American-Asian Investment Corporation aroused my curiosity, and I asked her, “Who has the other two offices?”
“My boss, Jack Swanson, and a Viet. We have three other Americans — two guys and a young woman, Lisa Klose, with a new MBA.”
“Ivy League, I hope.”
“Of course. Columbia. Plus there’s a Canadian woman, Janice Stanton, who is our financial officer. Also, we have two Viet-Kieus with us. Do you know Viet-Kieu?”
“Nope.”
“Former Vietnamese refugees who’ve returned. Some of them are so homesick, they’d rather be here in a poor, totalitarian country than wherever it was they’d escaped to. Our Viet-Kieus are a man and a woman, both from California, both speak perfect English and Vietnamese. They’re an important part of a lot of multinational businesses here, a cultural bridge between East and West.”
I asked, “How are they treated here?”
She replied, “The Communists used to harass them, called them traitors and American lackeys and all that. But for the last five or six years, the Viet-Kieus have been officially welcomed back.”
“And how about next year?”
“Who the hell knows? Every time the politburo or the National Assembly meet, I hold my breath. They’re just totally unpredictable. Business doesn’t like unpredictability.”
“Maybe you should address the politburo and tell them that the business of Vietnam is business. Screw this Marxist stuff.”
“I detect a little anti-capitalism in you, Mr. Brenner.”
“Not me. But there are more important things in life than making money.”
“I know that. I’m not that shallow. And the reason I’m here doesn’t have a lot to do with money.”
I didn’t ask her what it had to do with; I already knew some of it, and the rest of it she probably wasn’t sure of herself, though it might have to do with a guy. Maybe Harry Handsome in the photo.
Ms. Weber got back to the subject of staff and said, “We also have about fifteen Viets working for us, mostly female secretarial. We pay them twice the average wage.”
“And you don’t trust any of them.”
She didn’t reply for a moment, took another drag on her cigarette, and said, “They’re under a lot of pressure to take things out of here that shouldn’t be taken. We help them by removing the temptation.”
“And the phones are monitored, the doors can only be opened by the round-eyes, maintenance and cleaning are done only during business hours under round-eye supervision, and the cameras record everything.”
She looked at me awhile, then said, “That’s right.” She added, “But there are no cameras or bugs in this office. I am a member of the Inner Party.” She smiled. “You can speak freely.”
I observed, “This place could be a CIA front.” I added, jokingly, “AAIC backward is CIA.”
“How about the other A?”
“That’s the disguise.”
She smiled. “You’re nuts.” She stirred her drink and said, “Anyway, the Americans, Europeans, and Asians are here just to make a fair profit, not to corrupt or undermine the government or the country. If that’s what’s happening, it’s because of their greed, not ours.”
“Was that in your company handbook?”
“You bet. And I wrote it.”
I looked out the window and saw the huge lighted advertising signs all over Saigon. If someone had told me thirty years ago that I’d be sitting here like this in the plush office of an American woman with an MBA from Harvard, I’d have recommended them for a psychiatric discharge.
I hated to admit it, but in some ways, I liked the old Saigon better; for sure, I liked the image of the younger Paul Brenner with an MP uniform patrolling the streets of Saigon instead of the older Paul Brenner looking over his shoulder for the fuzz.
Susan broke into my thoughts and said, “So, you can see why I’m here. I mean, from a career point of view. I’m in charge of charming the foreign investors, private and corporate. Do you have any money? I could double your money.”
“You could triple it, and it still wouldn’t amount to anything.” I asked, “Do you have an office in Hanoi?”
“We have a small office there. You have to be where the political power is. Also, an office in Da Nang. The Americans left a great port facility there, plus a great airfield and other infrastructure.”
“I actually left the country in 1968 from Da Nang.”
“Really? Are you going there?”
“Maybe.”
“Did you get to China Beach?”
“No, I was anxious to get to Boston.”
“Right. If you get to Da Nang, don’t miss China Beach this time.”
“I won’t. So what about the Viet guy in the corner office?”
“You guess.”
“He’s the son of an important government official, and he comes in only on Wednesdays in time for lunch.”
“Close. But he does have the contacts. Everything in this country has to be a joint venture, which means buying part of a company that the government confiscated from the rightful owners in 1975, or starting a new company and giving the government a share for peanuts. I mean, it’s more complex than that, but there’s nothing that can happen here without some government involvement.”
“Is it worth it?”
“It could be. Lots of natural resources, a hardworking, low-paid population, mostly all literate, thanks to the Reds. The harbors are terrific — Haiphong, Da Nang, Cam Ranh Bay, and Saigon — but the rest of the infrastructure is a mess. The American military put in some good infrastructure during the war, but whenever an area was contested, the bridges, roads, rail lines, and everything else got blown up again.”
“It’s sort of like playing Monopoly, but everyone gets a hammer.”
She didn’t reply, and in fact looked a little impatient with my sarcasm.
I thought about all of this, about Vietnam Incorporated. To the best of my knowledge, this was the only country in Asia where the Americans had a distinct business advantage over anyone else, including the Japanese, who the Viets were not fond of. The Soviets who were here after 1975 screwed things up, the Red Chinese weren’t welcome, the Europeans were mostly indifferent except for the French, and the other East Asians either weren’t trusted or were disliked.
So, in some ironic way, for reasons that were partly historical and nostalgic, and mostly financial and technical, the Americans were back. Ms. Weber and her compatriots, armed with MBAs, engineering degrees, letters of credit, and lots of hustle, were racing around Saigon on their motor scooters, carrying satchels of money instead of satchel charges of plastique. Swords into market shares. And what did this have to do with me? Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.
Susan said, “Are you sulking about something?”
“No. I’m just processing. There’s a lot to take in.”
She observed, “If you’d never been here, this wouldn’t seem so strange to you.”
“Good point.”
She looked at me and said, “We won the war.”
I wasn’t going to reply to that statement, then I said, “Fifty-eight thousand dead men would be happy to know that.”
We sat in silence while I thought about AAIC. The place looked legit, and Susan sounded legit, but… But stay awake, Brenner. The bamboo was clicking in my brain again, and the vegetation swayed without a breeze. I looked at my watch. It was ten after eight. “Time to fax,” I said.
“We’ll finish our drinks and relax. They’re not going anywhere.”