“Run that by me again.”
“Okay. When the Russians were here from 1975 to the 1980s, there were no other Westerners here, and the term Lien Xo came to mean Westerner. In the north, Lien Xo is not derogatory — the Soviets were their allies. In the south, it once had derogatory connotations because the southerners hated the Russian military and civilian advisors. Now it just means Westerner. Follow?”
“Sort of. In the south, I’m an American, in the north, I’m Australian. But people will call me Soviet.”
“That just means Westerner. Don’t get confused.”
“Why can’t I be a New Zealander, or a Brit, or how about a Canadian?”
“I don’t know. Try it. Okay, up north, the people are not as materialistic as they are in the south.”
“That’s good.”
“No, that’s bad. They’re real Reds, and are not as bribable as in the south. Maybe it’s a philosophical or political thing, but it’s also because there aren’t as many consumer goods in the north, so American money isn’t God. So, you can’t give a cop a tenner and expect him to turn the other way. Understand?”
“How about a twenty?”
She sat up suddenly and said, “You know… my office is closed the week after next for the holiday. And this week is very slow. You want company?”
I sat up.
She said, “I’d love to travel around the country. I’ve hardly been out of Saigon in a year. It might be interesting to see some of the war stuff with a veteran.”
“Thanks, but—”
“You’re going to need an interpreter. They don’t speak a lot of English outside the cities. I wouldn’t mind taking a vacation.”
“I’m sure there are other places you could go. Winter in the Berkshires.”
“I always go out of the country on vacation, but I’d like to take an in-country vacation.”
“I’m sure Bill would be happy to join you.”
“He doesn’t like Vietnam. Can’t get him out of Saigon.”
“I’m sure he’d make an exception if he was looking for us.”
She laughed and then said, “We can travel together as friends. People do it all the time. I trust you. You work for the government.”
“I don’t think the people who sent me here would approve of me taking on a traveling companion.”
“They would if they understood what this place is about. Aside from the language problem, men traveling on their own are hassled unmercifully by pimps and prostitutes. That doesn’t happen if you have a woman with you. Also, the police are less likely to bother you. A guy by himself is presumed to be up to no good. I don’t know why they sent you here alone.”
Neither did I, now that I thought about it. I suppose it had to do with the strong desire to limit the knowledge of this murder investigation that wasn’t a murder investigation. I smiled and said to Susan, “How do I know you’re not a double agent?”
She smiled in return. “I’m a boring investment advisor. I need a little excitement.”
“Drive your motor scooter.”
“Done that. Think about my offer. I can leave a message in the office tonight, pack, and be at the Rex at 10 A.M., latest.”
I asked, “And Bill?”
“What’s your obsession with Bill?”
“It’s a guy thing. Does he have a gun?”
She laughed. “No. Of course not.” She added, “Having a gun here is a capital offense.”
“Good.”
She said, “I’ll send him a telegram from our first stop. Wherever that is.”
“Let me think about this.”
“Okay, but if you decide you’d like me along, I’d like you to understand this is strictly platonic. I mean it. I’ll pay for my own room, and you’re free to sample the local ladies, except I want a dinner companion.”
“Who pays for dinner?”
“You, of course. I order, you pay. And when you need to go off on some secret meeting, I’ll disappear.”
I thought about all of this, sitting there on a grassy slope with the presidential palace in the distance, the buildings of Saigon all around the park, the scent of flowers in my nostrils, and the sun on my face. I glanced over at her and our eyes met.
Susan lit another cigarette, but didn’t say anything.
I’m used to working alone, and, in fact, I prefer it. If I screwed up on my own, my friends in Washington would be disappointed, and maybe sympathetic, depending on the circumstances. If I screwed up while traveling around with a woman, they’d hang me by my balls. James Bond never had this problem.
Also, I wasn’t at all sure what she was up to. She made a reasonable case for wanting to take an in-country vacation, and then there was the excitement and adventure thing, and this might be her prime motive. Then there was moi. I am charming. But not that charming.
In any case, her motives were completely irrelevant to the mission at hand. When I’m on a case, I’m totally focused, and I don’t even think about women. Hardly ever. Now and then, but only on my own time.
And then, of course, there was Cynthia. Cynthia was a pro, who worked with a lot of men herself, and I’m sure she’d understand. Maybe not.
“Are you thinking?”
“I was watching that dragonfly.”
“Well, let me know by 6 A.M. tomorrow. Then, as we say in business, the offer is off the table.” She put on her shoes and socks, buttoned her shirt, stood and put on her sunglasses.
I stood and put on my shirt as she fastened her belt pouch. “Ready to roll?”
We walked down the slope to the parking lot. She unchained the motor scooter, then took her cell phone out and dialed. She said, “I’m calling the Rex.” She said something in Vietnamese into the phone, and I heard her use my name. She didn’t seem satisfied with the answer and got a little sharp. Bitch. After a lot of monosyllables and consonants, she hung up and said to me, “Nothing there for you. But I gave them my cell phone number and told them to call as soon as your passport or anything else arrives for you.”
She handed me the cell phone, started the motor scooter, and I hopped on the back. She said, “I’m sorry. I should have asked you if you wanted to drive.”
“Later.”
We rode through the streets of Saigon, and Susan was taking it easy. She asked me, “Do you remember this guy’s name at the airport?”
“Why? Do you know the bad guys by name?”
“Some of them. The names get around.”
“His name was Mang. A colonel in uniform.”
She informed me, “Mang is his first name. Do you have the whole name?”
I replied, “He called himself Colonel Mang. How could that be his first name?”
“I thought you spent some time here. The Viets use their first names — which are actually at the end — with their titles. So you would be Mr. Paul, and I’m Miss Susan.”
“Why do they do that?”
“I don’t know. It’s their country. They can do what they want. Didn’t you know that from when you were here?”
“To be honest with you, the American soldiers knew very little about the Vietnamese. Maybe that was one of the problems.”
She didn’t respond to that, but said, “They’re very careful about forms of address. You always use a title — Mr., Miss, Mrs., Colonel, Professor, whatever — followed by their first names. They love it if you know the Vietnamese word. Dai-Ta Mang. Colonel Mang. Ong Paul. Grandpa Paul.” She laughed.
I wondered what the word was for bitch.
She said, “I’ll check around for a Colonel Mang, but find out his last name, if you see him again.”
“I’m sure I’ll see him again.”
“Did you tell this guy where you were heading?”
“He has part of my itinerary from my hotel vouchers. He wants to know the rest of my itinerary before he gives me my passport.”