‘Bloomfield is an intelligence officer for DAO, although I hesitate to use his name in the same sentence as intelligence. Works out of Tan Son Nhut,’ he said, then paused as if uncertain whether to continue or not. ‘OK, Mikey, as you’re going to work for me, we’ll get this straight. We are here, right? Washington is there, right?’ I tried to preserve my dignity by not responding. ‘What gets decided there largely gets decided on what they get told here. Bloomfield answers to Bill LeGro who answers to General Homer Smith who answers to Military Command. Military Command answers to Washington which occasionally has to answer to Congress. I, rather we, answer to Polgar, Section Chief, who, despite what anyone else says or thinks, answers to Langley. You understand? And then there’s the Southern son of a bitch Ambassador Graham Martin. You’ve met him?’ I shook my head. ‘No, of course not, why would he want to meet cotton pickers like you or me? And I think he’s one of you lot, a Baptist or something.’

When he didn’t continue, but seemed to change his attention to the tattoo parlour, I asked, ‘And who does the Ambassador answer to?’

‘The Ambassador answers only to God, Mikey, and not even then when God doesn’t tell him what he wants to hear. The Ambassador is the man who’s going to get you killed because he doesn’t want to be the man who lowers the flag. And he lost a son here, so it’s personal. There’s a saying – the sheep fear the wolves but it’s the shepherd who kills them. And that’s what we’re talking about here. All of us killed by the shepherd.’

There was a moment of silence then he asked if I’d ever got a tattoo. When I told him I hadn’t, he rolled up his sleeve and showed me a shamrock with the words ‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’ on either side of the stem. As his jacket opened I saw the butt of his holstered gun and knew enough to recognise it as a .38-calibre Smith & Wesson.

‘Not very sophisticated, I know, but when you’re young you sometimes make bad decisions. My old man went crazy, threatened to whip my sorry ass. He did that a lot until he knew he couldn’t do it any more. And I’d done it to please him. That’s what got me.’

He fell silent for a second, as if scrutinising some past memory, then rolled his sleeve back down.

‘Your old man must be proud of you, Mikey. Ivy League boy. No bad habits.’

‘He found other things to be disappointed in. Fathers always do, I guess.’

‘Ain’t that the truth. Ain’t that the truth. When we watched the moon landings, my old man sat with a can of beer in his hand in his undershirt, just like he did every night he came off duty, and you know what he said?’

I shook my head.

‘“Hell of a long way to go to know what loneliness feels like.” Can you believe that, Mikey? “Hell of a long way to go to know what loneliness feels like.” That’s exactly what he said.’