“Whenever you’re free. They’re at Clinic Twelve.”

“Really?” I said. “The clinic behind the fuel depot?”

“That’s the one.”

“Do you think the B-52 pilots know that’s where we’re keeping them?”

“They should. We’ve leaked enough information about their whereabouts and we weren’t subtle. Even the CIA should have understood.”

We worked our way down our second glasses of rum. I could feel my intestines smolder.

“You do remember I don’t speak English?” I said.

“Don’t worry. It’s all taken care of,” he said. “And one of the pilots speaks Lao.”

“How did that happen?”

“He was held by a militia group in Bolikhamxai for over five years. He learned it from his captors. See how accommodating we can be to our guests? Free language classes.”

We decided against ordering another drink as I had to stock up on medications and that involved getting things signed. Those Vietnamese loved to get things signed. We stood to leave.

“Have you got time for a movie or two before I go back?” I asked.

Hanoi had an impressive network of living-room film nights back then. Nobody dared congregate in numbers in a cinema for obvious reasons. So some bright spark had set up a smuggling route to bring up movie reels from Saigon. And they all had Vietnamese subtitles courtesy of the CIA propagandists. They had a department just working on translations. Nice of them.

“I’ll see what’s playing,” he said. “And tonight, I want you on your best behavior.”

“I can’t think of what you mean,” I said.

“Good-looking unattached older man, together with a strange woman in a hotel room. I’m afraid the temptation might be too much for her.”

He handed me the mango plucker. “Here, take this. You might have to fight her off.”

I still have that mango plucker somewhere.

I decided to get the airmen out of my schedule as quickly as I could, so I arranged to be there that afternoon. I arrived at Clinic Twelve at 2 p.m. The medical team Civilai promised comprised an unsmiling but naturally beautiful nurse in military uniform, an armed guard for our protection and a boy. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old.

“Comrade Doctor,” he said, “I’m Hung Lan, your interpreter.”

“Hello, Little Comrade,” I said. “And how did you get stuck with this job?”

“I excelled in languages in elementary school,” he said. “I was recruited by the National Institute of Interpreters.”

“I’m impressed,” I said. “But aren’t you a little young to be fraternizing with the enemy?”

“I am qualified and competent,” he said. “But I admit I was surprised to be chosen for this important mission ahead of my seniors.”