I scanned the names and saw that there were sixteen Americans in the advisory group, all officers and senior sergeants. It wasn't a particularly dangerous job, until something went wrong, as it had during the Tet Offensive.

The commander of the group was a lieutenant colonel named Walter Jenkins, and his executive officer was a Major Stuart Billings. The third in command was a captain, the only captain listed above a string of lieutenants, which included William H. Hines. The captain's name was Edward F. Blake.

I stared at the name awhile, then pulled the photo pack toward me, and looked at one of the pictures, the one where the captain was wearing a tie. I looked at Susan and said, "Vice President of the United States Edward Blake."

She lit a cigarette and said nothing.

I took a deep breath. If I'd had a Scotch and soda, I would have downed it. Edward F. Blake. Capt. B. Edward F. Blake. Capt. B.

Vice President Edward Blake, one heartbeat and one election away from becoming the next president of the United States. Except he had a problem: He murdered someone.

I glanced at Tran Van Vinh, who sat patiently, though perhaps he was getting bad vibes now. I tried to look cool and calm so as not to upset Mr. Vinh. In a normal tone of voice, I asked Susan, "What are the chances of our host here recognizing Vice President Edward Blake?"

She drew on her cigarette and replied, "That's the question, isn't it?"

"Yeah. I mean, TV reception is not real good out here."

She said, "We discussed all of that in Washington. They asked me my opinion."

"What's your opinion?"

"Well, my opinion is that almost every Viet in the country can recognize the president and maybe even the vice president of the United States from pictures in the newspapers. Newspapers here, as in most Communist countries, are universal, cheap, and available to the ma.s.ses, who are almost all literate. That's what I told them in Washington."

She added, "Also, the news is heavily political and focuses on Washington. The Viets are not badly informed, even in Ban Hin. Plus, we have the television set down at the schoolhouse. And as you might know, Vice President Blake, when he was a senator, was on the Foreign Relations Committee and the MIA Committee, and he has made numerous trips to Vietnam. You may recall that he's a close personal friend of our amba.s.sador to Hanoi, Patrick Quinn." Susan glanced at Mr. Vinh and said, "There could be a potential problem, especially if Edward Blake becomes president." She looked at me and asked, "What do you you think?" think?"

I pictured Tran Van Vinh sitting in the marketplace downtown, smoking and reading the local Pravda Pravda, and he's staring at a photo of Edward Blake, and a little bell goes off in his head, and he says to himself, "No... can't be. Well, maybe. Hey, Nguyen, this guy who's president of the Imperialist States of America is the guy I told you about-the guy who blew away that lieutenant in Quang Tri."

But then what? Would he report this interesting coincidence to the local authorities? And if he did, what would come of it? That That was the question. was the question.

Susan asked again, "What do you think, Paul?"

I looked at her and said, "I can see why some people in Washington could be nervous, and why Edward Blake may be losing some sleep, a.s.suming he knows about all of this, including Paul Brenner's mission to Vietnam. In any case, the chance of our host here making the ID and reporting it is very slim."

"Better safe than sorry." She added, "I feel a little better now that we've got all these war souvenirs."

"And if you kill this guy, you'll feel even better."

She didn't reply to that, but said, "He sort of recognized the photo. I mean, he's not going to put a name to it right away, but someday he may. Like when he reads about a visit from Edward Blake in one of the national newspapers. In fact, Vice President Blake is right now in Hanoi on an official visit."

I replied, "What a coincidence." I asked, "Does Blake know that he's got a problem? Is that why he's here?"

"I really don't know... I think if he doesn't know now, he's going to find out from his aides, if and when we get to Hanoi. That's my guess."

"So, we don't know if the people who sent us on this mission are trying to cover for Blake, or blackmail him?"

She didn't respond to that and continued, "The rural newspapers are weekly, so the next one will have something about Blake's visit, with accompanying photos. The Viets often show wartime photos with a current photo, and they always mention wartime duty, so they'll say that Edward Blake fought at the battle of Quang Tri in 1968, but has since become a friend of Vietnam. They love that." She looked at me. "What do you think? Would our friend here put it together if he saw side-by-side photos of Captain Blake and Vice President Blake?"

"Am I defending this guy's life?"

She didn't reply.

I said, "This man did not go through ten years of h.e.l.l to be whacked by you in his own home because he may remember something someday."

Mr. Vinh continued to smoke as his guests spoke in English. He probably thought we were very rude, but he was polite enough not to mention it. I wondered, too, if he could recognize the name Edward Blake whenever Susan and I said it. I asked Susan, "Can he understand the name?"

Susan replied, "No. It would be read and p.r.o.nounced differently. Not so Anglo-Saxon as we p.r.o.nounce it. Without accent marks, it reads differently to him. But we need to take that roster so he can't match the name in a newspaper... plus, our presence here will be recalled by him, and so will that photo pack."

