Up Country

CHAPTER ONE

Bad things come in threes.

The first bad thing was a voice mail from Cynthia Sunhill, my former partner in the army’s Criminal Investigation Division. Cynthia is still with the CID, and she is also my significant other, though we were having some difficulties with that job description.

The message said, “Paul, I need to talk to you. Call me tonight, no matter how late. I just got called on a case, and I have to leave tomorrow morning. We need to talk.”

“Okay.” I looked at the mantel clock in my small den. It was just 10 P.M., or twenty-two hundred hours, as I used to say when I was in the army not so long ago.

I live in a stone farmhouse outside Falls Church, Virginia, less than a half-hour drive to CID Headquarters. The commute time is actually irrelevant because I don’t work for the CID any longer. In fact, I don’t work for anyone. I’m retired, or maybe fired.

In any case, it had been about six months since my separation from the army, and I was getting bored, and I had twenty or thirty years to go.

As for Ms. Sunhill, she was stationed at Fort Benning, Georgia, about a fourteen-hour drive from Falls Church, or twelve if I’m very excited. Her caseload is heavy, and weekends in the army are often normal duty days. The last six months had not been easy on our relatively new relationship, and with her interesting career and my growing addiction to afternoon talk shows, we don’t have a lot to talk about.

Anyway, bad thing number two. I checked my e-mail, and there was a message that said simply, 1600 hrs, tomorrow, the Wall. It was signed, K.

K is Colonel Karl Hellmann, my former boss at Headquarters, and Cynthia’s present commanding officer. That much was clear. What wasn’t clear was why Hellmann wanted to meet me at the Vietnam War Memorial. But instinctively, I put this under the category of “bad things.”

I considered several equally terse replies, none of them very positive. Of course, I didn’t have to respond at all; I was retired. But, in contrast to civilian careers, a military career does not completely end. The expression is, “Once an officer, always an officer.” And I had been a warrant officer by rank, and a criminal investigator by occupation.

Fact is, they still have some kind of legal hold on you, though I’m not really sure what it is. If nothing else, they can screw up your PX privileges for a year.

I stared at Karl’s message again and noticed it was addressed to Mr. Brenner. Warrant officers are addressed as Mister, so this salutation was a reminder of my past — or perhaps present — army rank, not a celebration of my civilian status. Karl is not subtle. I held off on my reply.

And, last but not least, the third bad thing. I’d apparently forgotten to send in my response to my book club, and in my mail was a Danielle Steel novel. Should I return it? Or give it to my mother next Christmas? Maybe she had a birthday coming up.

Okay, I couldn’t postpone the Cynthia call any longer, so I sat at my desk and dialed. I looked out the window as the phone rang at the other end. It was a cold January night in northern Virginia, and a light snow was falling.

Cynthia answered, “Hello.”

“Hi,” I said.

A half-second of silence, then, “Hi, Paul. How are you?”

We were off on the wrong foot already, so I said, “Let’s cut to the chase, Cynthia.”

She hesitated, then said, “Well… Can I first ask you how your day was?”

“I had a great day. An old mess sergeant gave me his recipe for chili — I didn’t realize it fed two hundred, and I made it all. I froze it in Ziploc bags. I’ll send you some. Then I went to the gym, played a basketball game against a wheelchair team — beat them big time — then off to the local tavern for beer and hamburgers with the boys. How about your day?”

“Well… I just wrapped up the rape case I told you about. But instead of time off, I have to go to Fort Rucker for a sexual harassment investigation, which looks tricky. I’ll be there until it’s concluded. Maybe a few weeks. I’ll be in Bachelor Officers Quarters if you want to call me.”

I didn’t reply.

She said, “Hey, I still think about Christmas.”

“Me, too.” That was a month ago, and I hadn’t seen her since. “How’s Easter look?”

“You know, Paul… you could move here.”

“But you could be reassigned anytime. Then I’d wind up following your career moves. Didn’t we discuss this?”

“Yes, but…”

“I like it here. You could get stationed here.”

“Is that an offer?”

Whoops. I replied, “It would be good for your career. Headquarters.”

“Let me worry about my career. And I really don’t want a staff job. I’m an investigator. Just like you were. I want to go where I can be useful.”

I said, “Well, I can’t be following you around like a puppy dog, or hanging around your apartment when you’re away on assignment. It’s not good for my ego.”

“You could get a job here in law enforcement.”

“I’m working on that. Here in Virginia.”

And so on. It’s tough when the guy’s not working and the woman has a traveling career. To make matters worse, the army likes to change your permanent duty station as soon as you’re comfortable, which calls into question the army’s definition of permanent. On top of that, there are a lot of temporary duty assignments these days — places like Bosnia, Somalia, South America — where you could be gone for up to a year, which pushes the definition of temporary. Bottom line, Cynthia and I were what’s called these days GU — geographically unsuitable.

The military, as I’ve always said, is tough on relationships; it’s not a job, it’s a calling, a commitment that makes other commitments really difficult. Sometimes impossible.

“Are you there?” she asked.

“I’m here.”

“We can’t go on like this, Paul. It hurts.”

“I know.”

“What should we do?”

I think she was willing to resign and forfeit a lot of her pension, in exchange for the M word. Then we’d decide where to live, find jobs, and live happily ever after. And why not? We were in love.

“Paul?”

“Yeah… I’m thinking.”

“You should have already thought about all of this.”

“Right. Look, I think we should talk about this in person. Face-to-face.”

“The only thing we do face-to-face is fuck.”

“That’s not… well, we’ll talk over dinner. In a restaurant.”

“Okay. I’ll call you when I get back from Rucker. I’ll come there, or you come here.”

“Okay. Hey, how’s your divorce coming?”

“It’s almost final.”

“Good.” Regarding her loving husband, I asked, “Do you see much of Major Nut Case?”

“Not much. At the O Club once in a while. Can’t avoid those situations.”

“Does he still want you back?”

“Don’t try to complicate a simple situation.”

“I’m not. I’m just concerned that he might try to kill me again.”

“He never tried to kill you, Paul.”

“I must have misinterpreted his reason for pointing a loaded pistol at me.”

“Can we change the subject?”

“Sure. Hey, do you read Danielle Steel?”

“No, why?”

“I bought her latest book. I’ll send it to you.”

“Maybe your mother would like it. It’s her birthday, February 10. Don’t forget.”

“I have it memorized. By the way, I got an e-mail from Karl. He wants to meet me tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“I thought maybe you knew.”

“No, I don’t,” she said. “Maybe he just wants to have a drink, talk about old times.”

“He wants me to meet him at the Vietnam Memorial.”

“Really? That’s odd.”

“Yeah. And he never mentioned anything to you?”

“No,” she replied. “Why should he?”

“I don’t know. I can’t figure out what he’s up to.”

“Why do you think he’s up to anything? You two worked together for years. He likes you.”

“No, he doesn’t,” I said. “He hates me.”

“He does not hate you. But you’re a difficult man to work with. Actually, you’re difficult to love.”

“My mother loves me.”

“You should re-check that. Regarding Karl, he respects you, and he knows just how brilliant you are. He either needs some advice, or he needs some information about an old case.”

“Why the Wall?”

“Well… I don’t know. You’ll find out when you meet him.”

“It’s cold here. How’s it there?”

“Sixties.”

“It’s snowing here.”

“Be careful driving.”

“Yeah.” We both stayed silent for a while, during which time I thought of our history. We’d met at NATO Headquarters in Brussels. She was engaged to Major What’s-His-Name, a Special Forces guy, we got involved, he got pissed, pulled the aforementioned gun on me, I backed off, they got married, and a year later Cynthia and I bumped into each other again.

It was in the Officers Club at Fort Hadley, Georgia, and we were both on assignment. I was undercover, investigating the theft and sale of army weapons, she was wrapping up a rape case. That’s her specialty. Sexual crimes. I’d rather be in combat again than have that job. But someone’s got to do it, and she’s good at it. More important, she can compartmentalize, and she seems to be unaffected by her work, though sometimes I wonder.

But back to Fort Hadley, last summer. While we were both there, the post commander’s daughter, Captain Ann Campbell, was found on a rifle range, staked out, naked, strangled, and apparently raped. So, I’m asked to drop my little arms deal case, and Cynthia is asked to assist me. We solved the murder case, then tried to solve our own case, which is proving more difficult. At least she got rid of Major Nut Job.

“Paul, why don’t we put this on hold until we can meet? Is that okay?”

“Sounds okay.” In fact, it was my suggestion. But why point that out? “Good idea.”

“We both need to think about how much we have to give up and how much we stand to gain.”

“Did you rehearse that line?”

“Yes. But it’s true. Look, I love you—”

“And I love you.”

“I know. That’s why this is difficult.” Neither of us spoke for a while, then she said, “I’m younger than you—”

“But I’m more immature.”

“Please shut up. And I like what I do, I like my life, my career, my independence. But… I’d give it up if I thought…”

“I hear you. That’s a big responsibility for me.”

“I’m not pressuring you, Paul. I’m not even sure I want what I think I want.”

I’m a bright guy, but I get confused when I talk to women. Rather than ask for a clarification, I said, “I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Absolutely.” Totally clueless.

“Do you miss me?”

“Every day,” I said.

“I miss you. I really do. I’m looking forward to seeing you again. I’ll take some leave time. I promise.”

“I’ll take some leave time, too.”

“You’re not working.”

“Right. But if I was, I’d take a leave to be with you. I’ll come to you this time. It’s warmer there.”

“Okay. That would be nice.”

“You like chili?”

“No.”

“I thought you liked chili. Okay, good luck with the case. Give me a day’s notice, and I’ll be there.”

“It’ll be about two weeks. Maybe three. I’ll let you know when I get into the case.”

“Okay.”

“Say hello to Karl for me. Let me know what he wanted.”

“Maybe he wants to tell me about his alien abduction.”

She laughed.

So, just as we were about to end on a happy note, she said, “You know, Paul, you didn’t have to resign.”

“Is that a fact?” The case of the general’s daughter had been trouble from minute one, a political, emotional, and professional minefield, and I stepped right into it. I would have been better off not solving the case because the solution turned out to be about things no one wanted to know. I said to Cynthia, “A letter of reprimand in my file is the army’s way of saying, ‘Call your pension officer.’ A little subtle, perhaps, but—”

“I think you misinterpreted what was happening. You were scolded, you got all huffy, and you acted impulsively because your ego was bruised.”

“Is that so? Well, thank you for informing me that I threw away a thirty-year career because I had a temper tantrum.”

“You should come to terms with that. I’ll tell you something else — unless you find something equally important and challenging to do, you’re going to get depressed—”

“I’m depressed now. You just made me depressed. Thanks.”

“Sorry, but I know you. You were not as burned out as you thought you were. The Campbell case just got to you. That’s okay. It got to everyone. Even me. It was the saddest, most depressing case—”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Okay. But what you needed was a thirty-day leave, not a permanent vacation. You’re still young—”

“You’re younger.”

“You’ve got a lot of energy left, a lot to give, but you need to write a second act, Paul.”

“Thank you. I’m exploring my options.” It had gotten noticeably cooler in the room and on the phone.

“Are you angry?”

“No. If you were here, you’d see me smiling. I’m smiling.”

“Well, if I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t be saying these things.”

“I’m still smiling.”

“See you in a few weeks.” She said, “Take care of yourself.”

“You, too.”

Silence, then, “Good night.”

“’Bye.”

We both hung up. I stood, went to the bar, and made a drink. Scotch, splash of soda, ice.

I sat in my den, my feet on the desk, watching the snow outside. The Scotch smelled good.

So, there I was with a Danielle Steel novel on my desk, an unpleasant phone call still ringing in my ears, and an ominous message from Karl Hellmann on my computer screen.

Sometimes things that seem unconnected are actually part of a larger plan. Not your plan, to be sure, but someone else’s plan. I was supposed to believe that Karl and Cynthia were not talking about me, but Mrs. Brenner didn’t raise an idiot.

I should be pissed off when people underestimate my intelligence, though in truth, I affect a certain macho idiocy that encourages people to underestimate my brilliance. I’ve put a lot of people in jail that way.

I looked at the message again. 1600 hrs, tomorrow, the Wall. Not even “please.” Colonel Karl Gustav Hellmann can be a bit arrogant. He’s German-born, as the name suggests, whereas Paul Xavier Brenner is a typical Irish lad, from South Boston, charmingly irresponsible, and delightfully smart-assed. Herr Hellmann is quite the opposite. Yet, on some strange level, we got along. He was a good commander, strict but fair, and highly motivated. I just never trusted his motives.

Anyway, I sat up and banged out an e-mail to Karl: See you there and then. I signed it, Paul Brenner, PFC, which, in this case, did not mean Private First Class, but meant, as Karl and I both knew, Private F-ing Civilian.

CHAPTER TWO

It was three o’clock, and I was at the National Mall, a park in Washington, D.C., a rectangular strip of grass and trees, running from the U.S. Capitol in the east to the Lincoln Memorial in the west, a distance of about two miles.

The Mall is a good place to jog, with nice vistas, so rather than waste a trip into the city just to see Karl Hellmann, I came dressed in a sweat suit and running shoes, and I wore a knit cap pulled over my ears.

I began my run around the Capitol reflecting pool and paced myself to arrive at the Wall at the appointed hour of 4 P.M., my time, 1600 hours, Karl’s time.

