“Exactly,” answered Muir. “Yet. And if something comes out later, well, that’s later. If the media asks, the answer is that the Viets didn’t know and we didn’t know. All we have right now—that is, all we think we have, because even this isn’t certain—is an American in the mountains that they’re going to help us find. At least, we think he’s an American.”

“You’re pretty smart,” said Condley.

Muir grinned with satisfaction, folding his thick hands together on his heavy belly so that he looked like a contented Buddha. “Distance from the problem does have its advantages.”

The old waiter crept apologetically up to the table and handed Condley a grocery bag filled with bread. Then he refilled Condley’s coffee, quietly leaving the tab before he disappeared. Professor Muir glanced at the bag as he signed for the meal.

“What are you doing with that bread?”

A tantalizing grin crept over Condley’s face. “Want to meet some interesting people? Some of them are women.”

Muir’s eyebrows arched quickly, giving away his interest as he stood up. “Well, I’m here on business.”

“We’ve got several hours before we can meet with Colonel Pham. It’s a golf morning.”

Now Muir was smiling with an unconcealed, delicious anticipation. “The real Sai Gon?”

“The Sai Gon you’ve never seen.”

Outside the restaurant, two gray-suited Japanese businessmen marched out of the elevator, followed by an older French couple dressed in almost identical baggy shorts and flowered shirts. The Japanese ignored them. The French couple looked at the two as if their presence in Sai Gon were a rude intrusion on their own antique, Francophone possession. Condley stepped inside the elevator and immediately pressed the button for the ground floor. Muir jumped in just as the doors were closing.

As the elevator descended, Condley found himself staring at a metal sign bolted to the wall next to the door. The sign said Nippon Elevator Company. Someone had scratched Nippon out with a room key or a knife. In Viet Nam it could have been anyone: Vietnamese, French, Aussies, Brits, Singaporeans, Koreans, even Americans. No one liked Nippon in Viet Nam, and maybe no one ever had. Underneath the sign was a metal screen covering a little loudspeaker. In Japan it probably serenaded passengers with elevator music, but in Viet Nam it no doubt listened as well as transmitted. That didn’t surprise him either. Even Muir would never fully believe it, but Vietnamese intelligence agents listened everywhere; on the street, in the bars, on the phones, even in your own room if they wanted to. And what better place to gain business intelligence than to listen inside the elevator of the famed Rex Hotel?

Someone had scratched up the loudspeaker too. Amused, Condley took out a key and scratched it some more.

“What are you doing?”

“Saying hello to Comrade Nguyen.”