I stared at Susan and thought about all of this. Time to take a Susan reading: Did I still love her? Yes, but I'd get over it. Did I trust her? Never did. Was I p.i.s.sed? Yes, but impressed. She was very good. And, finally, Was she about to do something rash and violent? She was thinking about it.

She puffed thoughtfully on her cigarette, then said to me, "I really wish you hadn't been so d.a.m.ned nosy."

"Hey, that's what I get paid for. That's why they call me a detective."

She smiled, then realizing we'd been ignoring our host, she chatted with him awhile about G.o.d knows what. Maybe she was asking him where he'd gotten his dirt floor. She gave him another cigarette, then she found the bill from the Dien Bien Phu Motel in her pocket, and wrote something on the back as she spoke to Mr. Vinh. Maybe they were exchanging pho recipes, but then she said to me, "I'm getting Mr. Vinh's cousin's address in Dien Bien Phu so we can mail Mr. Vinh's letter back to him."

"Why? You or someone else is going to kill Mr. Vinh."

Susan didn't reply.

Mr. Vinh smiled at me.

I said to Susan, "Let's get out of here before the fuzz shows up."

Susan said to me, "We're okay. You're not going to believe this, but Mr. Vinh is the district Party chief." She nodded toward the poster of Uncle Ho on the wall. "The soldiers won't come unless Mr. Vinh summons them."

I looked at Mr. Vinh. My luck, I'm in the house of the top Commie in the county. That aside, he seemed cooperative, and if Susan had translated my questions about what transpired on that day he'd seen Captain Blake shoot Lieutenant Hines, Mr. Vinh would have answered. I asked Mr. Vinh, "Parlez-vous francais?"

He shook his head.

"Not even a little? Un peu?"

He didn't respond.

Susan said, "Okay, maybe we should go, Paul, before Mr. Vinh starts to smell a rat."

"I'm not finished."

"Leave it alone."

"Tell me, Susan, why it's important that Edward Blake be covered."

"You should read the papers more, and I told you, Edward Blake is well connected here. He's made lots of friends in the Hanoi government-the new people who want to be our friends. Edward Blake is close to a deal on Cam Ranh Bay, as well as a trade deal and an oil deal. Plus, he'll stand up to China."

"Who cares? It looks to me like he committed a murder."

"Who cares about that? that? He's going to be the next president. The people like him, the military likes him, the intelligence community likes him, and the business community likes him. I'll bet even you liked him ten minutes ago." He's going to be the next president. The people like him, the military likes him, the intelligence community likes him, and the business community likes him. I'll bet even you liked him ten minutes ago."

In fact, I did. War hero and all that. Even my mother liked him. He was handsome. I said, "Okay, let's give Edward Blake the benefit of the doubt and a.s.sume that he killed Lieutenant Hines for a good military reason. Now you ask Mr. Vinh, without any bulls.h.i.t, what he saw that day. Now."

Susan replied, "We'll never know the reason, and it's irrelevant, and Mr. Vinh doesn't know." She stood. "Let's go."

I said to her, "You know. Tell me." know. Tell me."

She moved toward the back wall near the roofline, and she was much closer to the gun than I was. She said to me, "I don't want you to know. You know too much already."

Mr. Vinh was trying to figure this all out and looked from me to Susan.

I stood and kept my eyes on Susan.

She knew that I knew where she was heading, and she said to me, "Paul... I love you. I do. That's why I don't want you to know any more than you already know. In fact, I'm not going to even mention that you discovered the name of Edward Blake."

I said, "I'll mention it. Now you ask him what I want to know, or you tell me what you know." mention it. Now you ask him what I want to know, or you tell me what you know."

"Neither." She hesitated, then said, "Give me the keys."

I took the keys out of my pocket and threw them to her.

She caught them, looked at me, and said something to Mr. Vinh. Whatever she said caused Mr. Vinh to look back at me and start talking.

I saw Susan reach into the thatch and take the pistol. She held it behind her back. I wondered if a shot could be heard in the village. Or two shots.

I said to her, "I killed people for my country and did all kinds of nasty things for my country. You ever hear that old saying, 'I'd rather betray my country than my friend?' There was a time when I didn't believe that. Now I'm not so sure. When you get to be my age, Susan, and you look back on this, you might understand."

We looked at each other, and I could see she was near tears, which was not a good sign in regard to my health or Mr. Vinh's health.

Mr. Vinh was standing now and looking back and forth at us.

Susan said something to Mr. Vinh, and he began gathering up the stuff on the table.

I wanted to stop him, but I didn't think that was a good idea for several reasons, not the least of which was the gun.

Mr. Vinh gave the photo pack to Susan, which she put in the side pocket of her quilted jacket, then the canvas pack with the letters and the MACV roster, the dog tags, the wallet, the wedding ring, and the watch, which she also stuffed in her pockets.

Mr. Vinh by now realized that Susan and I were not agreeing on something, but polite chap that he was, he didn't want to get in the middle of a tiff between two Westerners of the opposite s.e.x.