It was cold, but the sun was still above the horizon, and there was no wind. The trees were all bare, and the grass was dusted with last night’s snow.

I set off at a good pace, keeping to the south side of the Mall, past the National Air and Space Museum, the Smithsonian, and other museums in between.

This is, as I said, officially a park, but it’s also where everyone wants to erect something important; monuments, museums, memorials, and statues, and if this marble mania keeps up, the Mall will someday resemble the Roman Forum, packed full of temples to this and that. I’m not being judgmental — important people and events need a memorial or a monument. I’ve got my memorial: the Wall. It’s a very good memorial because it doesn’t have my name on it.

The sun was lower, the shadows were longer, and it was very still and quiet, except for the snow crunching under my feet.

I glanced at my watch and saw it was ten minutes to the appointed hour. Herr Hellmann, like many of his ethnic group, is fanatical about punctuality. I mean, I don’t like to generalize about races, religions, and all that, but the Irish and the Germans don’t share the same concept of time.

I picked up my pace and headed north around the reflecting pool. My butt was starting to drag, and the cold air was making my lungs ache.

As I crossed the landscape of Constitution Gardens, the Vietnam Women’s Memorial statues came into view: three nurses clad in jungle fatigues, around some wounded guy I couldn’t yet see.

About a hundred yards farther toward the Wall was the statue of the three servicemen — three bronze guys in jungle fatigues near a flagstaff.

Beyond the two groupings of bronze statues was the black wall itself, highly contrasted against the white snow.

The Wall is probably the most visited monument in Washington, but there weren’t many people around on this cold weekday. As I got closer, I had the sense that the people who were there, staring hard at the Wall, were people who needed to be there.

A solitary man stood out from the sparse crowd; it was Colonel Karl Hellmann, dressed in a civilian trench coat, wearing a snap-brim hat, and, of course, looking at his watch, probably mumbling to himself in his slightly accented English, “Vhere is dis guy?”

I slowed my pace so as not to alarm my former boss with the sight of me running full tilt toward him, and when I was on the path that runs parallel to the Wall, about twenty yards from Herr Hellmann, a church bell chimed somewhere, then a second chime, and a third. I slowed to a walk and came up behind Karl Gustav Hellmann, just as the fourth bell chimed the hour.

He sensed my presence, or perhaps saw me in the reflection of the black wall, and without turning, he said, “Hello, Paul.”

He seemed delighted to see me — or sense me — though you couldn’t tell how thrilled he was. If nothing else, I was right on time, and this puts him in a good mood.

I didn’t reply to his greeting, and we both stood, side by side, looking at the Wall. I really wanted to walk off the run, but I remained standing, trying to catch my breath, clouds of fog coming out of my nostrils like a horse, and the sweat starting to get cold on my face.

So, we stood there, silently getting to know each other again after a six-month separation, sort of like dogs sniffing each other to see who’s top dog.

I noticed that the section of the Wall before which we were standing was marked 1968. This is the largest expanse of the Wall, 1968 being the unhappy year of the highest American casualties: the Tet Offensive, the Siege of Khe Sanh, the Battle of the A Shau Valley, and other lesser-known but no less terrifying engagements. Karl Hellmann, like me, was there in 1968, and he knew of some of these places and events firsthand.

The homefront wasn’t so terrific in 1968 either: the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Bobby Kennedy, the campus riots, the urban riots, and so forth. Bad year all around. I understood why Hellmann had put himself in front of 1968, though I didn’t understand why we were here in the first place. But, old army guy that I am, I never speak to a superior officer until spoken to. Sometimes not even after I’m spoken to, like now. For all I gave a shit, we could stand there in complete silence until midnight.

Finally, Karl said, “Thank you for coming.”

I replied, “It sounded like an order.”

“But you’re retired.”

“Actually, I resigned.”

“I don’t care what you did. I made it a retirement. That’s much more pleasant for everyone.”

“I really wanted to resign.”

“Then we couldn’t have had that nice party — the one where you read your letter of reprimand to everyone.”

“You asked me to say a few words.”

Hellmann didn’t respond, but said, “So, you look very fit.”

“I should. I’ve been jogging all over Washington, meeting people at monuments. You’re the third today.”

Hellmann lit a cigarette and observed, “Your sarcasm and bad sense of humor haven’t changed.”

“Good. So, if I may ask, what’s up?”

“First, we need to exchange pleasantries and news. How have you been?”

“Terrific. Catching up on a lot of reading. Hey, do you read Danielle Steel?”

“Who?”

“I’m going to send you a book. You like chili?”

Hellmann drew on his cigarette, probably wondering what possessed him to contact me.

“Let me ask you, Paul, do you think you’ve been unfairly treated by the army?”

“No more so than a few million other guys, Colonel.”

“I think the pleasantries are finished.”

“Good.”

“Two administrative things. First, your letter of reprimand. This can be removed from your file. Second, your retirement pay. This can be computed differently, which could be a considerable amount of money over your expected life span.”

“Actually, my expected life span got longer when I left the army, so the smaller amount works out okay.”

“Do you want to know more about these two items?”

“No. I smell trouble.”

So, we both stood there in the cold, sniffing the air, thinking five or six moves ahead. I’m good at this, but Karl is better. He’s not quite as bright as I am, certainly not as glib, but he thinks deep and long.

I actually like the guy. I really do. In fact, to be honest, I was a little hurt when I never heard from him. Maybe he was annoyed over my silliness at the retirement party. I’d had a couple, but I vaguely remember doing an impression of a Prussian field marshal named, I think, von Hellmann.

Finally, Karl said, “There is a name on this wall of a man who was not killed in action. A man, who was, in fact, murdered.”

I did not reply to that startling statement.

Karl asked me, “How many men do you know on this wall?”

I stayed silent for a moment, then replied, “Too many.” I asked him, “How many guys do you know here?”

“The same. You had two tours of duty in Vietnam. Correct?”

“Correct. The ’68 tour, then again in ’72, but by that time, I was an MP, and most of my fighting was with drunken soldiers outside Bien Hoa Airbase.”

“But the first time… you were a frontline infantryman… You saw a good deal of combat. Did you enjoy it?”

This is the kind of question that only combat veterans could understand. It occurred to me that in all the years I’ve known Karl, we never spoke much about our combat experiences. This is not unusual. I looked at him and said, “It was the ultimate high. The first few times. Then… I became used to it, accepted it as the norm… then, in the last few months before I went home, I got very paranoid, like they were trying to kill me personally, like they weren’t going to let me go home. I don’t think I slept the last two months in-country.” We made eye contact.

Karl nodded. “That was my experience as well.” He stepped closer to the Wall, focusing on individual names. “We were young then, Paul. These men are forever young.” He touched one of the names. “I knew this man.”

Hellmann seemed unusually pensive, almost morose. I guess it had something to do with where we were, the season, the twilight and all that. I wasn’t particularly chipper myself.

He took out a gold cigarette case and matching lighter. “Would you like one?”

“No, thanks. You just had one.”

He ignored me, the way smokers do, and lit up another.

Karl Gustav Hellmann. I didn’t know much about his personal life, but I knew that he grew up in the ruins of postwar Germany. I’ve known a few other German-American soldiers over the years, and they were mostly officers, and mostly retired by now. The usual biography of these galvanized Yankees was that they were fatherless or orphaned, and they did chores for the American Army of Occupation to survive. At eighteen, they enlisted in the U.S. Army at some military post in Germany, as a way out of the squalor of the defeated nation. There were a good number of such men in the army once, and Karl was probably one of the last.

I wasn’t sure how much of this specific biography applied to Karl Hellmann, but he must be very close to mandatory retirement, unless there was a general’s star in his immediate future, in which case he could stay on. I had the thought that this meeting had something to do with that.

He said to me, or maybe to himself, “It’s been a long time. Yet sometimes it seems like yesterday.” He looked at the Wall, then at me. “Do you agree?”

“Yes, 1968 is as clear as a slide show, a progression of bright silent images, frozen in time…” We looked at each other, and he nodded.

So, where was this headed?

It helps to know where it started. As I mentioned, I’m Boston Irish, South, which means working-class. My father was a World War II vet, like everybody else’s father in that place and time. He did three years in the army infantry, came home, married, had three sons, and worked thirty years for the City of Boston, maintaining municipal buses. He once admitted to me that this job was not as exciting as the Normandy invasion, but the hours were better.

Not too long after my eighteenth birthday, I received my draft notice. I called Harvard regarding a spot in their freshman class, and a student deferment, but they pointed out, rightly, that I’d never applied. Same with Boston University, and even Boston College, where a lot of my coreligionists had found asylum from the draft.

So, I packed an overnight bag, Dad shook my hand, my younger brothers thought I was cool, Mom cried, and off I went by troop train to Fort Hadley, Georgia, for Basic Training and Advanced Infantry Training. For some idiotic reason, I applied for and was accepted to Airborne School — that’s parachute training — at Fort Benning, also in Georgia. To complete my higher education in the field of killing, I applied for Special Forces Training, thinking maybe the war would run out before I ran out of crazy schools, but the army said, “Enough. You’re good to go, boy.” And soon after Airborne School, I found myself in a frontline infantry company in a place called Bong Son, which is not in California.

I glanced at Karl, knowing that we’d been over there at about the same time, having traveled very different roads to that war. But maybe not so different after all.

Karl said, “I thought it would be good if we met here.”

I didn’t reply.

After Vietnam, we both remained in the army, I think because the army wanted us, and no one else probably did. I became an MP and served a partial second tour in Vietnam. Over the years, I took advantage of the army college extension program and received a B.S. in Criminal Justice, then got into the Criminal Investigation Division, mostly because they wore civilian clothes.

I became what’s known as a warrant officer: a quasi-officer with no command responsibility, but with an important job, in this case, a homicide detective.

Karl took a slightly different and more genteel route, and went to a real college full-time on the army’s nickel, getting some half-assed degree in philosophy while taking four years of Reserve Officers Training, then re-entering active duty as a lieutenant.

At some point, our lives nearly touched in Vietnam, then converged at Falls Church. And here we were now, literally and figuratively in the twilight, no longer warriors, but middle-aged men looking at the dead of our generation spread out in front of us; 58,000 names carved into the black stone, and I suddenly saw these men as kids, carefully carving their names into trees, into school desks, into wooden fences. I realized that for every name in the granite, there was a matching name still carved somewhere in America. And these names, too, were carved in the hearts of their families, and in the heart of the nation.

We began walking, Karl and I, along the Wall, our breaths misting in the cold air. At the base of the wall were flowers, left by friends and family, and I recalled that the last time I’d been here, many years ago, someone had left a baseball glove, and when I saw it, before I knew what was happening, tears were rolling down my face.

In the early years of the memorial, there had been a lot of such things left at the Wall: photos, hats, toys, even favorite foods, like a box of Nabisco graham crackers, which I saw that time. Today, I noticed, there weren’t any personal items, just flowers, and a few folded notes stuck in the seams of the Wall.

The years have passed, the parents die, the wives move on, the brothers and sisters don’t forget, but they’ve already been here and don’t need to return. The dead, young as they were for the most part, didn’t leave many children, but the last time I was here, I met a daughter, a lady in her early twenties, who never knew her father. I never knew a daughter, so for about ten minutes, we filled a little of the emptiness in each other, the missing parts, then we went our separate ways.

For some reason, this made me think of Cynthia, of marriage, children, home and hearth, and all sorts of warm and fuzzy things. If Cynthia were here, I might have proposed marriage, but she wasn’t here, and I knew I’d be myself again by morning.

Karl, who had probably been thinking similar thoughts about war and peace, mortality and immortality, said, “I try to come here once a year, on August 17, the anniversary of a battle I was in.” He stayed silent a while, then continued, “The battle of Highway 13… Eleventh Armored Cavalry, the Michelin rubber plantation. You may have heard of it. A lot of people around me were dying. So, I come here on August 17, and say a prayer for them, and a prayer of thanks for myself. It’s the only time I pray.”

“I thought you used to go to church every Sunday.”

“One goes to church with the wife and children.”

He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask. We turned and walked back the way we came.

He said, in a different tone of voice, “So, are you curious about the man who was murdered?”

“I may be curious. But I really don’t want to know.”

“If that were the case, you’d leave.”

“I’m being polite, Colonel.”

“I would have enjoyed that politeness when you worked for me. But as long as you’re being polite, hear me out.”

“If I listen, I can be subpoenaed at some future judicial proceeding. Says so in the manual.”

“Believe me, this meeting and this conversation never took place. That’s why we’re here, not in Falls Church.”

“I already figured that out.”

“May I begin?”

I was on solid ground now; the next step was a greased slope. There was not a single good reason in the world that I could think of for me to listen to this man. But I wasn’t thinking hard enough. Cynthia. Get a job, get a life, or whatever she said.

Karl asked, “May I begin?”

“Can I stop you anytime I want?”

“No. If I begin, you listen, I end.”

“Is this a criminal case?”

“I believe homicide is criminal, yes. Do you have any other stupid questions?”

I smiled, not because of the insult, but because I was getting on his nerves. “You know what? To prove how stupid I really am, I’ll listen.”

“Thank you.”

Karl had walked away from the Wall toward the Women’s Memorial, and I walked with him. He said, “It has come to the attention of the CID that a young lieutenant, who is listed as killed, or perhaps missing in action, was in fact murdered in the city of Quang Tri, on 7 February 1968, during the Tet Offensive battle for that city.” He added, “I believe you were in Quang Tri Province at that time.”

