Transporting the prisoners to Candle Bog took two hours. Demarest was waiting for them when they arrived. He was in a jeep, with his executive officer, Tom Bewick, behind the wheel.

Janson saw that the prisoners were thirsty; because their arms were bound to their sides, he held his canteen to their lips, dividing its contents between the two. Despite their terror and uncertainty, the prisoners slurped the water down gratefully. He let them rest on the ground between the two hooches.

“Good work, Janson,” Demarest said.

“Humane treatment of prisoners of war, just like the Geneva Convention says,” Janson replied. “If only the enemy followed our lead. Sir.”

Demarest chuckled. “You’re funny, schoolboy.” He turned to his XO. “Tom,” he said. “Could you … do the honors?”

Bewick’s tawny face looked as if it were carved of wood, with crude gashes for eyes and mouth. His nose was small, narrow, and almost sharp in appearance. The overall effect was reinforced by the streaky tan that somehow suggested wood grain. His movements were swift and efficient, but jerky rather than fluid. It added to Janson’s sense that Bewick had become a mannequin of Demarest’s.

Bewick strode over to the first of the prisoners, withdrew a large knife, and started sawing through the restraints that kept their arms to their sides.

“They need to get comfortable,” Demarest explained.

It soon became clear that comfort was not precisely Bewick’s objective. The XO fashioned a sling of nylon cord, tightly knotted it around the prisoners’ wrists and ankles, and then snaked it around the central beams of each hooch. They were splayed, spread-eagled, their limbs extended outward by the taut rope. They were utterly defenseless, and knew it. That realization of their defenselessness would have psychological effects.

Janson’s stomach furled. “Sir?” he began.

“Don’t speak,” Demarest replied. “Just watch. Watch and learn. It’s the old rule: See one, do one, teach one.”

Now Demarest approached the prisoner who rested on the ground nearest him. He ran a caressing hand over the young man’s cheeks, and said, “Tôi mén ban.” He tapped himself on his heart and repeated the words: “I like you.”

The two men seemed bewildered.

“Do you speak English? It doesn’t matter if you do, because I speak Vietnamese.”

The first one spoke, at last. “Yes.” His voice was tight.

Demarest rewarded him with a smile. “I thought you did.” He ran his index finger down the man’s forehead, over his nose, and stopped at his lips. “I like you. You people inspire me. Because you really care. That matters to me. You have your ideals, and you’re going to fight until the bitter end. How many nguoi My have you killed, do you think? How many Americans?”

The second man burst out, “We no kill!”

“No, because you’re farmers, right?” Demarest’s tones were honeyed.

“We farm.”