherever we go, we go together.”

No one was cooperating with me, so I said to Mang, “Okay, let us make a call to the duty officer at the embassy and inform him or her that we’ve arrived in Hanoi, and that Colonel Nguyen Qui Mang would like to ask us a few questions and that we are accompanying him to the Ministry of Public Security. Voluntarily, of course. You can listen to the call.”

He shook his head.

Colonel Mang didn’t know how to do a deal. Or, he didn’t think he had to make one.

I said to him, “Well, Colonel, I’m out of ideas.” I took Susan’s arm and said to Mang, “Good evening.”

Mang lost it and shouted, “Dung lai!” forgetting his English.

I looked at him.

He was hyperventilating again, and now that we’d called him out, he needed to do something. He spoke to the guy in the passenger seat, who got out and opened the rear door. I hoped Colonel Mang was leaving, but no such luck. He looked over his shoulder to be certain the American tourists were all gone, then said to us, “Get in the car.”

Neither Susan nor I moved.

He smiled and said, “Are you frightened?”

“No. Are you?”

“Why should I be frightened? Get in the car.”

I replied, “Someone has to pull a gun on us for us to get in the car.”

He understood and nodded in appreciation. He said something to the guy standing near the car, who was happy to be of assistance, and he pulled his gun on us.

I took Susan’s arm, and we got in the rear of the sedan. Mang got in the passenger seat, and the guy with the gun stayed behind.

We drove in silence through the streets of the Old Quarter, and within a few minutes, we slowed down in front of the Metropole Hotel, a huge stately building that looked as if it belonged in Paris.

I thought Colonel Mang had changed his mind, and I said to him, “Thanks for the ride.”

He turned in his seat and said, “I wanted you to see where you will not be spending the night.”

Asshole.

The sedan headed west through the Old Quarter. Just to satisfy myself that these people weren’t complete idiots, I tried the door handle, but it was locked.

This situation had gone from bad to worse, and it showed no signs of getting better. I explored my options, but there weren’t any except going violent, which I was prepared to do. Mang had no weapon that I could see, but the driver did, so the driver had to be taken out first. I glanced out the rear window and saw a backup car following. I had to decide, as they’d taught me in my army POW escape and evasion course, if physical resistance was possible, and if it was, what the consequences were of a failed attempt. Sometimes you compound a small or medium problem by snapping someone’s neck; other times, you solve the problem. It depended, I guess, on what was at the end of this ride.

I mulled this over, taking into account the backup car, and the fact that Susan and I were not pre-rehearsed for a coordinated escape attempt.

The car made a turn, and I leaned toward her and whispered. “Gun?”

She shook her head and said, “That was a joke.”

Mang said, “No talking.”

We turned down a narrow, badly lit street whose sign said Yet Kieu, and we stopped in front of a large colonial-era five-story building. The backup car stopped behind us.

Colonel Mang took an attaché case from the seat and got out without a word.

Susan poked me and said softly, “Ambassador’s reception, Paul.”

“Is that tonight?”

“Paul.”

“Only play the ace when you need it.”

She looked at me. “I think we need it.”

Two guys from the backup car came toward the sedan and opened the rear doors. Susan and I got out, and we were escorted, not gently, to the front door of the Ministry of Public Security, where Colonel Mang stood.

A guard opened the door, and Colonel Mang entered, followed by Susan and me with the two goons.

The big lobby was very run-down, and it reminded me of its counterpart in Saigon. There were a few uniformed and civilian-dressed men walking around, and they looked at us as though they didn’t see that many Westerners inside this ministry, though they’d probably like to see more.

Colonel Mang led us to an old, cage-type elevator and said something to the operator as the five of us entered.

We rode up in silence and got out on the fourth floor, which was dimly lit and decrepit. There were a number of closely spaced doors on one side of the corridor, and from behind one of them I could hear a man cry out in pain, followed by the sound of a slap, and another cry of pain. One door was slightly ajar, and I heard a woman weeping.

Colonel Mang didn’t seem to notice any of this, and neither did the two goons. I guess they were used to it, like it was just background noise on the fourth floor.

Colonel Mang opened a door, and as he started to enter, I caught sight of a man lying naked on the floor, covered with blood and moaning softly. Behind a desk sat a uniformed man, smoking and reading a newspaper.

Colonel Mang exchanged a few words with the man behind the desk, and closed the door. He said, “That room is being used.”

I exchanged glances with Susan, and I knew she’d seen what I’d seen. Most people have no point of reference for scenes like this, and I recalled my first combat experience, the dead and the dying lying everywhere, and it does not register as reality, which is how you cope with it.

Colonel Mang found an empty room, and we all entered.

The room was windowless and warm, lit by a single hanging light bulb. There was a desk and chair in the middle of the room and two wooden stools.

Mang placed his hat and attaché case on the desk, sat, and lit a cigarette. He motioned us toward the stools and said, “Sit.”

We remained standing.

The floor was old parquet wood, and it was stained with something brownish red. Through the wall behind me, I could hear shouting, followed by a thud against the wall.

Colonel Mang looked pretty blasé, as though beatings in the police station were no more remarkable than fingerprinting and mug shots.

He commented, “People who do not cooperate in the interrogation rooms are brought to the basement where we always get full cooperation, and where you are not invited to sit.” He motioned with his hand and said, “Sit.”

The two goons behind us kicked the stools into the back of our legs and pushed us down.

Colonel Mang regarded Susan and me for a long time, then informed us, “You have caused me a great deal of trouble.” He added, “You have spoiled my holiday.”

I replied, “You’re not making my vacation much fun either.”

“Shut up.”

Susan, without asking, took out her cigarettes and lit up. Mang didn’t care or notice, as if smoking was the one inalienable right of a prisoner in a Viet jail.

We all sat there while two of us smoked, and the goons behind me breathed heavily. My instincts told me that Susan and I were in some difficulty. Our biggest problems, of course, were the two dead cops on Highway One, and the two dead soldiers on Route 214. The fact that Susan and I were in both areas at the time of those deaths could be pure coincidence, but I didn’t think Mang would buy that. And then there was Mr. Cam, our driver, who I should have killed. The truth was, Susan and I were possibly facing a firing squad for murder, and the U.S. government couldn’t help us with that.

Mang looked at us, and we looked at him in the light of the hanging bulb. He said, “Let’s begin at the beginning.” He drew on his cigarette, then informed us, “I did finally discover how you traveled from Nha Trang to Hue. Mr. Thuc was very cooperative when I paid him a visit at his travel agency.”

For the first time, I felt a little fear alarm go off.

Colonel Mang said, “So, Mr. Brenner, you hired a private car, which you were told not to do—”

I interrupted and said, “Ms. Weber was free to travel any way she wished. I was a passenger.”

“Shut up.” He continued, “And the car was driven by Duong Xuan Cam, who has told me of your journey in great detail.” Colonel Mang stared at me and said, “So perhaps you would like to tell me in your own words of your journey so there will be no misunderstanding.”

I concluded from this bullshit that Mr. Cam either died under interrogation before he admitted to being an accessory to murder, or Mr. Cam was hiding or running for his life. I said, “I’m sure I can’t tell you anything more than the driver told you. Ms. Weber and I slept for the entire trip.”

“That is not what your driver said.”

“What did he say?”

Colonel Mang replied, “If you ask me one more question, Mr. Brenner, or you, Miss Weber, then this session will move immediately to the basement. Do I make myself clear?”

I replied, “Colonel, I need to remind you that neither Ms. Weber nor I are POWs in the Hanoi Hilton, where your compatriots tortured hundreds of Americans during the war. The war, Colonel, is over, and you will be held accountable for your actions.”

He stared at me a long time, then replied, “If in some small way, I can cause your country to again become the enemy of my country, that would make me, and others here, very happy.” He smiled unpleasantly and added, “I think I have found a way to do that. I am speaking, of course, of the trial and execution of an American so-called tourist and an American so-called businesswoman for either murder, or anti-government activities, or both.”

I think he meant us, so again I reminded him, “You will be held accountable, not only by my government, but by yours as well.”

“That is not your concern, Mr. Brenner. You have other problems.”

He sat there a moment, thinking perhaps about my problems, and hopefully his potential problems. He said to me, “When we last met in Quang Tri City, we discussed your visit to Hue, your missing time period on your journey from Nha Trang to Hue, your insolence to the police officer in Hue, and other matters relating to Miss Weber’s choice of male companionship. We also discussed your visit to the A Shau Valley, to Khe Sanh, and your contact with the hill tribes. I believe I have enough evidence right now to keep you in custody.”

I said, “I think you’re harassing an American army veteran and a prominent American businesswoman for your own political and personal purposes.”

“Yes? Then we need to continue our talk until you and I think otherwise.” He asked me, “How did you leave Hue?”

I said to him, “We left Hue on a motorcycle and arrived, as you know, in Dien Bien Phu the same way.”

“Yes, and became Canadians along the way.”

I didn’t reply.

“Where did you get this motorcycle?”

“I bought it.”

“From whom?”

“A man in the street.”

“What was his name?”

“Nguyen.”

“I’m running out of patience with you.”

“You can’t run out of what you don’t have.”

He liked that and smiled. “I think I know where you obtained this motorcycle.”

“Then you don’t need to keep asking me.”

He stared at me and said, “In fact, I don’t know. But I know this— before you and Miss Weber leave here, you will be happy to tell me.”

So far, Mr. Uyen was safe, Slicky Boy’s greed had gotten him in trouble, and Mr. Cam was dead or missing. That left Mr. Anh, who I hoped was having a pleasant family reunion in Los Angeles.

Mang asked me, “Where did you stop during your two-day motorcycle trip to Dien Bien Phu?”

“We slept in the woods.”

“Is it possible that you slept in a Montagnard village?”

We were back to Montagnards again. I said, “I think I would have remembered.”

He looked at me closely and said, “Two soldiers were murdered near the Laotian border on Route 214. One had a .45 caliber bullet lodged in his chest, the ammunition used in a United States Army Colt automatic pistol.” He stared at me, as if he thought I might know something about that. “You would have been in that vicinity at about that time.”

I kept eye contact with him and replied, “I don’t know where Route 214 is, but I took Highway One to Route 6 to Dien Bien Phu. Now you tell me I was on Route 214 and you accuse me of murdering two soldiers. I can’t even respond to such an absurd accusation.”

He kept staring at me.

I reminded him, “As it stands now, we accompanied you voluntarily to answer some questions. A very short time from now, we will consider that we’ve been detained against our will, and you, Colonel, whose name is known to my embassy, will need to account for our absence.” Sounded good to me, but not, I think, to Colonel Mang.

He smiled and said, “You were not listening to me, Mr. Brenner. I do not care about your embassy or your government. In fact, I welcome a confrontation.”

“Well, Colonel, you’re about to have one.”

“You are wasting my time.” He looked at Susan and said, “I realize I have been ignoring you.”

“Actually, I’m ignoring you.”

He laughed. “I think you do not like me.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Why? Because of those photographs? Or because you have a racially superior attitude toward the Vietnamese, like so many of your countrymen?”

I said, “Hold on. This line of questioning is—”

“I am not speaking to you, Mr. Brenner.” He added, “But if I were, I would ask you how many times you used the racial expressions gook, slope, zipperhead, and slant-eyes. How many times?”

“Probably too many times. But not in the last twenty-five years. Get off this subject.”

“This subject interests me.” He looked at Susan. “Why are you in my country?”

“I like it here.”

“I do not believe that.”

She said to him, “I don’t care if you believe it or not, but I love the people of this country, and the culture, and the traditions.”

He said, “You forgot to mention the money.”

“But I don’t like your government, and, no, the government and the people are not the same.” She added, “If you were an American, I’d still find you disgusting and detestable.”

I figured we’d be on the elevator to the basement in about three seconds, but Colonel Mang just stared off into space. Finally he said, “The problem is still the foreigners.” He added, “There are too many tourists here and too many businesspeople. Soon, there will be two less.”

Again, I was fairly sure he was referring to us.

Susan advised him, “Look closer to home for the cause of your problems. Start here in this building.”

Colonel Mang said to her, “We do not need you or any foreigners to tell us how to run our own country. Those days are over, Miss Weber. My generation and my father’s generation paid in blood to liberate this country from the West. And if we need another war to get rid of the capitalists and the Westerners, then we are prepared to make the sacrifice once again.”

Susan said, “You know that’s not true. Those days are also over.”

Colonel Mang changed the subject back to getting Susan and me in front of a firing squad where he felt more confident. He turned his attention to me and said, “You left Hue by motorcycle early Tuesday morning and arrived in Dien Bien Phu very late on Wednesday evening where you registered at the Dien Bien Phu Motel.”

“Correct.”

“And on Thursday morning you visited the battlefields, and told the guide you were Canadian historians, and I believe botanists.”

“I said Connecticut historians.”

“What is that?”

“Connecticut. Part of the United States.”

He seemed a little confused, so I added, “Nutmeg State.”

He let that go and continued, “Later that day, you both arrived by motorcycle in the village of Ban Hin, again posing as… historians.”

I didn’t reply.

“Miss Weber very specifically told a man in the village market square that you were Canadians. Why did you pose as Canadians?”

“Some people don’t like Americans. Everyone likes Canadians.”

“I do not like Canadians.”

“How many Canadians do you know?”

He saw I was getting him off the subject, and he also saw I was stalling for time. In truth, if we had any chance of getting out of here, it had to do with whether or not he intended to keep us beyond the time we might be missed. But I wondered if anyone in Washington, Saigon, or the embassy here would really be concerned at this point. Tomorrow, yes, tonight, maybe not. The Ambassador’s reception sounded like an optional attendance, and we might not be missed. Certainly I wouldn’t be missed if I was supposed to be floating in the Na River next to Mr. Vinh. I considered playing my little ace, but my instincts said Colonel Mang wasn’t ready for it.

He asked me, “Why did you go to Ban Hin?”

“You know why.”

“I do. But to be quite honest, I cannot make much sense of your visit to Tran Van Vinh. So, you can explain it to me.”

There were five names I didn’t want to hear from Colonel Mang tonight, or ever: Mr. Thuc, Mr. Cam, Mr. Anh, Mr. Uyen, and Tran Van Vinh. He’d already used three of them. As for Tran Van Vinh, loyal comrade that he was, he’d been fully cooperative with Colonel Mang, but not totally enlightening. I was more concerned about Mr. Anh and Mr. Uyen, who’d made the mistake of sticking out their necks for the Americans, just as twenty million other South Viets had done during the war. You’d think these people would learn. In any case, those two names hadn’t yet come up, but I understood Colonel Mang’s interrogation techniques by now, and I knew that he skipped around, and saved the best for last.

