“There were many westerners in the mountains,” hedged Petrushinsky. “They drifted in, they drifted out. Our comrades had taken several German nurses and doctors from a hospital near An Hoa in 1969 and kept them for several years. There were a few American prisoners of war captured during the fighting on the ground who were being held in caves. Now and then a journalist. And a few others who worked with us.” He hedged again, looking quickly at Condley. “Or with you, that is, Colonel Pham. As I said, I was merely an observer who offered . . . advice, from time to time.”

“He worked with you,” said Condley. “Salt and Pepper. A black man and a white man. We’re looking for the white man.”

Petrushinsky stared at him for a long time, as if measuring his own knowledge against his fears of betraying former comrades. “There was one we did not like,” he said carefully. “A very bad man. We did not know what to do with him.”

“And an Australian,” said Condley, pushing the issue before Petrushinsky caught himself and changed his mind. “A photographer.”

“The twins,” said Petrushinsky immediately, his face alive with memories. “The good twin and the evil twin.”

“The twins?” Condley leaned forward, not letting Petrushinsky think.

“They looked alike. We used to tease the photographer. His name was”—Petrushinsky searched his mind, his eyes faraway—“like the bird. I don’t know English. I’m sorry.”

“Larkin.”

“Lark, like the bird. Yes,” said Petrushinsky. “The happy bird. And the American’s name was like the devil. Good and evil twins. They looked alike. The devil was bigger than the lark, but not by much. He studied the lark, all the time. Not like a friend. Like a book.”

“What do you mean, like a book?”

“Like a book,” said Petrushinsky, suddenly recalcitrant. “How do you study a book? All the little details. Why are you asking me these things? Of what use is it?”

“We think the devil killed the lark,” said Colonel Pham quietly, as if mediating between the two. “We would like to solve this matter.”

“It would not surprise me,” said Petrushinsky delicately, toying with his vodka glass and for some reason avoiding both of their eyes. “They disappeared. We were told that the lark was taking the devil back to Sai Gon, but neither of them was seen again. And why would the devil want to go to Sai Gon? The Americans were looking for him. What if they caught him?”

Something tugged at Condley’s emotions, as irritating as the dreams that had not let General Duncan drop the matter when he first read the message traffic regarding Deville. Something odd, but inarticulable. A piece that was obvious, and yet was missing. Or perhaps it was merely Petrushinsky’s flushed and avoiding face. “Did you know the lark?” he finally managed to ask.

“Of course I knew the lark,” said Petrushinsky.