Nelson DeMille was born in New York City in 1943. He grew up on Long Island and graduated from Hofstra University with a degree in Political Science and History. After serving as an infantry officer in Vietnam, where he was decorated three times, DeMille worked as a journalist and short-story writer. He wrote his first major novel, By the Rivers of Babylon, in 1978 and has gone on to write 11 international bestsellers, with sales of over 55 million copies in 24 languages. He lives with his wife, Ginny Sindel DeMille, on Long Island.

Praise for Nelson DeMille

‘A true master of testosterone thrillers’

New York Post

‘Pairs terrific suspense with non-stop wisecracking …

DeMille sweeps you along with his masterful crosscutting between the good guys and the bad’

Entertainment Weekly

‘Wicked wit … mind-twisting suspense … a winner’

Newsday

‘Thrilling’

Kirkus Reviews

Also by Nelson DeMille

By the Rivers of Babylon

Cathedral

The Talbot Odyssey

Word of Honour

The Charm School

Gold Coast

The General’s Daughter

Spencerville

Plum Island

The Lion’s Game

Night Fall

Wild Fire

The Gate House

The Lion

Mayday

(With Thomas Block)

Copyright

Published by Sphere

ISBN: 978-0-7481-0970-8

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © Nelson DeMille 2002

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

Sphere

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www.littlebrown.co.uk

www.hachette.co.uk

For those who answered the call

Author’s Note

Contemporary Vietnam, as represented in this book, is based partly on my experiences of January and February 1997, when I returned to Vietnam after a twenty-nine-year absence. Places such as restaurants, hotels, the former United States embassy, and other locales were in existence and as described as of 1997, which is the time period of this story.

Truth exists; only falsehood has to be invented.

—Georges Braque

FOREWORD

I returned from Vietnam in November of 1968, and like many men who have seen combat, I thought I had a few stories to tell. But when I got home, I discovered that no one was interested in what was happening “over there,” and I also discovered that I didn’t want to talk about it anyway.

Flash forward to 1985: I am now a successful writer, with four published novels, and I’ve resisted the temptation to write the Great American War Novel. I grew up reading Norman Mailer, Herman Wouk, Ernest Hemingway, James Jones, and many other writers of the World War II generation, who so brilliantly captured not only their own wartime experiences, but also the stories of other soldiers, sailors, and airmen, as well as the story of the nation at war.

Vietnam was a different war, and not much in the way of important literature was produced during or immediately after the war ended in 1975.

By 1985, however, many novels – good and bad – had been written about the Vietnam War, so I figured it was my turn to give it a go, and I wrote Word of Honour, which was an immediate bestseller, and later made into a TNT-TV movie, starring Don Johnson and Jeanne Tripplehorn.

After I wrote Word of Honour, I made the decision that this would be my only Vietnam novel; I’d said what I had to say about that war, and I didn’t want to make a career out of rehashing my 365 days of near-death experiences.

In 1996, however, I was contacted by a travel magazine called Mungo Park, which was an online publication owned by Microsoft. They asked if I’d go to Vietnam to do a travel piece for the magazine, all expenses paid.

Well, Uncle Sam paid all my expenses the first time I went to Vietnam, and I recalled that I didn’t have a good time. Mungo Park, however, was only looking for three weeks instead of a year tour of duty, and they promised the accommodations would be better than last time, and so would the pay. More importantly, no one was going to try to kill me this time. So, I accepted the offer.

This is not a trip that you want to make alone, so I called a few friends who’d also served in Vietnam, and invited them along at their own expense. A few said no, thanks – been there, done that – but two said yes.

The first to say yes was my childhood friend, Dan Barbiero, whose tour of duty coincided with mine in 1968. Dan was a classmate of Senator John Kerry at St. Paul’s Prep, and also John’s roommate at Yale, where they both volunteered for military duty after graduation; John went into the Navy, as most of us now know, and Dan went into the Marines. John’s official connections with the Vietnamese government in Hanoi would prove useful on this trip.

The second volunteer for this return trip was Cal Kleinman, a good friend and fellow Long Islander, who served as a combat medic with the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment, also in 1968.

So, here we were, three middle-age men, all now successful, all combat veterans, and all three of us coincidentally having served in the same year.

We chose to go to Vietnam in February 1997, so that we’d be there for the Lunar New Year holiday called Tet. We had been there for Tet 1968, which had not been much of a holiday; it had been, in fact, the year of the massive Tet Offensive, a month of savage battles that had been a major turning point of the war.

So, we returned to Vietnam, stopping first in Hong Kong for a few days, then we flew Air Vietnam to Ho Chi Minh City, formerly known as Saigon. The last time I’d flown into Saigon’s Ton Son Nhut Airport in November 1967, it was dark, and below, I could see the flashes of artillery and the orange bursts of high-explosive shells. I didn’t see that this time, but I remembered it as we made our final approach.

The old Saigon had been a besieged city, surrounded by fortifications and barbed wire; now, as we landed at dawn, I could see that Ho Chi Minh City had spread out into the hinterlands, and there were buildings and people where there had once been war.

We landed and went to the passport control booths.

The old terminal had not changed much, except that the flags and symbols of the former Republic of Vietnam had been replaced by the flags and symbols of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam – hammers and sickles, pictures of Ho Chi Minh, and General Giap, our old nemesis, and others we couldn’t identify, but who looked sort of grim, despite the fact they’d won the war.

The passport control guy was also grim, and he questioned us at length in broken English, and we replied mostly in English, but also in a few remembered words of Vietnamese. The guy was not flattered that we were trying to speak his language, and we realized we’d given away the fact that we’d been soldiers here, and as Cal said later, “He probably thinks we shot at him once,” and he may have been right.

After about ten minutes, he waved us through, and I remarked to Cal and Dan, “I guess we’re not in charge here anymore.”

A hired van took us into Ho Chi Minh City, which I’ll call Saigon from now on because it sounds better.

We spent four days in Saigon, getting acclimated and visiting a number of cultural sites, including the Q-Bar, the Monkey Bar, and the Apocalypse Now Bar.

Before we’d left for Vietnam, we’d gone to Washington to see Senator Kerry, visit The Wall, and pay a visit to Jim Webb, author of Fields of Fire, one of the best novels to come out of the Vietnam War. Jim is now Senator Webb of Virginia, and by 1997, he’d visited Vietnam numerous times, and spoke fluent Vietnamese. He was also savvy about Saigon and other cities, so when we had dinner with him in Washington, he clued us in to some dos and don’ts, and gave us a lot of invaluable advice, including the advice to stay away from the Monkey Bar. We should have listened to him, but that’s another story.

Saigon was a time trip and a bit of a shock. We’d expected some sort of grim, totalitarian city, but the place was lively, prosperous, and decidedly un-Communist. The people were friendly, and if you avoided the cops, you were fine.

On day two in Saigon, we went out to the country with a car and driver to see where Cal had served with the 11th Armored Cavalry. It took a while, but eventually we found ourselves in the middle of the old Michelin rubber plantation, through which ran Highway 13. As we rounded a turn, Cal told the driver to stop, and we got out. We walked a hundred meters up the road, and Cal said, “Here is where we got ambushed by a big force of North Viets.”

He described for Dan and me the famous Battle of Highway 13, and recounted the bravery of the men in the armored cavalry who’d fought for their lives against an overwhelming enemy force.

It was a very emotional moment for Cal, who as a combat medic tended to the wounded and dying as the battle raged around him.

At this point, we began to wonder if coming back had been a good idea.

But here we were, and I had an article to write. As the days passed, we started to mentally distance ourselves from our distant past. Then, we realized that wasn’t so good, so we began talking it out and dealing with it.

Our host in Vietnam was an adventure travel agency named Mountain Travel Sobek, and they were very good at what they did, though we found ourselves traveling with a dozen other Americans, none of whom were veterans. This was a problem at first, but after a week, we realized that us being Vietnam War veterans was interesting to our group. Neither Dan, Cal, nor I wanted to regale these younger tourists with tales of blood, death, and destruction, but now and then, over a few beers, and if prompted, we’d tell a war story or two.

We also met a lot of other returning veterans, and we felt, of course, comfortable with them, and whatever war stories we shared were told in shorthand – half sentences, buzz words, Army acronyms, and a few words of remembered Vietnamese. No one was posturing or bragging; just remembering.

