Bad luck. I was hoping it was in the former South Vietnam, and I was hoping it was nearby, but Tran Van Vinh was a North Vietnamese soldier, so what did I expect?
Mr. Anh pretended to be looking through my guidebook as he said, “This village is small, and does not appear on most maps. However, I have done some extensive but discreet research, and I believe this is the place you seek.”
“What if it’s not?”
He chewed on some peanuts and replied, “I’ve been in direct fax contact with someone in America, and your analysts there are in agreement that this village that I’ve found is the one you are seeking.” He added, “I am ninety percent certain this is the place you are looking for.”
“Close enough for government work.”
He smiled, then informed me, “Very few Westerners go to this area, and you would need a reason to be there.”
“Do I have to supply my own reason?”
Mr. Anh replied, “By luck, there is a place close to this hamlet that does draw some tourists. This place is called Dien Bien Phu. You have heard of this place?”
“The final battle of the French-Indochina War.”
“Yes. Military men of all nationalities go there to study this historic battlefield. So you should go there. When you have seen the museum and taken some photos, ask a local person where is this hamlet you are looking for. It is less than thirty kilometers north of Dien Bien Phu. But be careful who you ask. Up north, they report everything to the authorities.”
He sipped his tea, then continued, “I have been to Dien Bien Phu, and so I can tell you that there are many hill tribespeople who gather near the museum and in the market to sell their crafts to the tourists. The tribesmen are mostly H’mong and Tai. You will recall from your time here that the tribespeople have little loyalty to the Vietnamese government.” He added, “They are not anti-Communist, they are anti-Vietnamese. Therefore, you should direct your inquiries to a tribesman, not an ethnic Vietnamese. You may find a few tribesmen who speak some English, but mostly they speak French for the tourists who are mostly French. Do you speak French?”
“Un peu.”
“Bon. You should try to pass as French.” He added, “I think you can trust these people.”
“Tell me why I should trust you.”
Mr. Anh replied, “That would take some time, and whatever I say would not convince you. As I see it, Mr. Brenner, you have no choice.”
“How do you know my name?”
“If I needed to contact you at your hotel in an emergency.”
I informed Mr. Anh, “It’s very unusual in these situations for you to know who I am. I don’t mean to sound racist, but you’re not a native-born American, and you don’t qualify as a person who should know either my name or my destination.”
He looked at me a long time, then smiled and replied, “I still have relatives in the new country. Your government trusts me, but to be sure, they have arranged a family reunion for me in Los Angeles. I am to leave for the States on the same day you leave Hue. If I don’t show up in Los Angeles, they will assume I have betrayed them and you.”
“That’s a little late for me, partner.”
“I have no intention of betraying you, Mr. Brenner. In fact, I wish you a successful trip because if something happens to you, it will not go well for me or my family in Los Angeles.”
“I see. Well, we don’t shoot people.”
“That’s not what they told me.”
I didn’t reply to that. Bottom line here, the stakes were very high, whatever the game was, and Mr. Anh was either loyal to Uncle Sam, or scared shitless about his family, or both. They weren’t fucking around in Washington. I said, “Okay. Sorry if I insulted you.”
“Not at all. It was a legitimate and necessary question. Your life is at stake.”
“Thanks.”
“For you, it doesn’t matter if I’m loyal or under duress. I’m on your side.”
“Great.”
Mr. Anh stayed silent, chewing on his peanuts, then said, “Whatever your mission is, Mr. Brenner, I assume it is important enough for you to risk your life. If not, you should take the next plane to Hanoi or Saigon, and get out of this country. This can be a pleasant place for the average Western tourist — but if you are deviating from tourism, the government can be very unforgiving.” He added, “I have been asked to help, and I agreed, thereby putting my own safety in jeopardy. I don’t know what this is about, but I am one of those Vietnamese who still trust the Americans.”
“Well, I don’t.”
We both smiled.
I said to Mr. Anh, “Okay, if you are who you say you are, then thank you. If you’re not, then I suppose I’ll see you at my trial.”
“You would be lucky to get a trial. I’ll tell you something you may not know — the Hanoi government is obsessed with the FULRO. You have heard of this group — Front Unitié de Lutte des Races Opprimées — the United Front for the Struggle of the Oppressed Races?”
I recalled again the photos I saw in the American War Crimes Museum in Saigon. I said, “Yes. I’ve heard of the FULRO.”
Mr. Anh had more good news for me. He said, “You will be passing through FULRO territory. The Hanoi government is merciless in hunting down these guerrillas, and merciless in their treatment of Americans who have made contact with them. If this is your mission, and you are caught, you can expect to be tortured, then shot. I know this for a fact.”
Well, this was not my mission, but it occurred to me that I’d have a hard time explaining that if I were arrested. I always assumed that the worst that would happen if I were caught would be a few weeks or months of unpleasantness, followed by a diplomatic solution to the problem, and repa-triation back to the States. But if I put the FULRO into the equation, I might very well wind up being the last American MIA in Vietnam.
Mr. Anh was a bottomless well of interesting facts, and he said, “There have been CIA men, Special Forces men, and American freelance mercenaries who have gone into the remote areas of the country to aid the FULRO — most of them have never been heard of again.”
“Thanks for the encouragement.”
Mr. Anh looked at me and said, “This is an unhappy country, a country whose history has turned brother against brother, father against son. Here, in the south, you never know who to trust. But when you get to the north, it is much easier — trust no one.”
“Except the hill people.”
Mr. Anh did not respond. He sipped his tea and asked me, “Has your visit brought back memories?”
“Of course.”
“In this country, most of the war generation are dead, or have fled. Those who remember do not speak of it. The government celebrates every Communist victory, and they have changed each of their defeats into victories. If they had thirty years of victories, what took them so long to win the war?”
It seemed like a rhetorical question, but the answer was, “The winners write the history.”
Mr. Anh continued, “I had to go to America to learn the history of my own country. If you listen to Hanoi long enough, you start to doubt your own memory and your own sanity.”
“Same in Washington, Mr. Anh.”
“Well, but you make that a joke. Here, it is not a joke.”
“How many more years do you have here?”
“One.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know. I may stay… things are changing for the better here…”
“I have an American friend who’s been here three years, and she can’t seem to leave.”
“Everyone has his or her own reasons for staying or for leaving. This is an interesting country, Mr. Brenner, a dynamic country in many ways, coming out of a long nightmare, filled with social and economic change. For many people, especially Americans, the transition is exciting, and offers many opportunities. An American expatriate once described Vietnam to me as being like the Wild West, a place where you leave your history behind, and where anything goes in pursuit of your fortune.”