A sudden light went off in Condley’s brain, giving him a moment of awesome, frightening clarity. How could that be? “Did he ever take a picture of you?”

Petrushinsky froze. He watched Condley carefully, as though a gun were suddenly being pointed at his head. Condley’s own pulse quickened, filling his veins with a rush of adrenaline. And finally Condley pressed forward, not wishing to give the former Soviet soldier more time to think. “If he took a picture of you, and if that picture was published in the world’s newspapers, wouldn’t that have compromised what you were doing?”

“I don’t understand,” said Petrushinsky, fighting off the vodka.

“According to your government there were no Soviet soldiers in Viet Nam. So what would the picture say about that lie? And what about the devil? Did the lark take a picture of him too? He did, didn’t he? Perhaps even without permission? And what would that picture say? A Russian soldier—or maybe a lot of Russian soldiers—and at least one American deserter working with the Viet Cong in the Que Son Mountains? Not only in Viet Nam but in South Viet Nam? This would have been important news if it was documented with a photograph. Huge. It would have been displayed in every newspaper on earth. Maybe the lark was going to become the most famous photographer in the world. What do you think about that, Anatolie? Is that why the lark was killed? Because he had the evidence? And because even if you took away his cameras, he knew the truth?”

“This was a long time ago,” said Petrushinsky, leaning back against his couch. “It was a war. A very important war. A war we won, I will remind you.”

“And so the lark became expendable, for the importance of the war.”

“He made mistakes. He was not supposed to see us. We were in another camp. But one day he wandered along the trails and he found us. And then he was not supposed to photograph us. He betrayed his hosts. He became uncontrollable.”

“And so you killed him.”

“No, we wouldn’t have done that as long as he was with us. But once he became uncontrollable, he had to stay with us as a captive until the war was over. That was his only alternative, unless he wanted to resist that fate and die.” The former Soviet soldier’s face was now wild with uncertainty. “But it was the devil who killed him. The lark wanted to escape. The devil studied him, studied him, and then one day told him he would help him return to Sai Gon. They left at night, as if escaping. But I know the devil killed him.”

“Where did the devil go?”

“To Sai Gon? I don’t know. We never saw him again.”

“Where did the lark want to go?”

“I don’t understand you,” said Petrushinsky.