From Saigon, we traveled up country into the Central Highlands. This was where my unit, the First Air Cavalry Division, had first deployed in Vietnam, and where the Division Headquarters was located at a place called An Khe. I wanted to see my former base camp, but it was now taken over by the People’s Army, and off-limits to foreigners, so we were stopped by armed soldiers. Dan produced a letter written in Vietnamese by a high official in the Hanoi government, addressed to Senator John Kerry, in which the official acknowledged that Senator Kerry’s three friends – Barbiero, DeMille, and Kleinman by name – were visiting the Socialist Republic and should be afforded all the courtesies, hospitality, and so forth of important dignitaries.

Dan showed this letter to the army officer who was telling us we could not enter the camp. The officer read this letter, then handed it back and said something that sounded like “Phuc yü,” and ordered us to leave. So much for being foreign dignitaries. This letter did help us out a few times later, however, and we were glad we had it.

The Vietnam that we found in 1997 was an odd blend of Communism and capitalism, totalitarianism, and government indifference. It seemed to us that as long as you didn’t get involved in political discussions or cause the police any trouble, you could do pretty much what you wanted. But if you did somehow cross the cops – and you had no letter from an important government official in Hanoi – then a small bribe would make things right.

After a week in the Highlands, we traveled back to the coast where we spent a few days in Nha Trang, an old French beach resort that was being developed again for tourism. I’d spent a two-day R&R at Nha Trang, and the beach resort brought back some memories of two nice days away from the war.

The highlight of our trip was the ancient imperial capitol of Hue. We’d scheduled the trip to arrive in Hue on the eve of the Tet holiday, the Lunar New Year, which in Buddhist countries is the biggest holiday of the year and which lasts a week.

Tet 1968 was not a happy occasion, as I said, and Hue had suffered more than any other city in Vietnam. The last time I’d seen Hue, two months after the American Marines had re-taken the city, it was a smoldering heap of rubble, and the stench of death still hung in the air.

In 1997, the city still had not been completely rebuilt, and the evidence of what had happened here twenty-nine years before was evident, even to the most clueless tourist. Though peace had returned to the city, I could see something in the demeanor of the older inhabitants that I hadn’t seen much of in the rest of Vietnam: a sad, haunted, and faraway look, which I understood.

We made a few side trips from Hue, including Quang Tri City, near which my unit had operated. The city no longer exists, except on maps; it had been reduced to rubble by American B-52 carpet bombing during the Easter Offensive of 1972.

I had expected the city to be rebuilt, and I thought I’d see some familiar landmarks, such as the old French fort that had served as my brigade headquarters. I had clear memories of the place, having spent close to a year there, but what I found shocked me. Basically, there was nothing left. All I was able to find was the outline of the old moat that had surrounded the central citadel of the city. Where the citadel had once stood was an open field.

I looked at Cal and Dan and said, “There was a city here once.”

Next, we went up north to the DMZ where Dan had served with the Third Marine Division. Here, too, were massive, unreconstructed areas of destruction. The war had been so intense in this area between Hue, Quang Tri, and the DMZ, that even three decades later, the countryside was depopulated and dead.

I think it hit us, for the first time, that what happened here had been a tragedy of enormous proportions, and we’d been part of it. That didn’t mean we felt any guilt – both sides were equally responsible for the carnage. What we felt, I think, was awe. And, finally, sadness. We’d lost our innocence here, for sure, and we’d lost friends, and we’d lost whatever enthusiasm we once had for our great adventure of 1968. The people who lived here lost a lot more than that; they’d lost their future.

That night, back in Hue, we distanced ourselves from our traveling companions, we drank too much, and we didn’t have much to say. But there was this unspoken acknowledgment that we finally understood, thirty years later, that the war had changed us, and that we were damned lucky to be alive.

From Hue, we took a small plane to Hanoi, the capital of the former North Vietnam, and now the capital of a reunited Vietnam. Obviously, Cal, Dan, and I had not been to the enemy capital during the war, so this was all new to us.

In Hanoi, we hooked up with an American named Al DeMatteis, whose family I knew on Long Island, and whose construction company was doing a lot of high-end building in Hanoi and elsewhere in the country. We also met an American woman named Mattie Genovese. Mattie was an expat, and I found it interesting that this woman, an attorney from Queens, New York, would choose to live and work in Vietnam, which was not only a third world country too far from home, but also a repressive society. Mattie, however, explained that she found it “exotic and challenging” as well as a little scary at times. With that insight and information, I had my model for the character of Susan Weber in this novel.

Of course, at that point in my journey, I had no idea I was going to write a novel based on this trip; I was there to research a travel piece for a magazine.

But somewhere in the back of my mind, the idea of writing a book began to take hold. The characters, starting with the unpleasant passport inspector at Ton Son Nhut, began forming in my overly-active imagination.

We spent only three days in Hanoi, which was more than enough time in this rather grim city. Next stop was Bangkok for a post-Vietnam R&R.

By the time we got to Bangkok, I’d decided to definitely write the novel, and I announced this to Dan and Cal, who did not seem surprised, and who thought that I’d probably already written half of it in my mind.

After a few days of decompressing in Bangkok, we went home, I wrote the travel article for Mungo Park magazine, and I began making notes for a novel set in Vietnam.

I had just finished my novel Plum Island, and I was prepared to launch into the Vietnam book. The problem was, I had no idea what the book was about, but it was lurking there somewhere. I felt that this was going to be an important book with some personal meaning to me, and I didn’t want to begin until I felt I could do it justice. So, while I was waiting for inspiration, I began writing the second book in the John Corey series, titled The Lion’s Game.

During this time, I was associated with an organization called the Vietnam Veterans of America, and the VVA had a program called the Vietnam Initiative. This program encouraged Vietnam vets to look through their war memorabilia to find anything that might have belonged to an enemy soldier and which might be returned to the soldier or his family. The purpose of this program was to help the families of the hundreds of thousands of missing enemy soldiers to possibly learn something of the fate of their loved ones. This program was put into place partly to encourage the Vietnam government to help us discover the fate of our two thousand MIAs.

So, I opened my old steamer trunk of war trophies, memorabilia, and souvenirs and found what I was looking for – a letter. The letter was in Vietnamese, and I’d found it on the body of a North Vietnamese Army officer who’d been killed in action in the A Shau Valley. The letter was in an envelope, and also in the envelope was a color photo of a pretty young woman.

I’d already determined through my limited Vietnamese, and the help of some other veterans, that the letter was written by the dead officer’s girlfriend in Hanoi to him a month before he was killed.

I wrote a cover letter to the Vietnam Veterans of America describing when, how, and where I’d found the letter, and confirmed that the soldier was killed in action in the A Shau Valley. I also enclosed the photo of the young lady.

The VVA thanked me, and said they would send the letter and photo to colleagues in Hanoi, who would attempt to find the soldier’s family, or the girlfriend who’d sent him the letter over thirty years ago. The VVA also had the letter translated into English, and they sent me a copy.

The letter, as I suspected, was a love letter from the young woman whose picture was in the envelope. When I read it, I was struck by the fact that this letter could have been written by an American woman to her boyfriend overseas.

It was incredibly sad to realize that this young man had been killed in action, and that on his body was a love letter from a woman who he would never see again. As for her, she knew at some point that she’d never hear from him again.

I decided that this letter – or one like it – would be the starting point of my novel.

One of my earlier books, The General’s Daughter, had been made into a successful movie by Paramount, and starred John Travolta as the lead character of Paul Brenner. With this in mind, it occurred to me that I should bring back the Brenner character, who in The General’s Daughter was an Army Criminal Investigation Division officer, and whose backstory included two tours of duty in Vietnam. So, I finally had it – Paul Brenner, CID investigator, would be sent back to Vietnam decades after the war to unravel a mystery and a crime associated with a letter found by a veteran in his steamer trunk of memorabilia. And his contact in Vietnam would be an American expat named Susan Weber, based on the real life Mattie Genovese.

I won’t say much more about this plot because it would spoil it for the reader, but this is how I got the idea for Up Country.

I should say that this novel is not autobiographical (and neither was Word of Honour), but Paul Brenner’s tour of duty in Vietnam and his travels through the country thirty years later somewhat paralleled my two Vietnam experiences.

It’s hard to believe that over a decade has passed since I returned to Vietnam in 1997, and I’m sure if I went back again I’d see some startling changes. I have no particular desire to return again, and Dan and Cal made it clear that if I did, I was on my own this time.

