They say you come to Vietnam and you understand a lot in a few minutes, but the rest has got to be lived. The smell: that’s the first thing that hits you, promising everything in exchange for your soul. And the heat. Your shirt is straightaway a rag. You can hardly remember your name, or what you came to escape from. But at night, there’s a breeze. The river is beautiful.
Graham Greene, The Quiet American
This was my last evening in Ho Chi Minh City and after a frenetic week of business meetings, one after the other, to say that I was really looking to slow down was the understatement of the year. All I needed was an iced-down Saigon beer, a nice view, a good meal, and maybe some company. It never pays to plan too far ahead. I of all people should know that. I popped open a cold one from the mini bar in my room and stretched out on my oversize bed and soon enough I was running through the days events. I felt some looked promising while others clearly promised a lot. A lot of head shaking in the right direction and smiles to go around but that’s all. Such is the nature of business and to be sure, the business in Asia. I would be returning to this pearl of the Orient, most likely sooner than later. My mind drifted. I was tired.
The phone rang, there was no reason for it to ring other than perhaps my laundry was ready or they found a ring around the color and it was national emergency. It was neither. The male voice on the other end, while not bothering to identify himself, was nevertheless exceedingly polite and sported quite a cultured French accent but with definite Asian roots. Educated in Paris surely, the Sorbonne most likely. The voice hinted at a certain underlying sense of urgency, that it would behoove me to learn more about a most unusual business opportunity over dinner. More would be explained later he said at a location not far from my hotel which was on the Rue Catinat he said, making a point of using that street’s French colonial name rather than modern day Dong Khoi Street. There would be a car to pick me up, he continued, shall we say 19:00? I placed the phone down, none to gently; I was tired, I wanted a drink and I needed time to think about other things -anything that would give me a lousy break from business. A command performance was the last thing I needed.
By 6:45 that evening, I was sitting in a high back over-stuffed chair in my hotel’s grand salon waiting for someone or something to happen. A shower and a shave had done little to put me in a better mood. There’s a reason why people don’t answer their phones it keeps the idiots at bay. I didn’t like the whole idea and I definitely didn’t like surprises. I’m like that, don’t push me or it’s going to a long, drawn-out ugly evening. Just ask my ex-wives.
“Excuse me sir are you waiting on a car?” A sudden scented cloud of sandalwood drifted down turning me into a speechless moron. I was looking up at a lovely, smiling hotel attendant in áo dài, a nice tightly-fitting silk tunic worn over wide-legged trousers.
I replied “why yes I am if it’s a Rolls Royce” I chuckled at my poor attempt at humor.
“No sir” she smiled demurely “I believe it’s called a Bentley.”
She was right. Sure enough, it was a Flying Spur, a cool piece of machinery worth somewhere close to a quarter of a million dollars. The driver had it idling curbside, the rear door held open by a hotel attendant inviting me, with a sweep of his hand, to settle into a world of opulence and comfort.
Very quickly I found myself out of familiar territory; landmarks I had memorized blurred together into a confusing patchwork along with an ever present army of impatient motorbikes desperately trying to squeeze in front, in back or on each side. It didn’t matter, just as long as the mass of humanity and machinery moved forward. With each turn, each new street, I felt I was going deeper and deeper into some strange netherworld. I knew we had gone way beyond District 1 but where, I had no idea.
“Where are we going” I asked the driver about as casually, and indifferently as I could possibly muster
The driver did a quick glance in his rear-view mirror, smiled, nodded and in a well thought out answer replied ” yes.”
My luxury ride finally glided to a stop and my door was opened. Stepping out I managed a friendly “hello”and got no answer other than being casually but expertly frisked. Were they looking for my Glock or perhaps if I was wearing a wire? It would have reached around to pull out my hotel tourist map and have them point out my location but I got the distinct impression that any false moves or for that matter being a smart ass was probably not a good idea. The building I was led to was seductively low lit and adorned with Indo-Chinese decor. I felt as if I might have stepped back in time, to a Saigon circa 1930’s.
I gave it one more college try:
“Hey there bud, is this an opium den, I mean where are you taking me? I hate to sound like the proverbial Ugly American but an answer would be nice and just to let you know my phone has a tracking beacon so that anyone can find me if I suddenly disappear.”
Actually my phone was back at the hotel were it was not doing me a lot of good. Predictably, I might have been talking to a wall. No chit-chat. I concluded these guys had some real communication issues to work through. I followed my guide through a lantern-lit corridor then up a flight of stairs to my destination, the inevitable mystery meeting. Was I to be the guest of honor? Perhaps served up as a number 5 dinner special with two crispy spring roles? Or had I gotten myself somehow unwittingly involved in some sordid mess where the stakes were high and the loss of human life merely unavoidable collateral.
