“Wait here?” asked Dzung, conscious of the hard stares he was receiving from the two black-uniformed valets who were more accustomed to arriving taxis and limousines than the antiquated cyclos.

Condley checked the faces of the well-fed young valets, then looked over at the near-emaciated frame of Dzung, now sitting nervously atop the cyclo. An irritation rankled him, never far from the surface when he was in Sai Gon. If things had gone differently in that long-ago war, this Da Lat–trained former officer who had served so well on the battlefield would probably be among those running the country.

But this was the way things had gone, and this was the world they all lived in. He handed Dzung ten thousand dong, which wouldn’t buy a glass of water in the Kieu Hoa but was enough for a feast just down the road.

“Go eat. Come back and get me in an hour.”

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

Condley’s memory of Khoa had fully returned by the time he walked into the Kieu Hoa restaurant and saw the former singer sitting at the bar. Khoa was dressed to perfection in a new tuxedo. His hair, now sprinkled with strands of silver, was still worn below his shoulders as before, although these days he pulled it stylishly back into a tight ponytail. His glasses were decidedly western, if not bought in Rome or Paris then certainly a competent Hong Kong rip-off.

The restaurant itself was spectacular. As he entered, Condley was amazed at its elegant furnishings, replete with textured-fabric furniture, French Impressionist paintings on the walls, and European classical music played by a live string quartet. A tuxedoed maître d’ greeted him just inside the door. Other tuxedoed waiters walked rapidly to and fro, speaking variously in French and English as well as Vietnamese. A large, hand-calligraphied menu near the bar announced a varied and highly expensive fare of nouvelle French–Vietnamese cuisine. And the place was packed, mostly with well-dressed foreigners, with not an empty table.

As the maître d’ greeted him, Condley’s eyes met Khoa’s. For a quick moment the former singer’s gaze intensified, as if they might have once known each other. Then he caught a different kind of recognition in Condley’s face and looked quickly away, feigning interest in the string quartet. Condley watched him for another moment and then allowed himself a knowing smile. “I’d say the old government was probably right,” he said to himself.

“Excuse me, sir?” The maître d’ seemed puzzled.

“Your boss has himself a very nice place.”

“Yes, sir,” answered the maître d’, looking uncomfortably at Condley’s casual shirt and at the sweat that stained it. “Thank you for the compliment. Can I help you, sir?”