He was getting impatient with my silence and asked again, “Perhaps you can explain to me the purpose of your visit to Mr. Vinh.”

I replied, “I’m sure Mr. Vinh told you the purpose of my visit.”

“He told me of your visit by telephone, but I have not had a chance to speak to him in person.” Colonel Mang looked at his watch and said, “He should be arriving shortly by plane, then I will discuss this with him further. In the meantime, you should tell me why you paid him a visit.”

“All right, I will.” Sticking close to the truth, I gave Colonel Mang the same story I gave to Tran Van Vinh about the letter, the Vietnam Veterans of America, the family of Lieutenant William Hines, the apparent murder of the lieutenant by an unknown captain — no use mentioning the vice president of the United States — and that while I was in Vietnam on a nostalgia trip, I had promised I’d look into this matter for the Hines family.

I finished my story, and I could see that Colonel Mang was deep in thought. He’d already heard this from Tran Van Vinh, and this story was sort of a curveball and didn’t fit into anything he suspected or knew. Of course, this turn of events raised more questions than it answered for Colonel Mang, and I could see he was perplexed. Next, he’d want to see the war souvenirs in Susan’s backpack. I had the feeling we’d be here a long time. Like maybe forever.

Colonel Mang looked at Susan and asked her, “Do you agree with this story?”

She replied, “I’m just the slut along for the ride.”

He looked at her and inquired, “What is a slut?”

She replied in Vietnamese and he nodded, like this was the first thing he’d believed from either of us so far. He did say, however, “But you have this connection to Mr. Stanley that makes me suspicious.”

She replied, “I’ve slept with half the Western men in Saigon, Colonel. You shouldn’t attach any meaning to my relationship with Bill Stanley.”

Sometimes, as they say in my profession, naked is the best disguise. Colonel Mang seemed genuinely pleased to have his opinion of Susan confirmed by the slut herself, even though that made the Bill Stanley liaison not so incriminating.

Also, of course, Colonel Mang was now wondering about my attachment to Susan Weber, and if he could get to me through her. In truth, I’ve been very loyal to sluts in the past, but Colonel Mang didn’t know that, so I gave Susan a glance of annoyance, and turned my body away from her.

Colonel Mang seemed to notice, and he said to Susan, “You are no better than the prostitutes on the streets of Saigon.”

She replied, “I don’t charge.”

“You would be more honest if you did.”

So, having put Susan in her place, he turned his attention back to me and said, “Tran Van Vinh describes an argument between you and Miss Weber. He said she left his house without you, then you left some minutes later. Correct?”

“That’s correct.”

“Why?”

“We disagreed on many things during the journey, and finally disagreed on how best to get to Hanoi.”

He thought about that, then said, “And you both decided to take the train from Lao Cai.”

“I guess so, if we arrived together at Long Bien Station.”

“I knew where you were, and I knew you were going to Hanoi. You were not listed as an airline passenger, so I had the Long Bien Station watched as well as the bus terminal, and of course the Metropole Hotel and the American embassy in the event you took a car or your motorcycle to Hanoi.”

“How did you know we were on the tour bus?”

“Ah. The policeman who boarded the bus observed that the tour guide seemed nervous, but he did not want to cause a problem in front of your compatriots, so we waited.” Colonel Mang informed us, “You may meet the tour guide later in another part of this building.” He smiled and said, “I told you we would meet again in Hanoi.”

“What if we had gone to Ho Chi Minh City instead?”

He seemed happy to answer questions about how good he was at his job, and he replied, “If we were not sitting here, we would be in the same ministry in Ho Chi Minh City. Very little escapes our attention, Mr. Brenner.”

I should have left that alone, but I said, “You have no idea what escapes your attention.”

He smiled again. “You and Miss Weber did not escape my attention. Here you are.”

“You make a point.” I said to him, “The Immigration Police in this country are very relentless, Colonel. We could use such Immigration Police in America.”

He smiled again and replied, “Itinerary violations, illegal means of travel, and visa irregularities are serious matters, Mr. Brenner.”

“They must be to mount a nationwide manhunt for me and Ms. Weber.”

“Are we finished playing games?”

“I hope so. Are you Section A or B?”

He replied, “Section A. The equivalent of your Central Intelligence Agency.”

“Well, next time I come to Vietnam, I’ll apply for my visa earlier.”

He smiled yet again and said, “There will not be a next time.”

“Are we finished?”

“No. And do not ask again.”

I would have looked at my watch, but I remembered where it was.

So, we all sat while Susan, Mang, and the two goons smoked, and I inhaled secondhand smoke, and there wasn’t even a window to open. As if this place wasn’t unhealthy enough, there were old bloodstains on the floor, and the interrogator in the room behind me seemed to enjoy bouncing his guest off the wall, which made the light bulb sway.

Colonel Mang let us listen to the Vietnamese squash game next door for a while, then turned to Susan and asked her, “Why did you send a telex to Mr. Tin at the Century Hotel in Hue?”

Susan replied, “Mr. Brenner loaned his guidebook to a tour guide and asked that it be returned by Tuesday morning. It wasn’t, and I sent a telex asking if it had arrived. I’m sure you read the telex.”

He didn’t indicate that he had and asked Susan, “And what would you have done if the book was returned to the hotel? Drive back to Hue?”

“Of course not. I would have asked Mr. Tin to send it to us at the Metropole.”

He looked at me and asked, “And who was this guide you gave the book to?”

I think I’d run out of Nguyens, so I said, “I think his name was Mr. Han. A student.”

“Why would you give him your guidebook?”

“He asked to borrow it. Did I break another law?”

Even Colonel Mang saw the humor in that and smiled. Usually, though, when he smiled, it wasn’t a good sign. He said to me, “I have a confession to make.”

“Good, because I don’t.”

He continued, “I had you followed in Hue.”

I didn’t reply, and we all sat there awhile listening to someone being dragged screaming down the hallway. It could have been the tour guide.

Finally Colonel Mang said, “My colleagues lost sight of you, but they did report that your movements were those of a man who thought he was being followed.”

“What did you expect them to say? That I was sitting on a park bench, and they lost sight of me?”

He didn’t like that and turned to Susan. “And the same for you, Miss Weber. You moved in a suspicious manner.”

“I was shopping.”

“Ah, yes. For your disguises.”

“For suitable attire to travel to Dien Bien Phu.” She added, “I can tell you about my shopping in great detail if you’d like to hear about it.”

Neither Colonel Mang nor I warmed to that subject. Also, Mang may have thought he was barking up too many trees. In fact, he wasn’t, but I felt fairly sure that Mr. Anh was safe. But with Colonel Mang, you never knew what surprises he had in store.

He turned to me and asked, “Where is the motorcycle that you bought in Hue?”

“I sold it to an Australian in Lao Cai.”

“What was the name of this man?”

“Woman. Sheila something. Blond, blue-eyed, nice smile.”

Colonel Mang suspected I was jerking him around, but he played the game. He asked, “How much did you pay for it in Hue, and how much did you sell it for?”

“I paid three thousand American, but I could only get five hundred from the Aussie lady in Lao Cai.” I added, “She knew we had to catch a train, and she drove a hard bargain.”

“I see. And did you exchange any paperwork with this lady, or the person in Hue?”

“Colonel, I haven’t seen a sales receipt in this country since I’ve been here.”

He let that go and looked at Susan. “I have found your motorcycle keys in your apartment, but we can’t find your motorcycle. Can you help us?”

“It was stolen.”

“I think it is hidden.”

Susan asked him, “Doesn’t Section A have anything better to do than look for motorcycles?”

“In fact, Miss Weber, we do, which is why you are here.”

“I have no idea why I’m here.”

“You do.”

Susan told him, “I don’t think you know, Colonel.”

He informed her, “What I do not know, I always discover from the suspect.” He reminded both of us, “This is only a preliminary interrogation. The next interrogation is what you see and hear in these rooms. The final interrogation is in the basement. At that time, we will return to the subjects of the two policemen who were killed, and the soldiers who were killed, and other subjects, such as motorcycles, which need further explanation.”

I informed Colonel Mang, “Torture is the last resort of a stupid and lazy interrogator. And the confessions are useless.”

He looked at me as if he’d never heard this before, which he probably hadn’t. He asked me, “What do you know about interrogation?”

“I watch a lot of police shows on television.”

“Actually, I have been trying to find out more about you through my embassy in Washington.”

“I don’t know anyone there.”

“I do not like your sarcasm.”

“No one does.”

He returned to the subject of my past life and said, “We discovered that you retired from the American army last September, and that you held the rank of chief warrant officer.”

“I told you that at Tan Son Nhat.”

“But you were not clear about your job.”

“No one in the army is clear about their job.”

“Apparently not, considering your past performance here.”

“We did fine here, Colonel, and you know it. Ask any of your high school classmates.”

Colonel Mang totally lost it and started screaming in Vietnamese, pounded the desk and stood. I actually saw spittle at the corners of his mouth. I had the feeling I shouldn’t have mentioned the war.

He ran around the desk and came at me. I stood, but before I could re-act, both goons had me in an armlock. Colonel Mang slapped me across the face, and I spun out of the grasp of the two goons, who weren’t very strong, and one of them went down. The other came at me again, and Susan stood and kicked my stool in front of his legs. He fell face down on the floor, and Mang and I squared off.

Before I could take him apart, the two goons scampered across the floor toward a wall, pulled their pistols, and began shouting.

Colonel Mang said something to them, then unexpectedly left the room. I guess he had to take a piss or something.

Susan said to me, “Paul, the fucking reception.”

One of the goons spoke sharply to Susan in Vietnamese, and she said to me, “He says sit and shut up. If we move, or talk, he’ll shoot us.”

So, we sat with the two goons behind us, holding their pistols pointed at us. If they were closer, I’d have both pistols in five seconds, but they kept their distance.

The banging around in this room hadn’t attracted any particular attention because of the banging around in the other rooms. Colonel Mang hadn’t closed the door when he left, and I heard a lot of slapping going on down the hall.

We sat for about five minutes before Colonel Mang returned. He had two more armed goons with him, who also stood behind us. As Mang passed by, I smelled alcohol.

He sat behind the desk and lit a cigarette. He tried to appear as though nothing had happened and said to us, “Let me return to the subject of the murders of two policemen and two soldiers. Whether you confess to these murders or do not confess, there are witnesses to these murders, who will identify both of you as the murderers. So, you should consider yourselves charged with murder.”

I thought about playing my ace, but that ace was starting to look like the deuce of clubs.

Colonel Mang let us think about the murder charge, then said, “I am willing to dismiss these murder charges in exchange for a written statement from both of you admitting that you are agents of the American government, and explaining in detail what is your mission here.”

“Then we all go to the Metropole for a drink?”

“No. You stay in prison until you are expelled.”

“And my government apologizes and writes a check.”

“I hope they do not apologize. And you can keep your money.”

“What would you like me to confess to?”

“I want you both to confess what you have done — making contact with armed insurgents, aiding the FULRO, espionage, and being in contact with enemies of the state.”

“I’ve only been here two weeks.”

He wasn’t catching all of my sarcasm, and he nodded. He looked at me and tried to be reasonable. He said, “Surely you see the advantage of confessing to political crimes rather than being charged with common murder. Political crimes can be negotiated between our governments. Murder is murder.” He reminded me, “I have witnesses to four murders. I also have witnesses to the political crimes. The choice is yours.”

The justice system worked a little differently here than at home. I think I mentioned that to Karl.

Colonel Mang said, “I need a decision from you, Mr. Brenner.”

Susan said, “You’re ignoring me again.”

He looked at her. “I do not need anything from you, except for you to shut your mouth.”

Before Susan could tell him to go to hell again, I said, “I’ll let you make the decision, Colonel. My voluntary cooperation has come to an end, as you may have noticed.”

Colonel Mang said something to the goons, and I thought we were headed for the nether regions, but one of the goons took our backpacks and put them on the desk.

Another goon motioned for us to remove our coats. We took them off, and he threw them on the desk.

Colonel Mang emptied my backpack on the desktop. He didn’t remark specifically about my lack of underwear, but did say, “Where are all your clothes?”

“In the luggage that was stolen, obviously.”

He ignored that, looked at my camera, film, Montagnard bracelet, and my last clean shirt. He took apart my toilet kit and squeezed my toothpaste and squirted shaving cream on the desk. As he played with my personal items, he spoke to me and asked, “So, what was your profession in the army?”

“I told you.”

“You told me you were a cook. Then you admitted to being a combat soldier.”

“I was. Then I became a cook.”

“I think, actually, you are an army intelligence officer.”

Close, but no cigar.

He tired of my paltry possessions and emptied Susan’s backpack on the desk. He went out of his way to ignore her bra and panties, and rummaged through her stuff, including the Montagnard scarf given to her by Chief John, some brass Montagnard jewelry, and other odds and ends.

He set her camera next to mine along with all our exposed film.

Eventually, he focused on the items given to us by Tran Van Vinh. He examined the watch, the dog tags, the wedding ring, the logbook, the wallet, and the items in the wallet, and finally the canvas pouch with the letters and the MACV roster. The roster held his interest for only a few seconds, then he riffled through the letters. Finally, he looked at Susan and asked, “These are all the items given to you by Tran Van Vinh?”

She nodded.

“Why do you have them and not Mr. Brenner?”

“What difference does it make?”

“What do you have on your person?”

“Nothing.”

“We will see about that shortly.”

She said to him, “If you touch me, I’ll kill you. If not today, then someday.”

He replied, “Why would a slut care if a man touched her?”

“Fuck you.”

I said to Susan, “Take it easy.” I said to Mang, “If you touch her, Colonel, and she doesn’t kill you, I will. If not today, then someday.” I added, “You know I can do that.”

He looked up from his poking around and said to me, “Ah, so you like this lady. And you would kill for her.”

“I’d kill you just for fun.”

“And I would kill you just for fun. In fact, you no longer have the choice of confessing to political crimes. I certainly do not want anyone as dangerous as you and Miss Weber being set free someday. You might kill me.”

I said to him, “If not me, then someone else.”

He glanced at me, and I could see that he understood that I was revealing that I wasn’t alone. This is what he suspected and was happy to have it confirmed, but not too happy about being put on a hit list.

He chose to ignore my statement and turned his attention to the coats, which held nothing of interest for him. He asked Susan, “Where are the photographs I sent you?”

She said something to him in Vietnamese, which is not usually something he wants to hear.

