In reality he was terrible at the game, except for a dead-eye ability to putt. But a thrill glazed the colonel’s eyes every time he talked of golf. Secretly, Brandon Condley believed that golf was the metaphor for much of what Colonel Pham had fought for, or maybe merely against. For as he traipsed carefree and timeless along the fairways, the former Viet Cong soldier could imagine that he was part of a larger world. A world where people whiled away the hours in idleness and had no need for toil. Where smacking a silly little ball and having drinks on a terrace afterward while watching a satellite TV channel was evidence that he had risen above the beggars and the toilers. Where—yes, it was true—he had a bit of payback, a taste of the life of those playboy capitalists he had spent so many years trying to kill.

Condley had an ulterior motive in meeting the colonel at the golf course instead of in his office. Certain discussions were permissible in Pham’s office, and others were dangerous, no matter how innocently begun. Talking in the office about policies that already existed was safe. Asking questions in the presence of other, ever-listening ears about matters that had happened in the past, and particularly policies that had existed before the fall of South Viet Nam in 1975, was an application for reprisal.

The colonel was on the fifth hole, almost alone on the course as he readied to tee off in the boiling sun. He was wearing tan slacks, a patterned golf shirt, and white athletic shoes. On his head, incongruously, was a green North Vietnamese Army pith helmet. As Condley approached, Colonel Pham waved casually to him, then took his shot. The ball arched lazily for a while, then landed in a puddle about seventy yards down the middle of the fairway. Its location seemed to please Pham greatly. He smiled as the ball rolled a few more feet, holding on to the top of his pith helmet with one hand and urging the ball forward with a little body English. Then he sighed, putting his three wood inside his golf bag and slinging it over a shoulder.

“Nice shot, Colonel,” said Condley in Vietnamese. He was already sweating profusely as he reached Pham. They shook hands briefly, then the colonel set off down the fairway toward his ball.

The colonel was into his game, staring intently down the flat, straight fairway that only a few years before had been a rice paddy. “What club do you think I should use?”

“I’ve got no idea,” answered Condley, walking alongside him. “I’ve never played a game of golf in my life.”

“I thought everyone in America likes golf.”

“No, sir. Some do, some don’t. If I was going to waste three hours I’d rather just go fishing.”

“Fishing!” laughed Colonel Pham. “In Viet Nam the women go fishing.”