Up Country Part 19

I asked, "And Bill?"

"What's your obsession with Bill?"

"It's a guy thing. Does he have a gun?"

She laughed. "No. Of course not." She added, "Having a gun here is a capital offense."

"Good."

She said, "I'll send him a telegram from our first stop. Wherever that is."

"Let me think about this."

"Okay, but if you decide you'd like me along, I'd like you to understand this is strictly platonic. I mean it. I'll pay for my own room, and you're free to sample the local ladies, except I want a dinner companion."

"Who pays for dinner?"

"You, of course. I order, you pay. And when you need to go off on some secret meeting, I'll disappear."

I thought about all of this, sitting there on a gra.s.sy slope with the presidential palace in the distance, the buildings of Saigon all around the park, the scent of flowers in my nostrils, and the sun on my face. I glanced over at her and our eyes met.

Susan lit another cigarette, but didn't say anything.

I'm used to working alone, and, in fact, I prefer it. If I screwed up on my own, my friends in Washington would be disappointed, and maybe sympathetic, depending on the circ.u.mstances. If I screwed up while traveling around with a woman, they'd hang me by my b.a.l.l.s. James Bond never had this problem.

Also, I wasn't at all sure what she was up to. She made a reasonable case for wanting to take an in-country vacation, and then there was the excitement and adventure thing, and this might be her prime motive. Then there was moi. I am am charming. But not that charming. charming. But not that charming.

In any case, her motives were completely irrelevant to the mission at hand. When I'm on a case, I'm totally focused, and I don't even think think about women. Hardly ever. Now and then, but only on my own time. about women. Hardly ever. Now and then, but only on my own time.

And then, of course, there was Cynthia. Cynthia was a pro, who worked with a lot of men herself, and I'm sure she'd understand. Maybe not.

"Are you thinking?"

"I was watching that dragonfly."

"Well, let me know by 6 A.M. A.M. tomorrow. Then, as we say in business, the offer is off the table." She put on her shoes and socks, b.u.t.toned her shirt, stood and put on her sungla.s.ses. tomorrow. Then, as we say in business, the offer is off the table." She put on her shoes and socks, b.u.t.toned her shirt, stood and put on her sungla.s.ses.

I stood and put on my shirt as she fastened her belt pouch. "Ready to roll?"

We walked down the slope to the parking lot. She unchained the motor scooter, then took her cell phone out and dialed. She said, "I'm calling the Rex." She said something in Vietnamese into the phone, and I heard her use my name. She didn't seem satisfied with the answer and got a little sharp. b.i.t.c.h b.i.t.c.h. After a lot of monosyllables and consonants, she hung up and said to me, "Nothing there for you. But I gave them my cell phone number and told them to call as soon as your pa.s.sport or anything else arrives for you."

She handed me the cell phone, started the motor scooter, and I hopped on the back. She said, "I'm sorry. I should have asked you if you wanted to drive."

"Later."

We rode through the streets of Saigon, and Susan was taking it easy. She asked me, "Do you remember this guy's name at the airport?"

"Why? Do you know the bad guys by name?"

"Some of them. The names get around."

"His name was Mang. A colonel in uniform."

She informed me, "Mang is his first name. Do you have the whole name?"

I replied, "He called himself Colonel Mang. How could that be his first name?"

"I thought you spent some time here. The Viets use their first names-which are actually at the end-with their t.i.tles. So you would be Mr. Paul, and I'm Miss Susan."

"Why do they do that?"

"I don't know. It's their country. They can do what they want. Didn't you know that from when you were here?"

"To be honest with you, the American soldiers knew very little about the Vietnamese. Maybe that was one of the problems."

She didn't respond to that, but said, "They're very careful about forms of address. You always use a t.i.tle-Mr., Miss, Mrs., Colonel, Professor, whatever-followed by their first names. They love it if you know the Vietnamese word. Dai-Ta Mang. Colonel Mang. Ong Paul. Grandpa Paul." She laughed.

I wondered what the word was for b.i.t.c.h.

She said, "I'll check around for a Colonel Mang, but find out his last name, if you see him again."

"I'm sure I'll see him again."

"Did you tell this guy where you were heading?"

"He has part of my itinerary from my hotel vouchers. He wants to know the rest of my itinerary before he gives me my pa.s.sport."

"Do you want him to know where you're going?"

"Not particularly."

"Then make it up. This is not an efficient police state. You want to see another famous place?"

"Sure."

"Are you having fun?"

"I have fun at this speed."

She reached back and patted my knee. She said, "I'm going to get the beast later, and we'll drive out toward the Michelin rubber plantation. I want to get out of the city. Okay?"

"Maybe I should stay close to the hotel in case this Commie colonel needs to see me."

"It's Sunday. He's home reading the biography of Ho Chi Minh while his wife cooks the family dog." She laughed.

I, too, laughed. I mean, you have to laugh.

For some guys, Susan Weber would be pure male fantasy. But I had this thought that Susan Weber was like the country she was living in: beautiful and exotic, seductive like a tropical breeze on a starry night. But somewhere in the back of my mind I heard the clicking of bamboo sticks getting closer.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

We went up Le Duan Street, a wide leafy boulevard, and Susan pulled over onto the sidewalk and pointed across the street. "Do you recognize that place?"

