Up Country

  “I told you that.”

  “I know. And that’s all they told me in Saigon. Is this letter the new information?”

  “It is.”

  “What does the letter say?”

  “Well, what it says is one thing, what it means is something else. That’s why I need to find and question the person who wrote the letter.”

  She nodded.

  We continued on toward the village of A Luoi, about a hundred meters away across the flat terrain. It was irrelevant where and how Tran Quan Lee died, but it would be interesting to know. If I’d had time back in Washington, I’d have found and questioned Victor Ort, and maybe swap some A Shau Valley stories.

  I was certain that Victor Ort had made a photocopy of the letter for himself, or had kept the original and sent the VVA the photocopy. In either case, Victor Ort had an original text that I could have had translated rather than relying on the altered translation I’d seen. But probably Karl sent someone to Ort’s house and got the letter. Bottom line, Karl wasn’t going to let me do any standard detective work on this case; he’d made certain I went off half in the dark to Saigon on a weekend, where Susan Weber did some smoke and mirrors until I was on the train to Nha Trang.

  Also, I didn’t see how that letter and Susan’s statement about Cam Ranh Bay fit together, if indeed they did. That could be smoke and mirrors, too.

  Susan asked me, “Do you have a copy of the letter?”

  I replied, “You must have skipped a few classes at Langley.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic. I’m not a trained intelligence officer.”

  “Then what did they teach you there?”

  “How to be useful. I assume your contact in Hue told you how to find . . . what’s his name?”

  “Tran Van Vinh. And yes, he did.” I asked her, “Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “No. Should it?”

  “I suppose not.” But I’d had another thought that Tran Van Vinh had become a high-ranking member of the Hanoi government, and somehow the true translation of this letter could be used to blackmail him into cooperating with the Americans on something, like maybe Cam Ranh Bay.

  Mr. Vinh could actually live in Hanoi and be in Ban Hin only for the Tet holiday, which would make sense. But if he was going to be blackmailed, why did they want him dead? It was possible that Washington didn’t want him dead, and just told me that as more bullshit so I couldn’t figure this out. But if that were the case, why did Mr. Anh in Hue give me that message, which as far as I knew, were my final instructions from Washington?

  It’s very difficult to solve a case when all the evidence you have is written or verbal, and the written evidence is bogus, and the verbal stuff is lies.

  The truth of the matter lay in the village of Ban Hin—formerly known as Tam Ki—in the person of Tran Van Vinh, a simple peasant and former soldier, who might well be neither of those things. In fact, he might be long dead, or about to be dead, or about to be bribed or blackmailed.

  War, as I’ve said, has a stark simplicity and honesty to it, like trying to kill someone with a shovel. Intelligence work was, by its nature, a game of liar’s poker, played with a marked deck and counterfeit money.

  Susan said, “I’m sorry I can’t help you with that letter. But I can help you find the guy who wrote it, and if he doesn’t speak English I can give you an accurate translation of what he says to you, and you to him.” She added, “I’m pretty good at winning the confidence of the Vietnamese.”

  “Not to mention horny American males.”

  “That’s easy.” She added, “Trust me, or don’t trust me. You’re not going to find anyone better than me to help you.”

  I didn’t reply.

  We reached the outskirts of A Luoi, where an old woman was throwing rice to a flock of chickens in a bamboo enclosure behind her house. She looked at us in surprise, and our eyes met, and we both knew why I was here. This valley certainly wasn’t an attraction for the average tourist.

  We walked through a cluster of houses and back into the square. The RAV sat where we’d left it, and Mr. Loc was sitting under a thatched canopy in what looked like a primitive café or canteen filled with locals. He was drinking something by himself and smoking. Most Viets, I’d noticed, never sat alone and would strike up a conversation with anyone. But Mr. Loc gave off bad vibes, which the Viets in the canteen recognized, and they kept their distance from him.

  Susan asked me, “Do you want to get something to eat or drink?”

