I handed the fax back to her.
She said to me, “It’s your decision now, Paul. These are your bosses.”
I said, “This is directed to you, not me.”
“Oh. Well, I have no bosses in Washington. I did the favor for the American consulate in Saigon. End of story.”
I wasn’t so sure of that, but I said, “Fax Bill that you’re going with me to Hue.”
She got a piece of fax paper from the desk clerk and wrote on it. She handed it to me, and I read: Mr. Brenner and I are headed to Hue. Inform his firm of same. Will return to Saigon sometime week after next. Regards to the Vincents from me, and my regrets.
Susan went into a small back room with the desk clerk and came out a few minutes later. She said to me, “I told the desk clerk we were checking out today, and we needed a taxi in half an hour to take you to the bus station and me to the train station.”
We climbed the stairs, and I said, “Dress for adventure.”
We were downstairs in the lobby at noon, both dressed in blue jeans, polo shirts, and walking shoes. We checked out, and Susan led me into the dining room. We found Lucy waiting on tables on the veranda, and Susan pressed some money into her hands. The old woman thanked us profusely. She said something to Susan, who said to me, “She said she doesn’t remember you, but she remembers the American soldiers who were . . . very high-spirited and . . . crazy, but who were always kind to her. She wishes us a safe journey.”
“Tell her I will always remember the kindness and the patience of the young ladies here who made our time away from the war so pleasant.”
Susan translated, the old woman bowed, then we held each other’s shoulders and kissed, French-style, both cheeks.
We went back to the lobby, got our bags, and went outside, where a taxi was waiting for us.
Susan said, “That was very nice. What you said to each other.”
“We’re old friends. We went through a war together.”
The driver put our bags in the trunk and off we went.
BOOK IV
Highway One
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The taxi from the hotel dropped Susan off at the train station first, then me at the bus terminal.
I went into the terminal, then back outside and took a taxi to the Thong Nhat Hotel on the beach. I left my luggage with the bell captain, and went to the terrace and got a table. Within five minutes, Susan joined me.
We had some hours to kill before we needed to be at Slicky Boy Tours, and this was as good a place as any and wouldn’t attract attention. The clientele was all Western, and no one from the Ministry of Public Security was dining there.
Susan and I had lunch.
I asked her, “Why are you taking this trip with me?”
“I don’t want to go back to Saigon.”
“Why not?”
“I’d rather be with you.”
“Why?”
“Well . . . you might think it’s because I’m supposed to keep an eye on you, or you might think it’s because I’m bored and I want some excitement, or you might think it’s because I’m crazy about you.”
“I had all three thoughts.”
She smiled and said, “Pick the ones that suit you best. But no more than two.”
I thought about that and said, “The ones that suit me best are the first two because if something happened to you because of the last one, I’d never forgive myself.”
She lit a cigarette and stared out at the fishing boats coming out of the river into the sea. She said, “I don’t want you to feel responsible for my safety. I can take care of myself.”
“Okay. But even in the infantry, we had the buddy system. Two guys who looked out for each other.”
“Did you ever lose a buddy?”
“Two of them.”
She didn’t reply for a long time, then asked, “Did you ever save a buddy’s life?”
“A few times.”
“Anyone ever save your life?”
“A few times.”
She said, “So, we’ll look out for each other, and we’ll do the best we can.”
I didn’t reply.
She said, “But if you’re going into the interior after you leave Hue, a male Caucasian traveling alone attracts attention.”
“I understand that. And I will be traveling alone.”
She continued, “As I said in the Q-Bar, you should try to pass yourself off as a naturalist, or an amateur biologist. If you were being watched here in Nha Trang, you’ve already shown some interest in biology at the Oceanographic Institute.”
I looked at her, but didn’t say anything.
“And you’ll really need an interpreter. It’s very difficult without an interpreter once you get away from the coast.”
I said, “I didn’t have an interpreter the last two times I was here. I’m good at making myself understood.”
“I’m sure you were when you had a rifle.”
“Point made. I’ll get an interpreter. They may have someone for me in Hue.”
She didn’t reply for a while, then said, “They haven’t given you much backup so far.”
“That’s because they have complete trust and confidence in me. I’m very resourceful.”
“I see that. But you can’t be sleeping with bilingual women all the way up country.”
I smiled and said, “You’re not coming with me past Hue.”
At 5:30, I left the hotel terrace and walked to Slicky Boy Tours on Van Hoa Street, a few blocks away. Susan stayed to settle the bill and was to follow within ten minutes.
Slicky Boy was still wearing his wraparound shades, and a phony smile. His front teeth were rimmed in gold, and he had a diamond stud in his ear. The only thing missing was a T-shirt that said Con Artist.
Susan had informed me that his real name was Mr. Thuc, and I greeted him by this name. He spoke a little English and asked me, “Where you lady?”
I replied, “Not my lady. Maybe she come. Maybe not.”
He said, “Same price.”
“Where’s my car?”
“Come. I show you.”
We went outside. Parked in his little mini-bus lot was a dark blue Nissan rice burner with four-wheel drive and four doors. I didn’t recognize the model, but Mr. Thuc assured me, “Good car.”