Approaching the door, my mind raced back over my meetings the past week. Could I remember something, anything even the tiniest little detail that should have aroused my suspicions as to who might have summoned me to this mystery meeting.
There was Mr. Duong, that smooth talking businessman, the one I met in Hanoi. With his horned rimmed glasses, he looked as if he stepped out of some B-grade murder movie or worse, a Charley Chang episode. We met at a seafood restaurant in downtown Hanoi, a confusing multistory building with more nooks and crannies reserved for private meetings. I never actually saw his office though he told me he worked near the Hang Dang Market in the Old Quarter. How convenient I thought. The Old Quarter was maze of little side streets and alleyways, an Asian casba and oh so easy to get confused, lost and swallowed up. I had heard stories of strange and unsavory things going on in that part of town. Not a place for simple-minded wandering non-Asians with cameras at the ready and a bag full of stupid questions. I recalled that Mr. Duong smiled an awful lot and was quick to fill my glass with some local concoction and before you knew it you were in your own Hanoi fog, a fuzzy echo chamber of sorts where things seemed to move at 33 rpm. Was it interrogation time? We talked about everything under the sun, breaking only to sample more grilled seafood, washed down with cold Hanoi beers and more local moonshine. Duong seemed particularly knowledgeable on matters of American foreign policy, economics and technology and not the least embarrassed to show off. For all I knew he could have been with the Second Central Commission of Military Intelligence better known as the TC2. I knew that many were called in to their bureau for questioning and fewer seemed to leave. They don’t call it the Red River just because of it’s high iron content!
Closer to home, in Ho Chi Minh City or Saigon to me, I thought about my meeting with Mr. Nguyen at his office tucked away in District 4 in the shadow of the port. Unlike my friend in the north, Nguyen spent most of the time listening to me as I babbled away while sitting on a little couch fit for Ken and Barbie, in my stocking feet and doing my Western thing. Mr. Nguyen sipped tea with an occasional nod to let me know he was indeed listening most attentively adding plenty of well crafted smiles that spoke volumes, just not to me. I had that feeling our meeting was but a mere formality. Lull the American into a false sense of security then strike! We were all friends here or something like that. His staff or perhaps his crew which in this case seemed quite appropriate, appeared restless. I wondered why they were not at their computers or on cell phones doing business deals. What sort of event had the “crew” pacing about like caged animals. Was someone going to have a really bad day and end up sushied then fed to God knows whatever was swimming in the murky depths of the Saigon river? My mind raced through various scenarios, perhaps, my new best friend Nguyen was running dope or funneling arms to the Saigon underworld, maybe he had a counterfeit operation going on somewhere on the premises all under the cover of running a legitimate business. What better way to look legitimate than to coax in an American company as cover. Was it too far fetched? I wasn’t entirely sure that it was.
Backpedaling over my meetings, I ended with Mr. Pham my last meeting. Mr. Pham was located on the tenth floor of a secure modern building in an even more secure office park. I remember hearing District 7 being mentioned but was not entirely sure where I was. Pham’s perky little peanut of an assistant, moving about on what looked like designer stilts, ushered me into a plush futuristic-looking conference room equipped with all the latest technologies to connect anyone to anything anywhere in the world. Pham made his entrance looking very much like the embodiment of a successful business man. But he had seen far too many Hollywood movies and likely saw himself as the Asian version of Gordon Gekko. Wearing an extremely well tailored suit that looked like it cost more than a couple of my monthly mortgages, Pham was impeccably groomed and oozed charm and sophistication from every pore. He was not all bashful about throwing around American-style slang whenever he could as if to put me at ease, perhaps off guard. Hey must be OK, I mean he speaks real English! It all felt contrived, too plastic, something didn’t add up. It was like walking onto a Hollywood set. My gut instinct told me so and I tend to listen to it even though it’s hard sometimes to avoid its presence. I then realized only someone like Pham and his access to resources and people in power could materialize a Bentley and whisk me away for some yet unknown mysterious meeting. Perhaps Pham was just a go-between, an “arranger” of sorts whose job was just to soften up the target and ready me for whatever unknown sinister series of events lay behind that door.
My guide knocked once on the heavy oak door, then twice this time louder. I heard the distinct though muffled sound of a phone ringing from somewhere behind the door. It rang and rang, getting louder each time. Somebody answer the damn phone!
Yes a phone was ringing alright but it was my phone. In a fog I fumbled and picked up the receiver only to hear a smooth silky voice telling me this was my 6:30 AM wake-up call.