  “No. Let’s head out.”

  She went to the canteen and spoke to Mr. Loc, then came back to where I was standing near the vehicle. “He’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

  “Who’s paying for this trip—him or me?”

  “I don’t think he likes you.”

  “He’s a fucking cop. I can smell them a mile away.”

  “Then maybe he has the same thought about you.” Susan asked me, “Do you want a picture here?”

  “No.”

  “You’ll never be back this way again.”

  “I hope not.”

  “Do you have pictures of when you were here last time?”

  “I never once took my camera out of my backpack.” I added, “I don’t think anyone took a picture here, and if they did, the odds were that their family developed them when the deceased’s personal effects were sent home.”

  She dropped the subject.

  Mr. Loc finished whatever he was drinking and approached the vehicle.

  I took the map off the seat and opened it. I said to Susan, “This dotted line to Khe Sanh says something about the Ho Chi Minh Trail, right?”

  She looked at the map and read, “‘He Thong Duong Mon Ho Chi Minh.’ Means sort of network of the trail, or part of the trail network of Ho Chi Minh.”

  “Right. It wasn’t actually a single trail—it was an entire network of jungle trails, shallow streambeds, underwater bridges, log roads through swamps, and who knows what else. Most of it, as you can see, goes through Laos and Cambodia, where we weren’t supposed to operate. This trail to Khe Sanh skirts the Laotian border, and I hope this clown doesn’t get lost, and we wind up in Laos without a visa.”

  Mr. Loc was standing nearby, and I motioned him toward me. He moved slowly and stood too close. I wanted to deck him, tie his thumbs together, and drive myself. But that might cause a problem. I pointed at the map and said to him, “Ho Chi Minh Trail. Biet? Khe Sanh.”

  He nodded and got in the driver’s seat. Susan and I got in the rear, and off we went.

  There were a number of narrow farm paths in the valley, which we drove on, and at some point, we headed north on a dirt road through the foothills. The trees came up to the road, and the branches blocked out most of the sunlight. This was, indeed, the Ho Chi Minh Trail.

  The terrain got rougher and more mountainous, and now and then part of the road was paved with rotting logs, what we used to call corduroy roads. There were spectacular waterfalls and cascades in the distance, and shallow brooks ran right across the road. Susan took photos as we bounced along. Mr. Loc seemed to enjoy running through the mud as fast as possible to maximize the splashes, and Susan and I got splattered a few times. In the rearview mirror, I could see Mr. Loc smiling.

  We were barely making thirty kilometers per hour, and the RAV was bouncing badly. Now and then, the road wound around what looked like small ponds, but which were actually gigantic bomb craters made by thousand-pound blockbusters dropped by B-52 bombers from thirty thousand feet. I pointed this out to Susan and said, “We spent a fortune blowing the hell out of these dirt trails. We may have killed between fifty and a hundred thousand North Vietnamese soldiers, men and women, along these infiltration routes. But they kept coming, filling in the holes or changing the route now and then, like a line of army ants that you’re trying to stomp on before they reach your house.” I added, “I didn’t appreciate this until I saw those Russian-made tanks in that base camp. I mean, those vehicles were made near Moscow, wound u
p somehow in North Vietnam, and traveled thousands of kilometers over roads like this, under constant attacks, carrying their own fuel and spare parts, and one day, one of them makes it all the way to the gates of the presidential palace in Saigon. I give those bastards credit. They never understood that we were beating the hell out of them and that they couldn’t possibly win.” I slapped Mr. Loc on the shoulder and said, “Hey, you little guys are tough. Next war against the Chinese, I want you on my side.”

  Our eyes met in the rearview mirror, and I could swear that Mr. Loc nodded.

  The rain forest thinned out, and we could see that the hills and mountains were dotted with longhouses on stilts, and we saw the smoke of cooking fires curling into the misty air.

  Susan said, “This is absolutely beautiful. It’s so pristine. Can we stop and meet some tribespeople?”