My children, however, Lauren and Alex, now in their late twenties, want to go to Vietnam with me as does my new bride, Sandy, who is not old enough to remember 1968. My son, James, who is less than a year old as of this writing, has not expressed any interest in going to Vietnam.

But I’ll think about it and maybe someday we’ll take a family vacation. And maybe, too, another book will come out of this.

Up Country is not a war novel; it’s a novel about the war, and about the peace, and also about America in the turbulent 60s, and America now. For those of us old enough to remember the war and the country as it was, this should bring back some memories, good and bad.

For those not old enough to remember any of this, I’m sure you’ll learn something, and also be entertained.

BOOK I

Washington, D.C.

CHAPTER 1

Bad things come in threes.

The first bad thing was a voice mail from Cynthia Sunhill, my former partner in the army’s Criminal Investigation Division. Cynthia is still with the CID, and she is also my significant other, though we were having some difficulties with that job description.

The message said, “Paul, I need to talk to you. Call me tonight, no matter how late. I just got called on a case, and I have to leave tomorrow morning. We need to talk.”

“Okay.” I looked at the mantel clock in my small den. It was just 10 P.M., or twenty-two hundred hours, as I used to say when I was in the army not so long ago.

I live in a stone farmhouse outside Falls Church, Virginia, less than a half-hour drive to CID Headquarters. The commute time is actually irrelevant because I don’t work for the CID any longer. In fact, I don’t work for anyone. I’m retired, or maybe fired.

In any case, it had been about six months since my separation from the army, and I was getting bored, and I had twenty or thirty years to go.

As for Ms. Sunhill, she was stationed at Fort Benning, Georgia, about a fourteen-hour drive from Falls Church, or twelve if I’m very excited. Her caseload is heavy, and weekends in the army are often normal duty days. The last six months had not been easy on our relatively new relationship, and with her interesting career and my growing addiction to afternoon talk shows, we don’t have a lot to talk about.

Anyway, bad thing number two. I checked my e-mail, and there was a message that said simply, 1600 hrs, tomorrow, the Wall. It was signed, K.

K is Colonel Karl Hellmann, my former boss at Headquarters, and Cynthia’s present commanding officer. That much was clear. What wasn’t clear was why Hellmann wanted to meet me at the Vietnam War Memorial. But instinctively, I put this under the category of “bad things.”

I considered several equally terse replies, none of them very positive. Of course, I didn’t have to respond at all; I was retired. But, in contrast to civilian careers, a military career does not completely end. The expression is, “Once an officer, always an officer.” And I had been a warrant officer by rank, and a criminal investigator by occupation.

Fact is, they still have some kind of legal hold on you, though I’m not really sure what it is. If nothing else, they can screw up your PX privileges for a year.

I stared at Karl’s message again and noticed it was addressed to Mr. Brenner. Warrant officers are addressed as Mister, so this salutation was a reminder of my past—or perhaps present—army rank, not a celebration of my civilian status. Karl is not subtle. I held off on my reply.

And, last but not least, the third bad thing. I’d apparently forgotten to send in my response to my book club, and in my mail was a Danielle Steel novel. Should I return it? Or give it to my mother next Christmas? Maybe she had a birthday coming up.

Okay, I couldn’t postpone the Cynthia call any longer, so I sat at my desk and dialed. I looked out the window as the phone rang at the other end. It was a cold January night in northern Virginia, and a light snow was falling.

Cynthia answered, “Hello.”

“Hi,” I said.

A half-second of silence, then, “Hi, Paul. How are you?”

We were off on the wrong foot already, so I said, “Let’s cut to the chase, Cynthia.”

She hesitated, then said, “Well … Can I first ask you how your day was?”

“I had a great day. An old mess sergeant gave me his recipe for chili—I didn’t realize it fed two hundred, and I made it all. I froze it in Ziploc bags. I’ll send you some. Then I went to the gym, played a basketball game against a wheelchair team—beat them big time—then off to the local tavern for beer and hamburgers with the boys. How about your day?”

“Well … I just wrapped up the rape case I told you about. But instead of time off, I have to go to Fort Rucker for a sexual harassment investigation, which looks tricky. I’ll be there until it’s concluded. Maybe a few weeks. I’ll be in Bachelor Officers Quarters if you want to call me.”

I didn’t reply.

She said, “Hey, I still think about Christmas.”

“Me, too.” That was a month ago, and I hadn’t seen her since. “How’s Easter look?”

“You know, Paul … you could move here.”

“But you could be reassigned anytime. Then I’d wind up following your career moves. Didn’t we discuss this?”

“Yes, but …”

“I like it here. You could get stationed here.”

“Is that an offer?”

Whoops. I replied, “It would be good for your career. Headquarters.”

“Let me worry about my career. And I really don’t want a staff job. I’m an investigator. Just like you were. I want to go where I can be useful.”

I said, “Well, I can’t be following you around like a puppy dog, or hanging around your apartment when you’re away on assignment. It’s not good for my ego.”

“You could get a job here in law enforcement.”

“I’m working on that. Here in Virginia.”

And so on. It’s tough when the guy’s not working and the woman has a traveling career. To make matters worse, the army likes to change your permanent duty station as soon as you’re comfortable, which calls into question the army’s definition of permanent. On top of that, there are a lot of temporary duty assignments these days—places like Bosnia, Somalia, South America—where you could be gone for up to a year, which pushes the definition of temporary. Bottom line, Cynthia and I were what’s called these days GU—geographically unsuitable.

The military, as I’ve always said, is tough on relationships; it’s not a job, it’s a calling, a commitment that makes other commitments really difficult. Sometimes impossible.

“Are you there?” she asked.

“I’m here.”

“We can’t go on like this, Paul. It hurts.”

“I know.”

“What should we do?”

I think she was willing to resign and forfeit a lot of her pension, in exchange for the M word. Then we’d decide where to live, find jobs, and live happily ever after. And why not? We were in love.

“Paul?”

“Yeah … I’m thinking.”

“You should have already thought about all of this.”

“Right. Look, I think we should talk about this in person. Face-to-face.”

“The only thing we do face-to-face is fuck.”

“That’s not … well, we’ll talk over dinner. In a restaurant.”

“Okay. I’ll call you when I get back from Rucker. I’ll come there, or you come here.”

“Okay. Hey, how’s your divorce coming?”

“It’s almost final.”

“Good.” Regarding her loving husband, I asked, “Do you see much of Major Nut Case?”

“Not much. At the O Club once in a while. Can’t avoid those situations.”

“Does he still want you back?”

“Don’t try to complicate a simple situation.”

“I’m not. I’m just concerned that he might try to kill me again.”

“He never tried to kill you, Paul.”

“I must have misinterpreted his reason for pointing a loaded pistol at me.”

“Can we change the subject?”

“Sure. Hey, do you read Danielle Steel?”

“No, why?”

“I bought her latest book. I’ll send it to you.”

“Maybe your mother would like it. It’s her birthday, February 10. Don’t forget.”

“I have it memorized. By the way, I got an e-mail from Karl. He wants to meet me tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“I thought maybe you knew.”

“No, I don’t,” she said. “Maybe he just wants to have a drink, talk about old times.”

“He wants me to meet him at the Vietnam Memorial.”

“Really? That’s odd.”

“Yeah. And he never mentioned anything to you?”

“No,” she replied. “Why should he?”

“I don’t know. I can’t figure out what he’s up to.”

“Why do you think he’s up to anything? You two worked together for years. He likes you.”

“No, he doesn’t,” I said. “He hates me.”

“He does not hate you. But you’re a difficult man to work with. Actually, you’re difficult to love.”

“My mother loves me.”

“You should re-check that. Regarding Karl, he respects you, and he knows just how brilliant you are. He either needs some advice, or he needs some information about an old case.”

“Why the Wall?”

“Well … I don’t know. You’ll find out when you meet him.”

“It’s cold here. How’s it there?”

“Sixties.”

“It’s snowing here.”

“Be careful driving.”

“Yeah.” We both stayed silent for a while, during which time I thought of our history. We’d met at NATO Headquarters in Brussels. She was engaged to Major What’s-His-Name, a Special Forces guy, we got involved, he got pissed, pulled the aforementioned gun on me, I backed off, they got married, and a year later Cynthia and I bumped into each other again.

It was in the Officers Club at Fort Hadley, Georgia, and we were both on assignment. I was undercover, investigating the theft and sale of army weapons, she was wrapping up a rape case. That’s her specialty. Sexual crimes. I’d rather be in combat again than have that job. But someone’s got to do it, and she’s good at it. More important, she can compartmentalize, and she seems to be unaffected by her work, though sometimes I wonder.

