“Someone you met in the north of Thailand knew about a gang of thugs on the Lao side that rented themselves out as mercenaries for the PL. My friend the general here knows about them. Their commander had recently shot himself whilst as drunk as a cellar rat, and his gang was in need of guidance and money. So you headed up there with your manuscript and you made a deal. You handed over what little money you had left and promised them a share of the fortune you’d be making from your book. All they had to do was say they’d kept you a prisoner for almost six years under orders from their boss. Then they march you to the nearest legitimate PL camp and drop you off. It was a brilliant plan. You knew the Viet Minh were bringing all the MIA together in Hanoi for an eventual handover. What were a few months of discomfort in the Hanoi Hilton compared to the alternatives?

“The book was a clever idea too. You were aware it might have been discovered but if it was, it would make you stand out from the other prisoners. Perhaps the Vietnamese would feel remorse for your cruel treatment over the border. Perhaps they’d respect you for your many attempts to escape. If it was successfully smuggled out by the tourist it would have been an immediate hit Stateside. But if it wasn’t, that was fine too because—and I’m guessing this last part—your wife had the original, probably resplendent with dirt and bloodstains. All she had to do was post it anonymously to the US embassy in Bangkok with a note that a deserter had brought it to Thailand. You couldn’t fail either way.”

We’d left Henry alone in a cell that morning. He’d been exposed as a fraud so all of his dreams of back pay and compensation and book and film royalties, of one day getting a visa for his Thai wife, of being repatriated as a hero, that was all gone, thanks to me. The Vietnamese and the CIA fellow patted me on the back as we walked away, and I might have gloated just a little and Henry probably noticed that.

Civilai and I sat on the front porch of a small house over in Ba Din that evening talking about Hanoi Hilton Henry. We were waiting for a showing of The French Connection with subtitles. It was R rated but we had IDs.

“Why did you first doubt him?” Civilai asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “There’s what you see and what you perceive. Jane’s perception was that I was an elderly fan desperate for an autograph.”

“Which wasn’t so far off the mark.”