“It’s a simple story,” said Muir, enjoying the mystery he had provoked. “His name is Mathew Larkin. Or was. He was a photographer based in Sai Gon who worked as a stringer for several smaller Australian papers. Every now and then he sold some photos to the wire services, especially AP and UPI. By all accounts a bit of a wild man. He left Sai Gon in July 1971, after telling a few associates that he’d made secret contact with the VC and was going to do an exclusive photo shoot with some of their units in action up in I Corps. All very hush-hush. The VC apparently arranged to take him out of the city in the middle of the night, on his way to destinations unknown, and he was never heard from again. When he wasn’t back within a month, people started worrying, hence the newspaper stories. When he hadn’t shown up by Christmas, it was assumed he’d died, and everybody went about their usual business. I mean, he was crazy, he took a big risk, and he lost, that’s basically the way they played it in the papers. The VC never acknowledged anything, not even that he’d been with them. That was their policy, anyway. To speak about the matter would have opened them up to questions about a whole array of issues, including who their contacts were inside Sai Gon. And that was that.”

“A little pimple on the ass of a very long war,” grunted Condley.

Muir held up a copy of a photograph of the long-departed Mathew Larkin. “Look like anyone else you know?”

“That’s Deville. That’s our boy,” said Condley with a flat certainty, looking at the photo. “It’s him.”

“No, actually, it’s not. Larkin’s a little blonder, a little shorter,” said Muir. “But good enough for a black and white passport photo, if Deville wanted to use it to flee the country, no? I mean, how close are they going to look at someone’s passport when he’s boarding a plane at Tan Son Nhat airport in the middle of a war?”

“Bold stroke,” said Condley grudgingly, his skin tingling with goose bumps as he contemplated the photo and thought of Deville. “If nothing else I’ll give him credit for guts. Some photographer who looks like his little brother shows up in the jungle, and he knows if he’s ever going to get out of Viet Nam he needs to move fast, kill this guy and steal his identity. And he does it. The man is an evil genius.”

“Indeed,” agreed Muir. “As for Larkin, he apparently grew up in western Australia, which explains the somewhat primitive fillings in his teeth. I’ve been trying to find out exactly where, so we can do a positive ID on him.”

“Can’t you just send for his files?”