He replied sharply in Vietnamese, and I reminded everyone, “Speak English.”

Colonel Mang said to me in good colloquial English, “Shut your fucking mouth.”

The situation called for diplomacy, so in French, the international language of diplomacy, I said to him, “Mangez merde.”

It took him a second to realize I’d told him to eat shit. He said to me, “You may as well have your fun now, Mr. Brenner, and take this opportunity to act bravely in front of your lady. Later, neither of you will be so brave.”

I didn’t reply.

He opened his attaché case and took out a stack of photographs. He studied a few of them, then threw about six toward us and a few landed on the floor face up. They were, of course, the photographs from Pyramide Island. Colonel Mang said to Susan, “Perhaps I am confused about the issue of Western modesty. You put me in a difficult situation in regard to searching you.”

Susan said, “Don’t touch me.”

Mang looked at me. “Mr. Brenner? Can you help me?”

I said, “You should get a female to do the search in another room.”

“Why can we not all pretend we are on the beach?”

I said, “Why don’t you stop being an asshole?” I stood and felt something cold on my neck.

Colonel Mang said, “Sit.”

The gun at the back of my neck was mine if I wanted it, but I wasn’t sure if the other three guns were drawn and aimed. I sat.

It was time to play the ace. I said to Mang, “Colonel, the American Ambassador, Patrick Quinn, has invited me and Ms. Weber to a reception at his residence at 8 P.M. The reception is in honor of the Vice President of the United States, Edward Blake, who, as you know, is in Hanoi. We need to be at that reception, which has already started.”

Colonel Mang looked at me, then at Susan. He said, “And what will you wear to the Ambassador’s reception? I see no suitable attire on your person or in these bags.”

Susan said, “Mrs. Quinn has appropriate attire for me. You shouldn’t worry about that.”

Colonel Mang looked at me. “And you, Mr. Brenner?”

“I’m just playing the guitar. And I’m late.”

He ignored that and asked, “Why would either of you be invited to such an affair?”

Susan replied, “I’m a friend of Mrs. Quinn.”

“Are you?” He looked at me. “And you, Mr. Brenner?”

“Pat Quinn and I went to school together.”

“Ah. So many famous people from that class. So, then I am keeping you both from dinner with your compatriots.”

Susan informed him, “Your Foreign Minister, Mr. Thuang, will also be there, and so will the Interior Minister, Mr. Huong, who I believe is your superior. I may or may not mention this matter to them.”

I’m not usually impressed with name dropping, but I made an exception in this case. Of course, Colonel Mang may now have a good reason not to let us out of here alive. I looked at Colonel Mang, but he was being inscrutable, and I couldn’t tell which way he was going to tip.

I said to him, “I sent a telex from Lao Cai to the embassy informing them we’d be arriving by train, checking into the Metropole, and would be at the reception at eight.”

“The post office is not open at the time the Lao Cai train leaves for Hanoi.”

Whoops. I said, “I gave the message to the Australian lady who promised to send it. The lady who bought my motorcycle.” I’m really glad I was born Irish.

Colonel Mang lit another cigarette and thought this over. Finally, he asked me, “Will this man Blake be your next president?”

“Probably.” I added, “We have elections.”

He thought a moment, then said, “I do not like this man.”

Well, finally, we had something in common.

Mang said, “He was a soldier here during the war.”

“Yes, I know.”

“He makes too many visits here.”

I replied, “He’s a friend of Vietnam.”

“So he says.” He added, “I have heard rumors that he wishes to place American military on Vietnamese soil again.”

Neither Susan nor I responded. Colonel Mang had a lot to consider here, and I didn’t want to interrupt his thoughts with threats, or with promises to put in a good word for him at the reception.

He looked at us and said, “I am still not satisfied with any of your answers. It is my duty to protect my country.”

He didn’t sound real sure of himself, and he knew it. He glanced at his watch, which was a good sign. Yet, he still couldn’t make a decision.

He looked at me and said, “I am going to ask you some questions, Mr. Brenner, and if you answer me truthfully, I may consider releasing you and Miss Weber.”

I didn’t reply.

He asked me, “Are you here to investigate the murder of this Lieutenant Hines by an American captain in Quang Tri City in February 1968?”

“I told you I was.”

“But you indicated you were conducting this investigation on behalf of the family.”

“That’s right.”

“Are you also conducting this investigation on behalf of your government?”

“I am.”

He seemed surprised at the truthful answer. So was I, and so was Susan. I saw a way out of this building, and the way out had to do with Edward Blake, who in a way got me here in the first place.

Colonel Mang asked me, “And Miss Weber is your professional colleague?”

I wasn’t sure about that, and I replied, “She has volunteered to assist me with the language and the travel.”

He looked at Susan, “What connection do you have to your government?”

“I slept with Bill Stanley.”

“And what else?”

“I’m a citizen and a taxpayer.”

He wasn’t bonding with Susan at all, so he turned his attention back to me and asked, “And what is your connection to your government?”

I’d once slept with a female FBI agent on a case, but I didn’t think he wanted to know about that now. I said, “I’m a retired criminal investigator for the United States Army.” I was also allowed to give him my service number, but I can’t always remember it.

He thought awhile, probably wondering what an army CID guy did. He asked me, “What is your present connection to your government?”

“A civilian employee.”

“Do you work for the Central Intelligence Agency?”

Probably, but I replied, “No, I do not. This is a criminal matter. I’m investigating a murder, not committing one.”

He missed the Beltway humor and continued, “When you spoke to Tran Van Vinh, did you discover the identity of this murderer?”

“Perhaps.”

“Why is this important after so many years?”

“Justice is important.”

“To whom? The family? The authorities?”

“To everyone.”

He drew thoughtfully on his cigarette. The man was not stupid, and neither am I, so I kept quiet. He needed to arrive at the end of this by himself.

He said to me, “So, you have returned to Vietnam after nearly thirty years to find the truth about this murder.”

“That’s right.”

“For justice.”

“For justice.”

“This murdered Lieutenant Hines must come from a wealthy and powerful family for your government to go through all this trouble.”

“It wouldn’t matter if he was rich or poor. Murder is murder. Justice is justice.”

He looked at Susan and asked her, “Where are the photographs you showed to Mr. Vinh?”

“I got rid of them.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t need them anymore.”

He said to her, “Mr. Vinh said you had two sets of photographs. One of Lieutenant Hines, the other of a captain that you suspected was the murderer.”

Susan nodded.

“Mr. Vinh was able to provide you with this photograph of Lieutenant Hines from his wallet, and these items confirm he was the man who was murdered.”

“That’s right.”

“But Mr. Vinh was not able to identify the photographs of the captain as the man he saw murder this lieutenant in Quang Tri City. Correct?”

“That’s correct.”

He asked Susan, “What is the name of this captain?”

“I don’t know.”

“How could that be? You had his photographs.”

I interrupted and said, “Those were my photographs, Colonel. Ms. Weber was just translating.”

“Ah, yes. So, I ask you, what was the name of that captain?”

“I have no idea.”

“You were not told who you were looking for?”

“No, I was not. What difference does it make to you? Do you think you would know him?”

He looked at me and said, “In fact, Mr. Vinh thought about your visit after you left, and…”

I could see that Colonel Mang was burning the neurons, and like me a few days ago, he had something almost in his grasp, but it kept slipping away.

I reminded him, “I’ve answered you truthfully. Now you know the purpose of my visit here. We’ve broken no laws. We need to leave.”

He was really in deep thought, and he knew instinctively that he was finally on to something. He asked me, “If you are investigating the murder of an American by an American, why did your government not request the help of my government?” He reminded me, “You pay millions for information about your missing soldiers.”

This was a really good question, and I recalled that I’d asked Karl the same thing, though within the question was the answer. It had taken me about two minutes at the Wall to answer it myself. It was taking Colonel Mang longer, so he repeated the question, as if to himself.

I replied, “As you learned from Mr. Vinh, this captain also murdered three Vietnamese civilians and stole valuables from the treasury at Quang Tri. My government thought it was best to avoid a situation where your government insisted on putting this captain on trial.”

Colonel Mang didn’t actually say, “Bullshit,” but he gave me that look that said, “Bullshit.” He said, “That answer is not satisfactory.”

“Then answer the question yourself.”

He nodded and rose to the challenge. He lit another cigarette, and I thought I heard a game show clock ticking.

Finally, he began studying the personal effects of Lieutenant William Hines. He picked up the MACV roster and looked at it. He said, “Mr. Vinh observed that a document with American names caused both of you to show some emotion.” He read the roster, then looked at me, then at Susan. He said something to her in Vietnamese, and I thought I heard the word dai-uy, captain, and definitely heard a Vietnamese-accented Blake.

Susan nodded.

Colonel Mang had the look of a man who had arrived at the truth. He was pleased with himself, but also a bit agitated, and maybe a little frightened. Like Karl, he could be looking at a general’s star, but if he used this knowledge the wrong way and took it to the wrong people in his government, he could wind up stamping visas on the Laotian border for the rest of his life. Or worse.

He looked at me and asked an astute question. “Are you going to protect this man, or expose him?”

I replied, “I was sent here to find and report the truth. I have no control over what happens to this man.”

He said to me, “You should have said you were sent here to expose him. I told you I did not like him.”

“I know what I should have said. You asked for the truth, and I gave you the truth. Do you want me to start lying again?”

He ignored that and said to us, “Give me your visas.”

This was the best news I’d heard in a while, and I gave him my visa. Susan, too, handed over her visa. He didn’t bother to ask for our passports because all three of us knew that the American embassy could issue two new passports in ten minutes, but without the Vietnamese-issued visas, we were not getting out of this country. But we were getting out of this building.

Colonel Mang said something to one of the goons, who left the room. He said to me, “I am going to let you and Miss Weber go to your reception.”

I wanted to congratulate him on a wise decision, but I said instead, “When may we expect to get our visas returned?”

“You do not need a visa to be re-arrested, Mr. Brenner.”

“I suppose not.”

The door opened and the goon returned with a female in uniform. She spoke to Susan in Vietnamese, and Susan let herself be subjected to a pat-down, which seemed to satisfy the requirements of a search without giving Susan too much to talk about at the Ambassador’s reception.

It was my turn, and the male goon patted me down.

All we really had on us were our wallets, and Mang examined the contents of both, then threw them on his desk. He said, “Take your wallets and leave.”

We both took our wallets and began packing our backpacks.

Mang said, “You know you are not taking any of that.”

I said, “We need the personal effects of Lieutenant Hines.”

“So do I. Leave.”

“I need my airline ticket.”

“You have no use for it.”

“We need our jackets.”

“Leave. Now.”

Susan said, “I want my film and camera.”

He looked at her, then at me and said, “Your arrogance is absolutely astounding. I give you your life, and you argue with me about what I have taken in exchange for your life.”

He had a point, and I took Susan’s arm.

He said, “Wait. There is something you can take with you to your party. Take the photographs from the floor.”

I could almost hear Susan telling him to go fuck himself, so I said quickly, “Ms. Weber already sent her set to the commercial attaché at the embassy. Thank you.”

He smiled, “And I will send this set to Ambassador and Mrs. Quinn. They should know they are hosting a whore in their house.”

Susan smiled sweetly and said, “I’ll pass on your regards to the Interior Minister.”

“Thank you. Be sure to tell him that his friend Edward Blake is a murderer and a thief.”

I shouldn’t have replied, but I said, “You should tell him yourself, Colonel. You have the evidence and you have Tran Van Vinh. But be careful. You have a tiger by the tail.”

We made eye contact, and in that brief moment, I think we saw ourselves in each other’s faces; we, he and I, America and Vietnam, kept bumping into each other, at all the wrong times, in all the wrong places, and for all the wrong reasons.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

The goons escorted us down to the lobby and out the front doors. Susan said something they didn’t like, and they said good-bye with a push.

We stood in the dark street a second, then Susan took my hand, and we moved toward a lighted avenue a few blocks away. Susan said, “Why didn’t you tell him about the Ambassador’s reception sooner?”

“I kept forgetting.”

She squeezed my fingers together in a powerful grip and it hurt. She said, “Not funny.”

I said, “I don’t think the Ambassador’s party is what got us out of there. Edward Blake got us out of there.”

She didn’t reply.

We put some distance between us and the Ministry of Fear, and reached a broad avenue named Pho Tran Hung Pao, which should be renamed.

Susan got her bearings, and we turned right. We passed a big, ugly modern building that Susan said was the Cultural Palace, and where a lot of cabs and cyclos were parked. I said, “We should get a taxi.”

“I need to walk. It’s not far.”

We continued down the busy avenue. She took her cigarettes out of her jeans and lit up with a match. She said, “At least he didn’t take my smokes.”

“He’s not that sadistic.”

We continued along the busy avenue, and because the weather was cool many of the men wore sweaters or heavy sports jackets, and most wore berets or pith helmets. No one was wearing a smile, including me. This place somehow wiped the smile off your face, especially if you’d just come from Yet Kieu Street.

Susan said, “He’s got all our evidence. What do you think he’s going to do with it?”

“That’s the question.”

“We go through hell to get that stuff, and now he’s got it, and he figured it out…” She said to me, “Washington is going to have a fit.”

I didn’t reply.

She asked me, “So, what’s the plan now?”

“I need a drink.”

“I’ll get you one at the reception.”

“Do you really know the Ambassador’s wife?”

“I do. I met her twice here in Hanoi, and I went shopping with her and her friends in Saigon, and we went to dinner. Do you play the guitar?”

“I lied. Do you know the Ambassador?”

“I met him in Hanoi at the embassy once, and at his residence another time.”

“Would he remember you?”

“Probably. He hit on me.”

“How’d he do?”

“He was doing fine until Bill butted in.” She laughed and put her arm through mine. “I can be a handful. But you can handle me.”

We came to another wide avenue that Susan recognized, and we turned left and continued walking. We approached a big lake surrounded by parkland and vendors, and people playing chess. On the lighted lake were an assortment of small boats, and I could see an island in the lake where a pagoda stood, topped with a red star. I asked, “Is this the lake where the B-52 bomber is?”

“No. There are lots of lakes in Hanoi. This is the Lake of the Returned Sword.”

“Is there a Lake of the Returned Evidence?”

“I don’t think so.”

We walked along the lake, and Susan asked again, “Paul, what is the plan?”

“Whatever it is, it’s my plan.”

She didn’t respond for a while, then said, “You still don’t trust me.”

I didn’t reply.

“After all we’ve been through together…”

“That’s the point.”

