Up Country

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

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

  She didn’t reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “So what?”

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

  Susan snapped, “Go to hell.”

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

  “Go to hell.”

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

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

  Neither of us replied.

  He asked me, “Where is your luggage?”

  “Stolen.”

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

  “Bought them.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

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

  “As what?”

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

  “I don’t like your questions.”

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

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

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

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

  “With whom?”

  “To speak to the commercial attaché.”

  “About what?”

  “About commerce, obviously.”

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

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

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

  Susan suggested, “Go to hell.”

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

  He didn’t reply.

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

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

  “Not even close.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Ho Chi Minh City.”

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

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

  “Can you be more specific?”

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

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

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

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

  “No. It is not a joke.”

  “Sounds like a joke.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He shook his head.

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

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

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

  I looked at him.

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

  Neither Susan nor I moved.

  He smiled and said, “Are you frightened?”

  “No. Are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Asshole.

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

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

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

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

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

  Mang said, “No talking.”

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

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

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

  “Is that tonight?”

  “Paul.”

  “Only play the ace when you need it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  We remained standing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Shut up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “That is not what your driver said.”

  “What did he say?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yes, and became Canadians along the way.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Where did you get this motorcycle?”

  “I bought it.”

  “From whom?”

  “A man in the street.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Nguyen.”

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

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

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

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

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