“When he thought he was escaping. Where did he want to go?”

“I have had enough of your questions,” said Petrushinsky, suddenly weary of Condley’s probing. “It is time for you to leave my home.”

Colonel Pham, flushed with his vodka, had also been ambushed by the direction Condley’s questions had taken. He burped slightly, studying Condley’s insistent, incandescent eyes, and then surprised him by supporting him. “Anatolie Petrushinsky,” said the colonel. “You are not in trouble. You will not be questioned again. Your own government does not know we are talking to you. And anyway, it was the old government that set such policies into motion. This is a matter only of history to the Russian people, but in Viet Nam it is important to our future.”

“Your new future,” slurred the drunken Petrushinsky. “Without your Russian friends? With the Americans who are not going away?”

“We will never forget our Russian friends,” insisted the colonel. “You will return someday also, I am sure of it. But please. You must trust me and answer the question.”

“What is the question that you wish me to answer?” asked Petrushinsky quietly, with an almost tragic helplessness. “Now I am confused. Tell me exactly what you want me to answer, and I will try. And then you must leave me alone with my little dollhouses and my memories. Viet Nam is gone for me, like my parents in their graves. I am growing old now. The rest of it is too much to contemplate.”

“The lark,” said Condley. “The photographer who had to die. If things had gone all right for him, when he finished with his story in the mountains, where did he want to go?”

“To see his girlfriend.” Petrushinsky grew dark again, his face filled with jealousy and with the memory of a moment that would never be offered to him again. “That was why he tried to escape. Always he was talking about her, rubbing her beauty in our faces as we sat isolated in the mountains. I used to say to him that anyone can buy a whore in Bangkok.”

“Bangkok?”

“Yes,” said Petrushinsky, his face blanketed with green-eyed memories. “He was always boasting. Every month he flew in from Sai Gon to be with her. Every month, for a week! So what? He was such a naive fool. What about the rest of the month? What did he think she was doing for the other three weeks?”

“He flew in to Bangkok every month?”

“Yes, yes! I saw his passport. It was filled with immigration stamps.”