But back to Fort Hadley, last summer. While we were both there, the post commander’s daughter, Captain Ann Campbell, was found on a rifle range, staked out, naked, strangled, and apparently raped. So, I’m asked to drop my little arms deal case, and Cynthia is asked to assist me. We solved the murder case, then tried to solve our own case, which is proving more difficult. At least she got rid of Major Nut Job.

“Paul, why don’t we put this on hold until we can meet? Is that okay?”

“Sounds okay.” In fact, it was my suggestion. But why point that out? “Good idea.”

“We both need to think about how much we have to give up and how much we stand to gain.”

“Did you rehearse that line?”

“Yes. But it’s true. Look, I love you—”

“And I love you.”

“I know. That’s why this is difficult.” Neither of us spoke for a while, then she said, “I’m younger than you—”

“But I’m more immature.”

“Please shut up. And I like what I do, I like my life, my career, my independence. But … I’d give it up if I thought …”

“I hear you. That’s a big responsibility for me.”

“I’m not pressuring you, Paul. I’m not even sure I want what I think I want.”

I’m a bright guy, but I get confused when I talk to women. Rather than ask for a clarification, I said, “I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Absolutely.” Totally clueless.

“Do you miss me?”

“Every day,” I said.

“I miss you. I really do. I’m looking forward to seeing you again. I’ll take some leave time. I promise.”

“I’ll take some leave time, too.”

“You’re not working.”

“Right. But if I was, I’d take a leave to be with you. I’ll come to you this time. It’s warmer there.”

“Okay. That would be nice.”

“You like chili?”

“No.”

“I thought you liked chili. Okay, good luck with the case. Give me a day’s notice, and I’ll be there.”

“It’ll be about two weeks. Maybe three. I’ll let you know when I get into the case.”

“Okay.”

“Say hello to Karl for me. Let me know what he wanted.”

“Maybe he wants to tell me about his alien abduction.”

She laughed.

So, just as we were about to end on a happy note, she said, “You know, Paul, you didn’t have to resign.”

“Is that a fact?” The case of the general’s daughter had been trouble from minute one, a political, emotional, and professional minefield, and I stepped right into it. I would have been better off not solving the case because the solution turned out to be about things no one wanted to know. I said to Cynthia, “A letter of reprimand in my file is the army’s way of saying, ‘Call your pension officer.’ A little subtle, perhaps, but—”

“I think you misinterpreted what was happening. You were scolded, you got all huffy, and you acted impulsively because your ego was bruised.”

“Is that so? Well, thank you for informing me that I threw away a thirty-year career because I had a temper tantrum.”

“You should come to terms with that. I’ll tell you something else—unless you find something equally important and challenging to do, you’re going to get depressed—”

“I’m depressed now. You just made me depressed. Thanks.”

“Sorry, but I know you. You were not as burned out as you thought you were. The Campbell case just got to you. That’s okay. It got to everyone. Even me. It was the saddest, most depressing case—”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Okay. But what you needed was a thirty-day leave, not a permanent vacation. You’re still young—”

“You’re younger.”

“You’ve got a lot of energy left, a lot to give, but you need to write a second act, Paul.”

“Thank you. I’m exploring my options.” It had gotten noticeably cooler in the room and on the phone.

“Are you angry?”

“No. If you were here, you’d see me smiling. I’m smiling.”

“Well, if I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t be saying these things.”

“I’m still smiling.”

“See you in a few weeks.” She said, “Take care of yourself.”

“You, too.”

Silence, then, “Good night.”

“’Bye.”

We both hung up. I stood, went to the bar, and made a drink. Scotch, splash of soda, ice.

I sat in my den, my feet on the desk, watching the snow outside. The Scotch smelled good.

So, there I was with a Danielle Steel novel on my desk, an unpleasant phone call still ringing in my ears, and an ominous message from Karl Hellmann on my computer screen.

Sometimes things that seem unconnected are actually part of a larger plan. Not your plan, to be sure, but someone else’s plan. I was supposed to believe that Karl and Cynthia were not talking about me, but Mrs. Brenner didn’t raise an idiot.

I should be pissed off when people underestimate my intelligence, though in truth, I affect a certain macho idiocy that encourages people to underestimate my brilliance. I’ve put a lot of people in jail that way.

I looked at the message again. 1600 hrs, tomorrow, the Wall. Not even “please.” Colonel Karl Gustav Hellmann can be a bit arrogant. He’s German-born, as the name suggests, whereas Paul Xavier Brenner is a typical Irish lad, from South Boston, charmingly irresponsible, and delightfully smart-assed. Herr Hellmann is quite the opposite. Yet, on some strange level, we got along. He was a good commander, strict but fair, and highly motivated. I just never trusted his motives.

Anyway, I sat up and banged out an e-mail to Karl: See you there and then. I signed it, Paul Brenner, PFC, which, in this case, did not mean Private First Class, but meant, as Karl and I both knew, Private F-ing Civilian.

CHAPTER 2

It was three o’clock, and I was at the National Mall, a park in Washington, D.C., a rectangular strip of grass and trees, running from the U.S. Capitol in the east to the Lincoln Memorial in the west, a distance of about two miles.

The Mall is a good place to jog, with nice vistas, so rather than waste a trip into the city just to see Karl Hellmann, I came dressed in a sweat suit and running shoes, and I wore a knit cap pulled over my ears.

I began my run around the Capitol reflecting pool and paced myself to arrive at the Wall at the appointed hour of 4 P.M., my time, 1600 hours, Karl’s time.

It was cold, but the sun was still above the horizon, and there was no wind. The trees were all bare, and the grass was dusted with last night’s snow.

I set off at a good pace, keeping to the south side of the Mall, past the National Air and Space Museum, the Smithsonian, and other museums in between.

This is, as I said, officially a park, but it’s also where everyone wants to erect something important; monuments, museums, memorials, and statues, and if this marble mania keeps up, the Mall will someday resemble the Roman Forum, packed full of temples to this and that. I’m not being judgmental—important people and events need a memorial or a monument. I’ve got my memorial: the Wall. It’s a very good memorial because it doesn’t have my name on it.

The sun was lower, the shadows were longer, and it was very still and quiet, except for the snow crunching under my feet.

I glanced at my watch and saw it was ten minutes to the appointed hour. Herr Hellmann, like many of his ethnic group, is fanatical about punctuality. I mean, I don’t like to generalize about races, religions, and all that, but the Irish and the Germans don’t share the same concept of time.

I picked up my pace and headed north around the reflecting pool. My butt was starting to drag, and the cold air was making my lungs ache.

As I crossed the landscape of Constitution Gardens, the Vietnam Women’s Memorial statues came into view: three nurses clad in jungle fatigues, around some wounded guy I couldn’t yet see.

About a hundred yards farther toward the Wall was the statue of the three servicemen—three bronze guys in jungle fatigues near a flagstaff.

Beyond the two groupings of bronze statues was the black wall itself, highly contrasted against the white snow.

The Wall is probably the most visited monument in Washington, but there weren’t many people around on this cold weekday. As I got closer, I had the sense that the people who were there, staring hard at the Wall, were people who needed to be there.

A solitary man stood out from the sparse crowd; it was Colonel Karl Hellmann, dressed in a civilian trench coat, wearing a snap-brim hat, and, of course, looking at his watch, probably mumbling to himself in his slightly accented English, “Vhere is dis guy?”

I slowed my pace so as not to alarm my former boss with the sight of me running full tilt toward him, and when I was on the path that runs parallel to the Wall, about twenty yards from Herr Hellmann, a church bell chimed somewhere, then a second chime, and a third. I slowed to a walk and came up behind Karl Gustav Hellmann, just as the fourth bell chimed the hour.

He sensed my presence, or perhaps saw me in the reflection of the black wall, and without turning, he said, “Hello, Paul.”

He seemed delighted to see me—or sense me—though you couldn’t tell how thrilled he was. If nothing else, I was right on time, and this puts him in a good mood.

I didn’t reply to his greeting, and we both stood, side by side, looking at the Wall. I really wanted to walk off the run, but I remained standing, trying to catch my breath, clouds of fog coming out of my nostrils like a horse, and the sweat starting to get cold on my face.

So, we stood there, silently getting to know each other again after a six-month separation, sort of like dogs sniffing each other to see who’s top dog.

