“Yes. It is very important. Anatolie Petrushinsky, the people of Viet Nam are once more asking you to assist them.”

Another long pause, and then a low sound from the other side of the door, so heartfelt that it was almost primeval. “Anatolie nho’ Viet Nam nhieu qua!” Anatolie misses Viet Nam too much.

“Da,” smiled the colonel, moved by the comment but also knowing he had broken through Petrushinsky’s barriers. “Viet Nam cung nho’ Anatolie!” Viet Nam misses Anatolie too.

The door swung slowly open. Petrushinsky filled it on the other side, mildly drunk, large and gray, wearing a rumpled black sweater and gray wool trousers. His sagging, wrinkled face was permanently burnt from the cold, streaked with tears. Reaching out with his enormous arms, he embraced Colonel Pham, pulling the little man off the ground as he kissed him three times, cheek to cheek.

“Welcome, my little friend,” he said in Vietnamese, choking on his sobs as he spoke. “It has been too long, too long!” Releasing the colonel from his massive grasp, he noticed Condley standing with him in the dark hallway. “He is not a Russian,” he said with renewed suspicion.

“No,” said the colonel. “But you must trust me, Anatolie. All of us are now working for a common good.”

Condley stepped forward, offering his hand and speaking in Vietnamese. “I am an American. I was on the other side,” he said. “But that was a long time ago, Anatolie Petrushinsky. Colonel Pham and I are now coworkers inside Viet Nam. We wish to make peace and we need your help.”

“You were an American soldier?”

“I was a Marine.”

“But you fought?”

“Yes,” said Condley, steadily holding Petrushinsky’s eyes. “In fact, I may even have fought you.” Petrushinsky remained silent, and so he continued. “Quang Nam Province. The Que Son Mountains. In 1969?”

“I was not there in 1969. Not in Quang Nam.”

“In 1971?”

“Perhaps. But we were only observers,” said Petrushinsky carefully, now looking skeptically from Condley to Colonel Pham.

“He is a good man,” reassured Colonel Pham. “My friend. I have observed him for years. Ha Noi has allowed me to travel with him. So, Anatolie, we must talk. It is very important.”

Petrushinsky suddenly began to cough, continuing heavily for several seconds. Then, as if using reverse logic, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it, all the while studying the two men with a mix of suspicion and longing. “Quang Nam?” he finally said, nodding to Condley.

“Quang Nam,” said Condley. “Que Son, 1969. And other places, other years.”

Petrushinsky gestured with one huge arm toward the interior of his apartment. “At least you are a fellow soldier. And you are with my Vietnamese friend. So I welcome you inside my home.”