The Binh Trieu golf course was a well-known joke in Sai Gon. Just across the Sai Gon River in the district of Thu Duc, a Taiwanese consortium had built two large golf courses, replete with upscale clubhouses. Since almost no Vietnamese could afford equipment, club dues, or fairway fees, the logic behind the investment had centered on providing recreation for foreigners, particularly the Japanese, whose passion for the sport, they had reasoned, would bring in loads of tourists. But few Japanese traveled to Viet Nam on pleasure rather than business, and golf, for all its usual seductiveness, was not going to lure them, at least not in Sai Gon. The cool, mountainous area around Da Lat, perhaps. But Sai Gon’s weather, which cycled between an unbearable oven heat and torrential rains, was not a fit for those who wished to spend three hours outdoors hitting little white balls along alternately parched or soaked fairways.

The business had failed. The Taiwanese company had departed, leaving the golf course and its facilities to its Vietnamese partner, which was in reality an umbrella company run by the government. And these days, as it rather forlornly awaited the prospect of a new investor, the government kept the golf course and its clubhouse open for the use of its higher-ranking officials.

“I don’t play golf,” said Condley. “This is business.”

“You meet Colonel Pham there. I know, I know.” Dzung started laughing again. “He stupid, walking outside all day in the sun!”

“He thinks it’s fun,” said Condley.

“That’s why he is stupid. You know, Cong Ly, sometimes I don’t understand, so please tell me again. How did the VC win the war?”

Condley grinned. It was an old joke, more true than either of them really would like to admit. “They didn’t understand that they were beaten.”

Across the street the doorman waved at Condley, holding open the door to a waiting taxi. Condley nudged Dzung again as he headed back toward the hotel. “Maybe three hours, okay?”

“Ba tieng dong ho,” agreed Dzung, reluctantly walking back underneath the shade tree and again climbing onto the seat of his cyclo.

Viet Nam’s scorching heat, sudden rains, and mosquito-infested wetlands did not make it an ideal place to play golf, but you could never explain that to Colonel Pham. No one used the Binh Trieu golf course more regularly than Pham. The former Viet Cong officer had developed an intense passion for the sport that matched his former enthusiasm for soldiering. Hardly a day passed without the colonel having played at least nine holes. He played in all but the heaviest of rains. He played in even the worst heat.