She stopped walking, and I stopped and turned to her. We looked at each other, and I could see she was upset. She said to me, “I would and did risk my life for you.”

“You did risk your life.”

She didn’t pursue that and asked me, “Do you really love me?”

“I do, but I don’t have to trust you.”

“You can’t have love without trust.”

“That’s female bullshit. Of course you can. Let’s go.” I took her arm, and we continued on.

She pulled away from me and said, “I’m going to the hotel. You go to the reception.”

This sounded like something from my last three or four relationships. It must be me. I said to her, “I need you there.”

“Try again.”

“You have the invitation, and you know the way. You know the host and hostess.”

“Try again.”

“I want you there.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But you know. Tell me what was supposed to happen tonight.”

She didn’t answer for a few seconds, then said, “If I made it this far, I was supposed to go to the reception and tell someone whether or not I was successful, and turn over whatever I have.”

“Was I supposed to make it this far?”

She thought a moment and replied, “Situation A was we didn’t find Tran Van Vinh or we didn’t get any evidence. Then you go to Bangkok, and I go back to Saigon. Situation B, we found what we were looking for, but you don’t know what it means. You go to Bangkok, I go to Saigon. Situation C, you understand what we discovered, and you’re okay with it. You talk it over in Bangkok, I go to Saigon. Situation D is where you want to be a hero and a Boy Scout, and you and I go to Bangkok together. That’s the situation now.”

I watched the boats racing, or maybe engaging in mock naval battles; it was hard to tell with the Vietnamese.

“Paul?”

I looked at her.

She said, “Of course, it got complicated because I fell in love with you.”

“Everyone does. That’s Situation E.”

“All right. Situation E.”

I said to her, “Let’s go back to D. What are you supposed to do when I tell you that I’m going to report everything I’ve found out to my boss, then to the FBI, and to the Justice Department, and to the press, if I have to?”

She didn’t reply.

“And this will result in an official investigation, and possibly an indictment of Edward Blake, and his trial for murder, which might upset his plans to become president. Okay, if I told you this, which I did, then what were you supposed to do?”

“Reason with you.”

“I’m unreasonable. Then what?”

“You’re putting me in a difficult position.”

“Welcome to a difficult position. Talk to me.”

“What do you want me to say? That I was supposed to kill you? I told you, I was just supposed to keep an eye on you until I got you to Bangkok.” She paused, then said, “After that, I had no idea what they intended to do with you.”

“That’s pretty cold and heartless.”

“I know. But it sounded all right in the briefing. Haven’t you ever been to a briefing where tough decisions are discussed very logically and matter-of-fact, and they sound right, but then you go out and see the people you’re supposed to get tough with.” She looked at me.

In fact, most of my professional life, from battle briefings to JAG meetings, have been like that. I said, “I understand, but what you’re talking about is illegal, not to mention immoral and dishonest.”

“I know.”

“What was your motivation?”

She shrugged. “Stupid things. Excitement, adventure, the feeling that important men trusted and relied on me.” She looked at me. “I see you’re not buying that.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Good. You’re not as stupid as you look.”

“I hope not. Where’d you learn to use a gun?”

“Lots of places.”

“Who do you work for?”

“I really can’t tell you, and it doesn’t matter.” She added, “Don’t bother to ask again.”

I didn’t reply.

She said, “Look, Paul, you were ordered to lie to me from day one, and I was ordered to lie to you from day one. You have no right being pissed off at my lies while thinking your own lies are justified.”

I nodded. “Okay. But that’s why I’m out of this business.”

“You should consider staying in. You did a brilliant job with Tran Van Vinh, and with Colonel Mang, and with putting two and two together.”

“It’s good to quit when you’re ahead and alive.”

She looked at me and said, “I told you when we stood there in the Na Valley, when I gave you the gun, that I’d help you expose Edward Blake, though that is not what I’m supposed to do. I meant that, and I’ll do it, because it’s the right thing to do, and because… I’ll do anything you ask me to do. Even if you and I never see each other again, I want you to think well of me…”

I could see tears running down her face, and she wiped them with her hands.

I said, “Let’s go.”

We continued past the lake, and Susan knew the way. We turned up a street called Pho Ngo Quyen, and came to the Metropole Hotel on a corner. Susan said to me, “I can check in, and we can shower, and if you’d like, we can make love.”

“Why spoil such a perfect day?”

“Are you being cruel or funny?”

“Funny. Let’s get to the Ambassador’s digs and get this over with.”

“We’re dirty and we smell.”

“So does this job. How far is this place?”

“Another block.”

We passed the Metropole, made a turn, and continued down a small tree-shaded street. Up ahead, I could see a well-lighted area that I knew must be the ambassador’s house.

Susan stopped and looked at me. She said, “I’m upset, and I can’t go in there looking upset.”

“You look fine.”

“I have no makeup on, I’ve been crying, I’m not dressed, and you’re making me miserable.”

“You can borrow some lipstick.”

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“Paul, look at me.”

I looked at her.

She said, “Three things — I’m on your side, you can trust me, and I love you.”

“Okay.”

“Kiss me.”

I kissed her, and we put our arms around each other and held the kiss. How far back was that hotel?

We separated, and she looked at me. She said, “Three more things— we have no evidence, Tran Van Vinh is under Colonel Mang’s control, and when you do get out of Hanoi, you need to be as careful in Bangkok as you were here.”

I said, “Which is why I want you to just keep quiet and make yourself scarce. You don’t need to get involved with my Boy Scout merit badge.”

She didn’t reply.

We walked the short distance along a high stucco wall toward a set of wrought iron gates at the entrance to a driveway.

There was a Viet police booth along the wall, and a guy in plainclothes approached us and said in English, “Passports.”

We gave him our passports, which he examined with a flashlight. He looked at us as though he knew who we were, as though Colonel Mang had called ahead.

If Colonel Mang had changed his mind, we’d be on a return trip to the Ministry of Public Security. I could see the gates of the ambassador’s residence not twenty feet away, and I saw two United States Marine guards standing there.

The plainclothes cop wasn’t saying anything, and I couldn’t determine if I needed to kick him in the balls and make a dash for the gates. There were two uniformed cops outside the police booth, both armed, and they were watching us.

The plainclothes cop said to me, “Where are you going?”

“To the American Ambassador’s reception.”

He looked at our clothing, but said nothing.

I put out my hand and said, “Passports.”

He slapped both passports in my hand, turned, and walked away.

We continued toward the gates, and I said to Susan, “Getting out might not be so easy.”

“I had the same thought.”

The gates were open and the two marine guards in dress blues were a welcome sight, though I’d never tell that to a marine.

The marines were at parade rest with their hands clasped behind their backs, and they looked us over. They didn’t come to attention and salute, but our round eyes got us through.

A few yards past the gate on the right was a guardhouse where another marine stood in an olive drab uniform, armed with an M-16 rifle. A marine sergeant approached us and said, “Sorry, folks, this is private property.”

Susan said, “We’re here for the Ambassador’s reception.”

“Uh…” He looked us over. “Uh…”

Susan said, “Weber. Susan Weber. And this is my guest. Mr. Paul Brenner.” She added, “Chief Warrant Officer Paul Brenner.”

“Okay… uh…” He looked at the clipboard in his hand with a penlight and said, “Yes, ma’am. Here you are.” He looked at her, then at me and asked, “Can I see some form of identification?”

I gave him my passport, which he studied with the penlight, then handed the passport back and said, “Thank you, sir.”

Susan handed him her passport and he checked it out and handed it back to her. He said, “Uh… the event tonight is business attire.”

Susan said, “We’ve just come in from the country, and there are clothes waiting for us here. Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He asked me, “Have you been here before, sir?”

“Not here, no.”

He pointed to the house and said, “You follow this circular driveway to the front door. The reception is in the garden tonight. Have a good evening.”

I looked at this young marine sergeant and thought of Ted Buckley at Khe Sanh. The world had come a long way since the winter of 1968, but if you were never there, you wouldn’t know that.

I was about to turn away when the marine asked me, “Did you serve here?”

“I did. A long time ago.”

He came to attention and saluted former PFC Brenner.

I took Susan’s arm, and we walked up the stone-paved driveway.

The house was a three-story French villa with a slate mansard roof. The cream-colored stucco was molded to look like stone blocks, and there were French ornamental details on the facade, including wrought iron balconies and louvered shutters. An illuminated American flag flew from a pole near the front entrance. A breeze snapped the flag, and I felt a little tingle run down my spine.

A Vietnamese man dressed in a dark suit stood at the entrance. He smiled and said, “Good evening.”

Susan replied in English, “Good evening.”

I like people who don’t show off their second language whenever they get a chance. Nevertheless, I said to him, “Bon soir,” so he could tell his friends about a Frenchman who came to the American Ambassador’s reception dressed like a pig.

He replied, “Bon soir, monsieur.” He opened the door and we entered.

We went up a short flight of marble stairs, at the top of which was yet another Viet, this one a woman in a blue silk ao dai, who also greeted us in English and bowed. She said, “Please follow me. The reception is in the garden.”

Susan said to her, “I’d like to use the ladies’ room.”

The Viet lady probably thought that was a good idea.

She bowed us toward a sitting room to the right, off of which was a staircase that went up to the next floor, but Susan passed it and kept going.

As we crossed the well-appointed sitting room, Susan motioned to a set of closed double doors on the left-hand wall and said, “The Ambassador’s office.”

She opened another door that led to a big bathroom and said, “Come on in. I’m not shy.”

We both entered the bathroom and I locked the door.

Susan made right for the toilet.

There were two marble washbasins along the wall, with soap and towels, and I washed the grime and blue dye off my face and hands. I looked in the mirror and a very tired unshaven man looked back at me. This wasn’t the worst two weeks of my life — the A Shau Valley still held first place — but it might have been the most emotionally draining. And it wasn’t over. Nor would it ever be.

Susan stood at the basin beside me and looked at herself in the mirror. “I look good without makeup… don’t I?”

“See if the Ambassador hits on you again.”

I didn’t see any mouthwash, so good soldier that I am, I bit off a piece of soap, put a handful of hot water in my mouth, and gargled. The soap foamed around my lips.

Susan laughed and said, “What are you doing?”

I spit into the sink. “Gargling.”

She washed up and tried the soap in the mouth. “Ugh.”

I went to a window that overlooked the front garden where we’d come in. I could see the marine guards at the entrance, the two marines at the guardhouse, and the American flag flapping outside the window. Over the wall was Hanoi, Mang territory.

I said to her, “We need to stay here tonight. Or in the embassy.”

Susan came up beside me with a hot, wet towel and put it on the back of my neck. “How’s that feel?”

“Great.”

She looked out the window and said, “You know, Paul, you don’t have to have a confrontation here. Why make yourself persona non grata in the embassy?”

“Why not? I’m persona non grata in the rest of this country. Am I persona non grata in this bathroom?”

She smiled. “Your safety zone is definitely shrinking. You know, Colonel Mang might do the job for you.”

“I need a drink.”

We left the bathroom and went back to the Viet lady, who led us down a hallway past a large living room or salon, beyond which I could see a larger dining room. The furnishings here were top-notch, a mixture of French and East Asian, though a lot of bad modern paintings hung on the walls.

We came to a long gallery that ran along the rear of the house, and the lady motioned us toward a set of French doors. I could hear music and talking out in the garden.

As Susan and I walked toward the doors, she said to me, “Bill is supposed to be here.”

“I kind of figured that out.”

“Does that bother you?”

“No. We were classmates at Princeton.”

We went through the doors onto a set of marble stairs flanked by pink granite banisters. I said, “You could buy a B-52 bomber for what this place costs.”

Susan took my hand, which was a very nice gesture, and we moved halfway down the stairs. There was a big pavilion pitched in the yard, which was all lit up with Chinese lanterns. The yard was surrounded by walls and gardens, which were also lit. To the left, I saw a big lighted swimming pool. I could be the next ambassador to Vietnam if I played my cards right.

Susan looked out over the crowd of about two hundred people, none of whom wore jeans or polo shirts. She said to me, “There’s the Ambassador… and there’s Anne Quinn… I don’t see the Vice President… but wherever you see a crowd and hear the kissing of ass, he should be in the center.”

“I think I see him.”

Susan said, “We’re a bit late for the receiving line, so we should first go and announce our presence to Mrs. Quinn.”

“You learn this in the Junior League? Can’t we hit the bar first?”

“No. Protocol before alcohol.”

We descended the last steps, and a few people noticed us, then a few more. There seemed to be a little lull in the noise level.

Susan went right up to the Ambassador’s wife, who was speaking to a group of men and women under the pavilion. Susan put out her hand and said, “Anne. How are you? You look fabulous.”

Anne Quinn was a handsome woman of about fifty with an expressive face. In fact, her face expressed something close to shock, but she recovered nicely and said, “Susan! How wonderful to see you!”

Barf.

They did a little air kiss, and Mrs. Quinn’s nose twitched, like she’d just smelled Vietnam.

The rest of the group seemed to be backing away.

Susan said to our hostess, “You’ll never guess what a week I’ve had.”

No, she never would.

Susan said, “Oh, Anne, please let me introduce you to my friend, Paul Brenner. Paul, Anne Quinn.”

I tried to stand downwind from her as I took her hand and said, “Very pleased to meet you. Chuc Mung Nam Moi.”

She smiled weakly and returned my New Year’s greeting.

I still had the taste of soap in my mouth, and I tried to blow a bubble, but it wasn’t working.

Susan said to Mrs. Quinn, “Please forgive us for arriving late. Paul and I spent a week traveling up country, and the train from Lao Cai was late, and to top it off, we had our luggage stolen.”

“Oh, how awful.”

I guess that explained our attire without mentioning it directly. Susan, I noticed, seemed to fit in here, and even her voice had changed from sexy to sort of chirpy. I needed a drink.

Mrs. Quinn glanced at me and started processing something. She said to Susan, “You… you traveled to where…?”

“To Dien Bien Phu and Sa Pa. You absolutely must go there.”

“Well… yes…”

“Paul and I spent three wonderful days in Nha Trang. Have you been there?”

“No…”

“You must go. And don’t miss Pyramide Island. Then we went to Hue and stayed at the Century. Where you stayed last year.”

“Oh, yes…” She glanced at me again, then said to Susan, “Bill Stanley is here…”

The lady never finished a sentence. Probably never finished a thought.

Susan sort of looked around. “Oh, is he? I’ll have to say hello.”

“Yes… he was actually asking…”

Susan said to her and to the other people who were still moving backward, “Paul served in Vietnam during the war, and we visited some of his old battlefields.”

