“We prefer to call it ‘custody with discipline.’ In most cases it was just confinement. But over the years there may have been the odd renegade camp director with sadomasochistic tendencies. And there were factions that kept their own downed pilots like pets. It was hard to monitor all the jails.”

“How long were these four locked up?”

“The longest was seven years.”

“Seven years in a bamboo cage?”

“After a brief probationary period, they were all moved to one- or two-star accommodation. Some were quite comfortable.”

It was one of my many sore points about our Viet Minh neighbors.

“Civilai,” I said, “imprisonment should be punishment enough. Anything else is just gratuitous. Cruelty makes us look ignorant.”

Civilai finished his first glass. The rum tasted better the more we drank.

“I don’t want to get tangled up in this discussion again,” said Civilai.

“Your average downed pilot has nothing more to tell you than—”

“Siri!”

“. . . than you already know,” I said.

“They’ve been bombing us for fifteen years,” said Civilai. “Them and their Hmong puppets in Laos. They fly in. They press their button. They kill. They go home, have a nice meal and get drunk. They wake up the next day with a hangover and do it all over again. With their technology, it’s like spraying ants. They’re up there in their airplanes, and they have a pleasant flight over unspoiled jungle scenery, and they locate the village they’ve been instructed to liquefy, and they do as they’re told. There’s no accountability. They switch off all human dignity. When we shoot one down and a man survives, he carries the responsibility of all those who came and went before him. He needs time to be aware of what he’s done. We give him time to think until he understands that it’s not about targets; it’s about families.”

“So you want me to meet these four and assess whether they feel enough remorse?”

“No, I want you to go into each cell with a small medical team and make sure they’re healthy. Treat whatever needs treating. Fix whatever’s broken. And put together a brief medical report for them to take home. But while you’re examining them, I want you to be yourself and joke and laugh and listen to their stories.”

“Isn’t it a bit late for that?” I asked.

“For what?”

“Basic love and kindness.”

“It’s never too late,” he said. “But if you think it’s too demanding . . .”

“You’d really blackmail me?”

“You said there’s nothing you wouldn’t agree to.”

He gave me one of his looks and I gave him one of mine.

“I’ll do it,” I said. “But only because I’ve been looking forward to this evening for weeks. If I have to play Tom Dooley to earn it, I’ll play the part. When do I meet the pilots?”