Meanwhile, Ms. Weber was contemplating her next move, which might be a clean exit or a messy one. She'd have to m.u.f.fle the sound of the gun, and she might be thinking about that. I had trouble picturing Susan Weber killing Tran Van Vinh, or her new lover, but then I remembered her blowing away those two soldiers without blinking an eye. She moved toward her backpack and removed the pelt that the Montagnards had given her. That's how I would m.u.f.fle the gunshot. I looked at her, but she wouldn't make eye contact with me, which was not a good sign.

She hesitated a long time, then made her decision and stuck the gun in the small of her back without Mr. Vinh being aware of what just transpired.

She presented the pelt to Mr. Vinh with a bow, which he returned. She looked at me and asked, "Are you coming with me?"

"If I come with you, I'm taking your gun and the evidence. You know that."

She took a deep breath and said, "I'm sorry," and left.

So, there I was in the middle of nowhere in the house of the local Commie chief who didn't even speak French, let alone English, and my new girlfriend takes a powder with the bike keys and the gun. Well, it could have been worse.

I put my finger to the side of my head and said to Mr. Vinh, "Co-dep dien cai dau. Crazy."

He smiled and nodded.

"So, any more buses out of here today?"

"Eh?"

I looked at my watch. It was almost 3 P.M. P.M. Dien Bien Phu was thirty kilometers. On a forced march, I could make six or seven kilometers an hour over flat terrain. That should get me into town at about 8 Dien Bien Phu was thirty kilometers. On a forced march, I could make six or seven kilometers an hour over flat terrain. That should get me into town at about 8 P.M. P.M.; or maybe I could hitch a ride.

I said to Mr. Vinh, "Cam un... whatever. Thanks. Merci beaucoup. Great tea." I put out my hand and we shook. I looked into his eyes. This old veteran had survived h.e.l.l times ten, and he was now basically a poor peasant, an agrarian Communist of the old school, totally uncorrupted and totally irrelevant. If Washington didn't whack him, maybe the new people in Hanoi would. Mr. Vinh and I had a few things in common.

I took off my watch, a nice Swiss army brand, and handed it to him. He took it reluctantly and bowed.

I picked up my backpack and left the house of Tran. I walked down through the foothills, through the burial mounds, and back into the village of Ban Hin.

I didn't attract as much attention as last time, or if I did, I didn't notice.

Bottom line, despite my bravado and my sarcasm, I was still in love with Ms. b.i.t.c.h. In fact, I felt my stomach turning and my heart ached. I thought back to Saigon, to the roof of the Rex, the train to Nha Trang, the Grand Hotel, Pyramide Island, Highway One to Hue, Tet Eve, and A Shau and Khe Sanh and Quang Tri, and if I had it all to do over again, I'd do it with her.

Then there was the Edward Blake thing. I still couldn't get it all straight, and I wasn't ready to a.n.a.lyze it. What I knew for certain was that some power circle or the other had gotten wind of this letter and intruded themselves into it, or maybe it was the other way around; the letter had come to the attention of the CIA first, or the FBI, and the army CID was only the front. And Paul Brenner was Don Quixote, running around the countryside on knightly errands with Ms. Sancho Panza, who was the real power and the real brains. Of course, I'd figured some of this out a while ago, but I hadn't done much about it.

In any case, some people in Washington had talked themselves into a deep paranoia, which they're good at. And Edward Blake was a winner, according to the polls; handsome war hero, beautiful wife and kids, money, friends in high places, so anyone or anything who threatened his coming presidency was dead meat.

That aside, I didn't think the guy was in trouble, especially if someone whacked Mr. Vinh, and whacked me. Susan, in the final a.n.a.lysis, couldn't pull the trigger, so maybe I should send her a thank-you note.

I pa.s.sed through the village square and glanced at the monument to the dead. This war, this Vietnam War, this American War, just went on killing.

I came to Route 12 and looked around for a lift, but it was the last day of the holiday, and I supposed everyone was stretching it out to the weekend, and no one was going anywhere for a while.

I began walking south toward Dien Bien Phu. I pa.s.sed the military post and noticed that the jeep was gone.

About a half-kilometer down the road, I heard a big motorcycle behind me, but I kept walking.

She pulled up beside me, and we looked at each other.

She asked, "Why are you going to Dien Bien Phu? I told you how to get to Hanoi. You don't listen to me. You should be hitching a ride to Lao Cai. I'm going that way. Jump on."

"Thanks, but I'd rather crawl, and I'd rather go where I want to go." I kept walking.

I heard her call out to me, "I'm not going to follow you, or beg you. This is it. Come with me, or you'll never see me again."

We'd already done this routine on Highway 6, but this time I was hanging tough. I acknowledged that I'd heard her with a wave of my hand and continued on.

I heard the motorcycle rev, then listened to the engine growing fainter as she drove off.

About ten minutes later, the motorcycle engine was behind me again. She pulled up to me and said, "Last chance, Paul."

"Promise?"

"I was afraid you'd gotten a ride, then I'd lose you."