That didn’t explain why I was told to go there, but I didn’t point this out.
She continued, “You have an appointment, so ask the nasty guy for Colonel Mang. The word for colonel is dai-ta. You ask for Dai-ta Mang. Give the nasty guy something with your name on it.”
“They’ve got everything with my name on it.”
“Give them your driver’s license or your hotel bill or something. They’re supposed to speak foreign languages for their job, but they don’t, and they don’t want to look stupid. So make it easy for them.”
“You’ve been to this place?”
“Three times after I first got here. Then, somebody in my office told me to stop answering their summonses. So I did, and now they come to my office or my apartment every few months.”
“Why?”
“Paperwork, questions, and a tip. They call it a tip, like they just did me a service. Usually takes me about ten minutes and ten bucks to get rid of them. But don’t offer Colonel Mang any money. He’s a colonel, and maybe a pure and true Party member. You could get arrested for bribery, which is the biggest joke in this country because you usually get arrested for non-bribery.”
“Right.”
“But if he asks for money, give it to him. The going rate to ransom your passport and visa is fifty bucks. Don’t ask for a receipt.”
I thought about this and about my conversation with Colonel Mang at the airport, and I was fairly certain that money was not what Colonel Mang was after.
She continued, “Some of these guys are nothing more than corrupt former South Vietnamese police who’ve managed to stay on the job with the Reds. But some of them are northerners, trained by the KGB, and they still have KGB heads. Also, the higher the rank, the less corrupt. Be careful with Colonel Mang.”
“Right.” And this raised the question of how I got lucky enough to meet Colonel Mang in the first place.
Susan asked me, “Did he seem old enough to have fought in the war?”
“He remembers the war quite well.”
She stayed silent for a few seconds, then said, “Maybe you can turn your shared experiences into something positive.”
“Yeah. Look, I’m not going there to bond with the guy — I just want my papers, and I want out of there.”
“But you don’t want him to kick you out of the country.”
“No, and he has no intention of doing that. I’m not going home today — I’m going to Nha Trang, or to jail — so be prepared to fax my firm either way.”
“I understand.”
“Anything else?”
“No, that’s about it. See you later.”
“Okay… look, Susan… if I don’t see you later… thanks—”
“See you later. ’Bye.”
I hung up, turned off the cell phone, and put it in my jacket pocket.
I gathered my bags and took them down to the lobby. I went to the front desk and saw that one of the clerks was Lan, the same woman who had checked me in. I gave her my room key and said, “Checking out.”
She played with her computer and said, “Ah, yes, Mr. Brenner. I check you in.”
“You did.”
“Did you enjoy your stay?”
“I really did. Saw the Cu Chi tunnels.”
Lan made a face and didn’t reply. As the bill printed out, she asked me, “Can we assist you in any way with your travel plans?”
“Yes, you can. I need to go now to the Immigration Police to get my passport. You remember all that.”
She nodded, but said nothing.
“So, I’ll leave my luggage here and with luck — ba ba ba — I’ll be back shortly to collect it.”
Again, she nodded, then handed me my bill. She said, “Your room has been pre-paid. How would you like to settle the extra charges?”
I scanned my bill and felt I needed to explain that I hadn’t gotten a blow job in the spa, despite the big charge. But I replied instead, “I’ll settle it when I return with my passport and visa, and collect my luggage.”
Lan thought about that a moment and replied, “As you wish.”
It’s got to be tough running a four-star hotel in a totalitarian state. I mean, your guests disappear without a trace, the police come to search the rooms and upset the maids, and there are so many phone taps that you can’t make a dinner reservation without getting a cop on the line.
I gave Lan Susan’s cell phone and said, “A young lady, an American, will be along shortly to pick this up. Please see that she gets it.”
“Certainly.”
I took the snow globe out of my overnight bag and gave it to Lan. “Also, please give this to her and tell her I said thank you.”
Lan examined the snow globe, but didn’t comment on it. To a Vietnamese, it may have looked like a layer of rubble around a partially destroyed building.
Lan called over a bellboy, who gave me two receipts for my luggage and who got a dollar in return. Lan said to me, “Thank you for staying with us. The doorman will call a taxi for you.”
I went out to the sidewalk and a taxi appeared. I said to the doorman, “Tell the driver I need to go to police headquarters. Ministry of Public Security. Biet?”
The doorman hesitated for a beat, then said something to the taxi driver as I got in.
We pulled away from the curb and headed west on Le Loi Street.
We drove through a section of the city that looked as if it held every cheap hotel and guest house in Saigon, and between the cheap lodgings were cheap eateries. The area was filled with young backpackers of all races and colors, boys and girls on a great adventure; a far different Vietnam experience than my own at that age, when I, too, carried a backpack.
The taxi turned into a street named Nguyen Trai, and continued on. I looked at my watch: It was five minutes to eight.
We pulled over and stopped near a three-story building of dirty yellow stucco, set back from the street behind a wall. The driver motioned to the building, and I paid him and got out. He sped off.
The structure was big and seemed to be part of a larger compound. There was a flagpole out front that flew a red flag with a yellow star.
There were two armed policemen at the open gate in the wall, but they didn’t challenge me as I passed through. I guess no one tries to break into this place.
I crossed the small forecourt and entered the building into a sparse lobby.
In front of me was a high, ornate wooden desk, like a judge’s bench, which looked very Western, like it had been left over from the French. A uniformed guy sat there, and I said to him, “Immigration Police.”
He stared at me awhile, then handed me a small square of green paper that had the letter C on it. He pointed to my left and said, “Go.”
So, off I went, thinking, “Go directly to jail. Do not pass Go.”
I walked down a wide corridor that had offices on either side, and through the window of an open office I could see a large interior courtyard. The Ministry of Public Security was obviously a big and important place with much work to do. I had no doubt that the courtyard was used for executions under the French, and maybe under the South Vietnamese, and the Communists.
I passed a few uniformed cops, and a lot of badly dressed bureaucratic types with attaché cases. They all eyed me, but the little green pass got me to the end of the corridor to a door marked C. Above the door was a sign that said Phong Quan Ly Nguoi Nuoc Ngoai. Nuoc, I know, means water, and Ngoai is foreign, according to Susan’s license plates — so this was either the ministry that imported foreign water, or it was the place where foreigners from overseas had to report. Betting on the latter, I walked through the open door and entered a medium-sized waiting room. The room held about two dozen plastic chairs and nothing else. There were no windows, only louvers near the ceiling, and no fans. Also, there were no ashtrays, judging by the cigarette butts all over the tile floor.