“Yes, but I have an alibi for that day.”

“I only mention that as a coincidence. In fact, your unit was some kilometers away from the provincial capital of Quang Tri City on that day. But you can appreciate the background, and visualize the time and place.”

“You bet. I also appreciate you checking my service records.”

Hellmann ignored this and continued, “I was, as I said, with the Eleventh Armored Cavalry, stationed at Xuan Loc, but operating around Cu Chi at about that time. I don’t remember that particular day, but that whole month during the Tet Offensive was unpleasant.”

“It sucked.”

“Yes, it sucked.” He stopped walking and looked at me. “Regarding this American lieutenant, we have evidence that he was murdered by an American army captain.”

Karl let that sink in, but I didn’t react. Now, I’d heard what I didn’t want to hear, and now I was in possession of a Secret. Details to follow.

We stared at the Vietnam Women’s Memorial, the three nurses, one tending to the wounded guy lying on sandbags, one kneeling close by, and the other looking up at the sky for the medevac chopper. The four figures were in light clothing, and I felt cold just looking at them.

I said to Karl, “These statues should be closer to the Wall. The last person a lot of those guys over there saw or talked to before they died was a military nurse.”

“Yes, but perhaps that juxtaposition would be too morbid. This man here looks to me as though he will live.”

“Yeah… he’s going to make it.”

So we stayed silent awhile, lost in our thoughts. I mean, these are statues, but they bring the whole thing back again.

Karl broke the silence, and continued, “We don’t know the name of the alleged murderer, nor do we know the alleged murder victim. We know only that this captain murdered this lieutenant in cold blood. We have no corpse — or I should say, we have many corpses, all killed by the enemy, except the one in question. We do know that the murder victim was killed by a single pistol shot to the forehead, and that may narrow down the name of the victim based on battlefield death certificates issued at that time. Unless, of course, the body was never found, and the victim is listed as missing in action. Are you following me?”

“I am. A United States Army captain pulls his pistol and shoots a United States Army lieutenant in the forehead. This is presumably a fatal wound. This happened in the heat of battle nearly thirty years ago. But let me play defense counsel — maybe it wasn’t murder. Maybe it was one of those unfortunate instances where a superior officer shot a lower-ranking officer for cowardice in the face of the enemy. It happens, and it’s not necessarily murder, or even illegal. Maybe it was self-defense, or an accident. You shouldn’t jump to conclusions.” I added, “But of course, you have a witness. So I shouldn’t speculate.”

We turned and began walking back toward the Wall. The light was fading, people came and went, a middle-aged man placed a floral wreath at the base of the black granite and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief.

Hellmann watched the man a moment, then said, “Yes, there was a witness. And the witness described a cold-blooded murder.”

“And this is a reliable witness?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who and where is this witness?”

“We don’t know where he is, but we have his name.”

“And you want me to find him.”

“Correct.”

“How did you first hear from this witness?”

“He wrote a letter.”

“I see… so, you have a missing witness to a thirty-year-old murder, no suspect, no corpse, no murder weapon, no motive, no forensic evidence, and the murder took place in a godforsaken country very far from here. And you want me to solve this homicide.”

“That’s correct.”

“Sounds easy. Can I ask you why? Who cares after thirty years?”

“I care. The army cares. A murder was committed. There is no statute of limitations on murder.”

“Right. You realize that this lieutenant who was killed, or is missing, is believed by his family to have died honorably in battle. So what is gained by proving that he was murdered? Don’t you think his family has suffered enough?” I nodded toward the man at the Wall.

“That is not a consideration,” said Karl Hellmann, true to form.

“It is to me,” I informed him.

“It’s not that you think too much, Paul, it’s that you think of the wrong things.”

“No, I don’t. I think that there is a name on this wall that is best left alone.”

“There’s a murderer at large.”

“Maybe, maybe not. For all we know, the alleged murderer was later killed in action. That was a nasty time, and odds are that this captain got killed in battle.”

“Then his name doesn’t belong on this wall with those men who died honorably.”

“I knew you’d say that.”

“I knew you’d understand.”

“I think we worked together too long.”

“We worked well together.”

This was news to me. Maybe he meant we got the job done together, which was true, despite our big differences in personalities, and the fact that one of us was a stickler for rules, while the other was definitely not.

We walked away from the Vietnam Women’s Memorial and stopped at the three bronze male statues: two white guys and a black guy, who were supposed to represent a marine, an army guy, and a sailor, but they were all dressed in jungle fatigues, so it was hard to tell. They were staring at the Wall, as if they were contemplating the names of the dead, but in a creepy sort of way, these guys looked dead themselves.

Karl turned toward the wall and said, “At first, I didn’t like that Wall. I preferred these heroic bronze statues because the Wall, for all its abstractness and metaphorical nuances, was in reality just a massive tombstone, a common grave with everyone’s name on it. That’s what disturbed me. Then… then I accepted it. What do you think?”

“I think we have to accept it for what it is. A tombstone.”

“Do you ever feel survivor’s guilt?”

“I might have, if I hadn’t been there. Can we change the subject?”

“No. You once told me that you bear no ill will toward the men who didn’t serve. Is that true?”

“It’s still true. Why?”

“You said you were more angry at the men who did go to Vietnam, but who didn’t do their job — men who let the others down, men who engaged in dishonorable acts, such as rape and robbery. Men who carelessly killed civilians. Is that still true?”

“Finish the briefing.”

“Yes. So, we have this captain, who most likely murdered a junior officer. I want to know the name of this captain and the name of the murdered lieutenant.”

I noticed that the obvious question of why — the motive — hadn’t specifically come up. Maybe, as with most cases of murder in wartime, the motive was petty, illogical, and unimportant. But maybe it was the central reason for digging up a thirty-year-old crime. And if it was, and if Karl wasn’t mentioning it, then I wasn’t going to mention it. I stuck to the facts at hand and said, “All right, if you want some reality checks, consider that this captain — this alleged murderer — if he didn’t die in combat could be dead of natural causes by now. It’s been thirty years.”

“I’m alive. You’re alive. We have to find out if he’s alive.”

“Okay. How about the witness? Do we know if he’s alive?”

“No, we don’t. But if he’s not, we want to know that, too.”

“When is the last time this witness showed signs of life?”

“Eight February 1968. That’s the date on the letter.”

“I know the army post office is slow, but this is a record.”

“In fact, the witness was not an American soldier. He was a soldier in the North Vietnamese army, named Tran Van Vinh. He was wounded during the battle of Quang Tri City, and was in hiding among the ruins. He witnessed these two Americans arguing and witnessed the captain pulling his pistol and shooting the lieutenant. In his letter, which he wrote to his brother, he referred to the murderer as dai-uy — captain — and the murder victim as trung-uy — lieutenant.”

“There were some marines around Quang Tri at that time. Maybe this is not a case for the army.”

Hellmann replied, “Tran Van Vinh, in his letter, mentioned that these two men were ky-binh — cavalry. So obviously he saw their U.S. Army First Cavalry shoulder patches, which he knew.”

I pointed out, “The First Cavalry Division, of which I was a member, had over twenty thousand men in it.”

“That’s correct. But it does narrow it down.”

I thought about all this for a moment, then asked Karl, “And you have this letter?”

“Of course. That’s why we’re here.”

“Right. And the letter was addressed to this guy’s brother. How did you get it?”

“In a very interesting way. The brother was also a North Vietnamese soldier, named Tran Quan Lee. The letter was found on Tran Quan Lee’s body in the A Shau Valley in mid-May of the same year by an American soldier named Victor Ort, who took it as a souvenir. The letter was sent home by Ort and lay in this man’s steamer trunk full of other war memorabilia for almost thirty years. Very recently, Ort sent the letter to the Vietnam Veterans of America, based here in Washington. This organization asks its members to return found and captured enemy documents and artifacts, and to provide information that these veterans might have concerning enemy dead. This information is then turned over to the Vietnamese government in Hanoi to help the Vietnamese discover the fate of their missing soldiers.”

“Why?”

“They are no longer the enemy. They have McDonald’s and Kentucky Fried Chicken in Saigon. In any case, we want them to help us find our missing in action. We still have about two thousand MIAs unaccounted for. They have an astounding three hundred thousand missing.”

“I think they’re all in San Diego.”

“No, they’re all dead. Including Tran Quan Lee, killed in the A Shau Valley, possibly by Mr. Ort, though he was vague about that.” Hellmann continued, “So, this American veteran, Victor Ort, sent the letter he found on the body of Tran Quan Lee to the Vietnam Veterans of America, with a note saying how, where, and when he found the letter and the body. The VVA, as a courtesy to the men who are sending such letters, had the letter translated, and was about to send the translation to Mr. Ort, but someone at the VVA — a retired army officer — read the translation and realized that what he was reading was an eyewitness account to a murder. This man then contacted us. A civilian would have contacted the FBI.”

“It was our lucky day. And did anyone send the translation to Mr. Ort?”

“Mr. Ort was sent a translation of a love letter, and a note of thanks.”

“Right. And you have the original of this letter?”

“Yes, and we’ve had it authenticated regarding paper and ink, and we’ve had three different translators work on it. They all came up with nearly the same wording. There’s no mistaking that what Tran Van Vinh is describing to his brother, Tran Quan Lee, is a murder. It’s a very compelling and disturbing letter.” He added, “I’ll show you a translated copy of it, of course.”

“Do I need it?”

Hellmann replied, “There’s not much in the way of clues in the letter other than what I told you, but it might motivate you.”

“To do what?”

“To find the author of the letter. Tran Van Vinh.”

“And what are the chances of Tran Van Vinh being alive? I mean, really, Karl, that whole generation of Vietnamese was nearly wiped out.”

“Nearly is the operative word.”

“Not to mention a short natural life expectancy.”

“We have to try to find this witness, Sergeant Tran Van Vinh.” Hellmann added, “Unfortunately, there are only about three hundred family names in Vietnam, and the Vietnamese population is about eighty million.”

“So the phone book won’t be much help.”

“There are no phone books. But we’re lucky this man’s family name wasn’t Nguyen. Half the Vietnamese family names are Nguyen. Fortunately, the family name Tran is not as common, and the middle and first names of Van Vinh and Quan Lee narrow it down.”

“Do you have a hometown and date of birth?”

“No date of birth, but an approximate age, of course — our age group. The envelope was addressed to the brother via an army unit designation, and also on the envelope was Tran Van Vinh’s return army address. We know from these addresses that these two men were in the North Vietnamese army, not the local South Vietnamese Viet Cong, so they’re northerners. In fact, in the letter there is a mention of their village or hamlet, a place called Tam Ki, but we find no such village on any of our maps of Vietnam, North or South. This is not unusual, as you might remember — the locals often referred to their hamlets or villages by one name, and the official maps had another for the same place. But we’re working on that. The village of Tam Ki will be an important clue in finding this man, Tran Van Vinh.”

“And if you find him? What’s he going to tell you that he hasn’t already put in the letter?”

“He could possibly identify the murderer from old army ID photos.”

“After thirty years?”

“It’s possible.”

“So, you have suspects?”

“Not at the moment. But we’re going through army records now, trying to discover the names of all First Cavalry Division United States Army captains who were in or near the city of Quang Tri on or about 7 February 1968. Also, of course, we’re looking at the First Cav lieutenants who were killed or missing in action at the same time and place. That’s all we have — two ranks, a captain and a lieutenant, their division, the First Cav, a place, Quang Tri City, and the date of 7 February 1968, the actual date of the murder that was described in the letter written the following day.”

Karl and I walked away from the statues, and I thought about all of this. I saw where this was going, but I didn’t want to go there.

Karl continued, “We can narrow this down and come up with a list of possible suspects based on army records. Then, we will ask the FBI to question these former captains if they are civilians, and we will question any who are still in the army. At the same time, we will be looking for the only witness to this homicide. It sounds like a long shot, Paul, but crimes have been solved with even less to go on, as you well know.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to go to Vietnam, Paul.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Karl. Been there, done that. Got the medals to prove it.”

“Vietnam in January is actually quite pleasant, weatherwise.”

“So is Aruba. That’s where I’m headed next week,” I lied.

“A return trip might do you some good.”

“I don’t think so. The place sucked then, it sucks now.”

“Veterans who’ve returned report a cathartic experience.”

“It’s a totalitarian Commie police state with two hundred thousand tons of unexploded mines, booby traps, and artillery shells buried all over, waiting to blow me up.”

“Well, you need to be careful.”

“Are you coming with me?”

“Of course not. The place sucks.”

I laughed. “Colonel, with all due respect, you can take this case and shove it up someone else’s butt.”

“Listen to me, Paul — we cannot send an active duty man to Vietnam. This is… well, an unofficial investigation. You’ll go over as a tourist, a returning veteran, like thousands of other men—”

“You mean I wouldn’t have any official status or diplomatic immunity?”

“We would come to your aid, if you got into trouble.”

I asked, “What kind of aid? Like smuggling poison into my cell?”

“No, like having an embassy person visit you if you were detained, plus, of course, we’d lodge an official protest.”

“That’s very reassuring, but I don’t think I want to see the inside of a Communist prison, Karl. I have two friends who spent a lot of years in the Hanoi Hilton. They didn’t like it.”

