“We were told that you had something to give us.”

The old man shrugged again, as if helpless. “They came here and they asked me. But the black American has been dead for three years. Why do you bother us?”

Condley glanced at the two former soldiers who had guided them to this improbable spot. They were smirking at him from the back of the crowd now, seeming to enjoy the awkwardness of the moment. They did not know that a part of him was secretly rejoicing in this knowledge, for it meant that there would be no physical struggle with a deserter who did not want to go home.

“It doesn’t matter that he’s dead,” said Condley. “We will be happy to collect his remains.”

“He became a part of this village,” insisted the old man. “He married one of my nieces. He is buried in a family plot. His remains should stay here, with his family.”

“It is very important for us to identify him,” said Condley. “We are trying to solve a matter left over from the war.”

“The war has been over for a very long time,” said the old man as the rest of the villagers nodded their affirmation. “What difference can it possibly make?”

“He must be identified,” repeated Condley. Watching the old man’s face a long moment, he decided to take a different tack. “So that his American family can have peace.”

“We know nothing about his American family. We do not even know his American name,” said the village chief. “He gave himself a Vietnamese name. And so we called him Nguyen My Den.”

“Nguyen My Den?” Condley could not restrain a laugh. The dead deserter either had a great sense of humor or very little imagination, having named himself Nguyen the Black American. “Anyway, we don’t need his American name. If you gave us his American name we would still have to examine his remains. He could have made up an American name, just as he made up a Vietnamese name. We identify people through their bones,” he said. “And especially their teeth.”

“What good does it do, anyway?” asked the old man. “He came to our side during the war and he stayed here after the war. He was not embarrassed by this. He did not want to go back to your country. It would insult our family if you took him from us.”

“Then why did you agree to meet with us?”

The old man shrugged absently, nodding toward the nearby government officials. “Because they told us to.”

Condley was stumped. He paused for a moment, looking to Colonel Pham for help. The colonel shook his head, as if there were nothing he could do. “Shit,” mumbled Condley, feeling oddly betrayed. “Just shit.”

“What’s he saying?” asked Muir.