Condley knew that in reality the fax belonged to the Ministry of Post and Telecommunications and that the ministry monitored all his faxes, just as it monitored the faxes at all the hotels in Viet Nam. It hadn’t mattered to him, since he knew that most of his telephone calls were also monitored, as were his comings and goings whenever he was in Sai Gon. The Vietnamese were the great spies of Asia, not only because they were masters at intuition but because they genuinely loved the game. With the game came revenge, and they especially loved revenge. They kept files on everyone, including on one another. He never acknowledged that he knew he was being monitored, and sometimes he sent bogus faxes just to play with the minds of the unseen agents off in some dank, ugly office who spent their days meticulously keeping his file. But it was helpful to know that the game was being played. Most Americans inside Viet Nam were oblivious to it, and thus at a constant disadvantage.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, Hanson Muir sent him a fax. He heard the machine go off as he slept but could not bring himself to read it until morning. It surprised him that Muir would have faxed him so quickly after arriving in Hawaii. But then he read the fax.

Saigon, we’ve got a problem. Or shall I say, BC phone home?

It was morning in Sai Gon but five in the afternoon in Hawaii when he called. Hanson Muir was just getting ready to leave for the night.

“So where have you been?” Muir asked when Condley said hello. “Off getting married again?”

“You’re not allowed to be jealous, Hanson. Take what you can get and leave the rest of us alone.”

“He’s not an MIA,” said Muir with a sudden bluntness.

“What are you talking about?”

“Our boy. The skeleton from your famous little village. The guy we risked our lives to bring home.”

“Stop being dramatic, Professor. You loved that boat ride.”

“Sure, about as much as I’d love riding a bicycle in an ice storm. I said he’s not on anyone’s list. He was never missing in action and he was never a prisoner of war.”

“So what was he?”

“Brandon, I don’t know what he was. He did exist. I mean, we have his dog tags. We’ve asked the Department of the Army to put a rush on pulling his file from the archives in St. Louis. I should have it in two days.”

“So what do you want me to do?” asked Condley. He had been listening to the Professor, but mostly he was deciding what he was going to have for breakfast.

“Be back here in two days,” said Muir. “I need your help. We have to talk about this.”

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER FIVE

Hawaii