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Chapters (48)
  1. COVER PAGE
  2. TITLE PAGE
  3. EPIGRAPH
  4. PRAISE
  5. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  6. MAP
  7. PROLOGUE
  8. CHAPTER ONE
  9. CHAPTER TWO
  10. CHAPTER THREE
  11. CHAPTER FOUR
  12. CHAPTER FIVE
  13. CHAPTER SIX
  14. CHAPTER SEVEN
  15. CHAPTER EIGHT
  16. CHAPTER NINE
  17. CHAPTER TEN
  18. CHAPTER ELEVEN
  19. CHAPTER TWELVE
  20. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  21. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  22. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  23. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  24. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  25. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  26. CHAPTER NINETEEN
  27. CHAPTER TWENTY
  28. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  29. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  30. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  31. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  32. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  33. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  34. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  35. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  36. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  37. CHAPTER THIRTY
  38. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
  39. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
  40. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
  41. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
  42. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
  43. CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
  44. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
  45. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
  46. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  47. COPYRIGHT PAGE
  48. What’s next onyour reading list?

“Yes! He is so elegant! He’s a better man than you think, Francois. But when he doesn’t get his way he pouts like a little boy. I’m not sure I want to marry him.”

“Does he want to marry you?”

“Of course.”

She scanned the darkened streets, starting the engine on her motorbike. Impishly, she turned to him and gave him a wave. And then like a memory she was gone.

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER TWELVE

The jet lag finally claimed him. Condley crashed and burned once inside his room, falling into a deep and dreamless sleep. Just before dawn the traffic started on the street below his window, a steady stream of motorbikes that would not relent until well into the evening. The sounds of the whiny motors and the high-pitched little horns rarely stirred him, having become as normal as the surf near someone’s beach house. But in his exhaustion he had not dropped the blinds, and the gray light pouring through his windows awakened him.

Sitting up and looking outside, he noticed that he had received a fax. It was from Hanson Muir, terse and coded as always.

Am arriving Tan Son Nhat 0600 tomorrow morning. Meet me at the Rex Hotel for breakfast, 0800. Strange news. I think we might find some Pepper in the mountains?

Condley felt more comfortable in the cavernous rooftop restaurant of the Rex Hotel than anywhere else in Sai Gon. For several years he had taken most of his meals in the restaurant, which a generation before had been the dining hall for hundreds of American officers stationed in Sai Gon.

The hotel’s elevator opened to an outdoor terrace. Just above his head, a familiar caged bird was cooing. The smiling, bowing young doorman recognized Condley instantly, greeting him in Vietnamese and ushering him into the dark old dining room. He stood for a moment, adjusting his eyes to the room’s dim light, searching past stands of ugly tropical plants and over the faces of perhaps thirty scattered guests, looking for Hanson Muir. Given its size, the place seemed almost empty. Finally the professor waved to him from a far corner.

An aged, blue-suited waiter had already walked up to him, greeting him with the familiarity of a favorite uncle. Condley and the old man, whose name was Vo, had become friends years before. Vo had been a barber on an American military base during the war. He had also been a spy for the communists and had been given a lifetime-tenured job in the restaurant as a reward for his service. Vo was a sly old possum. His tragic look and emaciated frame belied his continuing ability to listen in and report on the conversations of important foreigners.

All part of the game, chuckled Condley as he greeted Vo in Vietnamese. “Hello, Uncle Vo! I’m looking for my friend.”