I examined good car and saw that it had no seat belts, but the tires looked okay, and there was a spare.
It was almost six hundred kilometers to Hue, according to Susan. This should take less than six hours on a decent road, but if the estimated drive time was seven or eight hours on Highway One, then Highway One was in much worse shape then I remembered it in 1968, when the Army Corps of Engineers was in charge of the roadwork.
There were no keys in the ignition, so I asked Slicky for the keys, and he gave them to me reluctantly. I sat in the driver’s seat and started the engine, which sounded all right, but there was only a quarter tank of fuel. That may not mean anything, but might mean that Slicky Boy had a shorter trip planned for us.
I popped the hood, got out, and checked the engine, which was a small four-cylinder, but seemed okay. I asked Slicky, “Where’s the driver?”
“He come.”
I shut off the engine and kept the keys. I looked at my watch and saw that fifteen minutes had already passed since I left Susan. Just as I was starting to worry about her, she showed up in a cyclo. She was wearing her backpack and carrying her new tote.
She exchanged greetings with Slicky Boy, and shook my hand as if we were recent acquaintances who had arranged to share a ride. This had been my idea, and even I was impressed by my tradecraft. James Bond would be proud of me.
Susan asked, “Is that our car?”
“That’s it.” I took her aside and said, “Quarter tank of gas. And check the radio antenna.”
She glanced at the antenna, where an orange plastic strip had been tied. “Sort of makes it stand out from all the other dark blue Nissan four-wheels.”
She looked
into the rear compartment and said to me, “No gas cans, which are standard for a long drive, and no ice chest, which is a common courtesy in ’Nam.”
Slicky Boy was looking our way, but with the wraparound shades, I couldn’t tell if he was getting as suspicious of us as we were of him. This was not Hertz.
The driver showed up, on foot, a guy of about forty. He wore black cotton pants and a white short-sleeve shirt, like half the men in this country. He also wore sandals and needed a pedicure. He was a little hefty for a Viet, and seemed to me a bit nervous.
Mr. Thuc introduced us to Mr. Cam, and we all shook hands. Mr. Thuc said to us, “Mr. Cam speak no English, and I tell him lady speak good Vietnamese.” Mr. Thuc checked his watch and said, “Okay? You pay now.”
I counted out a hundred and fifty dollars and said to Slicky Boy, “Half now, half to Mr. Cam when we arrive in Hue.” I put the money in his shirt pocket.
“No, no. All now.”
“Am I in Hue? Is this Hue?” I opened the rear hatch of the Nissan and threw my bags inside. Susan put her backpack in, and I closed the hatch.
Slicky Boy was pissed, but he calmed himself down. He said, conversationally, “So, where Mr. Cam take you in Hue?”
I replied, “I think we told you. Hue”Phu Bai Airport.”
“Yes? Where you go?”
“Hanoi.”
“Ah.” He looked around, the way people do in a police state, and informed me, “Too many Communists in Hanoi.”
“Too many capitalists here.”
“Yes?” He said to Susan and me, “Need you passport and visa. I make copies.”
Well, we really didn’t want Slicky Boy to know our names, so I said to him, “No.”
Slicky started complaining about us not showing identification, and not paying in full, and not trusting him.
I said to him, “You want to make three hundred bucks, or do you want to be an asshole?”
“Please?”
Susan translated, and I wondered what the word was for asshole. She said to me, “Calm down.”
I said to Susan, “Let’s go. We’ll find another car and driver.” I plucked the cash out of Slicky’s pocket and opened the rear hatch.
He looked shocked, and his mouth dropped open. He said, “Okay. Okay. No passport. No visa.”
I put the money back in his pocket.
He said something to the driver, and they went inside the office.
Susan and I made eye contact. She said, “Mr. Cam is not dressed for a night drive up north.”
“The car has a heater.”
“They rarely use the heater because they think it wastes gas. Same with headlights, if you can believe that. Also, if the car breaks down, they’d freeze to death.”
“How cold is it up north?”
“Probably in the fifties at night. That’s very cold for someone from Nha Trang.”
I nodded and said, “We must look stupid.”
“Speak for yourself. Also, Mr. Cam may speak some English. So watch what you say.”
“I know that.”
She looked at me and said, “Are you sure you don’t want to take the mini-bus tomorrow?”
I replied, “I can handle Mr. Cam.”
“Can you handle getting robbed on the road?”
“I’m driving.”
“Paul, you aren’t allowed to drive.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
She informed me, “Sometimes they’re in cahoots with the police. They’ll pull over the chauffeured car and fine the Westerners in the car big bucks. If you’re driving, you’ll get arrested.”
“If they catch me.”
She looked at me and said, “I guess the R&R is over.”
“You bet.”
She forced a smile and said, “So we outrun the police or speed through the ambush.”
“Right. Mr. Cam wouldn’t be so accommodating.” I asked, “Is there an alternate route?”
“No. At night, it’s Highway One, or stay home. The other roads aren’t drivable at night, unless you want to go about ten miles an hour.”
“Okay. This is a challenge. I like challenges.”
She didn’t reply.
