Ms. Weber seemed indifferent to my fate, but she was right; they weren’t going anywhere. I asked her, “Where’s your apartment from here?”
“On Dong Khoi Street. South of Notre Dame, not far from the Rex.”
“Don’t think I know it.”
“Sure you do. It was once Tu Do Street, heart of the red-light district.” She smiled. “You may have seen it once or twice.”
In fact, I had, of course. My Vietnamese lady friend had lived in a little cul-de-sac, right off Tu Do. I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember her name, but like a lot of the Viet ladies, she’d adopted an Anglo name. I knew it wasn’t Peggy, Patty, or Jenny, or I’d have remembered it. In any case, I remembered what she looked like, and our times together, so I wasn’t senile yet.
“Are you remembering Tu Do Street?”
“Actually, I was there a few times. Professionally. I was an MP on my tour of duty in ’72.”
“Really? And how about the other time? Sixty-eight, right?”
“Right. I was a cook.”
“Oh… I thought you did something dangerous.”
“I did. I cooked.” I asked her, “So you live in a red-light district?”
“No, it’s quite nice now. According to the guy I rented it from, it was once called Rue Catinet, during the French time. It was fashionable then, but very sinister, with spies, double agents, murky bistros, high-priced courtesans, and private opium dens. It went downhill from there during the American period, then the Communists cleaned it up and named it Dong Khoi — General Uprising Street. I love their stupid names.”
“I vote for Rue Catinet.”
“Me, too. You can still call it that, or Tu Do, and most people know what you’re talking about.” She added, “My apartment was built by the French — high ceilings, louvered windows, ceiling fans, and beautiful plaster moldings that are crumbling, and no air-conditioning. It’s very charming. I’ll show it to you if we have the time.”
“Speaking of time…”
“Okay.” She stood. “Let’s fax.”
She went to the fax machine in the alcove, and I followed. She wrote something on a sheet of company letterhead, then handed it to me. It said, “Weber—64301.” She informed me, “That’s my code so they know it’s me, and that I’m… something…”
“Not under anyone else’s control.”
“Right. If the number has a nine in it, it means I’m under duress. Am I under duress?”
“No comment. Now I’m supposed to sign it, right?”
“Right. I guess somebody there knows your signature.”
“I guess so.” She gave me a pen, and I signed the sheet.
She said, “This is exciting.”
“You’re easily excited.”
She fed the paper into the fax machine, and I watched her dial the 703 area code for northern Virginia, then the number, which I didn’t recognize. The fax rang, then started to grind away. She said, “Not bad. First try.”
The fax went through, and Susan said, “That calls for a drink.”
She left the alcove and went to the sideboard where she made two fresh drinks. As she returned, the fax rang. She handed me my drink, then took the fax she’d sent and put it through the shredder.
The return fax came through, and I took it out of the tray. The familiar handwriting said: Hello, Paul — You had us worried for the last fifteen minutes. Glad to hear from you and hope all is well. We can continue this communication via e-mail. Ms. W has instructions. Regards, K.
I stared at the message, words from another galaxy, as though I’d been contacted by aliens, or by God. But it was only Karl; I’d recognize his tight, anal handwriting anywhere.
Susan was already sitting at her desk and was going online. I shredded Karl’s message.
I left the alcove and wheeled a chair beside Susan. She said, “Okay, we’ve made contact. He wants you to go first. What do you want to say?”
“Tell him I have an appointment at the Immigration Police headquarters tomorrow at oh-eight-hundred — purpose unknown.”
She typed and sent, waited and got his reply, which said: Do they still have your passport?
“Yes, and my visa.” She typed the reply, and I said to her, “Let me sit there, Susan. You’ll have to move away from the screen.”
She glanced at me, then stood, took her drink, and sat in the chair opposite her desk.
Karl replied: Tell us what happened at the airport.
I took another swallow of Scotch and began typing, relating the encounter fully, but succinctly. It took me ten minutes to type all of this, and I ended with: I believe this was a random stop and question. But it may have compromised the mission. Your call.
The reply was some time in coming, and I could picture Karl in an office with a few other people: Conway, maybe, some other FBI types, and CID people, and people who I could only guess at.
Finally, his reply came, a lot shorter than the conversation in Virginia that led up to it. It said: Your call, Paul.
I tapped my fingers on the desk and took another swig of Scotch. I didn’t want to let too much time go by, as if I was hesitating. Yes or no? Simple. I replied: It may be Colonel Mang’s call. I realized that was a bit of a cop-out, so I added: If I get my passport back, I’ll go forward with the assignment. I pushed send.
The reply came quickly: Good. If you’re expelled, we know you did your best.
I replied: There is a third possibility.
They thought about that in Virginia, then Karl replied: Be sure to have Ms. Weber in a position to know if you are detained. Set up a meeting time or phone call with her, and tell her to contact us if you don’t make your contact with her at the scheduled time or place.
I replied: I know how to set up a failure-to-show alert. Thank you.
Karl, true to form, wasn’t going to be baited, and he replied: Is Ms. Weber under any surveillance? Has she been seen with you other than at the Rex rooftop?
I glanced at Susan and said to her, “They want to know if you think you’re under surveillance.”
“How do I know? I don’t think so. It’s not my turn this month.”
I typed: She doesn’t believe she is. Because I’m a pro, and I don’t ignore sticky parts of multiple part questions, I typed: We spent the day sightseeing. Saigon, Cu Chi.
I could hear Karl’s voice, “What? You did what? Are you insane?”
His actual response was: I hope you had a pleasant day, but I know Karl. He was pissed.
I don’t like having to explain myself, but I typed: It was good cover, and an opportunity for me to take advantage of her knowledge of conditions up country. I added: I don’t have my platoon with me this time.
Karl’s reply was terse: Roger.
There was nothing further on that subject, so I typed: Ms. Weber’s boyfriend has contacted or will contact the consulate on my behalf.
Karl replied: We’ve already done that, obviously. Are you forming an entire spy ring there?
My, my. We were becoming a little snippy. In conversation, I wouldn’t even reply to that, but with e-mail, you had to reply, so I typed: :).
Karl, obviously in a jocular mood and with an audience, replied: :(.
I asked Susan, “Can this keyboard give the finger?”
She laughed and said, “Are they giving you a hard time?”
“They’re working at it.” I mean, my ass is on the line here, and they’re busting my balloons. I typed: Do you have any further information for me regarding my assignment?