Petrushinsky stared in horror at their taut, incredulous faces, amazed at the reaction that had followed such a simple statement. He did not understand it, and now he deeply feared it. If he gave them any more answers, what would come next? Would they try to detain him and bring him to an American television camera? Would they call the police and request their assistance, causing his arrest for peddling without a license? Would they corral him and bring him to the American Embassy for further interrogation? Had he committed the breach of an oath he no longer even remembered?

No, he decided. There had never been an oath, because there had never been a need for one. There had never been journalists or probing, arrogant American businessmen or even the ability to ask such questions when the Soviet army was supreme. It was only now, after the army and the empire had been disgraced. He spoke fiercely now, startling them. “Why do you want to know all these things? Who are you? I ask you, why do you want to know?”

Quickly, he snapped his case shut and began walking away from them. One of the older men stepped forward as if to follow him, and Petrushinsky pointed at him, a threat. The man raised both hands as if pleading with him to be patient. And immediately Petrushinsky began running.

The four men’s calling voices grew fainter, and then finally he could hear them no longer as he ran behind a row of shops. He turned onto a side street with more shops and other people lined against the curb, selling their pitiful bags of nothing. Across the street a fire had been lit inside a trash can, and a half dozen weather-beaten men were standing around it, warming themselves. My people, he thought, jogging past them. Soldiers who served the empire and today have nothing to look forward to but the bottle and an early death.

But he could not stop to be with them, not yet, not even for a moment to get warm. He disappeared inside a cluttered alleyway, still clutching his peddler’s case. Maybe later he would come back. But now he kept on running.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Quang Nam Province, Viet Nam

“Typhoon,” said Brandon Condley, his hard gray eyes expertly searching the bruised horizon.

It had been drizzling all morning, which was no surprise because actually it had been drizzling for weeks. But off to the east the real deal was rolling in from the South China Sea, having just wreaked havoc in the northern islands of the Philippines. Condley zipped his rain jacket all the way up underneath his throat as if to emphasize the coming storm, then pulled his worn baseball cap lower over his eyes. And finally, just to make the point that he did not really care, he laughed.

“Hey, Professor, Buddha’s pissed. Welcome to the real Viet Nam!”