  “They don’t like unannounced visitors.”

  “Are you making that up?”

  “No. You have to call ahead. They only receive visitors between four and six.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “You make stuff up,” I said.

  “No, I don’t. Let’s stop.”

  “Later. There are lots of tribespeople around Khe Sanh.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Ask James Bong.”

  She smiled. “Is that what you call him?”

  “Yeah. James Bong, secret agent. Ask him.”

  She asked him, he replied, and she said to me, “He says there are Bru tribesmen around Khe Sanh.” She added, “He wants to know what business we have with the Moi—Moi means savages.”

  “Well, first of all, it’s none of his business, and second, we don’t like racial epithets, unless it’s gook, slant, or zipper head.”

  “Paul. That’s awful.”

  “I know. I’m regressing. I apologize. Tell him to go fuck himself.”

  Mr. Loc, I think, understood this. I said to Susan and to Mr. Loc, “If we were trying to make contact with insurgent tribesmen, would we have a secret policeman driving us?”

  No one answered.

  Susan took a few more photos and carried on a chat with Mr. Loc. After a while, she said to me, “Mr. Loc says there are about eight million tribesmen in Vietnam, and over fifty distinct tribes with different languages and dialects. He says the government is trying to bring education and agriculture to the tribespeople, but they resist civilization.”

  “Maybe it’s the government they’re resisting.”

  Susan said, “Maybe they should be left alone.”

  “Correct. Look, I happen to like the Montagnards I’ve met, and I’m happy to see that they still carry rifles. My fantasy is to come back, like Colonel Gordon, Marlon Brando, or Mr. Kurtz, and go native. I’d organize those eight million people into a hell of a fighting force, and we’d own these mountains. We’d hunt and fish all day, and perform weird and spooky ceremonies at night, gathered around blazing fires with the heads of our enemies impaled on poles. Maybe I’d organize tour groups of Americans. Paul Brenner’s Montagnard World. Ten bucks for a day trip, fifty for overnight. I saw Montagnards once stake out a bull and skin it alive, then cut its throat and drink its blood. That would be the climax of the evening. What do you think?”

  She didn’t reply.

  We rode in silence through the fog-shrouded mountains under a sunless sky, the smell of wood fires hanging in the heavy air, and the damp chill seeping into my bones and my heart. I think I hated this place.

  Susan said something to Mr. Loc and he stopped.

  I asked, “What’s up?”

  She replied, “There’s a trail there that leads up this hill to some longhouses.” She took her camera and got out of the RAV. She said, “I want to see a Montagnard village.”

  She started up a steep trail off the side of the road. I said to Mr. Loc, “Be right back, Charlie. Don’t go away.”

  I got out and followed Susan up the trail.

  About two hundred meters up the side of the hill, the land flattened, revealing a large clearing in which were six longhouses built on stilts.

  In the clearing were about two dozen women and twice as many kids, all going about their daily activities, which seemed to consist mostly of food preparation. The whole area looked very clean and free of vegetation, except for short grass on which grazed small goats and two tethered hill ponies.

  The women were wearing long, dark blue dresses with white embroidery, gathered at the waist with scarves.

  The dogs started barking as soon as they smelled us, but the Montagnards kept at their tasks, and barely gave us a glance, though a few of the kids stopped what they were doing.

  The dogs ran toward us, but they were small dogs, as all the dogs were in Vietnam, and I didn’t remember them as being particularly vicious. Still, I wished I had little doggie treats. I said to Susan, “They won’t bite.”

  “Famous last words.”

  “Don’t kneel to pet them—they don’t get petted and they might think you’re looking for lunch.”

  Susan waved to the Montagnards and said something in Vietnamese.

  I said to her, “This is the Tribingo tribe. They’re cannibals.”

  A short, stocky old man, who had been sitting on the stairs of a longhouse, rose and walked toward us. He wore an embroidered long-sleeve shirt, black pants, and leather sandals.

