“You look fine.”
“I have no makeup on, I’ve been crying, I’m not dressed, and you’re making me miserable.”
“You can borrow some lipstick.”
“Look at me.”
“No.”
“Paul, look at me.”
I looked at her.
She said, “Three things — I’m on your side, you can trust me, and I love you.”
“Okay.”
“Kiss me.”
I kissed her, and we put our arms around each other and held the kiss. How far back was that hotel?
We separated, and she looked at me. She said, “Three more things— we have no evidence, Tran Van Vinh is under Colonel Mang’s control, and when you do get out of Hanoi, you need to be as careful in Bangkok as you were here.”
I said, “Which is why I want you to just keep quiet and make yourself scarce. You don’t need to get involved with my Boy Scout merit badge.”
She didn’t reply.
We walked the short distance along a high stucco wall toward a set of wrought iron gates at the entrance to a driveway.
There was a Viet police booth along the wall, and a guy in plainclothes approached us and said in English, “Passports.”
We gave him our passports, which he examined with a flashlight. He looked at us as though he knew who we were, as though Colonel Mang had called ahead.
If Colonel Mang had changed his mind, we’d be on a return trip to the Ministry of Public Security. I could see the gates of the ambassador’s residence not twenty feet away, and I saw two United States Marine guards standing there.
The plainclothes cop wasn’t saying anything, and I couldn’t determine if I needed to kick him in the balls and make a dash for the gates. There were two uniformed cops outside the police booth, both armed, and they were watching us.
The plainclothes cop said to me, “Where are you going?”
“To the American Ambassador’s reception.”
He looked at our clothing, but said nothing.
I put out my hand and said, “Passports.”
He slapped both passports in my hand, turned, and walked away.
We continued toward the gates, and I said to Susan, “Getting out might not be so easy.”
“I had the same thought.”
The gates were open and the two marine guards in dress blues were a welcome sight, though I’d never tell that to a marine.
The marines were at parade rest with their hands clasped behind their backs, and they looked us over. They didn’t come to attention and salute, but our round eyes got us through.
A few yards past the gate on the right was a guardhouse where another marine stood in an olive drab uniform, armed with an M-16 rifle. A marine sergeant approached us and said, “Sorry, folks, this is private property.”
Susan said, “We’re here for the Ambassador’s reception.”
“Uh…” He looked us over. “Uh…”
Susan said, “Weber. Susan Weber. And this is my guest. Mr. Paul Brenner.” She added, “Chief Warrant Officer Paul Brenner.”
“Okay… uh…” He looked at the clipboard in his hand with a penlight and said, “Yes, ma’am. Here you are.” He looked at her, then at me and asked, “Can I see some form of identification?”
I gave him my passport, which he studied with the penlight, then handed the passport back and said, “Thank you, sir.”
Susan handed him her passport and he checked it out and handed it back to her. He said, “Uh… the event tonight is business attire.”
Susan said, “We’ve just come in from the country, and there are clothes waiting for us here. Thank you, Sergeant.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He asked me, “Have you been here before, sir?”
“Not here, no.”
He pointed to the house and said, “You follow this circular driveway to the front door. The reception is in the garden tonight. Have a good evening.”
I looked at this young marine sergeant and thought of Ted Buckley at Khe Sanh. The world had come a long way since the winter of 1968, but if you were never there, you wouldn’t know that.
I was about to turn away when the marine asked me, “Did you serve here?”
“I did. A long time ago.”
He came to attention and saluted former PFC Brenner.
I took Susan’s arm, and we walked up the stone-paved driveway.
The house was a three-story French villa with a slate mansard roof. The cream-colored stucco was molded to look like stone blocks, and there were French ornamental details on the facade, including wrought iron balconies and louvered shutters. An illuminated American flag flew from a pole near the front entrance. A breeze snapped the flag, and I felt a little tingle run down my spine.
A Vietnamese man dressed in a dark suit stood at the entrance. He smiled and said, “Good evening.”
Susan replied in English, “Good evening.”
I like people who don’t show off their second language whenever they get a chance. Nevertheless, I said to him, “Bon soir,” so he could tell his friends about a Frenchman who came to the American Ambassador’s reception dressed like a pig.
He replied, “Bon soir, monsieur.” He opened the door and we entered.
We went up a short flight of marble stairs, at the top of which was yet another Viet, this one a woman in a blue silk ao dai, who also greeted us in English and bowed. She said, “Please follow me. The reception is in the garden.”
Susan said to her, “I’d like to use the ladies’ room.”
The Viet lady probably thought that was a good idea.
She bowed us toward a sitting room to the right, off of which was a staircase that went up to the next floor, but Susan passed it and kept going.
As we crossed the well-appointed sitting room, Susan motioned to a set of closed double doors on the left-hand wall and said, “The Ambassador’s office.”
She opened another door that led to a big bathroom and said, “Come on in. I’m not shy.”
We both entered the bathroom and I locked the door.
Susan made right for the toilet.
There were two marble washbasins along the wall, with soap and towels, and I washed the grime and blue dye off my face and hands. I looked in the mirror and a very tired unshaven man looked back at me. This wasn’t the worst two weeks of my life — the A Shau Valley still held first place — but it might have been the most emotionally draining. And it wasn’t over. Nor would it ever be.
Susan stood at the basin beside me and looked at herself in the mirror. “I look good without makeup… don’t I?”
“See if the Ambassador hits on you again.”
I didn’t see any mouthwash, so good soldier that I am, I bit off a piece of soap, put a handful of hot water in my mouth, and gargled. The soap foamed around my lips.
Susan laughed and said, “What are you doing?”
I spit into the sink. “Gargling.”
She washed up and tried the soap in the mouth. “Ugh.”
I went to a window that overlooked the front garden where we’d come in. I could see the marine guards at the entrance, the two marines at the guardhouse, and the American flag flapping outside the window. Over the wall was Hanoi, Mang territory.
I said to her, “We need to stay here tonight. Or in the embassy.”
Susan came up beside me with a hot, wet towel and put it on the back of my neck. “How’s that feel?”
“Great.”
She looked out the window and said, “You know, Paul, you don’t have to have a confrontation here. Why make yourself persona non grata in the embassy?”
“Why not? I’m persona non grata in the rest of this country. Am I persona non grata in this bathroom?”
She smiled. “Your safety zone is definitely shrinking. You know, Colonel Mang might do the job for you.”
“I need a drink.”