Condley lifted his own teacup as if returning the toast. He knew immediately that the five-thousand-dollar rental fee had been properly distributed, with some of it no doubt going to Colonel Pham himself. “That is good news, Colonel. And I appreciate very much your precious advice.”

The colonel sipped his tea, leaning toward Condley and speaking softly. “I want also to tell you that I passed the name of this man Deville to people whom I trust in our government. They did a thorough check for us in Ha Noi. Very quietly but very thorough. We have nothing on the man. Nothing.”

“You mean, your government knows nothing about what happened to him after he killed Mathew Larkin?”

“Mathew Larkin?” said Colonel Pham, his brow furrowing behind the thick glasses. “Who is Mathew Larkin?”

“He was an Australian photographer who was on a secret assignment with your side. We believe Deville killed him. It was his remains that we found in Ninh Phuoc, wearing Deville’s dog tags.”

“Not a soldier?” said the colonel, seemingly amazed.

“Not even an American.”

“You are making my head spin,” said the colonel, a smile masking his embarrassment. “I will ask if they know anything about this man Mathew Larkin in Ha Noi. But anyway, Cong Ly, we know nothing about this man Deville. Nothing at all.”

“We know he was in the Que Son Mountains in June 1969, Colonel. And we know that his dog tags mysteriously appeared on the body of Mathew Larkin in 1971, in the same area. And that Mathew Larkin’s hand was cut off, in the same fashion that another victim of Deville’s was mutilated in Long Binh in 1967. So we do know something about Deville.”

“You know something,” corrected the colonel. “I am saying we do not.” He hedged, finishing his tea and reaching for the teapot. “If he was in the mountains, maybe he went there by himself. Maybe he was hiding. Maybe he was helping a local militia without our knowledge. As you saw, the mountain people are very independent. But he was not working for us.”

“Then how did he reach the Que Son Mountains from Sai Gon?” The question was so obvious that it embarrassed Condley to ask it. “There was no free movement back there during the war, Colonel. He had to be escorted, probably at night, just as Mathew Larkin was escorted. This wasn’t exactly a resort area.”

“Many strange and unexplainable things happened in the war, Cong Ly.” The colonel sighed heavily, as if wearying of this conversation. But he was holding his ground, and Condley knew immediately that there would be no deviation from the story he had been given by his government. “Since you know all these other things, maybe you can find the answer to that question as well. We cannot be responsible for the movements of Americans in our country thirty years ago.”