Mrs. Quinn looked at me. “How interesting… did you… find it difficult…?”

“Not this time.”

Susan said to her, “Paul has been looking for a drink since Lao Cai. And I can use a few myself. Terrible train ride. If you’ll excuse us.”

“Of course.”

She took my arm, and we moved toward one of the bars. Susan said, “Lovely woman.”

“Don’t look for another invitation in the mail.”

We made our way through the crowd, and everyone was glancing at us. The thing about a beautiful underdressed woman is that she’s still beautiful.

We got to the open air bar where two Viet guys in white coats stood smiling. Susan ordered a gin and tonic, and I ordered a double Scotch on the rocks, which they understood.

I looked around. The crowd of about two hundred was mostly round-eyes, but there were also a good number of Vietnamese, a few in military uniforms, which reminded me of Colonel Mang. Maybe I should have invited him here. He would have enjoyed himself. Also, I could take him in the bushes and beat the shit out of him.

Most of the Westerners and even the Asians looked like business types, but I saw a number of people who could be from other embassies, East and West.

Bottom line here, Vice President Edward Blake was a big draw.

I made a mental note to find my FBI contact, John Eagan, though I was sure he’d find me first.

A four-piece Viet combo was playing “Moonlight in Vermont” out on the lawn, and I noticed a few guys around with earplugs and bulges under their coats, who were obviously Secret Service detailed to the VP. By now, some spotter somewhere was talking into their earplugs saying something like, “Two vagrants at the south bar. Keep an eye on them.”

Our drinks were made, and I turned around and bumped into one of the Secret Service guys, who had removed his earplug so he could talk to me. He looked about fifteen, and he was smiling. He put out his hand and said, “Hi, I’m Scott Romney.”

I ignored his hand and said, “I’m an American citizen.”

He kept his smile plastered on his face and said, “Sir, do you think we could have a word inside?”

“No, I don’t think so, sonny.”

Susan interrupted my fun and said to him, “Go speak to Mrs. Quinn. She knows us personally.”

He looked at Susan and still smiling said, “Yes, ma’am. I’ll do that.” And off he went.

I took a sip of my Scotch, gargled, and swallowed.

Susan made me hold her glass while she lit a cigarette. She said, “I’m almost out of smokes.” She took her glass and said, “I told you, you look suspicious. That’s never happened to me before.”

I smiled.

She puffed away and said, “You want to meet the Ambassador now?”

“I want to finish my drink.”

“He’s coming this way.”

I looked to my right toward the pool, and saw a man who must be Patrick Quinn coming toward us alone, but followed at a distance by a few other men. He was about my age and my height, well built, and not bad looking. He was wearing a dark blue suit, like almost every other guy here, and he was beaming a smile at Susan. He came right up to her and shouted, “Susan!” and gave her a big hug and kiss. He said, “You look lovely! How are you?”

He was able to finish short sentences by raising his voice at the end.

Susan replied, “I’m wonderful. You look very fit and tan for February.”

Barf.

He replied, “Well, my secret is a tanning lamp and a new gym in the basement. You look very tan yourself. Where have you been?”

“To Nha Trang. With this gentleman. Mr. Ambassador, may I introduce you to my friend, Paul Brenner.”

He never missed a beat or batted an eye as he turned to me and stuck out his hand. “Paul! Great meeting you!”

He had a good grip, and he liked to pump, so my Scotch splashed around. He said, “Welcome to our little gathering. Glad you could make it, Paul.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Call me Pat. So, you and Susan were in Nha Trang?”

“For a few days.”

“I have to get there. God, I’d love to travel more around this country.”

“It’s an adventure,” I told him.

“I’m sure it is. I’m sure it is.”

You can say that again. “It is.” I couldn’t tell if he knew who I was, or why I was in Vietnam, or if my appearance here was a surprise, a shock, or meaningless. The ambassador is almost always kept in the dark about what the spooks are doing, so he can deny it all later and sound sincere. But it struck me as odd that with two hundred other people here, he’d gone out of his way to charge across the lawn toward Susan. Of course, he probably wanted to fuck her, which could also explain his enthusiasm.

Susan was telling him about the Lao Cai train and the luggage, and he was hanging on every word and nodding sympathetically. He definitely wanted to fuck her, but that was the least of my problems, and in fact, maybe not my problem at all.

He said to Susan, “I’m sure Anne has something for you to wear.”

Susan replied, “I actually like my old jeans.”

He laughed. Ha ha. He turned to me, “Paul, can I get you a sport jacket?”

“Not if the lady is in jeans. I’m not that brave.”

Ha ha.

Susan told him, “Paul served with the army in Vietnam. We visited his battlefields.”

“Ah. Is this your first time back?”

“It is.”

“I was here with the navy. Off the coast. Never saw any real action.”

“You didn’t miss anything.”

He laughed and slapped my shoulder. He said, “As you know, Vice President Blake saw combat, too. Remind me later to introduce you. Well, I’m glad you both came despite your misadventures. Get yourselves something to eat. The Metropole is catering.”

He turned to Susan and said in a softer voice, “Bill Stanley was asking about you.” He looked at her. “You should let him know you’re here.”

“I will.”

Patrick Quinn moved back to his group on the lawn.

I finished my Scotch and said to Susan, “Is that guy for real?”

“He’s very charming.”

“Your taste in men worries me.”

She smiled and looked around. “There’s a buffet table. Do you want something to eat?”

“No. I get silly when I eat.” I handed my empty glass back to the bartender and he refilled it.

Susan asked, “Do you mind if I go find Bill?”

“Bill will find you, darling.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No, I just feel so much safer when you’re at my side.”

She shrugged.

We moved around a little, and Susan knew a few people, mostly American businessmen and women who lived in Hanoi. There was a guy there from her Hanoi office, and they chatted awhile.

Meanwhile, I kept catching glimpses of Edward Blake getting his butt smooched.

Power.

Edward Blake was soon to become the most powerful man in the most powerful country that the world has ever known. And I had his balls in my hand. But if you’re going to squeeze the king’s balls, you better be ready for all the king’s men.

I glanced at Susan talking to her colleague. She was the wild card in this game.

A man approached me and put out his hand. “Hi, I’m John Eagan. You must be Paul Brenner.”

I took his hand and replied, “How many other people here are dressed like this?”

He smiled, then glanced at Susan and said to me, “Could I have a word with you?”

Susan noticed him, and I said to her, “I’ll be right back.”

John Eagan and I moved off to the far side of the lawn, behind the combo band, who were playing “Carry Me Back to Old Virginia.” I was getting homesick.

Eagan had a drink in his hand, and he touched my glass with his. “ Welcome to Hanoi.”

I said to him, “I’ll bet you didn’t think you’d be saying that tonight.”

He didn’t reply, and we stood there.

He was about forty, too young for the war, but he may have been military before becoming FBI. I had another thought that, if Susan was telling the truth that Eagan was her embassy contact, then he could be CIA. I’d learned not to believe anything I’d been told about this mission.

He said to me, apropos of nothing, “This place sucks.”

“What was your first clue?”

He smiled. “Training Viet narcs. They’re all on the take, and they grow opium in their backyards.”

I said to him, “Okay, you’ve established that you’re an FBI guy training the Vietnamese police. I believe every word of it. What can I do for you?”

He didn’t seem to appreciate my cynicism, and his demeanor changed. He asked me, “How did you wind up here tonight?”

“Where was I supposed to wind up?”

“At the Metropole, tomorrow.”

“What difference does it make?”

“Probably none.” He asked me, “So, how did it go?”

“How did what go?”

“Your trip.”

“Fine.”

“Can you be more specific?”

I said to him, “Look, I don’t know what you know, or what you’re supposed to know, or even who the hell you are. I’m supposed to contact you only if I’m in deep shit. I’m in deep shit. The police have my visa, and I want you to get me the fuck out of here tomorrow. I need to be debriefed in another country, and I need a visa or a diplomatic passport, and a plane ticket, and an embassy escort to the airport. Okay?”

He thought about that and asked me, “How did the police get your visa?”

“You’re not helping me with these questions, John.”

“Okay… here’s a piece of news for you. You’re going to be debriefed tonight. Here.”

“This is a CID homicide investigation. I only talk to my boss. Those were my last and only instructions.”

“You were told by Doug Conway and your boss that this is a joint investigation with the FBI. You can talk to me. What we’d like, Paul, is for us to meet in the Ambassador’s office at midnight.”

“You’re not listening to me, John.”

“Just be there, okay? We can resolve your exit at that time.”

“Who wants to see me?”

“Me, for one. Plus Colonel Goodman, the military attaché, and a gentleman from Saigon, who you met briefly at the cathedral, and maybe one or two others. We just need a little of your time before we send you on your way.”

I said to him, “I assume the VP is staying here tonight.”

“I can’t say for security reasons, but that would be a good assumption. Why do you ask?”

“I wanted to meet him.”

“I’ll try to arrange that.”

“I’ll also need a room here.”

“Why?”

“Because if I step outside these gates, I could be arrested.”

“Why?”

“I like scrambled eggs for breakfast.”

He looked at me. “Are we having a problem, Paul?”

“We are. And my traveling companion, Susan Weber, needs a room here, too. She’s in the same situation as I am.”

“This should be an interesting story.”

I said to him, “Just get me out of here. Fish and house guests smell after three days.” I turned and walked back toward the pavilion.

I really didn’t know who John Eagan was, but Bill Stanley used to work for Bank of America, and Susan Weber worked for American-Asian Investment Corporation, and Marc Goodman, the military attaché, was actually Military Intelligence, and Colonel Mang was an Immigration cop, and Paul Brenner was a tourist. I should write all this down.

In any case, I got my message across, and at midnight, I’d see what their problem was.

I got another Scotch and looked around for my date. A tall, slim, good-looking woman in an evening dress came up to me and asked, “Are you looking for someone?”

I replied, “I’ve been looking for you all my life.”

She smiled and put out her hand. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Jane Blake.”

I suddenly recognized her face. I cleared my throat and said, “Oh, I’m terribly sorry—”

She smiled again. “That’s all right. I’m totally ignored when Ed is in the room. Or in the garden. Or anywhere.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

She smiled and said, “Let me be very bold. Everyone wants to know who you are.”

Finally, a James Bond moment. I said, “You mean, why am I dressed in dirty jeans and haven’t shaved recently?”

She laughed. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Well, Mrs. Blake, I could be the Count of Monte Cristo returning from prison. But my name is Paul Brenner, and I’ve just come from a remote village called Ban Hin, where I needed to find a man named Tran Van Vinh.” I looked at her, but she showed absolutely no sign that this meant anything to her.

She asked me, “Why did you have to find this man?”

“It goes back to the war, and I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”

“Oh, that sounds intriguing.”

“It was.”

“And who is that woman with you?”

“Susan Weber. My guide and interpreter. She speaks fluent Vietnamese. Lives in Saigon.”

“Oh, this is mysterious.” She smiled. “And romantic.”

“We’re just friends.”

“Well, I think you’re looking for your friend. She’s over there, near the pool.” She informed me, “No one even came close to guessing who you were. Ed thought you were a famous actor. They dress so badly. Most of us thought you’d lost a bet, or came dressed like that on a dare.”

“Actually, I did come on a dare. Good luck to your husband with the nomination.”

She smiled, nodded, and moved off to spread the news. I hope she wasn’t measuring for drapes in the White House.

I walked toward the pool where I spotted the woman I’d really been looking for all my life. She was talking to her old lover, Bill Stanley, who could possibly be pissed at me for stealing his girlfriend, though he should thank me.

They both saw me coming and stopped their conversation and stood there with their drinks as I approached. I love this shit.

I got within speaking distance and said, “Am I interrupting?”

Susan replied, “No. Paul, you remember Bill Stanley.”

I put out my hand and he took it. I asked him, “How are things at the bank?”

He didn’t reply, and he wasn’t smiling at me.

Dapper Bill was dressed in a dark blue tropical wool suit, which had undoubtedly been tailor-made for him in Saigon, with an extra short trouser rise to fit snugly against his undersized genitalia.

Susan said to me, “I was just telling Bill about our run-ins with Colonel Mang.”

Bill spoke for the first time and said, “I’ve researched this man, and you’re lucky to be alive.”

I told him, “If you’d researched me, you’d know that it’s Colonel Mang who’s lucky to be alive.”

Bill didn’t seem impressed with my macho moment.

I informed him, “Mang thinks he knows you, too. He told me you were the CIA station chief in Saigon. Can you imagine that?”

Again, Bill had nothing to say, but at least Susan was covered regarding how I knew Bill was CIA.

So, we all stood there awhile in a moment of awkward silence. I wondered if Susan felt uncomfortable standing between two men who she’d recently slept with. She looked composed, so maybe this had been addressed in a Junior League meeting. She said, “Paul, Bill tells me you’re invited to a meeting here tonight. He asked me to join you. I think this would be a good idea.”

I said to Bill, “As I just told John Eagan and as he will tell you, I’m not at liberty to discuss anything with you, the CIA, Military Intelligence, the FBI, or anyone here. This is still a CID homicide investigation, so you can’t change the rules or the players.”

He replied, “You can and you will discuss this if ordered to by your boss, or by a proper higher authority.”

I didn’t like his tone of voice, but to be nice, I said, “If and when my orders change, I’ll follow them. However, I’m a civilian, and I reserve the right to pick the time and place of my debriefing. And it’s sure not here.”

Bill Stanley looked at me and said, “It would be a good idea for you to come to this meeting since we’ll be discussing your exit from the country. You don’t have to say any more than you want to say.”

“Goes without saying.” This was a diplomatic reception, and I was trying to be diplomatic, but this is not my strong point, and I asked Bill, “What were you thinking?”

“Excuse me?”

“What were you thinking when you teamed up your girlfriend with me to go on a dangerous mission?”

He seemed to be thinking about what he was thinking. He cleared his throat and said, “Sometimes, Mr. Brenner, matters of national security take precedence over personal considerations.”

“Sometimes. And if this is one of those times, then you shouldn’t have any gripes about what happened.”

He didn’t like that and replied, “To be honest with you, this was not my idea.”

I didn’t bother to ask him whose idea it was, though I said, “You could have said no.”

He was seething, but said nothing.

I continued, “Though that wouldn’t be a good career move.”

Bill may have thought I was implying that he was an ambitious company man who would pimp his girlfriend to advance his career. He remained politely silent, however, the way people do when they’re speaking to someone with a terminal condition.

Susan thought it was time to change the subject and said, “Paul, I told Bill that we did discover the identity of the murdered lieutenant, but that we still can’t determine the identity of the murderer.”