  I looked around again, but didn’t see any young or middle-aged men. They were all hunting, or maybe drying heads in the smokehouse.

  The old man came right up to us, and Susan said something to him, which included the word My, and they both bowed.

  Susan introduced me to the old man, whose name sounded like John, and we shook hands. This guy was old enough to have been a Montagnard fighter, and he was eyeing me like I might be here to give him new orders.

  Susan and the old man, who was obviously the village chief—the honcho, as we called them, even though that was a Japanese word—chatted, and I could tell they were having a little trouble communicating in Vietnamese.

  John looked at me and surprised me by saying, “You GI? You fight here?”

  I replied, “A Shau.”

  “Ah.” He motioned us to follow him.

  I said to Susan, “I think they’re going to have us for lunch.”

  “Paul, stop being an idiot. This is fascinating.”

  The old man informed us that he and his people were of the Taoi tribe, which I hoped weren’t into human sacrifices, and he showed us around the small village, which had no name; according to Susan, it was called the Place of the Clan of dai-uy John, or Chief John. Dai-uy is also captain, and John was not his name, but that’s what it sounded like. I didn’t think I’d find this place in the Hammond World Atlas, especially if it changed names every time they got a new chief.

  Susan asked for and got permission to take photographs of everything and everybody. The dogs followed us wherever we went.

  John pointed out all sorts of things that he thought would interest us, and which did interest one of us.

  He introduced us to everyone, even the kids, and Susan kept up a conversation with him as she translated for me. Susan said to me, “He wants to know if we’ll have food with him and his people.”

  “Next time. We need to get moving.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “You won’t be when you see what’s on the menu. Also, they take forever to eat a meal. They must have learned about four-hour lunches from the French. Tell him we need to be somewhere.”

  “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

  I looked at the old man and tapped my watch, which maybe he understood, and I said, “Khe Sanh.”

  “Ah.” He nodded.

  We finished the village tour, and I noticed that the kids were not following us, or begging for money or candy, like the Viet kids usually do in Saigon. Only the dogs dogged us each step of the way.

  The old man led us to the wooden stairs where we’d first seen him sitting and invited us to come into t
he longhouse. There were leather sandals and homemade shoes all over the steps, so Susan and I took off our shoes and so did John.

  We climbed the stairs, and the dogs did not follow. Americans should learn to keep their dogs outside, like the primitive Montagnards did.

  We entered this wooden structure about fifty feet long and twenty feet wide. The floor was wood planking, with multicolored throw rugs scattered around. Tree trunk poles ran down the center of the longhouse and held up the peaked roof.

  There were small windows covered with thin fabric that let in some daylight and a few hanging oil lamps, which were lit. Obviously, there was no electricity. Toward the center of the longhouse was a big clay oven, but no chimney, and I recalled that the smoke rose to the roof and filled the room, which kept the mosquitoes away at night.

  There weren’t any people in the longhouse, and the hammocks were folded and hung along the walls. I counted about twenty of them, and I tried to picture twenty people of all ages and both sexes sleeping together in this communal house filled with smoke. No wonder there weren’t as many Montagnards as there were Vietnamese. I asked Susan, “You ever do it in a hammock?”

  “Can we change the subject to something cultural?”

  John led us to the center of the longhouse where his space was. He was the honcho, so he had a big area, filled with bamboo chests and boxes. There were machetes and knives hung on the wall, along with some scarves and strips of leather.

  I noticed a big square table in the center of the longhouse about a foot off the ground, stacked with porcelain and pottery.

  In an odd way, this communal society was the Communist ideal, yet the Montagnards hated the rigidity and control of the Communist government, and were basically free-spirited and independent. Plus, they didn’t like the Vietnamese anyway.

  John sat cross-legged beside a big wooden chest and so did Susan, so I did the same, which is easier than squatting like the Viets do.

  John opened the chest, pulled out a green beret, and handed it to me.

  I took it and looked at it. Inside was the label of an American manufacturer.