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.”
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.