“Did Bill believe that?”

Bill answered, “No, Bill did not believe that.”

I said to Susan, “Bill doesn’t believe that.”

Susan said, “Well, it’s the truth.” She continued, “I told Bill we’d found Tran Van Vinh, but that we’d decided not to chance carrying those things with us, so we hid everything.”

Our eyes met for a half a second, and I looked at Bill to see his reaction, but Bill was as inscrutable as Colonel Mang.

I really didn’t know if Susan had said this, because Susan says lots of things. She knew the identity of the murder suspect all along, and Bill knew that, so she was trying to protect me, which was nice, but it wasn’t going to play. I said to Bill, “Actually, it would be a good idea if the Vice President attended this midnight meeting.”

Bill looked at me a long time before informing me, “The Vice President has no interest in a murder investigation.”

“He may be interested in this one. Tell his staff that it’s in his best interest to be there.”

Bill reminded me, “You have signed various statements relating to national security and official secrets. Regardless of your present status, they are all still binding.”

“I also swore to defend the Constitution.”

He gave me a long, hard stare and said, “I’m sure you were told in Washington that if you took this assignment, your life could be in danger.”

That was usually the type of statement made before a mission, not after, so in this context, it could actually be a threat.

I said to Bill, “Could I have a word with you alone?”

Before Bill could reply, Susan said, “No.”

I said to her, “Personal only. No business.”

She informed me, “I won’t be discussed like that.”

Bill picked up the theme and said to me, “We’re all mature enough to discuss this together.”

I informed everyone, “I’m not that mature.” I moved off and motioned for Bill to join me. “Guy talk.”

Susan looked pissed, but stood where she was and lit a cigarette.

Bill and I moved out of earshot, and I said to him, “We need to talk about Susan, and… oh, one piece of business. If I find out, or even suspect, which I do, that I was the expendable party in this operation, and that you knew of, approved of, or planned that, then I’ll kill you. Now, let’s talk about Susan.”

He stood staring at me and said nothing.

I can do soap opera for about five minutes before I revert to my true self, and I felt I needed to do this, so I said, “On a personal level, I’m truly sorry about what happened. I admit to knowing about your involvement with Susan, and it’s not my habit to chase other men’s wives or girlfriends.” Most of the time. “And as I’m sure you’ve been told, I’m in a committed relationship with someone at home. So I make no excuses for what happened, and you should know that Susan resisted my attentions. The mission is over, and I’m going home. I apologize again for any trouble I’ve caused between you and her, and I hope you both can put this behind you.”

I studied his face as he processed this gentlemanly, man-to-man bullshit. I actually believed some of it myself, and I really was conflicted about Susan. I was fairly sure, however, that Susan had no further interest in Bill, and maybe Bill had no further interest in Susan. But I needed to clear the air, as they say, and give Bill a chance to say his piece.

But Bill had nothing to say, so I continued to take the blame for whatever vague involvement I was admitting to. I told him, “Susan, in fact, kept the relationship platonic and businesslike until we were forced by circumstances to share a room in Dien Bien Phu.” Bill would like to believe that, and I felt I’d done my chivalrous duty toward the lady, and I was ready to get back to the subject of me killing him, and vice versa.

Bill said to me, “I’m staying at the Metropole.”

“Good choice.”

“When I checked in yesterday, there was a sealed envelope waiting for me, sender unknown.”

“Really? You shouldn’t open packages without a return address.”

“Yes, I know that. But I did. Inside the envelope were twenty photographs of you and Susan at a beach, labeled Nha Trang, Pyramide Island.” He added, “All you were wearing were your smiles.”

Whoops. I said, “Well, I remember being at the beach, and we were wearing bathing suits. Those pictures must have been digitally altered.”

“I don’t think so. What the hell possessed you two to cavort publicly in the nude when you knew you were being followed? Did they teach you anything at whatever school you went to?”

The man had a point, so I said, “I admit to a lapse of judgment.”

“And then you tell me you and she had a platonic relationship until a few days ago.”

“Well, we just went skinny-dipping. It was my idea.”

“I’m sure. Haven’t you ever heard of telescopic lenses?”

“I really don’t want a lecture from you.”

“These photographs could be used for blackmail.”

“Actually, I think the police are sending them to everyone, yourself included, to embarrass Susan. So that rules out blackmail.”

“My God…” He asked me, “Have you seen these photographs?”

“Actually, I have. Colonel Mang was kind enough to give us a sneak preview.”

He shook his head and seemed lost in thought. He said to me, “You may not care, but Susan comes from a good family with some social standing, and—”

“Bill, cut the Ivy League, Junior League shit, before I lose my temper. We both care about Susan. End of discussion.”

“All right…” He looked at me. “Susan told me she loves you. Certainly she told you that.”

“Yes, she did, but this was such an artificial situation. She should think about it.”

“How do you feel about her?”

“Conflicted.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that I keep discovering new facets of her personality.” I think it’s called bipolar disorder, but Bill already knew that. To be honest, I’m not always sane myself, and that’s when Susan really appealed to me. But to be more loyal to Susan, I said to Bill, “She’s a remarkable woman, and I could easily fall in love with her.”

He mulled this over. My five minutes of “Days of Our Lives” was drawing to a close, so I said to him, “I think this may be Susan’s decision and not ours.”

Bill didn’t really know me at all, and he probably took everything I said at face value, despite what was in his briefing memo about me. He said to me, “I had the impression from Susan that you… that you felt the same way about her.”

Before I could reply, Susan joined us and said, “I think that’s enough.”

Time for a commercial break. I said, “I have to insist that nothing further is discussed about this case that I’m not privy to.”

Bill replied, “That’s absurd and outrageous.”

“Nevertheless, I insist.”

Bill snapped, “For your information, you have no say over who speaks to whom. Susan does not work for you, and neither do I.”

I asked him, “Who does Susan work for?”

“Not for you.”

Susan said, “Please, both of you—”

I interrupted, “Look, Bill, it’s time for you to take a reality check. Fate, luck, and hard work have put Edward Blake’s balls in my hand. I didn’t ask for this, and I didn’t want it. But there it is.” I held out my hand palm up and curled my fingers. “Now, I fully understand this is dangerous information, so I really need to be careful about who, what, where, when, and how it’s disseminated. Everyone will thank me later for my diligence and foresight. Including you, Bill. So, we have our choice of all three of us hanging out together until midnight, which is not my first choice, or all of us going our separate ways with no cheating, or Susan and I keeping each other company. Someone make a decision.”

Susan said to Bill, “Paul and I are going to have a drink. We’ll see you later.”

We left Bill Stanley smoking, and he didn’t even have a cigarette.

As Susan and I moved to a bar, she asked, “So, who won me?”

“We’re going to flip a coin later.” I said to her, “Regarding this meeting, I do not want you to back me up. Just stay neutral or pretend you’re voting for Edward Blake in the next election.”

“If that’s what you want.”

We got a drink, and Susan said, “I think my days as a contract employee are over.”

“Is that what you are?”

“I told you, I’m a civilian. No direct government involvement.” She thought a moment and said, “They’ll also get me fired from my day job.”

I said to her, “Look, sweetheart, there are maybe ten people in this world who know what this is about, and we’re two of them. The other eight think we have the evidence and they want it. If we had it, we could cut a deal. Also, if we’d told them there was no evidence, they might have believed us. But you told Bill we found the evidence and hid it. Now, we’re in the worst possible situation in regard to our health. Bottom line, all we have is too much knowledge and nothing to trade.”

“Well… that’s one way to look at it.”

“Tell me the other way so I know if I should bother to make my next car payment.”

“Well… tell them the truth. Colonel Mang has the evidence and the witness, and he’s put two and two together. They’ll go nuts, but that takes the pressure off us. They’ll have to deal with Mang. Best scenario, Mang blows the whistle, Blake is ruined, the CIA kills Mang, and we live happily ever after.”

“I don’t think life works like that. Look, there were two reasons to use civilians — one was plausible deniability if things went bad, the other was that they rarely whack one of their own. But if they think they have to, they’d whack us in a heartbeat.”

“They’re not that ruthless.”

“The CIA and Military Intelligence assassinated over 25,000 people here during the war.”

“No they didn’t.”

“You want to dance?”

“Sure.”

We put our drinks down and went out to the small dance floor in front of the band. They were playing another American name place song, Ray Charles’s “Georgia on My Mind,” and I pictured Edward Blake tallying electoral votes in his mind.

A lot of people were looking at us dancing, and the public affairs photographer took a picture of us, which I could see in the Washington Post captioned: “Paul Brenner and Susan Weber, Hours Before Their Disappearance.”

I caught a glimpse of Edward Blake looking at us, but he didn’t seem particularly disturbed. I was starting to think that he was clueless about his problem.

The band swung into “Moon Over Miami,” where there were lots of votes. I saw Bill talking to John Eagan, and they kept glancing at Susan and me as though they were trying to decide what size air shipment coffins we needed.

Susan said, “I wish we were back in Saigon dancing on the Rex roof, and that I’d told you then all I knew.”

“That would have been a long dance.”

“You know what I mean.”

I didn’t reply.

“Did you tell Bill you loved me?”

“I don’t share my feelings with other guys.”

“Okay, share them with me.”

For some reason, I remembered an old army expression: The enemy diversion you are ignoring is the main attack.

But that was being cynical and paranoid again. I said to Susan, “I do love you. And you know what? Even if you’re still deceiving me, and even if you betray me, I’ll still love you.”

She held me tighter as we danced, and I could tell she was crying. Hopefully, these were tears of joy, and not premature remorse.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

At about ten minutes to midnight, the last of the guests were leaving, the band was packing, and the bartenders were corking the Chardonnay.

Susan and I went into the ambassador’s residence and made our way through the quiet house toward the sitting room.

There were a few Secret Service guys standing around in the salon. I saw my young friend, Scott Romney, near the staircase, and he tensed up when he saw me. I said to him, “There are milk and cookies in the kitchen.”

We entered the sitting room, and Bill Stanley and John Eagan were already there. Also there was a man in an army green dress uniform whose rank was colonel, and whose nametag said Goodman. This was the Military Intelligence guy, Marc Goodman, and he would not normally have any interest in a homicide investigation. I guess it was Cam Ranh Bay that he was interested in.

He was a tall, lanky man, a few years older than me. I remembered seeing him out on the lawn. He recognized Susan from their meeting in Saigon, and they shook hands, and she introduced me.

The door to the Ambassador’s office was closed, and John Eagan said, “The Ambassador is with someone and will be finished shortly.”

Colonel Goodman said to me, “I understand you and Ms. Weber had a bit of trouble.”

I replied, military style, “Nothing we couldn’t handle, sir.”

Goodman wore the insignia of an infantry officer and had enough ribbons to make a bed quilt. I saw, too, the Combat Infantryman’s Badge, which I also owned, and the Silver Star, Bronze Star, and two Purple Hearts. My instinct said this guy was okay, but my instincts had also said that about Edward Blake.

Neither Bill nor John Eagan felt like making small talk, but Goodman said to me, “So, you were with the First Cav in ’68.”

“Yes, sir.” I called him sir because I was ex-army on an army assignment, and he outranked me. In about two days, if I saw him again, he’d be Marc.

He asked, “Saw action where?”

I told him, and he nodded. We exchanged a few details about our military careers, and he asked me, “Do you miss the CID?”

“Not recently.”

“Are you pursuing a career in civilian law enforcement?”

“I’ve thought about it.”

“I’m sure you’ll have no trouble landing a job in federal law enforcement after this assignment.”

That sounded like a joke, but he wasn’t smiling. So, maybe it was an incentive to be cooperative. I didn’t reply.

He said to Susan, “Have you been properly thanked for volunteering to be a translator and guide?”

Susan replied, “I was happy to help.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t easy for you to leave your work.”

This conversation had a surreal quality to it, the way all government meetings do, especially if the subject is sensitive; the art of innuendo, double-talk, evasive phrasing, and arcane code words. You could think you were being asked to go out for coffee, when they really meant you should assassinate the President of Colombia. You had to pay attention.

Bill struck me as a quiet sort of guy, which might be the only thing I liked about him. Nevertheless, he decided to speak. He said to Susan, “I’ve indicated to Colonel Goodman, and to the Ambassador, that you may be leaving the country involuntarily.”

She said to all assembled, “I’d like to stay. But as you know, my resident work visa has been taken by the police, and my status here is uncertain.”

I clarified this by saying, “We were arrested and may be arrested again.”

John Eagan said, “I’ve spoken to the Ambassador about both of you staying here tonight.”

“Good. It’s either here or Yet Kieu Street.”

Everyone knew that address, and it needed no further explanation. I said to Bill, “Where is your boss?” meaning the resident Hanoi CIA bureau chief — top spook in Vietnam.

He replied, “He’s out of town.”

Why he would be out of town at the culmination of a very important mission was a little mysterious. It could be that he wasn’t on the Blake team and was unreliably honest and couldn’t be trusted. But I had another thought, and I looked at John Eagan. I asked him, “How long have you been with the FBI?”

“Not long.”

“About two weeks?”

He didn’t reply directly, but said to me, “Paul, I know you have some issues with the world of intelligence, and it all probably seems like silly cloak-and-dagger stuff to a cop. But there are lots of good reasons why nothing is as it seems. It works for everyone, yourself included.”

“It’s not working for me, John.”

“It really is, Paul.”

There was a coffee bar in the sitting room, and I poured myself a cup. Susan went to the bathroom to smoke.

Bill took the opportunity to ask me to step out into the hallway, which we did. He said, “We can get you out of here in a day or two. Susan will be staying a few days longer.”

“Says who?”

“She’ll need some time to wrap up her personal and business affairs in Saigon. From here, of course. Then, we’ll arrange her safe exit from the country.”

“In other words, she’s a hostage.”

“I’m not following you.”

“We’re leaving together.”

“Not possible.”

“Make it possible.”

He told me something I already knew. “You’re on thin ice. Don’t stomp your feet.”

I asked Bill, “How worried are you right now?”

He turned and walked back into the sitting room.

I finished my coffee in the hallway and returned just as Susan came out of the bathroom. She’d found a tube of lipstick somewhere and had repainted herself.

One of the double doors to the Ambassador’s private office opened, and Patrick Quinn exited without his usual smile. He looked around, found his smile, and said, “Bill, Marc, John, Paul, Susan!”

He was into first names, like he’d aced the Dale Carnegie course. He said, “I know you have some business to attend to, so please make yourselves comfortable in my office.”

