The waiter magically appeared with a can of Tiger beer, pouring it slowly into a tall glass as Condley and the woman smiled carefully at each other. It was hard to read Pham’s wife, who was gracious and at the same time very nervous, unsure of these elegant surroundings. She wore a simple black ao dai dress and kept her face neutral with a blank smile, but Condley could see that she was cataloging movements and looks just as thoroughly as he himself, all to be mulled over and analyzed later.

“And this is Francois Petain,” continued Colonel Pham, gesturing to the man sitting at his left. “He does not understand my Vietnamese, so let me switch to French.” Fluently, the colonel made an introduction to Petain in French. When he concluded, the Frenchman waved his hand carelessly in the air, smiling sardonically to Condley.

“So perhaps we should simply speak English, no? The colonel and his wife may have some problem, but Van and I speak it well.”

There was a casualness in the way that Petain referred to the young woman sitting just next to Condley that spoke of possessiveness, as though he were used to making decisions for her. Condley studied the Frenchman as he reached his hand across the table toward him. Petain was in his late thirties, although his face and frame had already softened considerably from lack of exercise. He wore an expensive maroon silk tie, the knot casually loose at his neck. A top-of-the-line Cartier wristwatch revealed itself as he reached an arm toward Condley, shaking hands. His handshake was soft, more from a dismissive air than a lack of strength.

They began an odd three-way conversation using a mix of English, French, and Vietnamese. “Mr. Petain is a businessman,” said Colonel Pham in Vietnamese as the two men shook hands. “He lives most of the time in Tokyo but has been coming here very frequently of late.” The way the colonel nodded and smiled as he mentioned Petain’s frequent trips to Sai Gon clearly had some reference to the young woman at his side.

“What’s your business?” asked Condley, retaking his seat.

“Perfume. I am the Asian president for Lanvin.”

“Perfume?” Despite himself, Condley could not restrain a chuckle.

Petain’s eyebrows arched. “People spend lots of money on perfume. So what is your problem with that?”

“They don’t smell bad, Francois. They’re hungry.”

His answer brought a scathing frown from Petain but an immediate laugh from the young woman on his right.

“He’s right, Francois! But I do love your perfume!”

Petain waved his hand as if dismissing Condley, then spoke as his eyes wandered around the restaurant. “What do Americans know about Viet Nam? They came in and blew it up with millions of bombs and then left. We French have been here for—what shall I say? Two hundred years or more.”