“If you ran afoul of the authorities, they’d just kick you out.”

“Can I tell them you said that?”

Hellmann didn’t reply.

I thought a moment and said, “I’m assuming that the Vietnam Veterans of America has sent the original of this letter to Hanoi as part of their humanitarian program to help the North Vietnamese learn the fate of their dead and missing. Therefore, Hanoi will locate the family of the deceased Tran Quan Lee, and they will know if his brother, Tran Van Vinh, is alive and where he is. Correct? So, why don’t you go through normal diplomatic channels, and let the Hanoi government do what it does best — keep track of its miserable citizens.”

Hellmann informed me, “Actually, we’ve asked the VVA not to send that letter to Hanoi.”

I knew that, but I asked, “Why?”

“Well… There are a number of reasons we thought it best that Hanoi didn’t see the letter at this time.”

“Give me one of those reasons.”

“The less they know, the better. The same is true for you.”

We made eye contact, and I realized that there was more to this than a thirty-year-old murder. There had to be, or none of this would make any sense. But I didn’t ask anything further. I said, “Okay, I’ve heard too much already. Thanks for your confidence in me, but no thanks.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“Don’t try that on me, Karl. I’ve put my life on the line for this country many times. But this is not worth my life, or anyone’s life. It’s history. Let it be.”

“It’s a matter of justice.”

“This has nothing to do with justice. It’s something else, and since I don’t know what it is, I’m not putting my ass into Vietnam for a reason that no one’s telling me. The last two times I was there, I knew why.”

“We thought we knew why. They lied to us. No one’s lying to you this time. We’re just not telling you why. But trust me that this is very important.”

“That’s what they said then, too.”

“I won’t argue with that.”

The sun had almost set, and a cold wind was starting to blow. We were nearly alone, and both of us stood silently with our thoughts. Finally, Karl Hellmann said in a soft voice, “It is twilight. The shadows are long.” He looked at me. “The shadows stretch from there to here, Paul. That’s all I can tell you.”

I didn’t reply.

A man appeared dressed in an old fatigue jacket, wearing a bush hat. He was about our age, but looked older because of a full gray beard. He put a bugle to his lips and played taps. As the last mournful note died away in the wind, the man faced the Wall, saluted, and moved off.

Karl and I lingered a moment longer, then Hellmann said, “All right, I understand. It could be a bit risky, and middle-aged men don’t risk their lives for something that could be foolish or useless. To tell you the truth, this man Tran Van Vinh is most likely dead, or even if he were alive, he probably wouldn’t be helpful. Come on, let me buy you a drink. There’s that place you like on Twenty-third Street.”

We walked in silence through the Mall, and Hellmann asked, “May I at least show you the letter?”

“Which one do I see? The love letter or the real one?”

“The translation of Tran Van Vinh’s letter.”

“A true and complete translation?”

Karl didn’t reply.

I said to him, “Give me the original letter in Vietnamese, and I’ll have it translated.”

“That’s not necessary.”

I smiled. “So, there’s something in the letter that is not for my eyes. But you want my help, and you’re holding a lot back.”

“It’s for your own good. Whatever I’m not telling you is irrelevant to the mission of finding Tran Van Vinh.”

“It’s relevant to something, or you wouldn’t be so cloak-and-dagger about it.”

Karl said nothing.

I asked, “How long ago did you get this letter from the VVA?”

“Two days ago.”

“And I assume you’ve begun the search of army records?”

“Yes, but that’s going to take a week or two. Also, there was that record storage fire—”

“Karl, that 1973 fire has been used to cover up more crap than any fire in history.”

“That may be, but there are missing files. Yet, I think that in a few weeks, we’ll be able to come up with a list of First Cavalry army captains who may have been in that place at that time. The list of army lieutenants who were actually killed in action in Quang Tri City on or around 7 February will be much shorter and more detailed. I can’t imagine more than two or three names on that KIA list. There is a presumption that the captain and the lieutenant were in the same unit, so that could narrow down the names of the captains who could be suspects. That’s why I think this is not such a long shot.”

I replied, “Well, you may come up with a prime suspect, but you’ll never get a conviction.”

Karl replied, “Let’s find the witness and the suspect and worry about the consequences later.”

I thought a minute, then said to Karl, “As you mentioned, I was there at the time. And, FYI, the city itself was garrisoned by the South Vietnamese army, not Americans. Our guys were at firebases around the city. Are you sure these two Cav officers were in the city?”

“The letter strongly indicates that. Why?”

“Well, then maybe these two Americans were attached to the South Vietnamese army as advisors — Military Assistance Command, Vietnam. MACV. Right?”

“That’s a possibility.”

“So, that narrows it down even more. Do some desk work here before you go sending somebody into ’Nam.”

“We want parallel and concurrent investigations.”

“It’s your show.” In fact, I strongly suspected that the CID had been working on this much longer than Karl was indicating. I also suspected that the CID had already narrowed down the list of possible suspects and the possible victim, and maybe they already had their prime suspect. But they were not telling Paul Brenner about that. What the CID wanted now was for me to find the only eyewitness to this crime. I said to Colonel Hellmann, “An interesting case, and my bloodhound instincts are aroused. But I don’t need the frequent flier miles to Southeast Asia. I can think of a few other guys who’d love to go.”

“No problem.” Hellmann changed the subject and asked, “Are you still seeing Ms. Sunhill?”

I love it when people ask you questions about things they already know. I replied, “Why don’t you ask her?”

“To be honest, I already have. She indicates that there seems to be some problem with the relationship, which is why I thought you might be open to an overseas assignment.”

“I am. Aruba. And stay out of my personal life, please.”

“Ms. Sunhill is still CID, and as her commanding officer, I have a right to ask certain personal questions.”

“That’s what I miss about the army.”

Karl ignored this and asked, “By the way, are you looking for a civilian job in law enforcement?”

“I might be.”

“I can’t imagine you doing nothing in retirement.”

“I’ve got plenty to do.”

“I might be able to help you with a government job. The FBI hires a lot of former CID. This overseas assignment would look very good on your résumé.”

“Not to mention my obituary.”

“It would look good there, too.”

Karl doesn’t make too many jokes, so to be polite, I chuckled.

This encouraged him, I think, to press on. He said, “Did I mention that the Department of the Army will retroactively promote you to Chief Warrant Officer Five and recompute your retirement pay?”

“Tell them thanks.”

“In exchange for about two or three weeks of your time.”

“There’s always a catch.”

Hellmann stopped and lit another cigarette. We faced each other under a lamplight. Hellmann exhaled a stream of smoke and said, “We can get someone else, but your name came up first, second, and third. I’ve never asked a favor of you—”

“Of course you have.”

“And I’ve gotten you out of some very messy situations, Paul.”

“That you put me in, Karl.”

“You put yourself in most of them. Be honest with yourself.”

“It’s cold out here. I need a drink. You smoke too much.” I turned and walked off.

End of meeting. End of Karl. I continued walking, picturing Karl standing under the lamplight, smoking his cigarette, watching me. Well, that was one bad thing resolved.

For some reason, I found that my pace was slowing. All sorts of thoughts suddenly filled my frozen brain. Cynthia was one of them, of course. Write a second act, Paul. Was I set up, or what?

Certainly I needed to do something to get my juices flowing again. But I couldn’t believe that Cynthia would want me to risk my life to perk up our relationship. Probably, she didn’t know exactly what Karl had in mind.

As I walked, I thought about my favorite subject — me. What was best for Paul Brenner? Suddenly, I had this image of me going to Vietnam and returning a hero; that hadn’t happened the last two times, but maybe it would this time. Then, I had this other image of me coming home in a box.

I found myself in a circle of light under a lamp pole, and I wasn’t walking. I turned back toward Karl Hellmann. We stared at each other across the darkness, each of us visible in a pool of light. I called out to him, “Would I have any contacts in ’Nam?”

“Of course,” he called out. “You’ll have a contact in Saigon, and one in Hanoi. Plus, there may be someone in Hue who can help. The mission is in place. It lacks only a person to fulfill it.”

“How long would this person need to fulfill it?”

“You have a twenty-one-day tourist visa. Any longer would arouse suspicion. With luck, you’ll be home sooner.”

“With bad luck, I’ll be home even sooner.”

“Think positive. You must visualize success.”

In fact, I visualized a lot of people gathered in my honor, everyone drinking whiskey; a homecoming party, or an Irish wake.

I don’t mind dangerous assignments. I thrived on them once. But it was the ’Nam thing… the idea that I escaped my destiny and that destiny was stalking me. It was creepy.

I asked Karl, “If I don’t make it this time, do I get my name on the Wall?”

“I’ll look into that. But think positive.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”

“I’m positive.”

We both laughed.

“When do I leave?”

“Tomorrow morning. Be at Dulles at eight hundred hours. I will e-mail you instructions for a rendezvous at the airport.”

“My own passport?”

“Yes. We want light cover. Your friend at the airport will have your visa, tickets, and hotel reservations, money, and a few things to memorize. You need to go in clean.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Can I buy you a drink?”

“When I get home. See you later.”

Karl said, “Oh, one more thing. I assume you will let Cynthia know you’re away. Don’t be too specific. Would you like me to speak with her after you’re gone?”

“Do you mean gone, dead, or gone to Asia?”

“I’ll speak with her after you take off.”

I didn’t reply.

Karl said, “Well, then, good luck and thank you.”

If we were closer, we’d have shaken hands, but we both just gave half-assed salutes by touching our caps. We turned away from each other and walked off.

CHAPTER THREE

After my meeting with Karl, I had a few drinks by myself at home, then sent an e-mail to Cynthia. You should never drink when you have access to any form of communication — e-mail, cell phone, telephone, or fax machine. I printed out my message to her and put it in my overnight bag, intending to re-read it in the morning to see how drunk I’d been. I erased the message on my computer, in case CID Internal Security were the next people to go into my computer.

There was an e-mail from Karl with my airport rendezvous instructions, as he’d promised. His short message ended with “Thanks again. Good luck. See you later.”

I noticed he didn’t invite either a phone call or a reply to his e-mail. In fact, there was nothing left to say. I deleted his message.

I left a note for my housekeeper, informing her I’d be away for about three weeks and to look after things. In fact, I tidied up a bit, in case the CID arrived before the housekeeper to look for sensitive materials that may have been left behind by the deceased. I always tidy up; I want to be remembered as a man who didn’t leave his dirty underwear on the floor.

At 7 A.M. the next morning, I checked my e-mail, but there was no reply from Cynthia to last night’s message. Maybe she hadn’t accessed her mail yet.

A horn honked outside, and I gathered my small suitcase and overnight bag and went out into the cold, dark morning, sans overcoat, as instructed by Karl. In Saigon, it was eighty-one degrees and sunny, according to the efficient Herr Hellmann.

I got into the waiting taxi, exchanged greetings with the driver, and off we went to Dulles Airport, a half-hour drive at this time of the morning. Normally, I would drive myself to Dulles, but long-term airport parking might not be long enough for this trip.

It was a gloomy morning, which may have accounted for my morbid thoughts.

I recalled a similar dawn trip to the airport, many years ago. The airport was Boston’s Logan, and the driver was my father in his ’56 Chevy, which has since become a classic, but which was then a jalopy.

My thirty-day pre-Vietnam leave had come to an end, and it was time to fly to San Francisco, and points west.

We’d left Mom at home, crying, too upset to even scramble eggs. My brothers were sleeping.

Pop was pretty quiet during the trip, and it was only years later that I thought about what he must have been thinking. I wondered how his own father had seen him off to war.

We had arrived at the airport, parked, and went into the terminal together. There were a lot of guys in uniforms with duffel bags and overnight bags, a lot of mothers and fathers, wives or maybe girlfriends, and even kids, probably siblings.

Sharply dressed military police strode in pairs through the terminal, an unusual sight just a year before. The homefront during wartime is a study of extreme contrasts: sorrow and joy, partings and reunions, patriotism and cynicism, parades and funerals.

I was flying American Airlines to San Francisco, and I got in the appropriate line, which was comprised of mostly soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen, and some civilians, who looked uncomfortable being in the same line.

My father wanted to wait, but it looked like most of the families had left, so I talked him out of it. He took my hand and said, “Come home, son.”

For a moment, I thought he was ordering me to leave with him and forget this idiocy. Then I realized he meant come home alive. I looked him in the eye and said, “I will. Take care of Mom.”

“Yup. Good luck, Paul.” And he was gone. A few minutes later, I caught a glimpse of him through the glass doors, watching me. We made eye contact, he turned, and was again gone.

I checked in at the ticket counter and went to the gate, where I discovered that this was where most of the families had disappeared to. You could go right to the gate in those days to see people off. I thought maybe my father might re-appear, or even my girlfriend, Peggy, who I insisted not come to the airport. I realized that I really wanted to see her one more time.

Despite the large number of guys my own age from the Boston area, I didn’t see anyone I knew. This was to be the beginning of my year of looking for familiar faces, and imagining them on other people.

So, I stood there by myself while people around me stood quietly, or talked or cried softly. I’ve never seen so many people make so little noise.

A few MPs stood at the edge of the crowd, looking for signs of problems among the young men who were about to leave for ports of embarkation and war.

In retrospect, this whole scene had made me uncomfortable: the MPs, the mostly unwilling soldiers, the quiet families; the sum total of which was this very un-American feeling of government control and coercion. But it was wartime — though not my father’s war, which was about as popular as any war could get — and in wartime, even the most benevolent governments get a little pushy.