Beyond a high concrete wall with guard turrets was a ma.s.sive stark-white building about six stories high; another Sixties-type structure of preformed bombproof concrete. It took me a few seconds to recognize the former American emba.s.sy.

Susan said, "I've seen that news footage of the Viet Cong breaking into the emba.s.sy during the Tet Offensive."

I nodded. That was February 1968, the beginning of the end; the end itself came seven years later in 1975 when the emba.s.sy became the Fat Lady, singing the last aria in an overlong tragic opera.

I looked up at the roof and saw the smaller structure where the last Americans had left the city by helicopter on April 30, 1975, as the Communist troops approached. It was yet another of those famous or infamous video scenes that were emblematic of the whole sorry mess; the marine guards fighting with screaming and crying Vietnamese civilians and soldiers, who had overrun the compound and wanted to escape, the emba.s.sy staff trying to look cool as they made their way to the helicopters, emba.s.sy files burning in the courtyard, the city of Saigon in chaos, and the Amba.s.sador carrying the folded American flag home.

I'd seen this on the TV news with a bunch of other soldiers, as I recalled, on a television in the NCO club at Fort Hadley, where I was still stationed. I recalled, too, that no one around me said much, but now and then someone would say softly, "s.h.i.t" or "Oh, my G.o.d." One guy actually wept. I would have left the room, but I was mesmerized by the image of this real-life drama, and further fascinated by the fact that I'd actually been to the emba.s.sy a few times, which made what I was watching even more surreal than it looked to most people.

Susan broke into my time trip and said, "The building is used by the Vietnamese government oil company, but the American government is negotiating to get it back."

"Why?"

"They want to level it. It's a bad image."

I didn't reply.

"It's American property. They may build a new consulate building there. But I think the Communists might want to make it another tourist attraction. Six bucks at least. Free to Vietnamese."

Again, I didn't reply.

Susan said, "The Americans are back, the people want them back, and the government is trying to figure out how to get their money without getting them them. I live this every day on my job."

I thought about my own reason for being in this country, but there were still big gaps in my understanding of this mission, which is not the usual way to send a man on a dangerous a.s.signment. This only made sense if I put Susan Weber into the equation.

Susan asked, "Do you want a picture of you with the emba.s.sy in the background?"

"No. Let's go."

We drove through central Saigon, crossed a small bridge over a muddy stream, and she said, "We're on Khanh Hoi Island, mostly residential."

This was a low-lying piece of land, swampy in areas, with cl.u.s.ters of wood shacks near the wetlands, and more substantial residential blocks on the higher ground. I asked, "Where are we going?"

"I need to get my motorcycle."

We drove through a warren of wooden houses with gardens, then a cl.u.s.ter of multi-story stucco buildings. Susan turned down an alley and into a parking area that was actually an open s.p.a.ce beneath a stucco building, elevated on concrete pillars. The parking s.p.a.ce was jammed with bicycles, motorbikes, and a.s.sorted odds and ends.

We dismounted, and she chained her motor scooter to a rack.

She walked over to a big black motorcycle and said, "This is my beast. The Ural 750. It's illegal for foreigners to own anything over 175cc's, so I keep it here."

"To look at?"

"No, to drive. The police check up on what foreigners have around their house. Friends of mine, the Nguyens, live in this building."

"What happens when you take it on the road?"

"You move fast." She added, "It's not a huge problem once you're out in the country. From here, Khanh Hoi Island, I can head south over a small bridge and be out of town in another fifteen minutes. The motorcycle has Vietnamese citizen plates, and is actually registered to a Vietnamese national-another friend of mine-and the police, when they stop you, have no way to check who actually owns it. And if you give them five bucks, they don't care."

"You have have been here too long." been here too long."

She unchained the big bike with a key from her pocket and said to me, "Ready for adventure?"

"I'm trying to keep a low profile. Do we need to take the illegal bike?"

"We need the muscle on the hills. You weigh too much." She patted my stomach, which sort of surprised me.

I said, "You should wear a helmet for highway driving."

She lit a cigarette. "You sound like my father."

I looked at her and said, "It's a long way from Lenox, isn't it?"

She thought about that, then said, "Indulge me in my petty acts of rebellion." She took a drag on her cigarette. "You wouldn't have recognized me three years ago."

"Just don't get yourself killed over here."

"You, too."

"Hey, I'm on my third tour. I'm a pro."

"You're a babe in the woods is what you are."

She took out her cell phone, and still smoking, she dialed someone, spoke in Vietnamese, listened, spoke sharply, then hung up. She said, "A message for you that they didn't call me about."

"Would you like to share it with me, or are you not finished complaining about the desk clerk?"

"The message was from Colonel Mang. He said you are to report to the Immigration Police headquarters tomorrow morning at eight, and ask for him." She added, "I'll help you make out an itinerary."

"I can study a map." I pointed out, "I may be going home, and I know the way."

She asked me, "Did you say or do anything to get this guy angry with you?"

"I was firm but polite. However, I may have said something to honk him off."

She nodded, then asked me, "Do you think he knows something?"

"There's nothing to know. Thanks for your concern, but this is not your problem."