“Mr. Quyen, Mr. Minh, I would like to say on behalf of my government that I hope no harm will come to this man. After all, his family committed an act of great kindness when they allowed our soldier to be buried among their ancestors. If they had not shown him this respect, we would not have been able to come here today and recover his remains. So I am deeply grateful to Mr. Hao for the actions he took as a young man. And if it is permissible, we would like to examine the remains and then take them back to America.”

An audible, relieved sigh filled the dank room. The village elders moved almost in unison as they returned empty teacups to their trays and rose from their little stools. For the first time, Le Xuan Minh smiled, showing off a mouth full of snaggled, tobacco-stained teeth. He reached across the table, shaking Condley’s hand.

“Mr. Hao is a good man. He meant no harm. His father died in the war. He was honored for battlefield bravery with a certificate personally signed by Ho Chi Minh.”

“Mr. Hao is a very good man,” answered Condley. “We will remember his kindnesses, and those of your entire village, to the dead soldier’s family once we have identified the remains.”

The remains were in a tin-roofed shed next to the village chief’s house, wrapped inside an old American poncho. Once they reached the shed, the eight Vietnamese men stood respectfully off to one side as Condley and Muir moved to the poncho.

It was as if Muir had suddenly gone into a trance. He stood motionless in front of the remains, looking down at them with opaque eyes. He was breathing deeply. His meaty hands clenched into fists and then relaxed, then clenched again. Finally Condley nudged him.

“Are you okay, Professor?”

“This is the hardest part,” said Muir, his eyes still on the poncho. “Touching it for the first time.”

“Relax. It’s dead.”

“It’s not an ‘it.’”

“Then why did you call it an ‘it’?”

“Let me say something about what we’re looking at. Would you like to feel completely inconsequential, Brandon?”

“Frankly, no. I’d just like to get out of here.”

The scientist was undeterred. It was as if anthropology were his religion and he were a high priest, and it was essential that a sermon be issued before he delved into the remains.

“We’re looking at a mystery that’s thirty years old. It might even confound us, just as so many others have as we’ve tried to piece together old bones and clumps of equipment to unravel the tragedies of the past. But do you know what thirty years is in the context of eternity, Brandon? Nothing. Nothing. Not even a drawn breath in the lungs of Father Time.”