This was November 1967, and the anti-war movement wasn’t yet in full swing, and thus there were no protesters or demonstrators at Logan, though there were a bunch of them around when I landed in San Francisco, and a lot of them a few days later at Oakland Army Base, urging the soldiers not to go, or better yet, to make love, not war.

On that subject, my high school girlfriend, Peggy Walsh, was a pretty but rather repressed young lady, who went to confession on Saturday and took communion on Sunday. At a confraternity dance in St. Brigid’s High School gym, we were all made to raise our right hands while Father Bennett led us in renouncing Satan, temptation, and the sins of the flesh.

The chance of Peggy and me having sex in peacetime were about as good as my father’s chances of winning the Irish Sweepstakes.

I smiled at that thought and came back to the present. The taxi was making good time, just as my father had done so many years before. I remember thinking then, When you’re going to war, what’s the hurry?

I closed my eyes and let my mind drift back to the months before I was waiting to board that airplane at Logan.

I’d gone into the army a virgin, but during advanced infantry training at Fort Hadley, I and some adventurous barracks mates discovered the young ladies of the cotton mills — lint heads, we called them, because they had cotton fibers in their hair from working in these hellish mills, doing whatever they did. The hourly pay was bad, but there were plenty of hours available because of the war. There was, however, a better way to make more money for less work. These girls were not prostitutes, and they’d make sure you understood that; they were mill workers, patriotic young women, and they charged twenty bucks. I was making about eighty-five dollars a month, so this was not as good a deal as it sounds.

In any case, I spent all my off-duty Sunday afternoons in a cheap motel, drinking cheap wine, and picking lint out of the hair of a girl named Jenny, who told her parents she had a double shift in the mill. She also had a boyfriend, a local guy, who sounded like a total loser.

Predictably, I fell in love with Jenny, but we had a few things going against the relationship, like my eighty-hour training week, her sixty-hour workweek, our bad-paying jobs, and me always being broke (because I paid her twenty bucks a pop), her other dates, which caused me some jealousy, my impending orders to Vietnam, and last but not least, her strong dislike of Yankees and her love for her loser boyfriend.

Other than those things, I think we could have made a go of it.

Also, there was Peggy, who insisted that our love remain pure. In other words, I wasn’t getting laid. Having discovered the forbidden pleasures of the flesh, however, I was obsessed with the idea of showing Peggy what Jenny had taught me.

So, after infantry training and airborne training, back in Boston for my thirty-day pre-Vietnam leave, I worked on poor Peggy day and night.

Bottom line here, my infantry training had taught me how to storm a fortified hill, but storming the defenses of Peggy Walsh’s virginity was more difficult.

In a stupid moment of honesty, I told her about Jenny. Peggy was really pissed, but it also got her hormones going, so instead of giving me the heave-ho, she gave me absolution, along with a punch in the face.

She informed me that she understood that men couldn’t control their animal urges, and acknowledged the fact that I was about to ship out for Vietnam, and there was the possibility that I’d never return, or might get my dick shot off, or something.

And so the last seven days of my leave were spent in intimate hours with Peggy in her bedroom while her parents were at work. I was surprised — shocked, actually — to discover that Peggy Walsh was about ten times hotter than Jenny, whose last name I never knew. Better yet, I didn’t have to pick lint out of Peggy’s hair.

Back to the present, I noticed my cabdriver looking at me in the rearview mirror. He asked me, “What airline?”

I looked out the window and saw we were at Dulles. I replied, “Asiana.”

“Where you heading?”

“Vietnam.”

“Yeah? Thought you were heading for someplace nice. Saw you smiling.”

“I just came back from someplace nice.”

As per my e-mail instructions from Herr Hellmann, I went directly to the Asiana Airlines lounge, known as the Morning Calm Club.

I was buzzed in, and as instructed, showed my passport to the pretty East Asian lady behind the desk, whose nametag said Rita Chang. Normally, you need to be a club member, or need to show First or Business Class tickets to use an airline lounge, but Ms. Chang looked at my passport and said, “Ah, yes, Mr. Brenner. Conference Room B.”

I went into the cloak room and left my suitcase there, then checked myself out in a full-length mirror and combed my hair. I was wearing khaki trousers, a blue button-down shirt with no tie, a blue blazer, and loafers; suitable travel attire for Business Class, and for the check-in at the Rex Hotel in Saigon, according to Karl.

I took my overnight bag, went into the lounge, and got myself a coffee. There was a breakfast buffet that included rice, octopus, seaweed, and salted fish, but no chili. I took three bags of salted peanuts and put them in my pocket.

I went to Conference Room B, which was a small, paneled room with a round table and chairs. The room was empty.

I put down my overnight bag, sat, and sipped my black coffee. I opened a bag of nuts and popped a few in my mouth, waiting for whomever.

I’d obviously come up in life since my last departure to Vietnam, but what I was feeling in my gut wasn’t much different.

I thought again of Peggy Walsh.

She had insisted that we go to confession before I left for Vietnam. Well, I’d rather get a punch in the jaw from Peggy Walsh than face Father Bennett’s wrath when he listened to me telling him I’d been screwing his second favorite virgin.

But what the hell — I needed absolution, so I went with Peggy to Saturday confession at St. Brigid’s. Thank God Father Bennett wasn’t one of the priests hearing confession that day. Peggy went to one confessional booth, and I went to another. I can’t remember the priest’s name, and I didn’t know him, but he sounded young behind the black screen. Anyway, I started off easy, with stuff like lying and swearing, then got down to the big one. He didn’t totally freak out, but he wasn’t real happy with me. He asked me who the young lady was, and I told him it was Sheila O’Connor, who I always wanted to screw, but never did. Sheila had a wild reputation anyway, so I didn’t feel too bad about substituting her for Peggy. I’m a real gentleman.

This priest was probably going to hand me about a million Hail Marys and Our Fathers, but I said to him, “Father, I’m leaving for Vietnam in two days.”

There was a long silence, then he said, “Say a Hail Mary and an Our Father for penance. Good luck, my son, and God bless you. I’ll pray for you.”

I went to the communion rail, happy that I’d gotten off easy, but halfway through my Hail Mary, I realized that saying you were going to Vietnam was like saying “Father, have mercy on me,” and a cold chill ran down my spine.

Poor Peggy spent about an hour on her knees reciting the rosary while I passed around a football with some guys at St. Brigid’s High School playing field.

Afterward, we’d both sworn to be sexually faithful for the year I was gone. There were probably about a half-million such vows made that year between parting couples, and maybe some of those promises were kept.

Peggy and I talked about getting married before I shipped out, but she’d defended her virtue for so long that by the time I discovered she was a hottie, it was too late to get the marriage license.

In any case, we were unofficially engaged, and I hoped officially not pregnant.

This story could have had a happy ending, I think, because we wrote to each other regularly, and she continued living at home and working at her father’s little hardware store where her mother also worked. More important, she didn’t go weird like most of the country did in ’68, and her letters were filled with patriotic and positive feelings about the war, which I myself did not share.

I came home, in one piece, ready to pick up where I left off. I had a thirty-day leave, and I was looking forward to every minute of it.

But something had changed in my absence. The country had changed, my friends were either in the military, or were in college, or were not interested in talking to returning soldiers. Even South Boston, bastion of working-class patriotism, was divided like the rest of the country.

In truth, the biggest change was within me, and I couldn’t get my head together during that long leave.

Peggy had somehow regained her virginity and refused to have sex until after we were married. This at a time when people were fucking their brains out with total strangers.

Peggy Walsh was as pretty and sweet as ever, but Paul Brenner had become cold, distant, and distracted. I knew that, and she knew that. In fact, she said something to me that I’ve never forgotten. She said, “You’ve become like the others who have come back.” Translation: You’re dead. Why are you still walking?

I told her I just needed some time, and we decided to give it another half year until I was out of the army. She wrote to me at Fort Hadley, but I never wrote back, and her letters stopped.

When my time in the army was up, I made the fateful decision to re-enlist for three years, which eventually became almost thirty years. I have no regrets, but I often wonder what my life would have been like if there was no war, and if I’d married Peggy Walsh.

Peggy and I never saw each other again, and I learned from friends that she’d married a local guy who had a football scholarship to Iowa State. They settled there for some reason, two Boston kids in the middle of nowhere, and I hope they’ve had a good life. Obviously, I still think about her now and then. Especially now, as I was about to return to the place that had separated us, and changed our lives.

My contact still hadn’t shown up, and I was finished with my coffee and two bags of peanuts. The clock on the wall said ten after eight. I considered doing this time what I should have done last time — getting the hell out of that airport and going home.

But I sat there and thought about this and that: Vietnam, Peggy Walsh, Vietnam, Cynthia Sunhill.

I took my e-mail to Cynthia out of my overnight bag and read:

Well, that wasn’t too embarrassingly sloppy and sentimental, and I didn’t regret sending it. Everything was spelled right, rare for an e-mail.

As of this morning, as I said, there was no reply, which could mean she hadn’t opened her e-mail, or she took me at my word when I said, Please don’t reply to this, as Peggy Walsh had taken me at my word when I told her not to come to the airport.

The door opened, and a well-dressed man about my age entered, carrying two cups of coffee and a plastic gift store bag. He put the bag and the coffees on the table, then put out his hand and said, “Hi, I’m Doug Conway. Sorry I’m late.”

“I’m sorry you’re here at all.”

Doug Conway smiled and sat opposite me. “Here, this coffee’s for you. Black, correct?”

“Thanks. You want peanuts?”

“I’ve had breakfast. First, I’ve been instructed to thank you for taking this assignment.”

“Who’s thanking me?”

“Everybody. Don’t worry about that.”

I sipped the coffee and studied Mr. Conway. He looked pretty bright and sounded pretty sharp so far. He was wearing a dark blue suit, subdued blue tie, and looked sort of honest, so he wasn’t CIA. Also, I can spot CID a mile away, and he wasn’t that either, so I asked, “FBI?”

“Yes. This case, if it has any resolution, will be a domestic matter. No CIA involved, no military intelligence, no State Department intelligence. Just FBI and army CID. It sounds like a murder, so we’ll handle it like a murder.”

Well, he did look honest, but he wasn’t. I asked him, “Will anyone in the Hanoi embassy know of my presence there?”

“We’ve decided to limit this information.”

“To whom?”

“To those who need to know, which is practically nobody. The embassy and consulate people are about as useful as tits on a bull. I didn’t say that. But fortunately, we’ve got an FBI guy in the Hanoi embassy, who’s on assignment to give classes to the Vietnamese police on the drug trade. His name is John Eagan, and he’s been briefed on your trip. He’s your guy if you’re in trouble and need to contact the U.S. embassy.”

“Why doesn’t John Eagan go find this guy I’m supposed to find?”

“He’s busy giving classes. Also, he has less ability to travel around than does a tourist.”

“Also, you don’t want any direct U.S. government involvement in this case. Correct?”

Mr. Conway, of course, did not reply. He said instead, “Do you have any threshold questions to ask before I begin my briefing?”

“I thought I just asked one.”

“All right, then I’ll begin. First, your mission is clear, but not simple. You have to locate a Vietnamese national named Tran Van Vinh — you know that. He is an eyewitness in a possible murder case.”

Mr. Conway went on a while, doing the FBI thing, as though this was just another murder that needed to be worked and packaged up for a U.S. attorney general. I sipped my coffee and opened my last bag of peanuts.

I interrupted his legal spiel and said, “All right. So if I find Tran Van Vinh, I tell him he’s won an all-expense-paid trip to Washington, D.C. Right?”

“Well… I don’t know.”

“Well, neither do I. What do you want me to do with this guy if I find him alive?”

“We’re not sure yet. In the meantime, we’re trying to come up with some possible suspects, and/or the possible murder victim. If we do, we’ll get photos to you of these guys from when they were in the army. If that happens, and if you find Tran, you’ll show him a series of photos — just like in any criminal case, and see if he can ID the suspected murderer and/or the victim.”

“Yeah. I think I’ve done that a few thousand times. But my Vietnamese is a little rusty.”

“You can hire an interpreter anywhere.”

“Okay. Why don’t I take a video camera or tape recorder with me?”

“We thought about that. But that sometimes causes problems at Customs. We might have your contact in Saigon give you a video camera or tape recorder. Did you bring a regular camera?”

“Yes, as instructed. I’m a tourist. How about an international cell phone?”

“Same problem. They’re very paranoid at the airport, and if they search your luggage and find things like that, they get nosy. Visa or no visa, they can turn you around and boot you out for almost no reason. We need you in the country.”

“Okay.”

“But we may get you a cell phone in Saigon. Be advised, however, that their cell phone system is very primitive, and they have more dead zones than a cemetery.”

“Okay, so if you decide you want this guy in Washington, then what?”

“Then we might go to the Vietnamese government and explain the situation. They’ll cooperate.”

“If you don’t want their cooperation now in finding this guy, why do you think they’re going to cooperate after you tell them you’ve been snooping around their little police state and found one of their citizens who you need for a murder trial?”

Doug Conway looked at me a moment and said, “Karl was right about you.”

“Karl is right about everything. Please, answer my question.”