I noticed that the section of the Wall before which we were standing was marked 1968. This is the largest expanse of the Wall, 1968 being the unhappy year of the highest American casualties: the Tet Offensive, the Siege of Khe Sanh, the Battle of the A Shau Valley, and other lesser-known but no less terrifying engagements. Karl Hellmann, like me, was there in 1968, and he knew of some of these places and events firsthand.

The homefront wasn’t so terrific in 1968 either: the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Bobby Kennedy, the campus riots, the urban riots, and so forth. Bad year all around. I understood why Hellmann had put himself in front of 1968, though I didn’t understand why we were here in the first place. But, old army guy that I am, I never speak to a superior officer until spoken to. Sometimes not even after I’m spoken to, like now. For all I gave a shit, we could stand there in complete silence until midnight.

Finally, Karl said, “Thank you for coming.”

I replied, “It sounded like an order.”

“But you’re retired.”

“Actually, I resigned.”

“I don’t care what you did. I made it a retirement. That’s much more pleasant for everyone.”

“I really wanted to resign.”

“Then we couldn’t have had that nice party—the one where you read your letter of reprimand to everyone.”

“You asked me to say a few words.”

Hellmann didn’t respond, but said, “So, you look very fit.”

“I should. I’ve been jogging all over Washington, meeting people at monuments. You’re the third today.”

Hellmann lit a cigarette and observed, “Your sarcasm and bad sense of humor haven’t changed.”

“Good. So, if I may ask, what’s up?”

“First, we need to exchange pleasantries and news. How have you been?”

“Terrific. Catching up on a lot of reading. Hey, do you read Danielle Steel?”

“Who?”

“I’m going to send you a book. You like chili?”

Hellmann drew on his cigarette, probably wondering what possessed him to contact me.

“Let me ask you, Paul, do you think you’ve been unfairly treated by the army?”

“No more so than a few million other guys, Colonel.”

“I think the pleasantries are finished.”

“Good.”

“Two administrative things. First, your letter of reprimand. This can be removed from your file. Second, your retirement pay. This can be computed differently, which could be a considerable amount of money over your expected life span.”

“Actually, my expected life span got longer when I left the army, so the smaller amount works out okay.”

“Do you want to know more about these two items?”

“No. I smell trouble.”

So, we both stood there in the cold, sniffing the air, thinking five or six moves ahead. I’m good at this, but Karl is better. He’s not quite as bright as I am, certainly not as glib, but he thinks deep and long.

I actually like the guy. I really do. In fact, to be honest, I was a little hurt when I never heard from him. Maybe he was annoyed over my silliness at the retirement party. I’d had a couple, but I vaguely remember doing an impression of a Prussian field marshal named, I think, von Hellmann.

Finally, Karl said, “There is a name on this wall of a man who was not killed in action. A man who was, in fact, murdered.”

I did not reply to that startling statement.

Karl asked me, “How many men do you know on this wall?”

I stayed silent for a moment, then replied, “Too many.” I asked him, “How many guys do you know here?”

“The same. You had two tours of duty in Vietnam. Correct?”

“Correct. The ’68 tour, then again in ’72, but by that time I was an MP, and most of my fighting was with drunken soldiers outside Bien Hoa Airbase.”

“But the first time … you were a frontline infantryman … You saw a good deal of combat. Did you enjoy it?”

This is the kind of question that only combat veterans could understand. It occurred to me that in all the years I’ve known Karl, we never spoke much about our combat experiences. This is not unusual. I looked at him and said, “It was the ultimate high. The first few times. Then … I became used to it, accepted it as the norm … then, in the last few months before I went home, I got very paranoid, like they were trying to kill me personally, like they weren’t going to let me go home. I don’t think I slept the last two months in-country.” We made eye contact.

Karl nodded. “That was my experience as well.” He stepped closer to the Wall, focusing on individual names. “We were young then, Paul. These men are forever young.” He touched one of the names. “I knew this man.”

Hellmann seemed unusually pensive, almost morose. I guess it had something to do with where we were, the season, the twilight and all that. I wasn’t particularly chipper myself.

He took out a gold cigarette case and matching lighter. “Would you like one?”

“No, thanks. You just had one.”

He ignored me, the way smokers do, and lit up another.

Karl Gustav Hellmann. I didn’t know much about his personal life, but I knew that he grew up in the ruins of postwar Germany. I’ve known a few other German-American soldiers over the years, and they were mostly officers, and mostly retired by now. The usual biography of these galvanized Yankees was that they were fatherless or orphaned, and they did chores for the American Army of Occupation to survive. At eighteen, they enlisted in the U.S. Army at some military post in Germany, as a way out of the squalor of the defeated nation. There were a good number of such men in the army once, and Karl was probably one of the last.

I wasn’t sure how much of this specific biography applied to Karl Hellmann, but he must be very close to mandatory retirement, unless there was a general’s star in his immediate future, in which case he could stay on. I had the thought that this meeting had something to do with that.

He said to me, or maybe to himself, “It’s been a long time. Yet sometimes it seems like yesterday.” He looked at the Wall, then at me. “Do you agree?”

“Yes, 1968 is as clear as a slide show, a progression of bright silent images, frozen in time …” We looked at each other, and he nodded.

So, where was this headed?

It helps to know where it started. As I mentioned, I’m Boston Irish, South, which means working-class. My father was a World War II vet, like everybody else’s father in that place and time. He did three years in the army infantry, came home, married, had three sons, and worked thirty years for the City of Boston, maintaining municipal buses. He once admitted to me that this job was not as exciting as the Normandy invasion, but the hours were better.

Not too long after my eighteenth birthday, I received my draft notice. I called Harvard regarding a spot in their freshman class, and a student deferment, but they pointed out, rightly, that I’d never applied. Same with Boston University, and even Boston College, where a lot of my co-religionists had found asylum from the draft.

So, I packed an overnight bag, Dad shook my hand, my younger brothers thought I was cool, Mom cried, and off I went by troop train to Fort Hadley, Georgia, for Basic Training and Advanced Infantry Training. For some idiotic reason, I applied for and was accepted to Airborne School—that’s parachute training—at Fort Benning, also in Georgia. To complete my higher education in the field of killing, I applied for Special Forces Training, thinking maybe the war would run out before I ran out of crazy schools, but the army said, “Enough. You’re good to go, boy.” And soon after Airborne School, I found myself in a frontline infantry company in a place called Bong Son, which is not in California.

I glanced at Karl, knowing that we’d been over there at about the same time, having traveled very different roads to that war. But maybe not so different after all.

Karl said, “I thought it would be good if we met here.”

I didn’t reply.

After Vietnam, we both remained in the army, I think because the army wanted us, and no one else probably did. I became an MP and served a partial second tour in Vietnam. Over the years, I took advantage of the army college extension program and received a B.S. in Criminal Justice, then got into the Criminal Investigation Division, mostly because they wore civilian clothes.

I became what’s known as a warrant officer: a quasi-officer with no command responsibility, but with an important job, in this case, a homicide detective.

Karl took a slightly different and more genteel route, and went to a real college full-time on the army’s nickel, getting some half-assed degree in philosophy while taking four years of Reserve Officers Training, then re-entering active duty as a lieutenant.

At some point, our lives nearly touched in Vietnam, then converged at Falls Church. And here we were now, literally and figuratively in the twilight, no longer warriors, but middle-aged men looking at the dead of our generation spread out in front of us; 58,000 names carved into the black stone, and I suddenly saw these men as kids, carefully carving their names into trees, into school desks, into wooden fences. I realized that for every name in the granite, there was a matching name still carved somewhere in America. And these names, too, were carved in the hearts of their families, and in the heart of the nation.

We began walking, Karl and I, along the Wall, our breaths misting in the cold air. At the base of the wall were flowers, left by friends and family, and I recalled that the last time I’d been here, many years ago, someone had left a baseball glove, and when I saw it, before I knew what was happening, tears were rolling down my face.

In the early years of the memorial, there had been a lot of such things left at the Wall: photos, hats, toys, even favorite foods, like a box of Nabisco graham crackers, which I saw that time. Today, I noticed, there weren’t any personal items, just flowers, and a few folded notes stuck in the seams of the Wall.