Everyone mumbled their thanks. I said to Patrick Quinn, “I was to remind you to introduce me to your friend, the Vice President.”

He looked at his watch and said, “I’ll see if he’s available.” He said to Colonel Goodman, “Marc, if you need anything, ring the guardhouse or the kitchen.” He said to everyone, “Thank you all for joining us tonight.” He left.

Whoever he was with in his office was still there, or had exited from the window.

We all moved toward the open door, Susan first, followed by Bill, Marc, and John.

I entered the dimly lit office last, and the first thing I noticed was a man sitting in a leather wing chair in the corner. He bore a striking resemblance to Karl Hellmann.

He stood and moved toward me with a smile. He put out his hand and said, “Hello, Paul.”

He even sounded like Karl, right down to the accent. I took his hand and said, “Hello, Karl.”

We were so thrilled to see each other, we could barely speak. I finally found my voice and said to him softly, “You’re a lying, double-dealing, devious son of a bitch.”

He replied, “I’m glad to see you’re well. I was worried about you. Please introduce me to Ms. Weber.”

“Introduce yourself.”

He turned to Susan and said, “I am K. Karl Hellmann. We’ve communicated by fax and e-mail.”

Susan said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Paul speaks so highly of you.”

“We hold each other in mutually high regard.” Karl said to the others, “Thank you for inviting me.”

Karl shook hands with Bill, Marc, and John, and from the snatches of conversation, I was able to determine that they’d never met, or pretended they’d never met or communicated, and that they were happy to make one another’s acquaintance. Karl said, “My flight arrived only an hour ago, and I haven’t checked into my hotel. So please bear with me if I seem somewhat forgetful.”

Everyone understood that bullshit.

I said to Karl, “Could I have a word with you?”

“Of course.”

We moved out into the sitting room, and I closed the door. I said to Karl, “You almost got me killed.”

“How could that be? I was in Falls Church. You look tired.”

“I’ve spent two fucking weeks in this hellhole, the last few days on a motorcycle on the run from the cops.”

“How was Nha Trang, by the way? Did I tell you I had a three-day R&R there?”

“Why are you here?”

“They asked me to come.”

“Why?”

“So you could be fully debriefed here, rather than Bangkok.”

“Why?”

“They’re very anxious about this.”

I pointed out, “They could debrief Susan here. She’s probably working for the CIA.”

“Well… it appears that you and she have developed a friendship, and they felt they needed to do this here and now.”

“What you mean is that they want to see whose side I’m on.”

“Whatever.”

“Can I assume you know what this is about?”

He saw the coffee setup and poured himself a cup. He asked me, “Do you think I could smoke here?” Without waiting for my answer, he lit a cigarette.

“Karl, do you know what this is about?”

He exhaled a stream of smoke and replied, “Actually, I was the first person to know. When the Tran Van Vinh letter landed on my desk, I thought about who to assign the case to. But the more I read the letter, the more intrigued I became with it. So, I assigned it to myself. I was able to determine the identity of the murdered man from my investigation of army files, combat records, and official unit histories. As you suggested in Washington, it was a fairly simple case of narrowing the list of men who served in Quang Tri City in February 1968. Lieutenant Hines, a MACV advisor, was killed in action at the Citadel on or about 7 February 1968. And his name is on the Wall. And then I came across the name of Captain Edward Blake, and I realized, of course, that I’d possibly found something of immense importance. Captain Blake was William Hines’s commanding officer, and most probably the only American First Cavalry captain he’d be in close contact with. Of course, I couldn’t be sure of that, and in fact, we’re still not sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Don’t be so sure.” He reminded me, “You don’t convict a man of murder on flimsy circumstantial evidence.”

“No. You blackmail him and let him become president of the United States.”

He looked around for an ashtray as he changed the subject and said, “She’s quite beautiful.”

“You haven’t seen her at 7 A.M. with a hangover.”

“She would still be beautiful. Is Mr. Stanley upset with you?”

“He may be actually relieved.”

“Ah.” Karl smiled, just a little, and flipped his ash in a potted plant. He said, “She strikes me as the type who may be too much to handle for any man. Even you.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“It was meant to be. So, I have just arrived and know almost nothing, except what the Ambassador has just told me.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Only what he knows and what Bill Stanley told him, which is that you were investigating a wartime murder, and that your investigation was fruitful. True?”

“Depends on your definition of fruitful.”

“Have you found Tran Van Vinh?”

“I have. In Ban Hin.”

“And he had some war souvenirs.”

“He did.”

“And you have these?”

“How is Cynthia?”

The shift in the subject didn’t bother Karl. He replied, “She’s well and sends her love. She was disappointed that you changed your Hawaii plans. But I see why you did that.”

“Don’t make assumptions based on flimsy evidence.”

“I never do.” He drank his coffee and flipped his ash in the cup. He continued, “Mr. Stanley told the Ambassador that you had committed some sort of travel violation, and that the police had questioned you.”

“That’s correct.”

“Was this a serious violation?”

“I killed two policemen, and two soldiers.”

Karl didn’t seem shocked or upset. “I assume the police are not sure about this.”

“It really doesn’t matter here.”

“This is true. The Ambassador seems upset about having you as his houseguest, but he seems to look forward to Ms. Weber’s company.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“We need to get you out of this country before the government discovers that you are in residence here and asks for you to be turned over to the police.”

“Which government?”

“The Hanoi government, of course. Are you having paranoid delusions?”

“No, I’m quite certain some people in Washington want to kill me.”

“If anyone did want you dead, they’re probably all here. Starting with Mr. Stanley, but not for the reasons you think.”

“Karl, your warped sense of humor is not appreciated at this time. Plus, I’m pissed off at you.”

“You’ll thank me for this someday. I see you’ve lost some weight. Did you not eat well?”

“Look, Colonel, I want to be out of here by tomorrow night, latest. I got the short-timer shakes, and the single-digit fidget. Biet?”

“Oh, I remember that feeling too well. Do you think I should go down to Cu Chi and Xuan Loc?”

“Why not? You’re here. Also, I want Susan out with me.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“It is now.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He asked me, “Is this Colonel Mang the cause of your problems?”

“Well, there are many causes to my problems, but he’s the most obvious, and the most honest about it.”

Karl ignored the innuendo, and asked me, “Where is this man now?”

“About a ten-minute drive from here. Susan and I spent an unpleasant hour with him at Gestapo Headquarters earlier this evening.”

“But if he released you, Paul, then you shouldn’t be too concerned.”

“It’s a very long story, and we shouldn’t leave those people in there alone too long.”

“Why not?”

“Karl. Look at me. Look closely. How stupid do I look?”

He played the game and studied my face. He said, “You look fairly intelligent. Perhaps too intelligent.”

“Why did you send me on this assignment?”

“Because you are the best man I have.”

“This is true. But not the best man for the job.”

“Probably not. But they tried to take this case away from me, and I needed to impress them with my best agent.”

“Who are they?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“What’s in this for you?”

He anticipated the question and replied, “Only the satisfaction of having done a difficult job well.”

“Am I invited to your promotion party?”

“Of course.”

I looked at him a long time and said, “Colonel, do you understand that the next president of the United States may be a thief and a murderer?”

“An alleged thief and murderer.”

“While you and I were getting our asses shot off, this guy is sitting in his office at MACV Headquarters in the Citadel at Quang Tri, wheeling and dealing on the black market, and getting stoned. Then when the shit hits the fan and American soldiers and marines are dying all around him, he finds the fucking time to commit murder and robbery. You’ve read the original of that letter. Doesn’t this bother you?”

He thought a moment and said to me, “I assume Ms. Weber translated this story from Tran Van Vinh.”

“Answer my question.”

He answered, “What’s past is past. We can’t change what happened to us there… here. We did our duty, some did not. We should not hold on to the anger, as you seem to do—”

“You’re damned right I’m angry.” I thought about my advice to Colonel Mang to let go of the anger, but I often don’t take my own good advice. I said to Karl, “You asked me at the Wall if I was angry at the men who didn’t serve, and I told you I was not. I told you I was angry at those who served dishonorably. Do you remember that?”

“I do. That was my first indication that I might be making a mistake by sending you on this assignment.”

“You should have known ten years before that.”

He nodded. “Perhaps I did. I have some ambivalence myself about this.”

“You shouldn’t have any ambivalence, Karl.”

He didn’t reply to that and said, “Your anger shouldn’t affect your judgment. We don’t know, nor will we ever prove, that Edward Blake is guilty of anything.”

“That’s for a jury to decide.”

“No, it’s not. Look at this problem as an opportunity. An opportunity for me, and for you, to belatedly profit from the war.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing that from you. Colonel Karl Law and Order Hellmann. You’d indict your own mother if you caught her shoplifting in the PX.”

“My mother is not going to be the next president of the United States, and she’s not surrounded by powerful and ruthless people.”

I stared at him.

He said, “You can’t judge a man’s life by a moment in time. If you or I were judged that way, we’d have a lot to answer for. The fact is, Paul, Edward Blake has led what appears to be an exemplary life since the war, and he is what the country needs and wants at this moment in time. What possible difference could it make to you if he became the next president?”

I turned toward the office door, but Karl grabbed my arm. He said, “Don’t make my life difficult, and don’t make your own life more difficult than it already is. We have both escaped many bullets, Paul, and are about to earn well-deserved promotions and comfortable retirements. Our military funerals with full honors will come soon enough. There’s no reason to accelerate that date.”

I pulled my arm away from him and went into the office.

Susan was sitting in a club chair, John Eagan and Bill were on a leather couch, and Marc Goodman had moved the desk chair around to the group. I stood with my butt on the Ambassador’s desk. Karl entered and took the big leather chair he’d claimed earlier.

The room was half lit with two green-shaded lamps, and outside the windows I could hear the sounds of chairs being folded on the lawn.

Colonel Goodman said to me, “It’s been decided that I lead the discussion.”

I didn’t say anything.

Goodman said to me, “While you were outside, Susan gave us a briefing of your travels from Saigon to Nha Trang, to Hue, and then to Dien Bien Phu, and your problems with the police and the soldiers, and your run-ins with this Colonel Mang. We’re up to Ban Hin.” He looked at me and Susan and said, “I commend you both on an outstanding job.”

I didn’t respond.

He said to me, “If it’s all right with Colonel Hellmann, Paul, perhaps you’d like to tell us what happened in Ban Hin.”

Colonel Hellmann said, “Paul is free to speak. But I should tell you at this time that Mr. Brenner has some serious questions about the purpose of this mission and this meeting.”

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?”

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 want 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.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You cost me a ten-dollar bet.”

More than that, Ed. “Yes, sir. She told me.”

The Veep explained this in a good-humored way, and everyone laughed politely. Edward Blake said to Susan, “And you’re his traveling companion.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any friend of Pat and Anne’s is a friend of mine.”

The guy was slick, but also charismatic, a man’s man, a lady’s dream, and maybe a nation’s nightmare.

Edward Blake looked around and said, “Well, it was a pleasure meeting you all.”

Not so fast, Ed.

Colonel Goodman said to the Veep, “Sir, this is not purely social… could we impose on you to give us a few minutes of your time? A serious matter has come up that should be brought to your attention.”

I studied Edward Blake’s face. The question that had been on my mind since Washington was, Did he know about this? In a way, it didn’t matter, except as it related to his participation, if any, in the cover-up of a crime. My hunch was that he hadn’t yet been told that the past had returned. You do the investigation first, then you tell the boss that you’ve got good news and bad news. The bad news is that we know what you did; the good news is that we can help.

Goodman motioned the Veep to Karl’s vacated chair, and he sat back, crossed his legs, and motioned for us to sit. We all sat, except me, who parked my ass on the edge of the desk.

Colonel Goodman said to Edward Blake, “Sir, this has to do with the reason that Mr. Brenner is in Vietnam, and why Colonel Hellmann is here…”

Blake looked at both of us, but said nothing.

Goodman continued, “I can assure you, sir, that everything that has been discussed in this room, and whatever will be discussed is limited to a handful of people, most of whom are here… and that anything that is discussed now will be considered confidential and privileged…”

Blake said, “Okay, you’ve assured me and you’ve aroused my curiosity. Can we get to the point?”

“Yes, sir. Perhaps Mr. Brenner would like to speak. It was his idea that we ask you to join us.”

Blake said to me, “You’re on, Paul.”

“Yes, sir. It’s my duty to inform you that Colonel Hellmann and I are with the army Criminal Investigation Division.”

This didn’t seem to get any reaction out of him, and maybe it didn’t sink in.

There are two opening questions you always ask in a homicide investigation, and I asked the first one. “Do you know a man named William Hines?”

This caught him completely off guard, and his expression went through a remarkable change, and I swear the color drained from his face. Everyone there saw it, and everyone had to come to the same conclusion.

“Sir?”

“Uh… don’t… what was that name?”

“William Hines. Lieutenant William Hines.”

“Oh… yes… I served with him. In Vietnam.”

“Yes, sir.” I asked the second question. “When was the last time you saw him alive?”

“Uh… alive? Oh, yes, he was killed in action. That’s right.”

“When was the last time you saw him alive, sir?”

“Uh… let me see… the Tet Offensive had started in late January… I guess I saw him a few days after… he went missing… our Headquarters was overrun… so… I’m not really sure, but about February 4 or 5… 1968.” He did what they all do and asked me, “Why do you ask?”

I usually say, “I’ll ask the questions, you give the answers.” But even I’m not that ballsy. I said, “Sir, it’s come to the attention of the army Criminal Investigation Division that Lieutenant William Hines was murdered in the Treasury Building within the Citadel at Quang Tri City, on or about 7 February 1968. We have good reason to believe that his assailant was a United States Army captain. We have some evidence and an eyewitness, and what we’re trying to do now is learn the identity of that assailant.”

He was starting to compose himself, and he looked shocked. “My God… are you sure?”

“Yes, sir. We’re sure he was murdered by an army captain.”

“Good Lord…” He wasn’t looking at anyone in the room and wasn’t really looking at me. He said, “That was a terrible time… I was with the MACV group then, and we were surrounded in the Citadel and fighting for our lives. I think there were only about twenty American officers and NCOs—”

“Eight officers and nine NCOs, according to the unit roster.”

He looked at me. “Is that right? Anyway, I think only seven of us survived…” He thought it might be a good idea to change the subject and said to me, “Pat Quinn tells me you saw combat in ’Nam.”

“Yes, sir. First Cav, like you, 1968, like you. I was a rifleman with Delta Company, First Battalion, Eighth Cavalry, First Air Cav, outside Quang Tri City about that time.”

