Since that moment he had tortured himself with questions. Why had he not cared? Was it the fear of being embarrassed on the airplane and hauled back into Sai Gon with an uncertain ending in sight, probably indeed a visit to a remote interrogation facility in order to “cleanse” his reentry to the cyclo routes of District One? Was it the thrill of this odd freedom that had been given him, filled with the electric falsity of disguises, double names, and the chance to become again, if only for one terrible moment, a man of action? Or had Manh subtly reached a point inside him that he never thought would be surrendered, making him once again what the Interior Ministry official would call a “true Vietnamese,” willing to kill and even possibly to die for the survival of—what? This government? This system? Or maybe the country itself?

Finally he decided that he did not really care at all. He was free—even if that meant actually being kept on Manh’s leash—for a short time in a city that he had never thought he would see, sleeping on a good bed, eating good food, and wearing real shoes. At some point the freedom would end and he would be called upon to perform an act of violence, and there was no guarantee of what would happen to him after that. But how was that any different than combat had been? He had never hated the North Vietnamese soldiers he fought on the battlefield during the war. He was called upon to kill, and he had killed. And what had been his reward back then? Respite from the battlefield for a while, hot meals for a while, a bunk in a barracks for a while, the chance to see his family for a while. There was no difference here.

He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair and then looked down at the bright blue golf shirt and tan silk trousers that had become his latest costume, replete with white Nike walking shoes. “I’m not used to riding in the cab!” he said to Manh, pointing forward to the tuk tuk driver.

“I’m very sorry, Mister Trong,” joked Manh. “But we were unable to arrange for your limo tonight.”

“What is Patpong?” he asked.

“Patpong is what we hope will never happen to Sai Gon,” answered Manh. “Nothing but bars, strip clubs, and prostitutes.”

“And Sai Gon is so different?” gibed Dzung. “Or maybe you’re saying that you hope they can keep the strip clubs out?”

“Be careful,” warned Manh, his voice firm but his smile indicating he was only half serious.