Up Country (79 page)

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

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

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

We remained standing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That is not what your driver said.”

“What did he say?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, and became Canadians along the way.”

I didn’t reply.

“Where did you get this motorcycle?”

“I bought it.”

“From whom?”

“A man in the street.”

“What was his name?”

“Nguyen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We slept in the woods.”

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

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

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

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

He kept staring at me.

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

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

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

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

“Actually, I’m ignoring
you.”

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

“No, I don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I like it here.”

“I do not believe that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Correct.”

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

“I said Connecticut historians.”

“What is that?”

“Connecticut. Part of the United States.”

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

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

I didn’t reply.

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

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

“I do not like Canadians.”

“How many Canadians do you know?”

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

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

“You know why.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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