The years have passed, the parents die, the wives move on, the brothers and sisters don’t forget, but they’ve already been here and don’t need to return. The dead, young as they were for the most part, didn’t leave many children, but the last time I was here, I met a daughter, a lady in her early twenties, who never knew her father. I never knew a daughter, so for about ten minutes, we filled a little of the emptiness in each other, the missing parts, then we went our separate ways.

For some reason, this made me think of Cynthia, of marriage, children, home and hearth, and all sorts of warm and fuzzy things. If Cynthia were here, I might have proposed marriage, but she wasn’t here, and I knew I’d be myself again by morning.

Karl, who had probably been thinking similar thoughts about war and peace, mortality and immortality, said, “I try to come here once a year, on August 17, the anniversary of a battle I was in.” He stayed silent awhile, then continued, “The battle of Highway 13 … Eleventh Armored Cavalry, the Michelin rubber plantation. You may have heard of it. A lot of people around me were dying. So, I come here on August 17, and say a prayer for them, and a prayer of thanks for myself. It’s the only time I pray.”

“I thought you used to go to church every Sunday.”

“One goes to church with the wife and children.”

He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask. We turned and walked back the way we came.

He said, in a different tone of voice, “So, are you curious about the man who was murdered?”

“I may be curious. But I really don’t want to know.”

“If that were the case, you’d leave.”

“I’m being polite, Colonel.”

“I would have enjoyed that politeness when you worked for me. But as long as you’re being polite, hear me out.”

“If I listen, I can be subpoenaed at some future judicial proceeding. Says so in the manual.”

“Believe me, this meeting and this conversation never took place. That’s why we’re here, not in Falls Church.”

“I already figured that out.”

“May I begin?”

I was on solid ground now; the next step was a greased slope. There was not a single good reason in the world that I could think of for me to listen to this man. But I wasn’t thinking hard enough. Cynthia. Get a job, get a life, or whatever she said.

Karl asked, “May I begin?”

“Can I stop you anytime I want?”

“No. If I begin, you listen, I end.”

“Is this a criminal case?”

“I believe homicide is criminal, yes. Do you have any other stupid questions?”

I smiled, not because of the insult, but because I was getting on his nerves. “You know what? To prove how stupid I really am, I’ll listen.”

“Thank you.”

Karl had walked away from the Wall toward the Women’s Memorial, and I walked with him. He said, “It has come to the attention of the CID that a young lieutenant, who is listed as killed, or perhaps missing in action, was in fact murdered in the city of Quang Tri, on 7 February 1968, during the Tet Offensive battle for that city.” He added, “I believe you were in Quang Tri Province at that time.”

“Yes, but I have an alibi for that day.”

“I only mention that as a coincidence. In fact, your unit was some kilometers away from the provincial capital of Quang Tri City on that day. But you can appreciate the background, and visualize the time and place.”

“You bet. I also appreciate you checking my service records.”

Hellmann ignored this and continued, “I was, as I said, with the Eleventh Armored Cavalry, stationed at Xuan Loc, but operating around Cu Chi at about that time. I don’t remember that particular day, but that whole month during the Tet Offensive was unpleasant.”

“It sucked.”

“Yes, it sucked.” He stopped walking and looked at me. “Regarding this American lieutenant, we have evidence that he was murdered by an American army captain.”

Karl let that sink in, but I didn’t react. Now, I’d heard what I didn’t want to hear, and now I was in possession of a Secret. Details to follow.

We stared at the Vietnam Women’s Memorial, the three nurses, one tending to the wounded guy lying on sandbags, one kneeling close by, and the other looking up at the sky for the medevac chopper. The four figures were in light clothing, and I felt cold just looking at them.

I said to Karl, “These statues should be closer to the Wall. The last person a lot of those guys over there saw or talked to before they died was a military nurse.”

“Yes, but perhaps that juxtaposition would be too morbid. This man here looks to me as though he will live.”

“Yeah … he’s going to make it.”

So we stayed silent awhile, lost in our thoughts. I mean, these are statues, but they bring the whole thing back again.

Karl broke the silence, and continued, “We don’t know the name of the alleged murderer, nor do we know the alleged murder victim. We know only that this captain murdered this lieutenant in cold blood. We have no corpse—or I should say, we have many corpses, all killed by the enemy, except the one in question. We do know that the murder victim was killed by a single pistol shot to the forehead, and that may narrow down the name of the victim based on battlefield death certificates issued at that time. Unless, of course, the body was never found, and the victim is listed as missing in action. Are you following me?”

“I am. A United States Army captain pulls his pistol and shoots a United States Army lieutenant in the forehead. This is presumably a fatal wound. This happened in the heat of battle nearly thirty years ago. But let me play defense counsel—maybe it wasn’t murder. Maybe it was one of those unfortunate instances where a superior officer shot a lower-ranking officer for cowardice in the face of the enemy. It happens, and it’s not necessarily murder, or even illegal. Maybe it was self-defense, or an accident. You shouldn’t jump to conclusions.” I added, “But of course, you have a witness. So I shouldn’t speculate.”

We turned and began walking back toward the Wall. The light was fading, people came and went, a middle-aged man placed a floral wreath at the base of the black granite and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief.

Hellmann watched the man a moment, then said, “Yes, there was a witness. And the witness described a cold-blooded murder.”

“And this is a reliable witness?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who and where is this witness?”

“We don’t know where he is, but we have his name.”

“And you want me to find him.”

“Correct.”

“How did you first hear from this witness?”

“He wrote a letter.”

“I see … so, you have a missing witness to a thirty-year-old murder, no suspect, no corpse, no murder weapon, no motive, no forensic evidence, and the murder took place in a godforsaken country very far from here. And you want me to solve this homicide.”

“That’s correct.”

“Sounds easy. Can I ask you why? Who cares after thirty years?”

“I care. The army cares. A murder was committed. There is no statute of limitations on murder.”

“Right. You realize that this lieutenant who was killed, or is missing, is believed by his family to have died honorably in battle. So what is gained by proving that he was murdered? Don’t you think his family has suffered enough?” I nodded toward the man at the Wall.

“That is not a consideration,” said Karl Hellmann, true to form.

“It is to me,” I informed him.

“It’s not that you think too much, Paul, it’s that you think of the wrong things.”

“No, I don’t. I think that there is a name on this wall that is best left alone.”

“There’s a murderer at large.”

“Maybe, maybe not. For all we know, the alleged murderer was later killed in action. That was a nasty time, and odds are that this captain got killed in battle.”

“Then his name doesn’t belong on this wall with those men who died honorably.”

“I knew you’d say that.”

“I knew you’d understand.”

“I think we worked together too long.”

“We worked well together.”

This was news to me. Maybe he meant we got the job done together, which was true, despite our big differences in personalities, and the fact that one of us was a stickler for rules, while the other was definitely not.

We walked away from the Vietnam Women’s Memorial and stopped at the three bronze male statues: two white guys and a black guy, who were supposed to represent a marine, an army guy, and a sailor, but they were all dressed in jungle fatigues, so it was hard to tell. They were staring at the Wall, as if they were contemplating the names of the dead, but in a creepy sort of way, these guys looked dead themselves.

Karl turned toward the Wall and said, “At first, I didn’t like that wall. I preferred these heroic bronze statues because the Wall, for all its abstractness and metaphorical nuances, was in reality just a massive tombstone, a common grave with everyone’s name on it. That’s what disturbed me. Then … then I accepted it. What do you think?”

“I think we have to accept it for what it is. A tombstone.”

“Do you ever feel survivor’s guilt?”

“I might have, if I hadn’t been there. Can we change the subject?”

“No. You once told me that you bear no ill will toward the men who didn’t serve. Is that true?”

“It’s still true. Why?”

“You said you were more angry at the men who did go to Vietnam, but who didn’t do their job—men who let the others down, men who engaged in dishonorable acts, such as rape and robbery. Men who carelessly killed civilians. Is that still true?”

“Finish the briefing.”

“Yes. So, we have this captain, who most likely murdered a junior officer. I want to know the name of this captain and the name of the murdered lieutenant.”

I noticed that the obvious question of why—the motive—hadn’t specifically come up. Maybe, as with most cases of murder in wartime, the motive was petty, illogical, and unimportant. But maybe it was the central reason for digging up a thirty-year-old crime. And if it was, and if Karl wasn’t mentioning it, then I wasn’t going to mention it. I stuck to the facts at hand and said, “All right, if you want some reality checks, consider that this captain—this alleged murderer—if he didn’t die in combat could be dead of natural causes by now. It’s been thirty years.”

