“We have some avenues of approach,” said Muir. “On both counts, actually. I’ve asked that the FBI do a nationwide fingerprint search on Deville. If he’s been involved in any activity in the United States that requires a fingerprint, no matter what false identity he’s using, they’ll be able to start running him down, or possibly already have. I’m not optimistic on that count, but it’s a start. Within the next few days we’ll also have a computer-imaged photo that will show what Deville should look like today. We’ll get that out to the right people. With respect to our unfortunate friend here, I’m pulling in all the files of those still listed either as missing in action or as deserters inside Viet Nam. A whole new category, that. I hadn’t thought much about the deserters before. And we’ve got a few things to work with in order to narrow down our search.”

Muir took out his pointer again, his manner indeed professorial, and began touching the remains as he spoke. “Brown hair—a few tufts were still inside the poncho. Definitely Caucasian, from the cheekbones and the set of the jaw. He was, I’d say, about five foot nine inches tall. Clear indications of a damaged right shoulder, probably from repeated trauma. And look at this . . .” Muir touched the skeleton at the very top of the spinal column, where the neck met the skull. “See how worn this vertebra is?”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“No, look right here. See? It’s a bit shiny, as if it’s gone through a good bit of trauma. Possibly a bad car accident, but my guess is that he was an athlete who played hard at contact sports that repeatedly caused blows to the head. Boxing, perhaps, given his size. The damaged shoulder would go with that diagnosis. There’s also some formative arthritis on the upper vertebrae, which is unusual for a younger man and would confirm that suspicion. And look at these ridges on his teeth.” Muir’s pointer ran along the molars at the back of the skull.

“Yeah,” said Condley, seething. “Just look at that.”

“They’re worn far beyond what one might expect in a young man. This suggests a coarse diet, of the sort that might be found more often in rural America. Appalachia, perhaps.”

Muir ceremoniously closed the pointer. “We’ll find him.”

“You mean you’ll find out who he was,” corrected Condley. “Then find out what the fuck he was doing in the Que Son Mountains. And while you’re doing that I’ll find Deville.”

“How do you propose to do that, Brandon?”

“I don’t know yet.” A thought crossed his mind. “Maybe if we find out about this guy it will lead us to Deville. Especially if we can find out what they were doing together. Who knows, maybe he was a turncoat too.”