I realized that Susan might not share my enthusiasm for irrational behavior. I said, “Look, I’m the one who needs to make a rendezvous. I’ll go, and you follow with the Frenchmen tomorrow.”
“Oh, so I have to ride with a busload of Frenchmen, and all you have to do is stay awake eight hours and watch out for highway robbers. I thought you were a gentleman.”
“Be serious.”
“Look, Paul, chances are nothing is going to happen. And if it does, the nice thing about this country is that they don’t kill you. And the women aren’t raped. It’s only about money. You just hand over everything you own, and they’re gone.” She added, “We can hitchhike the rest of the way in the morning.”
“I’m not getting a good image of us standing in our underwear on Highway One, trying to flag down an ox cart.”
She handed me her tote bag, which was heavy.
I said, “What do you have in here?”
She replied, “Some American companies keep a little protection locked in the safe.”
I didn’t say anything.
She continued, “In the Binh Tay Market in Cholan, you can buy pieces of American military hardware under the counter. You put the pieces together, and voilà, you have something. In this case, a Colt .45 automatic, American military issue. You’re familiar with this weapon.”
I looked at her and reminded her, “You said this was a capital offense.”
“Only if you get caught.”
“Susan . . . where did you hide this?”
She replied, “In the hot water tank. There’s always an access panel.”
My mind was reeling, and I started to say something, but Mr. Thuc and Mr. Cam had come out of the office.
I looked at them and had the impression that they’d gone over the final details of their plan, as Susan and I had gone over the details of our plan to screw up their plan.
Mr. Thuc was smiling again, and he said, “Mr. Cam ready. You ready. Have good journey to Hue.” He added, “Chuc Mung Nam Moi,” then reminded us, “Pay Mr. Cam when you get to Hue.”
Not wanting to seem as jumpy as Mr. Cam, we shook hands with Slicky Boy and wished him a Happy New Year. Mr. Thuc and Mr. Cam each opened a rear door for us, and we both got in the back.
We pulled out of the lot and halfway down Van Hoa Street, Susan said something to Mr. Cam. He replied, and she got a little sharp with him. I put my hand on his shoulder and said in English, “Do what lady say.”
He realized we weren’t going to be that easy. Within a few minutes, he pulled into a gas station.
He filled the tank, and I stood near him. Susan went into the service station office, and came out a few minutes later with a guy who was carrying two ten-liter cans of gasoline. Susan had a plastic bag that contained two liters of bottled water, a lot of cellophane bags filled with snacks, and a road map.
I made Mr. Cam pay for the gas, and as he did, I took my Nha Trang map and guidebook out of my overnight bag. We all got in the car, me in the front this time, and off we went.
We headed north, and on the map I could see we were going in the right direction, toward the Xam Bong Bridge.
The long bridge passed over a few small islands where the Nha Trang River widened and emptied into the South China Sea. The sea had turned from blue to gold as the sun began to set above the hills to our west. It would be dark within half an hour.
We continued north on a fairly decent road that cut through the high hills north of Nha Trang.
I recognized this road and looked to my right. I said to Susan, “That’s where the giant fairy fell down drunk and put his handprint in the rock.”
“Glad you were paying attention. And up there, on the next mountain, is where his lover turned to stone.” Susan said, “This is sad. Leaving Nha Trang. I had the best week I’ve
had since I’ve been here.”
I looked back at her, and we made eye contact. I said, “Thanks for a great R&R.”
Within fifteen minutes, the road intersected Highway One, which ran straight to Hue, about six hundred kilometers due north.
The so-called highway had one lane in each direction, but widened now and then to three lanes for passing. Motor traffic was moderate, but there were still a lot of ox carts and bicycles on the road. Mr. Cam’s driving would not get him a Highway Safety Award, but he was no worse than anyone else on the road.
Highway One ran along the coast, and up ahead I could see another mountainous promontory jutting into the sea. To our left, rice paddies and villages stretched along the highway, and beyond them were more mountains which now blocked the sun. It was getting to that time of day that in the military we called EENT, the end of evening nautical twilight, with enough light left to dig in for the night.
This was going to be the first time since 1972 that I was in the Vietnamese countryside after dark, and I wasn’t looking forward to it. The night belonged to Charlie, and to Charlie’s son, Mr. Cam.
But unbeknownst to Mr. Cam, Susan Weber had an old, but I hoped, well-oiled Colt .45 ready to point at his head.
In fact, as the sun set, I was less angry at her for bringing the gun, and I hoped it was assembled and loaded. I could assemble and disassemble a Colt .45 literally blindfolded, and do it in under fifteen seconds, including slapping in the magazine, chambering a round, and taking it off safety. But I didn’t want to try to break my record.
It was dark now, and the traffic had all but disappeared, except for a few trucks wasting gasoline with their lights on. We passed through a small town, which my map said was called Ninh Hoa. A mountainous headland blocked the view of the sea to the right, and up ahead was a stretch of desolate road. I could see a few peasants’ huts with lights in the windows, and water buffalo being led in from the fields. It was dinner time, and perhaps ambush time.
I said to Mr. Cam in English, “I need to pee. Biet? Take a leak. Make nuoc.”