“I’m alive. You’re alive. We have to find out if he’s alive.”

“Okay. How about the witness? Do we know if he’s alive?”

“No, we don’t. But if he’s not, we want to know that, too.”

“When is the last time this witness showed signs of life?”

“Eight February 1968. That’s the date on the letter.”

“I know the army post office is slow, but this is a record.”

“In fact, the witness was not an American soldier. He was a soldier in the North Vietnamese army, named Tran Van Vinh. He was wounded during the battle of Quang Tri City, and was in hiding among the ruins. He witnessed these two Americans arguing and witnessed the captain pulling his pistol and shooting the lieutenant. In his letter, which he wrote to his brother, he referred to the murderer as dai-uy—captain—and the murder victim as trung-uy—lieutenant.”

“There were some marines around Quang Tri at that time. Maybe this is not a case for the army.”

Hellmann replied, “Tran Van Vinh, in his letter, mentioned that these two men were ky-binh—cavalry. So obviously he saw their U.S. Army First Cavalry shoulder patches, which he knew.”

I pointed out, “The First Cavalry Division, of which I was a member, had over twenty thousand men in it.”

“That’s correct. But it does narrow it down.”

I thought about all this for a moment, then asked Karl, “And you have this letter?”

“Of course. That’s why we’re here.”

“Right. And the letter was addressed to this guy’s brother. How did you get it?”

“In a very interesting way. The brother was also a North Vietnamese soldier, named Tran Quan Lee. The letter was found on Tran Quan Lee’s body in the A Shau Valley in mid-May of the same year by an American soldier named Victor Ort, who took it as a souvenir. The letter was sent home by Ort and lay in this man’s steamer trunk full of other war memorabilia for almost thirty years. Very recently, Ort sent the letter to the Vietnam Veterans of America, based here in Washington. This organization asks its members to return found and captured enemy documents and artifacts, and to provide information that these veterans might have concerning enemy dead. This information is then turned over to the Vietnamese government in Hanoi to help the Vietnamese discover the fate of their missing soldiers.”

“Why?”

“They are no longer the enemy. They have McDonald’s and Kentucky Fried Chicken in Saigon. In any case, we want them to help us find our missing in action. We still have about two thousand MIAs unaccounted for. They have an astounding three hundred thousand missing.”

“I think they’re all in San Diego.”

“No, they’re all dead. Including Tran Quan Lee, killed in the A Shau Valley, possibly by Mr. Ort, though he was vague about that.” Hellmann continued, “So, this American veteran, Victor Ort, sent the letter he found on the body of Tran Quan Lee to the Vietnam Veterans of America, with a note saying how, where, and when he found the letter and the body. The VVA, as a courtesy to the men who are sending such letters, had the letter translated, and was about to send the translation to Mr. Ort, but someone at the VVA—a retired army officer—read the translation and realized that what he was reading was an eyewitness account to a murder. This man then contacted us. A civilian would have contacted the FBI.”

“It was our lucky day. And did anyone send the translation to Mr. Ort?”

“Mr. Ort was sent a translation of a love letter, and a note of thanks.”

“Right. And you have the original of this letter?”

“Yes, and we’ve had it authenticated regarding paper and ink, and we’ve had three different translators work on it. They all came up with nearly the same wording. There’s no mistaking that what Tran Van Vinh is describing to his brother, Tran Quan Lee, is a murder. It’s a very compelling and disturbing letter.” He added, “I’ll show you a translated copy of it, of course.”

“Do I need it?”

Hellmann replied, “There’s not much in the way of clues in the letter other than what I told you, but it might motivate you.”

“To do what?”

“To find the author of the letter. Tran Van Vinh.”

“And what are the chances of Tran Van Vinh being alive? I mean, really, Karl, that whole generation of Vietnamese was nearly wiped out.”

“Nearly is the operative word.”

“Not to mention a short natural life expectancy.”

“We have to try to find this witness, Sergeant Tran Van Vinh.” Hellmann added, “Unfortunately, there are only about three hundred family names in Vietnam, and the Vietnamese population is about eighty million.”

“So the phone book won’t be much help.”

“There are no phone books. But we’re lucky this man’s family name wasn’t Nguyen. Half the Vietnamese family names are Nguyen. Fortunately, the family name Tran is not as common, and the middle and first names of Van Vinh and Quan Lee narrow it down.”

“Do you have a hometown and date of birth?”

“No date of birth, but an approximate age, of course—our age group. The envelope was addressed to the brother via an army unit designation, and also on the envelope was Tran Van Vinh’s return army address. We know from these addresses that these two men were in the North Vietnamese army, not the local South Vietnamese Viet Cong, so they’re northerners. In fact, in the letter there is a mention of their village or hamlet, a place called Tam Ki, but we find no such village on any of our maps of Vietnam, North or South. This is not unusual, as you might remember—the locals often referred to their hamlets or villages by one name, and the official maps had another for the same place. But we’re working on that. The village of Tam Ki will be an important clue in finding this man, Tran Van Vinh.”

“And if you find him? What’s he going to tell you that he hasn’t already put in the letter?”

“He could possibly identify the murderer from old army ID photos.”

“After thirty years?”

“It’s possible.”

“So, you have suspects?”

“Not at the moment. But we’re going through army records now, trying to discover the names of all First Cavalry Division United States Army captains who were in or near the city of Quang Tri on or about 7 February 1968. Also, of course, we’re looking at the First Cav lieutenants who were killed or missing in action at the same time and place. That’s all we have—two ranks, a captain and a lieutenant, their division, the First Cav, a place, Quang Tri City, and the date of 7 February 1968, the actual date of the murder that was described in the letter written the following day.”

Karl and I walked away from the statues, and I thought about all of this. I saw where this was going, but I didn’t want to go there.

Karl continued, “We can narrow this down and come up with a list of possible suspects based on army records. Then, we will ask the FBI to question these former captains if they are civilians, and we will question any who are still in the army. At the same time, we will be looking for the only witness to this homicide. It sounds like a long shot, Paul, but crimes have been solved with even less to go on, as you well know.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to go to Vietnam, Paul.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Karl. Been there, done that. Got the medals to prove it.”

“Vietnam in January is actually quite pleasant, weather-wise.”

“So is Aruba. That’s where I’m headed next week,” I lied.

“A return trip might do you some good.”

“I don’t think so. The place sucked then, it sucks now.”

“Veterans who’ve returned report a cathartic experience.”

“It’s a totalitarian Commie police state with two hundred thousand tons of unexploded mines, booby traps, and artillery shells buried all over, waiting to blow me up.”

“Well, you need to be careful.”

“Are you coming with me?”

“Of course not. The place sucks.”

I laughed. “Colonel, with all due respect, you can take this case and shove it up someone else’s butt.”

“Listen to me, Paul—we cannot send an active duty man to Vietnam. This is … well, an unofficial investigation. You’ll go over as a tourist, a returning veteran, like thousands of other men—”

“You mean I wouldn’t have any official status or diplomatic immunity?”

“We would come to your aid, if you got into trouble.”

I asked, “What kind of aid? Like smuggling poison into my cell?”

“No, like having an embassy person visit you if you were detained, plus, of course, we’d lodge an official protest.”

“That’s very reassuring, but I don’t think I want to see the inside of a Communist prison, Karl. I have two friends who spent a lot of years in the Hanoi Hilton. They didn’t like it.”

“If you ran afoul of the authorities, they’d just kick you out.”

“Can I tell them you said that?”

Hellmann didn’t reply.

I thought a moment and said, “I’m assuming that the Vietnam Veterans of America has sent the original of this letter to Hanoi as part of their humanitarian program to help the North Vietnamese learn the fate of their dead and missing. Therefore, Hanoi will locate the family of the deceased Tran Quan Lee, and they will know if his brother, Tran Van Vinh, is alive and where he is. Correct? So, why don’t you go through normal diplomatic channels, and let the Hanoi government do what it does best—keep track of its miserable citizens.”

Hellmann informed me, “Actually, we’ve asked the VVA not to send that letter to Hanoi.”

I knew that, but I asked, “Why?”

“Well … There are a number of reasons we thought it best that Hanoi didn’t see the letter at this time.”

“Give me one of those reasons.”

“The less they know, the better. The same is true for you.”

We made eye contact, and I realized that there was more to this than a thirty-year-old murder. There had to be, or none of this would make any sense. But I didn’t ask anything further. I said, “Okay, I’ve heard too much already. Thanks for your confidence in me, but no thanks.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“Don’t try that on me, Karl. I’ve put my life on the line for this country many times. But this is not worth my life, or anyone’s life. It’s history. Let it be.”