Conway stirred his coffee a few seconds and said, “Okay, Mr. Brenner, here’s the answer to your questions, past, present, and future. The answer is, We are bullshitting you. You know that, we know that. Every time we bullshit you, you find little inconsistencies, so you ask another question. Then we give you more bullshit, and you have more questions on the new bullshit. This is really annoying and time consuming. So, I’ll tell you a few things right now that aren’t bullshit. Ready?”

I nodded.

“One, there is more to this than a thirty-year-old murder, but you know that. Two, it’s in your best interest that you don’t know what this is about. Three, it’s really very important to our country. Four, we need you because you’re good, but also because if you get in trouble, you’re not working for the government. And if you get busted over there, you don’t know anything, and that’s what you tell them because it’s true. Just stick to your story — you’re on a nostalgia trip to ’Nam. Okay? You still want to go?”

“I never wanted to go.”

“Hey, I don’t blame you. But you know you’re going, and I know you’re going. By now, you’re bored with retirement, you’ve got a deep-rooted sense of duty, and you like living on the edge. You were an infantryman once, you were decorated for bravery, then you became a military policeman, then a criminal investigator. You were never an accountant or a ladies’ hairdresser. And you’re here talking to me. Therefore, we both know that you’re not going home this morning.”

“Are we done with the psychobabble?”

“Sure. Okay, I have your tickets, Asiana Airlines to Seoul, Korea, then Vietnam Airlines to Ho Chi Minh City, known to us old guys as Saigon. You are booked at the Rex Hotel — upscale, but Saigon is cheap, so it’s affordable for Mr. Paul Brenner, retired chief warrant officer.”

Conway took a piece of paper out of the plastic bag and said to me, “This is your visa, which we secured from the Vietnamese embassy with an authorized copy of your passport that the State Department was kind enough to provide.” He handed me a sheet of cheap paper printed with red ink, and I glanced at it.

“And here is a new passport, an exact copy of yours, which you’ll give me now. On this passport is the Vietnamese embassy stamp for your entry into the country, and the other pages are clean because the Vietnamese get suspicious of people who have too many entry and exit stamps on their passports, as you do.”

He handed me my new passport, and I gave Conway my old one. I looked at the one he’d given me. I noticed that even the photo was the same as my old one, plus, an expert FBI forger had been nice enough to sign it for me. I commented, “It’s amazing that you were able to get a copy of my passport made, use it to apply to the Vietnamese embassy for a visa, and have everything ready for me less than twelve hours after I knew about this assignment.”

“It is amazing,” agreed Mr. Conway. He handed me a pencil and said, “Fill out the emergency contact information the way it was on your old passport — your lawyer, I believe.”

“Right.” Actually a CID lawyer, but why bring that up? I filled out the information, handed him back his pencil, and put the passport in my breast pocket.

Mr. Conway said, “Make a few photocopies of your passport and visa when you get to Seoul. In ’Nam, everyone wants to hold your passport and visa — hotels, motor scooter rentals, and sometimes the police. You can usually satisfy them with a photocopy.”

“Why don’t we send a photocopy of me to Vietnam?”

He ignored that and continued, “You’ll arrange your own ground transportation in Vietnam. You’ll stay in Saigon three days, and that’s how long you’re booked at the Rex — Friday night, which is your arrival night, Saturday, and Sunday. You’ll leave Saigon Monday. Do whatever you please in Saigon, except don’t get kicked out for smoking funny cigarettes, or bringing a prostitute up to your room, or anything like that.”

“I don’t need a morals lecture from the FBI.”

“I understand, but I have to brief you, as per my instructions from my people. I was already briefed by Karl, and I know you’re a pro. Okay? Next, you will be contacted in Saigon by an American resident of Saigon. This person will have no U.S. government connections — just a businessperson who’s doing a little favor for Uncle Sam. The meeting will take place at the rooftop restaurant of the Rex, at or about 7 P.M. on Saturday, your second night there. That’s all you have to know. The more unplanned it is, the more unplanned it will look. Okay?”

“So far.”

“This person will give you a number. That number will correspond to a map key in your guidebook.” Mr. Conway reached into the plastic bag and put a book on the table. “This is the Lonely Planet Guide to Vietnam, third edition. It’s the most widely used book over there, so if for some reason it gets taken by the customs idiots at Tan Son Nhat Airport, or you lose it, or somebody lifts it, you can usually get another one by buying it from a backpacker, or your Saigon contact can get one for you. You’re going to need this book a few times. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll explain this number further in a few minutes. After you leave Saigon on Monday, you have until Saturday to look and act like a tourist. Do what you want, but you should visit some of your old battlefields.” He added, “I believe you served part of your tour in the Bong Son area.”

I said, “If that’s not part of this mission, I’ll skip that.”

He looked at me a long time and said, “Well, that’s not an order, but it is a strong suggestion.”

I didn’t reply.

Mr. Conway leaned toward me and said, “FYI, I was there in ’70—Fourth Infantry Division, Central Highlands and the Cambodian invasion — and I went back last year to come to terms with some stuff. That’s why they sent me to brief you. We’re bonding. Right?”

“Not quite, but go on.”

Mr. Conway continued, “During these five days of travel, you will determine if you’re being watched or followed. But even if you are, don’t presume anything. Often, they just follow and watch Westerners for no good reason.”

“Especially Americans.”

“Correct. Okay, after five days on the road, you arrive in Hue on Saturday, which is Lunar New Year’s Eve — Tet — where you are booked at the Century Riverside Hotel. At this time, regarding the number you got from your contact in Saigon, you look at the city map of Hue in your guidebook, which has a numbered key to various sites around the city, and that’s where you go at noon the following day, Sunday, which will be New Year’s Day, a holiday with lots of crowds and few police. Okay?”

“Got it.”

“There are alternative rendezvous points, and I’ll explain that now.” Conway gave me the details of my meeting in Hue and concluded, “This person you meet in Hue will be a Vietnamese national. He will find you. There’s a sign and countersign. He will say, ‘I am a very good guide.’ You will reply, ‘How much do you charge?’ and he will reply, ‘Whatever you wish to pay.’ ”

I asked, “Didn’t I see this in a movie once?”

Mr. Conway smiled and said, “I know you’re not used to this kind of stuff, and to tell you the truth, neither am I. We’re both cops, Mr. Brenner, and this is something else. But you’re a bright guy, you grew up during the Cold War, we all read James Bond, watched spy movies, and all that stuff. So this isn’t totally alien to people of our generation. Right?”

“Right. Tell me why I need a contact in Saigon if all I need is a number? You can fax me a number.”

“We decided you might need a friend in Saigon, and we need someone there we can be in touch with in case you fall off the radar screen.”

“Gotcha. Do we have a consulate in Saigon yet?”

“I was about to get to that. As you know, we’ve just re-established diplomatic relations with Vietnam, and we have a new embassy building and a new ambassador in Hanoi. The embassy will not contact you directly, either in Hanoi or during your trip. But, as an American citizen, you can contact them if you need to, and you will ask for John Eagan, and no one else. Regarding Saigon, aka Ho Chi Minh City, we’ve recently sent a consular mission there, and they’re located in some temporary, non-secure rented space. You’ll have no contact with the Saigon consulate, except through your contact person in Saigon.”

I said, “So I can’t run into the American consulate in Saigon and ask for asylum?”

He forced a smile and replied, “They don’t have much office space, and you’ll be in the way.” He added, apropos of something, “Vietnam is becoming important to us again.”

I didn’t ask him why, but important to the American government always meant oil, sometimes drugs, and now and then strategic military planning. Take your pick.

Mr. Conway was looking at me, anticipating a question about “important,” but I said, “Okay. What else?”

He said, “Another thing to keep in mind, as I said, it’s the Tet holiday season, Lunar New Year — you remember Tet ’68. Right? So, the whole country is visiting graves in their native villages, and whatever else they do. Transportation, communication, and accommodations are a nightmare, half the population is not at work, and the normal inefficiency is worse. You’ll need to be resourceful and patient. But don’t be late.”

“Understood. Tell me more about the guy in Hue.”

Doug Conway explained, “The contact in Hue will tell you where to go next, if he knows. Tran Van Vinh, if he’s alive, is most probably in the north, so you can expect to travel north from Hue. Foreigners, especially Americans, are not particularly welcome in the rural areas of the former North Vietnam. There’ll be a lot of travel restrictions, not to mention non-existent transportation. But you have to overcome this if your destination is a rural area. Okay?”

“No problem.”

“Well, it is. First of all, it’s illegal for foreigners to rent cars, but you can get an official government-licensed car and driver through the state-run travel agency called Vidotour — but you don’t want that for the secret part of your mission. Right?”

“Makes sense to me.”

“There are private travel agencies, and private cars and drivers, but the government does not officially recognize them, and sometimes in some places they don’t exist, or you can’t use them. Understand?”

“Can I rent a bicycle?”

“Sure. The country is run by the local Party chiefs, like old-time warlords, and they make up the rules, plus the central government in Hanoi keeps changing the rules for foreigners. It’s chaos, but you can usually get around some of the restrictions by making donations to key individuals. When I was there, five bucks usually did the trick. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“There are also intercity buses — torture buses, they call them, and you’ll see why if you need to get on one. And there’s the old French railroad along the coast, which is now up and running. There will be no tickets available on any public transportation during the Tet holiday, but a fiver will get you on board anything that moves, except an aircraft. You should avoid local airports in any case. Too much security there.”

“Did I mention that I had plans to go to Aruba?”

“This is much more meaningful, and the weather will be just as nice.”

“Right. Please continue.”

“Thank you.” He continued, “Regarding travel, bribes, and so forth, you may ask your Saigon contact for advice. This person should know the ropes. But don’t be too specific.”

“All right.”

“By the time you get to Hue, with luck, we’ll have for you at least the location of Tran Van Vinh’s native village of Tam Ki. Because it is the Tet holiday, the chances are very good that you will find many people of the family of Tran in that village.” He looked at me. “Right?”

I replied, “It occurs to me, Mr. Conway, that the information about this murder didn’t come to light a few days ago, but perhaps a few weeks or months ago, and you’ve waited until the Tet holiday to send me to Vietnam because that’s, as you say, when people return to their native villages, and that’s also when the security forces and police are least effective.”

Mr. Conway smiled at me and said, “I don’t know when we got this information, and what your bosses know that you — and perhaps I — don’t know. But it is fortunate that you’ll be in Vietnam at this holiday time.” He added, “During Tet of ’68, the Communists caught you guys with your pants down. Maybe you can return the favor.”

“An interesting thought. Sort of symmetrical, like the balanced Scales of Justice. But I really don’t give a rat’s ass about revenge, or any of that. The fucking war is over. If I’m going to do this, I don’t need or want a personal motive. I’m just doing the job I said I’d do. Understood?”

“Don’t rule out some personal motivation once you get there.”

I didn’t reply.

“Okay, you make your rendezvous in Hue on the Sunday, but if it’s a no-go for any reason, then Monday is the backup day, and you’ll be contacted in some way at your hotel. If you’re not contacted, then it’s time to get out of the country, quickly. Understand?”

I nodded.

Mr. Conway said, “All right, assuming all is going well, you leave Hue on Tuesday. This is the difficult part of the trip. You need to get to Tam Ki by any means possible, and to be there within two days, three latest. Why? Because the Tet holiday lasts for four days after New Year’s Day, so everyone who has returned to their ancestral homes should still be there before heading back to wherever they live at the moment. This guy Tran Van Vinh may live full-time in Tam Ki, but we don’t know that. Best to be there when you know he’ll be there. Understand?”

Again, I nodded.

Mr. Conway continued, “In any case, win, lose, or draw, you need to be in Hanoi no later than the following Saturday, which is the fifteenth day of your trip. You are booked into the Sofitel Metropole, and I have a voucher for you for one night.” He tapped his plastic bag and said, “You may or may not be contacted in Hanoi. More importantly, you will leave the next day, Sunday, the sixteenth day of your trip, well before your standard twenty-one-day visa expires. Okay?”

“I wanted to sightsee in Hanoi.”

“No, you want to get out of there as soon as possible.”

“Sounds even better.”

He said, “You are booked on Cathay Pacific from Hanoi to Bangkok on Sunday. You’ll be met in Bangkok and be debriefed there.”

“What if I’m in jail? Do I need an extension on my visa?”

Mr. Conway smiled, ignored me, and said, “Okay, money. There’s an envelope in this bag with one thousand American dollars, in singles, fives, and tens, all non-accountable. You may legally use greenbacks in the Socialist Republic of Vietnam. In fact, they prefer it. Also in the bag is a million dong, about a buck-fifty — just kidding. About a hundred bucks, to get you started. The average Vietnamese makes about three or four hundred dollars a year, so you’re rich. And there’s another thousand in American Express traveler’s checks, which better hotels and restaurants will accept, and which some banks on some days will exchange for dong, depending on their mood. There is an American Express office in Saigon, Hue, and Hanoi. That’s all in your guidebook. Use your own credit card whenever you can. You’ll be reimbursed. The army has authorized you temporary duty pay of five hundred dollars a day, so you should see a nice check when you return.” He added, “Jail time is double pay.”

I looked at Conway and saw he wasn’t joking. I asked, “For how many days?”

“I don’t know. I never asked. Do you want me to find out?”

“No. What else?”

“A couple of things — like getting you out of the country. As I said, Cathay Pacific from Hanoi, but as I also said, it may develop that you need to leave earlier and more quickly from some other place. We have a few contingency plans for that. Want to hear them?”

