“We prefer to call it a ‘vision center,’” Janson said frostily, settling into the role of the proud shopkeeper. “You sure I’m not going to have any problems getting off in Stansted?”

The tour director spoke in a low voice. “No, see, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Holiday Express is going to make sure there’s no snags. You take my meaning? We’re going to help you out.”

Janson nodded gratefully, although he knew what was really motivating the sudden show of altruism—the dismay that the tour guide’s call must have precipitated in the firm’s offices. Janson’s stratagem, as it was meant to, had put the company in a bind: officials of a packaged-holiday company had plainly misinformed British customs that one Richard Cavanaugh, of 43 Culvert Lane, Uxbridge, had arrived in the United Kingdom. The only way to avoid an audit of its activities and a review of its license was to make sure that Richard Cavanaugh did arrive in the United Kingdom, and without the sort of data trail that could lead to awkward questions about careless business practices. The temporary papers that the pigeon-breasted man was drawing up for him—Urgent Transport/Airline Personnel—were a crude recourse, normally reserved for transportation involving medical emergencies, but they would do the job. Holiday Express would tidy up an embarrassing little slipup, and “Dickie” Cavanaugh would be home by suppertime.

The tour guide chuckled as he gave Janson the sheath of yellow-orange pages. “Too bloody pissed to remember, what? Makes you want to break down and cry, don’t it?”

A small chartered plane took them to Istanbul, where, after a two-hour layover, they changed to a bigger charter plane that would carry three separate Holiday Express tour groups to Stansted Airport, just north of London. At each junction, Cavanaugh waved the yellow stapled pages he’d been given in Izmir, and a representative of the packaged-holiday company personally escorted him on board. The word had plainly come down from the head office: take care of this berk, or there would be hell to pay.

It was a three-hour flight, and the Uxbridge optician, sullied by his offshore adventure, kept to himself, his look of hapless self-absorption repelling any attempts at conversation. The few who heard his story saw only a tight-assed shopkeeper vowing that his indiscretions would be left behind in the Orient.

Somewhere over Europe, eyes shuttered, Janson drowsed, and eventually let himself succumb to sleep, even though he knew well the old ghosts that would stir.

It was three decades ago, and it was now. It was in a jungle far away, and it was here. Janson had returned from the debacle of Noc Lo to Demarest’s office in base camp, without even stopping to clean up. He had been told that the lieutenant commander wanted to see him immediately.

The stench and stains of battle still on his clothing, Janson stood before Demarest, who sat pensively at his desk. A medieval plainsong—an eerily simple and slow progression of notes—emerged from small speakers.