“It’s a matter of justice.”

“This has nothing to do with justice. It’s something else, and since I don’t know what it is, I’m not putting my ass into Vietnam for a reason that no one’s telling me. The last two times I was there, I knew why.”

“We thought we knew why. They lied to us. No one’s lying to you this time. We’re just not telling you why. But trust me that this is very important.”

“That’s what they said then, too.”

“I won’t argue with that.”

The sun had almost set, and a cold wind was starting to blow. We were nearly alone, and both of us stood silently with our thoughts. Finally, Karl Hellmann said in a soft voice, “It is twilight. The shadows are long.” He looked at me. “The shadows stretch from there to here, Paul. That’s all I can tell you.”

I didn’t reply.

A man appeared dressed in an old fatigue jacket, wearing a bush hat. He was about our age, but looked older because of a full gray beard. He put a bugle to his lips and played taps. As the last mournful note died away in the wind, the man faced the Wall, saluted, and moved off.

Karl and I lingered a moment longer, then Hellmann said, “All right, I understand. It could be a bit risky, and middle-aged men don’t risk their lives for something that could be foolish or useless. To tell you the truth, this man Tran Van Vinh is most likely dead, or even if he were alive, he probably wouldn’t be helpful. Come on, let me buy you a drink. There’s that place you like on Twenty-third Street.”

We walked in silence through the Mall, and Hellmann asked, “May I at least show you the letter?”

“Which one do I see? The love letter or the real one?”

“The translation of Tran Van Vinh’s letter.”

“A true and complete translation?”

Karl didn’t reply.

I said to him, “Give me the original letter in Vietnamese, and I’ll have it translated.”

“That’s not necessary.”

I smiled. “So, there’s something in the letter that is not for my eyes. But you want my help, and you’re holding a lot back.”

“It’s for your own good. Whatever I’m not telling you is irrelevant to the mission of finding Tran Van Vinh.”

“It’s relevant to something, or you wouldn’t be so cloak-and-dagger about it.”

Karl said nothing.

I asked, “How long ago did you get this letter from the VVA?”

“Two days ago.”

“And I assume you’ve begun the search of army records?”

“Yes, but that’s going to take a week or two. Also, there was that record storage fire—”

“Karl, that 1973 fire has been used to cover up more crap than any fire in history.”

“That may be, but there are missing files. Yet, I think that in a few weeks, we’ll be able to come up with a list of First Cavalry army captains who may have been in that place at that time. The list of army lieutenants who were actually killed in action in Quang Tri City on or around 7 February will be much shorter and more detailed. I can’t imagine more than two or three names on that KIA list. There is a presumption that the captain and the lieutenant were in the same unit, so that could narrow down the names of the captains who could be suspects. That’s why I think this is not such a long shot.”

I replied, “Well, you may come up with a prime suspect, but you’ll never get a conviction.”

Karl replied, “Let’s find the witness and the suspect and worry about the consequences later.”

I thought a minute, then said to Karl, “As you mentioned, I was there at the time. And, FYI, the city itself was garrisoned by the South Vietnamese army, not Americans. Our guys were at firebases around the city. Are you sure these two Cav officers were in the city?”

“The letter strongly indicates that. Why?”

“Well, then maybe these two Americans were attached to the South Vietnamese army as advisors—Military Assistance Command, Vietnam. MACV. Right?”

“That’s a possibility.”

“So, that narrows it down even more. Do some desk work here before you go sending somebody into ’Nam.”

“We want parallel and concurrent investigations.”

“It’s your show.” In fact, I strongly suspected that the CID had been working on this much longer than Karl was indicating. I also suspected that the CID had already narrowed down the list of possible suspects and the possible victim, and maybe they already had their prime suspect. But they were not telling Paul Brenner about that. What the CID wanted now was for me to find the only eyewitness to this crime. I said to Colonel Hellmann, “An interesting case, and my bloodhound instincts are aroused. But I don’t need the frequent flier miles to Southeast Asia. I can think of a few other guys who’d love to go.”

“No problem.” Hellmann changed the subject and asked, “Are you still seeing Ms. Sunhill?”

I love it when people ask you questions about things they already know. I replied, “Why don’t you ask her?”

“To be honest, I already have. She indicates that there seems to be some problem with the relationship, which is why I thought you might be open to an overseas assignment.”

“I am. Aruba. And stay out of my personal life, please.”

“Ms. Sunhill is still CID, and as her commanding officer, I have a right to ask certain personal questions.”

“That’s what I miss about the army.”

Karl ignored this and asked, “By the way, are you looking for a civilian job in law enforcement?”

“I might be.”

“I can’t imagine you doing nothing in retirement.”

“I’ve got plenty to do.”

“I might be able to help you with a government job. The FBI hires a lot of former CID. This overseas assignment would look very good on your résumé.”

“Not to mention my obituary.”

“It would look good there, too.”

Karl doesn’t make too many jokes, so to be polite, I chuckled.

This encouraged him, I think, to press on. He said, “Did I mention that the Department of the Army will retroactively promote you to Chief Warrant Officer Five and recompute your retirement pay?”

“Tell them thanks.”

“In exchange for about two or three weeks of your time.”

“There’s always a catch.”

Hellmann stopped and lit another cigarette. We faced each other under a lamplight. Hellmann exhaled a stream of smoke and said, “We can get someone else, but your name came up first, second, and third. I’ve never asked a favor of you—”

“Of course you have.”

“And I’ve gotten you out of some very messy situations, Paul.”

“That you put me in, Karl.”

“You put yourself in most of them. Be honest with yourself.”

“It’s cold out here. I need a drink. You smoke too much.” I turned and walked off.

End of meeting. End of Karl. I continued walking, picturing Karl standing under the lamplight, smoking his cigarette, watching me. Well, that was one bad thing resolved.

For some reason, I found that my pace was slowing. All sorts of thoughts suddenly filled my frozen brain. Cynthia was one of them, of course. Write a second act, Paul. Was I set up, or what?

Certainly I needed to do something to get my juices flowing again. But I couldn’t believe that Cynthia would want me to risk my life to perk up our relationship. Probably, she didn’t know exactly what Karl had in mind.

As I walked, I thought about my favorite subject—me. What was best for Paul Brenner? Suddenly, I had this image of me going to Vietnam and returning a hero; that hadn’t happened the last two times, but maybe it would this time. Then, I had this other image of me coming home in a box.

I found myself in a circle of light under a lamp pole, and I wasn’t walking. I turned back toward Karl Hellmann. We stared at each other across the darkness, each of us visible in a pool of light. I called out to him, “Would I have any contacts in ’Nam?”

“Of course,” he called out. “You’ll have a contact in Saigon, and one in Hanoi. Plus, there may be someone in Hue who can help. The mission is in place. It lacks only a person to fulfill it.”

“How long would this person need to fulfill it?”

“You have a twenty-one-day tourist visa. Any longer would arouse suspicion. With luck, you’ll be home sooner.”

“With bad luck, I’ll be home even sooner.”

“Think positive. You must visualize success.”

In fact, I visualized a lot of people gathered in my honor, everyone drinking whiskey; a homecoming party, or an Irish wake.

I don’t mind dangerous assignments. I thrived on them once. But it was the ’Nam thing … the idea that I escaped my destiny and that destiny was stalking me. It was creepy.

I asked Karl, “If I don’t make it this time, do I get my name on the Wall?”

“I’ll look into that. But think positive.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”

“I’m positive.”

We both laughed.

“When do I leave?”

“Tomorrow morning. Be at Dulles at eight hundred hours. I will e-mail you instructions for a rendezvous at the airport.”

“My own passport?”

“Yes. We want light cover. Your friend at the airport will have your visa, tickets, and hotel reservations, money, and a few things to memorize. You need to go in clean.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Can I buy you a drink?”

“When I get home. See you later.”

Karl said, “Oh, one more thing. I assume you will let Cynthia know you’re away. Don’t be too specific. Would you like me to speak with her after you’re gone?”

“Do you mean gone, dead, or gone to Asia?”

“I’ll speak with her after you take off.”

I didn’t reply.

Karl said, “Well, then, good luck and thank you.”

If we were closer, we’d have shaken hands, but we both just gave half-assed salutes by touching our caps. We turned away from each other and walked off.