“Got it.”
“Okay. On the other hand, he may be alive — in Tam Ki or elsewhere.”
“Right. This is where I’m a little unclear about my mission and my goal. What am I supposed to do with Mr. Tran Van Vinh if I find him alive?”
Conway made eye contact with me and said, “What if I told you to kill him?”
We maintained eye contact. I said, “Tell you what — I’ll find him, you kill him. But you’d better have a good reason.”
“I think when you talk to him, you might discover the reason.”
“Then someone whacks me.”
“Don’t be melodramatic.”
“Sorry, I thought we were being melodramatic.”
“No, we’re being realistic. Here’s the mission in clear English — you first determine if this guy is dead or alive. If dead, we’d like some proof; if alive, establish if he lives in Tam Ki or elsewhere, then talk to him about this incident of February 1968 and see what he remembers, and see if he can identify the murderer from a photo pack that we’ll try to get to you. Also, as you will read in the letter, Tran Van Vinh took a few things from the murder victim. We took souvenirs from the dead, they took souvenirs. He probably still has these items, or if he’s dead, his family will have them — dog tags, wallet, whatever. This will identify the murdered lieutenant for us, and it will also connect Tran Van Vinh to the murder scene, and if he’s alive, make him a credible witness.”
“And we don’t want a live credible witness.”
Mr. Conway did not answer.
I finished my coffee and said, “So, if I find Tran Van Vinh alive, I see if he can ID some photos that maybe I’ll get along the way, and see if I can look at his souvenirs, and maybe buy them from him, or his family if he’s dead, and maybe get this guy out of the country, maybe videotape him, and/or leave him where he is, or maybe give Mr. Eagan in the Hanoi embassy this guy’s address and whatever happens to Tran Van Vinh happens. And if he’s dead, you want proof.”
“That’s about it. We’re playing it by ear. We’ll get in touch with you over there, in Saigon or Hue latest. There’s still some debate here about the best course of action.”
“Be sure to let me know what you decide.”
“We will. Any further questions?”
“No.”
Mr. Conway asked me, in an official tone, “Mr. Brenner, do you understand everything I’ve told you so far?”
“Not only that, I understand some stuff you’re not telling me.”
He ignored that and continued, “And you remember all of these verbal instructions I’ve given you?”
“I do.”
“Do you have any further questions for me at this time?”
“Can I ask you why you want this guy whacked?”
“I don’t understand the question. Anything else?”
“Nope.”
Doug Conway stood, and I also stood.
Conway said, “Your flight leaves in an hour, you’re traveling Business Class, which isn’t too extravagant for your station in life. The occupation on your visa says ‘Retired,’ the purpose of your visit says ‘Tourism.’ Understand, there’s some chance of a man your age traveling alone getting stopped at Tan Son Nhat and being questioned. I spent half an hour with a paranoid little gent in an interrogation room when I went back. Keep cool, don’t get hostile, stick to your story, and if the war comes up, give him some bullshit about how terrible it was for his country. Express remorse or something. They love that. Okay?”
“So, I shouldn’t mention that I killed North Vietnamese soldiers.”
“I wouldn’t. That might get you off on the wrong foot. But be honest about being a Vietnam veteran and wanting to visit some of the places you saw as a young soldier. Tell the interrogator you were a cook or a company clerk or something. Not a combat soldier. They don’t like that, as I found out the hard way. Okay?”
“Got it.”
Conway continued, “When you get to your hotel, do not contact us. The hotels sometimes keep copies of faxes that you send, and the local police sometimes look at these faxes. Same with phone calls. All dialed numbers are recorded for billing purposes, like anywhere else in the world, but they’re also available to the police. Plus, the phones may be tapped.”
I already knew all of this, but Conway had a mental checklist he needed to go through.
He informed me, “Regarding your arrival, your contact in Saigon will verify that you checked in at the Rex. It won’t arouse any suspicion if the call comes in locally. The contact will then notify us via a secure fax or e-mail from an American-owned business. So, if somehow you don’t check in at the Rex, we’ll know.”
“And do what?”
“Make inquiries.”
“Thanks.”
“Okay, in this plastic bag is a twenty-one-day supply of anti-malarial pills. You were supposed to start taking them four days ago, but not to worry — you’ll be in Saigon for three days, where there aren’t many malaria mosquitoes. Take a pill now. There’s also an antibiotic, which I hope you don’t need. Basically, don’t drink the water and be careful of uncooked food. You could pick up hepatitis A, but by the time you experience symptoms, you’ll be back home. If we knew sooner that you were leaving, we’d have gotten you a hepatitis vaccine—”
“You knew some time ago that I was leaving — I’m the one who didn’t know.”
“Whatever. Read your Lonely Planet Guide on the flight. There’s also a copy of the translated letter in this bag. Read it, but get rid of it on your layover in Seoul.”
“Oh… I planned to have it on me at Tan Son Nhat.”
Mr. Conway said to me, “I’m sorry if at any time in this briefing I’ve insulted your intelligence or professional ability, Mr. Brenner. I’m just following orders.” He looked at me and said, “Karl said I might not like you, but I do like you. So, here’s some friendly advice — the chances are that you’re going to find out more than you need to know. How you deal with these discoveries will determine how you are dealt with.”
Mr. Doug Conway and I stared at each other for a really long time. A sane man would have left right then and there. But Mr. Conway had calculated, correctly, that Paul Brenner was not frightened by that threat; Mr. Paul Brenner was more curious than ever, and highly motivated to find out what this was all about. Paul Brenner is an idiot.
Mr. Conway cleared his throat and said, “Okay, you have a long layover in Seoul. Spend it in the Asiana lounge. There may be a person or a message there for you, with more information. And if this turns out to be a no-go, this is where you will be turned around. Understood?”
“Understood.”
Mr. Conway asked me, “Is there anything I can do for you at this time? Any last-minute messages, instructions, personal matters that I can help you with?”
“Actually, yes.” I took an envelope out of my pocket and said, “I need an airline ticket from Bangkok to Honolulu, and a hotel reservation in Honolulu for a few days, then Maui. Here’s the itinerary, and my American Express number.”
Mr. Conway took the envelope, but said, “I think they’ll want you back in Washington.”
“I don’t care what they want. I want two weeks in paradise. We’ll debrief in Bangkok.”
“All right.” He put the envelope in his pocket. “Anything else?”
“Nope.”
“All right, then, good luck and be careful.”
I didn’t reply.
“You know… believe me when I tell you that, aside from your mission, this trip will do you more good than harm.”
“Hey, my first two trips there would have been great except for the war.”
Mr. Conway did not smile. “I hope I’ve done a good job of briefing you. That always concerns me.”