“On this subject, you have my undivided attention.”

Mr. Conway outlined some other methods of leaving Vietnam, via Laos, Cambodia, China, by boat, and even by cargo plane out of Da Nang. I didn’t particularly like or believe in any of them, but I said nothing.

Conway said, “Okay, Tam Ki. That is your destination before Hanoi. One way or the other, we will locate this place, and get the information to you in Hue, at the latest. Once in Tam Ki, you will, as I said, probably find many people whose family names are Tran. You might need an interpreter before you get to Tam Ki because they won’t be speaking much English there. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“You know a little French, correct?”

“A real little.”

“Sometimes the older folks and the Catholic clergy speak some French. But try to get an English-speaking guide or interpreter. Now, I don’t have to tell you that an American asking around about a guy named Tran Van Vinh in a tiny village of Trans might draw some attention. So think about how you’re going to handle that. You’re a cop. You’ve done this before. Get a feeling for the situation, the people—”

“I understand. Go on.”

Mr. Conway went on, “Okay, my personal belief is that Tran Van Vinh is dead. Got to be. Right? The war, his age, and so forth. If he was killed in the war, chances are his body is someplace else, like his brother’s was in the A Shau Valley. But there will be a family altar in his memory. We need you to make an absolute confirmation and verification of death. Sergeant Tran Van Vinh, age between fifty and sixty, served in the People’s Army, saw action at Quang Tri, deceased brother named Tran Quan Lee—”

“Got it.”

“Okay. On the other hand, he may be alive — in Tam Ki or elsewhere.”

“Right. This is where I’m a little unclear about my mission and my goal. What am I supposed to do with Mr. Tran Van Vinh if I find him alive?”

Conway made eye contact with me and said, “What if I told you to kill him?”

We maintained eye contact. I said, “Tell you what — I’ll find him, you kill him. But you’d better have a good reason.”

“I think when you talk to him, you might discover the reason.”

“Then someone whacks me.”

“Don’t be melodramatic.”

“Sorry, I thought we were being melodramatic.”

“No, we’re being realistic. Here’s the mission in clear English — you first determine if this guy is dead or alive. If dead, we’d like some proof; if alive, establish if he lives in Tam Ki or elsewhere, then talk to him about this incident of February 1968 and see what he remembers, and see if he can identify the murderer from a photo pack that we’ll try to get to you. Also, as you will read in the letter, Tran Van Vinh took a few things from the murder victim. We took souvenirs from the dead, they took souvenirs. He probably still has these items, or if he’s dead, his family will have them — dog tags, wallet, whatever. This will identify the murdered lieutenant for us, and it will also connect Tran Van Vinh to the murder scene, and if he’s alive, make him a credible witness.”

“And we don’t want a live credible witness.”

Mr. Conway did not answer.

I finished my coffee and said, “So, if I find Tran Van Vinh alive, I see if he can ID some photos that maybe I’ll get along the way, and see if I can look at his souvenirs, and maybe buy them from him, or his family if he’s dead, and maybe get this guy out of the country, maybe videotape him, and/or leave him where he is, or maybe give Mr. Eagan in the Hanoi embassy this guy’s address and whatever happens to Tran Van Vinh happens. And if he’s dead, you want proof.”

“That’s about it. We’re playing it by ear. We’ll get in touch with you over there, in Saigon or Hue latest. There’s still some debate here about the best course of action.”

“Be sure to let me know what you decide.”

“We will. Any further questions?”

“No.”

Mr. Conway asked me, in an official tone, “Mr. Brenner, do you understand everything I’ve told you so far?”

“Not only that, I understand some stuff you’re not telling me.”

He ignored that and continued, “And you remember all of these verbal instructions I’ve given you?”

“I do.”

“Do you have any further questions for me at this time?”

“Can I ask you why you want this guy whacked?”

“I don’t understand the question. Anything else?”

“Nope.”

Doug Conway stood, and I also stood.

Conway said, “Your flight leaves in an hour, you’re traveling Business Class, which isn’t too extravagant for your station in life. The occupation on your visa says ‘Retired,’ the purpose of your visit says ‘Tourism.’ Understand, there’s some chance of a man your age traveling alone getting stopped at Tan Son Nhat and being questioned. I spent half an hour with a paranoid little gent in an interrogation room when I went back. Keep cool, don’t get hostile, stick to your story, and if the war comes up, give him some bullshit about how terrible it was for his country. Express remorse or something. They love that. Okay?”

“So, I shouldn’t mention that I killed North Vietnamese soldiers.”

“I wouldn’t. That might get you off on the wrong foot. But be honest about being a Vietnam veteran and wanting to visit some of the places you saw as a young soldier. Tell the interrogator you were a cook or a company clerk or something. Not a combat soldier. They don’t like that, as I found out the hard way. Okay?”

“Got it.”

Conway continued, “When you get to your hotel, do not contact us. The hotels sometimes keep copies of faxes that you send, and the local police sometimes look at these faxes. Same with phone calls. All dialed numbers are recorded for billing purposes, like anywhere else in the world, but they’re also available to the police. Plus, the phones may be tapped.”

I already knew all of this, but Conway had a mental checklist he needed to go through.

He informed me, “Regarding your arrival, your contact in Saigon will verify that you checked in at the Rex. It won’t arouse any suspicion if the call comes in locally. The contact will then notify us via a secure fax or e-mail from an American-owned business. So, if somehow you don’t check in at the Rex, we’ll know.”

“And do what?”

“Make inquiries.”

“Thanks.”

“Okay, in this plastic bag is a twenty-one-day supply of anti-malarial pills. You were supposed to start taking them four days ago, but not to worry — you’ll be in Saigon for three days, where there aren’t many malaria mosquitoes. Take a pill now. There’s also an antibiotic, which I hope you don’t need. Basically, don’t drink the water and be careful of uncooked food. You could pick up hepatitis A, but by the time you experience symptoms, you’ll be back home. If we knew sooner that you were leaving, we’d have gotten you a hepatitis vaccine—”

“You knew some time ago that I was leaving — I’m the one who didn’t know.”

“Whatever. Read your Lonely Planet Guide on the flight. There’s also a copy of the translated letter in this bag. Read it, but get rid of it on your layover in Seoul.”

“Oh… I planned to have it on me at Tan Son Nhat.”

Mr. Conway said to me, “I’m sorry if at any time in this briefing I’ve insulted your intelligence or professional ability, Mr. Brenner. I’m just following orders.” He looked at me and said, “Karl said I might not like you, but I do like you. So, here’s some friendly advice — the chances are that you’re going to find out more than you need to know. How you deal with these discoveries will determine how you are dealt with.”

Mr. Doug Conway and I stared at each other for a really long time. A sane man would have left right then and there. But Mr. Conway had calculated, correctly, that Paul Brenner was not frightened by that threat; Mr. Paul Brenner was more curious than ever, and highly motivated to find out what this was all about. Paul Brenner is an idiot.

Mr. Conway cleared his throat and said, “Okay, you have a long layover in Seoul. Spend it in the Asiana lounge. There may be a person or a message there for you, with more information. And if this turns out to be a no-go, this is where you will be turned around. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Mr. Conway asked me, “Is there anything I can do for you at this time? Any last-minute messages, instructions, personal matters that I can help you with?”

“Actually, yes.” I took an envelope out of my pocket and said, “I need an airline ticket from Bangkok to Honolulu, and a hotel reservation in Honolulu for a few days, then Maui. Here’s the itinerary, and my American Express number.”

Mr. Conway took the envelope, but said, “I think they’ll want you back in Washington.”

“I don’t care what they want. I want two weeks in paradise. We’ll debrief in Bangkok.”

“All right.” He put the envelope in his pocket. “Anything else?”

“Nope.”

“All right, then, good luck and be careful.”

I didn’t reply.

“You know… believe me when I tell you that, aside from your mission, this trip will do you more good than harm.”

“Hey, my first two trips there would have been great except for the war.”

Mr. Conway did not smile. “I hope I’ve done a good job of briefing you. That always concerns me.”

“You’ve done an excellent job, Mr. Conway. Sleep well tonight.”

“Thank you.”

He put out his hand, but I said, “Hold on. I almost forgot.” I opened my overnight bag and handed Mr. Conway my Danielle Steel book.

He looked at it curiously, as though there were some special significance or meaning to the book.

I said, “I don’t want that found at home if I don’t make it back. Understand? Give it to somebody. You don’t have to read it yourself.”

Mr. Conway looked at me with some concern, then again put out his hand, and we shook. He left without even thanking me for the book.

I opened the plastic bag left on the table, putting the money, tickets, hotel vouchers, letter, and visa in my breast pocket. I put the malaria pills, antibiotic, and The Lonely Planet Guide in my overnight bag.

At the bottom of the plastic bag was something wrapped in tissue paper. I unwrapped it and saw it was one of those stupid snow globes. Inside the globe was a model of the Wall, black against the falling snow.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Asiana Air 747 began its descent into Kimpo International Airport, Seoul, Korea. After fifteen hours in the air, I wasn’t sure of the local time, or even what day it was. The sun was about forty-five degrees off the horizon, so it was either mid-morning or mid-afternoon, depending on where east and west were. When you’re circling the globe, none of this matters, anyway, unless you’re the pilot.

I noticed that the landscape below was covered with snow. I listened to the hydraulic sounds of the aircraft as it made its initial approach.

The seat next to me was empty, and I hoped I was as lucky on the final leg of the trip.

Then again, there might not be a final leg if I was turned around in Seoul. Of course, the chances of that happening were near zero, but they always put that in your mind as a happy possibility. I had a similar experience the first two times I was headed to Vietnam. My orders said “Southeast Asia,” instead of the V word, as if I might be headed to Bangkok or Bali. Right.

It was time to read the letter that had started this whole thing. I took a plain envelope from my pocket, opened it, and drew out several sheets of folded paper. The first sheet was a photocopy of the original envelope, addressed to Tran Quan Lee, followed by an abbreviation, which I supposed was his rank, then a series of numbers and letters that was his North Vietnamese army unit designation.

The return address was Tran Van Vinh, followed by his rank and Army unit. In neither address was there a geographical location, of course, because armies move, and the mail follows the soldiers.

I put the envelope aside and looked at the letter itself. It was a typed, three-page translation, and there was no photocopy of the original letter in Vietnamese, making me again wonder what was missing or altered.

Regarding the provenance of this letter, I tried to imagine the North Vietnamese army postal system during the war, which must have been as primitive as a nineteenth-century postal system; letters handed from person to person, to couriers, making their way slowly from civilians to their soldiers, or from soldiers to family, or soldiers to soldiers, as in this case, and very often, the recipient, the sender, or both were dead before the letter was delivered.

In any case, it must have taken months for letters to reach their recipients, if at all. I thought of the three hundred thousand missing North Vietnamese soldiers, and the million known dead, many of them vaporized by thousand-pound bombs from B-52 strikes along the infiltration routes.

It was a miracle, I realized, that this letter ever got out of the besieged city of Quang Tri, another miracle that the letter found its recipient, Tran Quan Lee in the A Shau Valley, nearly a hundred kilometers away, and a further miracle that the letter was found on Lee’s body by an American soldier. The final miracle, perhaps, was that this American soldier, Victor Ort, survived the war himself, saved the letter for almost thirty years, and then made an attempt to get the letter to Hanoi via the Vietnam Veterans of America.

The letter, however, had been rerouted to Army CID Headquarters in Falls Church, Virginia, because of some sharp-eyed person at VVA, an army veteran, whose instinct would be to go to Army CID instead of the FBI. If the FBI had gotten it first, I knew, the CID would never have heard about it, and neither would I. But as it turned out, it was a CID case with FBI help, an arrangement that probably satisfied no one, myself included.

I looked again at the typed translation, not quite ready to read it until I’d come to fully understand how this thing landed in my lap.

And then there was the question of why I was doing this. Aside from Cynthia, there was duty, honor, country, not to mention boredom, curiosity, and a little macho posturing. In fact, my separation from active duty had not ended on just the right note, and this assignment would certainly be the final note, high or low.

I looked at the letter and saw it was dated 8 February 1968. I read Tran Van Vinh’s words to his about-to-be deceased brother:

I looked up from the letter and recalled those days around the city of Quang Tri. My battalion was to the west of the city, and we never saw any of the fighting within the city, but we did see North Vietnamese soldiers straggling out of Quang Tri, which they’d held for only a week or so before the South Vietnamese army rooted them out. The enemy began exfiltrating in small groups, trying to reach the relative safety of the hills and jungle to the west, and my battalion’s mission was to intercept them. We’d managed to find, kill, or capture some of them, but not all of them. Statistically, Tran Van Vinh’s chances of making it out of the city were small, and his chances of having survived the final seven years of the war were even smaller. And if he had survived, would he be alive almost thirty years later? Not likely, but this case already had a few miracles in the equation.

I went back to the letter and read:

I refolded the letter and thought about what I’d read. This letter, written to a soon-to-be-dead brother certainly gave me a different perspective of the war. Yet, despite the stilted translation, and the patriotic tag-ons, I thought this was the kind of letter that could have been written by an American GI; the subtext of loneliness, homesickness, fear, concern about family, and, of course, the barely hidden anxiety about Mai, who I guessed was a girlfriend. Girlfriends working in military hospitals in the big city were certainly subject to some temptations and pressures the world over. I smiled.

