‘Is he a friend of yours?’ a plain-clothes security guy asked.

‘No, not really,’ I answered.

‘Because if he is, you need to tell him to tone it down.’

‘It’s the drink talking.’

‘Then he needs to stop drinking. There’s a time and place, and on the Ambassador’s lawn is not the place to spill your guts. What’s his name?’

‘I think it’s Corley Rodgers.’

‘Corley fucking Rodgers. I should have known.’

Then he left me and I watched as he walked to where Corley was in full flow, regaling his audience with stories of supposedly ludicrous ineptitude associated with his job, saw him politely but firmly tap Corley on the shoulder and then lead him away, having first removed the wine glass from his hand. Soon afterwards I made my own retreat, a disloyal defector in my imagination, or one of those ghost soldiers who never fully existed.

When I was presented with an unscheduled opportunity for home leave, I turned it down. However, after hostilities resumed in open fury, and the Peace Accords seemed nothing more than just another worthless piece of paper, the atmosphere in Saigon edged with something darker than I had previously known and the volume of work entering our offices increased on a daily basis. We took more precautions about our personal security and soon loudspeakers in Lam Son Square were playing martial music. And then one Monday morning, just after I arrived for work, Greenberg summoned me to his office.

‘I’ve had a phone call,’ he said, standing in front of his plants with a small watering can in his hands. ‘You’re wanted in the Embassy. Report there to an agent called Donovan.’ As I turned to go, he added in almost a fatherly way, ‘Be careful, Michael.’

I paused for further elucidation, but none was forthcoming and he returned to the nurture of his orchids. The immediacy of the order spurred me to take a taxi, a beat-up blue and yellow Renault whose driver attempted a half-hearted extortion on the fare but capitulated at my first protest. Apart from that time with Corley, I had only been in the Embassy for one social function shortly after my arrival, and believed that having done their bit they had removed my name from the list of those meriting further hospitality.

It was obvious from the number of Marines on duty and the extra defences that security had been beefed up and it took me a while to reach the upper floors of the building where the CIA were based. I was increasingly nervous, wondering if I had screwed something up or whether my services were to be dispatched elsewhere. For a few seconds as I sat in a waiting area I even considered the possibility that one of my parents had died and I had been summoned to officially receive the news. I sat for about twenty minutes, and every single person who passed me, male or female, inspected me, registering a face that wasn’t familiar. No one deigned to speak, and the chorus of clicking typewriters and people hurrying in the corridor holding sheaves of paper or cups of coffee gave it the impression of some corporate headquarters rather than the heart of covert operations. I realised later that Donovan was one of those who had passed me several times, but he hadn’t introduced himself, and it was only when he called me by name that I understood he was the person I was to meet with.