“Really?” He forced a smile and said, “What were you guys doing outside the city? We needed you inside.”

I smiled in return. “Looked too dangerous in there.”

He laughed and said, “Well, if I can think of anything that might help you, Paul… and Karl… in this matter, I’ll contact you.” He stood, and everyone stood.

I said to him, “Sir, would you like to speak to me in private?”

He replied, “About what?”

“About the incident in question.”

“I know nothing about it. But I’ll think about it.” He moved toward the door.

At this point, I sometimes inform the witness that he’s a suspect, but then I have to read him his rights, and I usually can’t find the little card in my wallet. I said to Edward Blake, “As I mentioned, sir, there was a witness to this murder, and I’ve questioned him.” I didn’t bother to mention that the witness was an enemy soldier, and I let Blake conclude that it was an American GI. I said, “He was lying wounded on the second floor of the Treasury Building, and through a hole in the floor, he saw this army captain murder not only Lieutenant Hines, but three Vietnamese nationals. The murderer then proceeded to loot a vault in the treasury.”

I could see the color drain out of his face again. Not in a million years did he ever think he’d hear an eyewitness account of this story; he thought he’d killed all the witnesses. I could actually see his knees wobbling and he put his hand on the doorknob, which shook audibly. He said to me, “There have been many instances of witnesses coming forward years after the fact, who are suffering from one psychological disorder or another, or who are just plain liars. I’m sure you’re familiar with that.”

“Yes, sir. That’s why we need your help.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you. But I wish you good luck with your investigation.” He started to leave, then remembered his manners and said to Susan, “Ms. Weber, a pleasure. Gentlemen, good night.” He started to leave again, then he did something strange and came over to me and shook my hand. He turned and left the room.

Karl and Susan reached for their smokes at the same time and lit up.

I went to a sideboard and helped myself to a Scotch on the rocks.

There was an almost embarrassed silence in the room. I looked at the face of each person there, and I knew that they all believed that Edward Blake had murdered three men and one woman in the commission of a robbery, and one of the men was a comrade in arms, which didn’t sit well with Colonels Goodman and Hellman, nor with me.

But we all knew this from the beginning, and no one was shocked. They were worried. Worried about their careers, about their lives, and maybe even worried about their country. For sure, they were worried about me. In fact, I was worried about me, too.

It was Colonel Goodman who spoke first, and he said to me, “Could you find it in your heart to give Captain Edward Blake a pass on this one?”

I didn’t reply.

He said to me, “I was a young infantry lieutenant during the war… I wouldn’t expect everyone to understand that time and that place, Paul, but you and I do, and Colonel Hellmann understands. None of us would want to be called to account for that madness.”

Again, I didn’t reply.

Karl said to me, “The issue here, Paul, is not guilt or innocence, or even justice or morality. The issue here is the past. I told you, the shadows stretch from here to home. We, as soldiers, were collectively reviled and spit on at that time, and we don’t owe anyone any explanation for our actions, or any new revelations about that war. If we have any guilt, it is a shared guilt, if we have any honor, it’s amongst ourselves only. We are bound together for all time by blood and common nightmares. I tell you this, my friend, this has little or nothing to do with Edward Blake; to a greater or lesser degree, we are all Edward Blake.”

I took a deep breath and didn’t reply.

Bill said, “Paul, Edward Blake will be the first Vietnam veteran to become president of the United States. Don’t you want that?”

“Bill, shut the fuck up.”

The quiet room got quieter. I said, “Even if I bought that… and maybe I do… the other issue is all of you and your ambitions, your lying, your deception, and your bullshit. Edward Blake may have had a bad moment; you’ve had bad careers.”

I put my drink down and moved to the door. I said to Karl, “I told you to find someone else.” To Susan I said, “Come with me.”

CHAPTER FIFTY

At noon the following day, an embassy staff car took me and Susan to Noi Bai Airport, north of Hanoi. We didn’t speak much during the twenty-minute ride.

Two embassy security guys accompanied us into the terminal, and we bypassed airport security and check-in and went straight to the diplomatic lounge.

Mr. Uyen and Colonel Mang had my luggage, so I was traveling pretty light: the clothes on my back, my wallet, my passport, an airline ticket, and a diplomatic laissez-passer.

Susan wore a nice jade green dress, loaned to her by Anne Quinn, and I wore my dirty jeans, but clean boxer shorts and a horrible pink golf shirt given to me by Mrs. Quinn, who indicated that it was okay if she never saw me or the shirt and shorts again. A souvenir from Vietnam.

The diplomatic lounge was a little squalid despite its name, but there weren’t many diplomats or their families traveling that Saturday, so we had the place pretty much to ourselves. The two embassy security guys stayed with us, which wasn’t a bad idea.

The night before, Susan and I had slept on the pullout couch in the sitting room. The upstairs guest rooms had been taken by the Blakes and the Secret Service guys, who didn’t want us upstairs for some reason. As tired and drained as we both had been, Susan and I made love with the knowledge that this could be the last time.

I had my scrambled eggs in the breakfast room with Susan. Only Anne Quinn had been there, and she explained that the Blakes and the Ambassador had gone early to the embassy, and she was just on her way to join them. Susan and I expressed our regrets that we’d missed them, and Anne said she’d pass on our good-byes. We thanked her for her hospitality and a great party, and she left without extending another invitation. I think she knew something was up.

Susan and I stood now in the diplomatic lounge, looking out through a big picture window at the runways and the gray, heavy sky. There seemed to be more takeoffs than landings, like at a resort whose season was ending, though in this case, I thought it was probably the Viet diaspora, here for Tet, returning to the countries of their exile.

I was booked on an Air France flight to Paris, where someone would meet me and give me a ticket to Dulles International. This wasn’t the short-est route home, but it was the first available flight out of Hanoi, and I’d overstayed my welcome.

From Dulles, where this journey had begun, to my house in Falls Church would be a short taxi ride, or more probably I’d be met by people who wanted to take care of me. In any case, the journey home had begun, and like the last two times here, I didn’t know how I was feeling at the moment.

I’d insisted that Susan come with me, but it was Susan herself who wanted to stay in Hanoi; she’d been in Vietnam a long time, and there were many loose ends to tie up with her life, her job, and, I suppose, this mission. As for me, like the last two times, I didn’t need much notice or convincing to get out of Vietnam fast.

In the diplomatic lounge was a white door that led, according to Susan, directly out to the tarmac where a waiting vehicle would take me to the aircraft. The flight left in twenty minutes.

Susan and I didn’t sit, nor did we have a drink or coffee; we just stood there, near the white door that led to Falls Church, Virginia.

Susan said, “We have about ten minutes. Someone will let you know.”

I nodded.

She said, “I’m not going to cry.”

Again, I nodded.

We looked at each other, and neither of us knew what to say, but the time was short.

Finally, she smiled and said, “Well, we had a hell of a two weeks, didn’t we?”

I smiled.

She suggested, “We should do it again someday.”

“It’s never as much fun the second time.”

“Maybe not. But we don’t have a single photograph.” She smiled. “Not even Pyramide Island.”

I didn’t reply.

Muzak was being piped into the lounge, and they were playing tinkly piano music. We stood in silence listening to “Let It Be.”

I said to her, “Thanks for Sunday in Saigon.”

“Hey, you owe me a tour of Washington.”

“Anytime.”

She nodded and looked at me. “I should be out of here in a week or so…”

“Where will you go?”

She shrugged. “Lenox, I guess. Then to New York to see if I still have a job with AAIC. Then… I think I’d like another overseas job. I think I was born to be an expat.”

“Pick someplace nice this time.”

“I still have my book of worst places to live.”

I smiled and asked her, “Will you miss this place?”

“Terribly. But it’s time to move on.”

“It is.”

She nodded. “You know, Paul… in the Apocalypse Now lounge… when I got teary… you remember that?”

“Yes.”

“I was feeling awful about everything… I had a sudden case of homesickness, and I think it was you that brought that on in some way… and I was also thinking ahead to… to what I had to do… I had trouble lying to you from the minute I met you…”

“I know. I could see that.”

“Could you? Good.”

“Let’s forget that part of the trip. Interesting as it was.”

She laughed, then got a little misty and said again, “I’m not going to cry. You don’t like that.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I changed the subject. “Maybe your friends in Langley can use your knowledge of Vietnamese there.” And it’s not far from Falls Church.

She shook her head. “I think I’ve lost that job, too.”

“You did a good job. You’re a natural.”

She ignored that and asked, “How about you? What are you going to do?”

“Well… as I said… I need to take care of some personal business… see how that stands…”

She nodded. “You need to do that.”

I didn’t reply.

“Then what?”

“I think that depends on my mission report.”

She nodded. “What are you going to do about that?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe I don’t have to do anything. Maybe I won’t be able to do anything.”

“Just be careful, Paul. I mean really careful.”

“I know.”

“You say you know, but from what I saw, Mr. Brenner, you have more balls than brains.”

I smiled. “Sometimes that’s enough.”

“For here, but not for Washington.” She looked at me. “I’m still on your side. And available.”

“I’ll let you know.”

She informed me, “I’m going to speak to Karl. He needs to get on the right side.”

“Karl disappointed me. But I guess when your lifelong dream is in your grasp, you’ll do almost anything.”

She looked into my eyes. “But you have to be able to live with yourself afterward. Sometimes you just have to wait to see if your hopes and dreams come true… like the fairy on Nui Co Tien Mountain.”

“That didn’t end too well.”

“It did. She waited for her lover, and he returned as soon as he was able… now, they’re together for eternity.”

“Yeah… look… Susan…”

A young Viet guy came through the white door with a piece of cardboard on which was written Brenner Paul. Susan said, “Well, Mr. Paul, you are being paged.”

“Yeah…” I tried a smile. “Well, Ms. Susan…”

She said, “I am not going to cry.” She took a deep breath. “Take care of yourself. Have a good flight, and…” Tears started to form in her eyes.

I put my arms around her, and we kissed. I said, “Susan… I need to do this clean.”

“I know. This was too intense. We need a few months to see…”

The guy with the sign was holding it up, and he was looking at me anxiously. One of the embassy security guys was signaling me to wrap it up.

Susan said something to the young Viet, then said to me, “Don’t miss your freedom flight, soldier.”

We hugged again and kissed. She said, “Call me… whenever.”

“I will. Maybe in a few weeks.”

“Whenever. You have to go.”

“Okay…” I moved toward the open door, and Susan didn’t come with me. I turned back to her and asked, “Lenox?”

“Yes. I’ll wait for your call.”

“Wait for a knock on the door.”

She smiled.

I turned and followed the young man through the door.

We descended a flight of stairs, got into an open electric cart, and drove toward the boarding gate and the aircraft.

A yellow police jeep was parked near the aircraft, and as we approached, a man in uniform stepped out of the jeep. It was, unfortunately, Colonel Mang.

He put up his hand, and the driver stopped.

I didn’t get out, and I sat there waiting for Nguyen Qui Mang, Colonel, Section A of the Ministry of Public Security. He wore his sidearm, which didn’t bother me; it was mine if I wanted it. But he also carried his attaché case, which always makes me more nervous than a gun.

Behind the approaching Colonel Mang was my Air France 747 with the stairs still in place, and I could see that the last passengers were boarding. A gate agent stood nearby looking at his watch.

Colonel Mang stopped beside the cart and asked me, “Where are you going, Mr. Brenner?”

“I’m going home, Colonel. You should do the same.”

“Yes? And how was your diplomatic reception? Did you meet your Vice President?”

“I did.”

“And was he delighted to make your acquaintance?”

“He was. We swapped war stories.”

I could see that the ground crew was about to roll away the stairs. I said, “I’d love to chat awhile, but I’m going to miss my flight. So if you’ll excuse me.”

“I have instructed them to wait for you.”

“It doesn’t look that way.”

“Where is Miss Weber?”

“She’s staying awhile. She likes it here.”

“Yes? And you? Do you like it here?”

“I have mixed emotions.”

“Ah. And was your parting with Miss Weber a sad one?”

“It was not as happy as our parting is going to be. And by the way, the lady would like her film back.”

“Perhaps. I first need to see the photographs you took.”

“Speaking of which, if you send those photographs of Pyramide Island to one more person, you will be sorry you did.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I’m telling you.”

“Did Mr. Stanley not enjoy the photographs?”

I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of a response, and I said, “Okay, thanks for seeing me off. Gotta go.”

“In a moment. So, do you think this man Blake will be your new president?”

I answered his question with a question. “What do you think?”

“I had an interesting conversation with Tran Van Vinh last night. I must think about this.”

“You do that.” I could see the ground crew looking my way.

Mang said to me, “You have a diplomatic pass, and you have not even mentioned it.”

“I don’t need anything but a ticket to get on that plane.”

“Perhaps you enjoy my company.”

“No, I don’t. But I find you interesting.”

We looked at each other, and for the first time since I’d had the misfortune of making his acquaintance, I saw no malice in his eyes. He said, “I have something for you.” He reached into his attaché case and handed me the snow globe. I took it and looked at the snow falling on the Wall.

He said, “Your other personal effects will be returned through your embassy. I do not take what is not mine.”

I didn’t reply.

He said to me, “You and I, Mr. Brenner, will never be friends, but I will tell you that I respect your courage. So, for that reason only, I wish you a safe trip home.”

I handed the globe back to him and said, “Something to remember me by.”

“That is very thoughtful. And will I see you again?”

“You should hope not.”

“And you as well.”

“Go easy on this country, Colonel. The people have suffered enough.”

He didn’t reply and said something to the driver, who accelerated off toward the aircraft.

As we reached the stairs, I glanced back over my shoulder, but Colonel Mang was gone.

I looked off into the distance at the white door of the diplomatic lounge and saw Susan in the jade green dress watching me. She waved, and I waved in return.

Vietnam, third tour, had ended, and once again, I was going home sitting up.

I climbed the stairs to the aircraft and at the top, a flight attendant took my ticket, looked at it, and said in a nice French accent, “Ah, Mr. Brenner, we have been waiting for you.”

“I’m here.” I turned around, and as I’d done so many years ago, I surveyed the expanse of rice paddies and villages that now, as then, appeared misty through my eyes.

I looked again at the door where I’d last seen Susan, and she was still standing there.

We waved again. I took a final look at her, turned, and boarded the aircraft.

The journey home is never a direct route; it is, in fact, always circuitous, and somewhere along the way, we discover that the journey is more significant than the destination, and that the people we meet along the way will be the traveling companions of our memories forever.