I felt that I could relate a little to Tran Van Vinh, and I realized that we’d once shared the common experience of war at the same time and place. I might even like the guy, if I actually met him. Of course, if I’d met him in 1968, I would have killed him.

As for Lee, remarkably our paths may also have crossed. My battalion of the First Cavalry Division, after the action at Quang Tri in February, was airlifted to Khe Sanh in April to relieve the siege there, then airlifted into the A Shau Valley in May. We were an air mobile unit, meaning that wherever the shit was hitting the fan, we’d go in by helicopter. How lucky can a guy get?

Well, enough pleasant reverie. I re-read the letter, concentrating on the details and circumstances of the alleged murder. First, it certainly did look like murder, though that might depend on what the argument was about. Second, it was a strange and interesting occurrence, as Sergeant Tran Van Vinh said.

I began from the beginning of the letter — a government building within the Citadel. Many Vietnamese cities had citadels, built by the French in most cases. The Citadel was the walled and fortified center of the city that contained government buildings, schools, hospitals, military headquarters, and even residential sections. I knew the Citadel at Quang Tri because I was ordered to an awards ceremony there in July ’68, out on the parade ground, where the Vietnamese government was handing out medals to American soldiers for various battles. The Citadel was half in ruins, and I realized now that I must have been standing somewhere in the vicinity of where this incident had taken place six months earlier. I received the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry, and the Vietnamese colonel who pinned it on me had, unfortunately for me, been trained by the French, and he gave me a kiss on both cheeks. I should have told him to kiss my ass, but it wasn’t his fault I was there.

In any case, I could sort of picture where this incident took place. I tried to picture, also, these two American officers coming into the half-ruined building within the Citadel, while the battle raged around them, and Tran Van Vinh lying there with his itchy trigger finger on his AK-47, bleeding from an American artillery shell burst.

The American officers were definitely not combat infantrymen, or they’d have their troops all around them; these guys were undoubtedly rear echelon types, most probably MACV advisors, and, as I recalled, they had their headquarters somewhere in the Citadel. Somehow they’d gotten separated from whatever South Vietnamese army unit they were attached to, or the South Viets had taken a powder, which they sometimes did. This was partly speculation on my part, but it was the most logical explanation of how two American officers wound up alone, without troops, in a city that was garrisoned solely by the South Vietnamese army.

So, these two guys are caught in the middle of a slugfest between the North and South Viets, the city is a killing zone, and these two find the time to go off on their own and have an argument about something that leads to one guy blowing away the other guy. Strange. And I agreed with Tran Van Vinh—“I can attach no meaning to it.” But I had a feeling that whatever that argument was about was what this whole thing was about.

I glanced at the letter again: the captain ran out of the building. Tran Van Vinh, smart survivor that he is, doesn’t move until nightfall, then he goes down to the body of the lieutenant, has some water, which is his first priority, then takes the dead American’s C rations, and rifle, and also his pistol — probably a Colt .45—his wallet, and “other items from his body.” Such as what? The dog tags undoubtedly. This was a big prize for the enemy and was proof that you’d killed an American, and it got you a piece of fish or something. But as Sergeant Tran Van Vinh noted, if he were captured with any American military items, he’d be shot, Geneva Convention notwithstanding. So, he had to decide what to do with these items, these war trophies.

Maybe he kept them, and maybe, whether or not he was still alive, they were proudly displayed in his little family hut somewhere. Maybe.

So, what was missing from the translation of this letter? The phrase and other items from his body may have been substituted for Vinh’s actual words.

But I could be reading too much into this, and maybe I was more suspicious than I needed to be. A little suspicion and speculating are good; too much and you start to outsmart yourself.

I realized that we were almost on the ground. A few seconds later, the 747 touched down, rolled out, and taxied toward the terminal.

Inside Terminal Two of Seoul’s Kimpo Airport, I passed quickly through Passport Control and Customs.

I’d actually been stationed in Korea over twenty years before: six months at the DMZ, six months in Seoul. It was okay duty, the Koreans seemed to like their American allies, and the American soldiers in return behaved reasonably well. I had only a single homicide case involving a Korean citizen, three rapes, and a bunch of drunk and disorderly cases. Not bad, really, for fifty thousand guys in a place they didn’t want to be.

I passed into the Main Terminal, which was huge and cavernous, with a mezzanine level that ran around all four sides.

I had a four-hour layover, and my baggage was checked through to Ho Chi Minh City, or so they said at Dulles.

There seemed to be a lot of noodle shops and snack bars around, and the whole place smelled of fish and cabbage, which brought back a lot of memories of twenty years ago.

I noticed a big digital clock on the wall and saw it was 15:26, and the day, in English, said Friday. In fact, almost everything was subtitled in English, so I followed a sign that said Airline Clubs.

The Morning Calm Club was on the mezzanine level, and once inside, I gave my ticket to the young lady behind the counter. She smiled and said, “Welcome to the club. Please to sign book.”

I signed the register, and I noticed she was staring at my ticket. She said, as I expected, “Oh, Mr. Brenner, there is a message for you.” She rummaged around behind the counter and handed me a sealed envelope with my name on it.

“Thank you.” I picked up my overnight bag and went into a big, well-appointed lounge. I got myself a coffee, sat in a club chair, and looked at my message. It was a telex from Karl, and it said: It’s a go — All instructions from Mr. C. remain — Narrowing down names in personnel files here — I may see you in Bangkok — Honolulu a possibility — Have a safe and successful trip — K.

I put the telex in my pocket and sipped my coffee. It’s a go—great news. Honolulu a possibility. What the hell did that mean?

I went to the club’s business center and used the shredder to destroy Karl’s telex, my e-mail to Cynthia, and the Tran Van Vinh letter. I then made two photocopies of my visa and passport, put them in my overnight bag, and went back to the lounge. I found a day-old Washington Post and skimmed through it.

I guess I was a little annoyed about Karl’s Honolulu a possibility, and the vagueness of that remark. Had he spoken to Cynthia? Did he mean Honolulu was okay with him, but Cynthia was undecided? Or did he mean Honolulu was a possibility depending on what happened in Bangkok? And what the hell was going on with Cynthia? Karl is so fucking insensitive he didn’t even mention if he’d spoken to her.

I was getting myself pissed off, which was not the way to go into an assignment.

I found myself drifting in and out of a sort of half-sleep, and these unexpected images passed through my mind: Peggy, Jenny, Father Bennett, my parents, the shadow of the priest behind the confessional curtain, St. Brigid’s, my old neighborhood and childhood friends, my mother’s kitchen and the smell of cabbage boiling in a pot. It was all very sad, for some reason.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Vietnam Airlines flight from Seoul through two time zones to Saigon was uneventful, unless you counted the events that were going on in my head.

In any case, the food, service, and drinks were good, and it seemed strange to be sitting in Business Class of a modern Boeing 767 owned and operated by Vietnam Airlines. People I knew who’d gone back to Vietnam in the 1970s and ’80s reported that the Vietnam Airlines equipment was all Russian Ilyushins and Tupelovs, scary aircraft, and the pilots, too, were mostly Russian, plus the food and service sucked. This seemed to be an improvement, but we weren’t on the ground yet. In fact, there seemed to be a problem regarding the weather, specifically a typical Southeast Asian tropical rain squall.

It was about 11 P.M., and we were already an hour late, which was the least of our problems at the moment.

I was in the window seat, and I could see the lights of Saigon through the breaks in the weather, and it seemed to me that if you could see the ground, you should land the damned airplane.

Again, I recalled my first government-paid trip to Vietnam in November 1967. I was flying Braniff that time — a military-chartered, psychedelic yellow Boeing 707, out of Oakland Army Base, complete with pretty Braniff stewardesses wearing wild outfits. The stewardesses were a little wild, too, specifically one named Elizabeth, a patriotic young lady, whom I’d met at a USO dance in San Francisco a few days before I flew to ’Nam.

Regarding my vow to Peggy to be chaste for a year, I guess I didn’t get off to a very good start with Elizabeth. The future then was looking a little uncertain for me, and I was able to justify nearly anything. But maybe I shouldn’t try to justify any of it three decades later. You had to be there.

Regarding the Braniff flight, who but the Americans could send their armed forces into war on a luxury jetliner? It was bizarre, and it was ultimately cruel. I think I’d have preferred a troopship, which was a slower transition from peace to war, and which at least got you into the habit of being miserable.

I don’t know what happened to Elizabeth, or to Braniff for that matter, but I realized that a lot of long-forgotten stuff was starting to come back, and there was a lot more to come, most of it much less pleasant than Elizabeth.

The guy next to me, a Frenchman, had been ignoring me since we boarded, which was fine, but now he decided to talk and said in passable English, “Do you think there is a problem?”

I took my time answering, then said, “I think the pilots or the airport are making a problem.”

He nodded. “Yes, I think that is the case.” He added, “Perhaps we have to go to another airport.”

I didn’t think there was another airport around that could accommodate a 767. Thirty years ago, there were any number of military airfields with runways that stretched forever, and the military pilots then had beaucoup balls, as we used to say. On the downside, you had to dive in fast to avoid the little guys with the machine guns who wanted to win an extra bowl of rice for smearing you across the landscape.

Despite the turbulence, and our proximity to the airport, and despite FAA regulations that didn’t apply here anyway, two flight attendants came by, one holding a champagne bottle, the other holding fluted champagne glasses between her fingers.

“Champagne?” asked the bottle holder with a nice French pronunciation. Cham-pan-ya.

“Oui,” I said.

“S’il vous plaît,” said my French friend.

The two flight attendants were impossibly young and pretty with straight, jet black hair to their shoulders. Both wore the traditional ao dai: silk floor-length dresses with high Mandarin collars. The yellow dresses had slits up the sides to their waists, but, alas, the young ladies also wore the modest white pantaloons to distinguish themselves from the bar girls on the ground.

The Frenchman and I each took a glass from the fingers of the second flight attendant, and the first poured half-glasses of bubbly as the aircraft bounced. “Merci,” we both said.

Unexpectedly, the Frenchman touched his glass to mine and said, “Santé.”

“Cheers.”

The Frenchman asked me, “You are here on business?”

“No, tourism.”

“Yes? I have a business in Saigon. I buy teak and other rare woods. Michelin is also back for the rubber. And there is oil exploration off the coast. The West is again raping the country.”

“Well, somebody has to do it.”

He laughed, then added, “In fact, the Japanese and Koreans are also raping the country. There are a lot of natural resources in Vietnam that have never been exploited, and the labor is very cheap.”

“Good. I’m on a tight budget.”

He continued, “The Communists, however, are a problem. They don’t understand capitalism.”

“Maybe they understand it too well.”

Again, he laughed. “Yes, I think you are correct. In any case, be careful. The police and the party officials can be a problem.”

“I’m just on vacation.”

“Bon. Do you prefer girls or boys?”

“Pardon?”

He pulled out a notebook from his breast pocket and began writing. He said, “Here are some names, addresses, and phone numbers. One bar, one brothel, one exquisite lady, and the name of a good French-Indochine restaurant.” He handed the note page to me.

“Merci,” I said. “Where should I start?”

“One should always begin with a good meal, but it’s very late, so go to the bar. Don’t take any of the prostitutes — choose one of the bar maids or cocktail waitresses. This shows a degree of savoir faire.”

“ ‘Savoir faire’ is my middle name.”

“Don’t pay more than five dollars American in the bar, five in the brothel, and twenty for Mademoiselle Dieu-Kiem — she’s part French and speaks several languages. She’s an excellent dinner companion and can help you with shopping and sightseeing.”

“Not bad for twenty bucks.” That’s what Jenny got thirty years ago in Georgia, and she only spoke English.

“But be advised, prostitution is officially illegal in the Socialist Republic of Vietnam.”

“Same in Virginia.”

“Vietnam is a series of contradictions — the government is Communist, totalitarian, atheist, and xenophobic. The people are capitalists, free-spirited, Buddhists, Catholics, and friendly to foreigners. I am speaking of the south — in the north, it is quite different. In the north, the people and the government are one. You need to be more careful if you go to the north.”

“I’m just hanging around Saigon. See a few museums, catch some shows, buy a few trinkets for the folks back home.”

The Frenchman stared at me a moment, then sort of blew me off by picking up a newspaper.

The PA came on, and the pilot said something in Vietnamese, then French. Then the co-pilot, who was a round-eye, said in English, “Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts. We’ll be landing shortly.” The flight attendants collected the champagne glasses.

I looked out the window and saw arcs of green and red tracer rounds cutting through the night sky around Saigon. I saw incandescent flashes of outgoing artillery and rockets, and red-orange bursts where the shells and missiles landed in the rice paddies. I saw these things with my eyes closed, thirty-year-old images burned into my memory.

I opened my eyes and saw Ho Chi Minh City, twice the size of old Saigon and more brightly lit than the besieged wartime capital.

I sensed the Frenchman looking at me. He said, “You have been here before.” It was more of a statement than a question.

I replied, “Yes, I have.”

“During the war — yes?”

“Yes.” Maybe it showed.

“You will find it very different.”

“I hope so.”

He laughed, then added, “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.”

I listened to the hydraulic sounds of the aircraft as it made its approach into Tan Son Nhat Airport. This was going to be, I knew, a strange journey back into time and place.