“That doesn’t mean he’s dead. Valdez survived-”

“I’d hardly call the man’s outcome ‘survival.’”

They paused, a momentary silence for the man who’d endured five years as a POW, only to be shattered by his return to civilization. Luis Valdez had returned home on a Saturday and shot himself on Sunday.

“You left something out, General,” said Willy. “I’ve heard there was a passenger…”

“Oh. Yes,” said Kistner, not missing a beat. “I’d forgotten.”

“Who was he?”

Kistner shrugged. “A Lao. His name’s not important.”

“Was he with Intelligence?”

“That information, Miss Maitland, is classified.” He looked away, a gesture that told her the subject of the Lao was definitely off-limits. “After the plane went down,” he continued, “we mounted a search. But the ground fire was hot. And it became clear that if anyone had survived, they’d be in enemy hands.”

“So you left them there.”

“We don’t believe in throwing lives away, Miss Maitland. That’s what a rescue operation would’ve been. Throwing live men after dead.”

Yes, she could see his reasoning. He was a military tactician, not given to sentimentality. Even now, he sat ramrod straight in his chair, his eyes calmly surveying the verdant hills surrounding his villa, as though eternally in search of some enemy.

“We never found the crash site,” he continued. “But that jungle could swallow up anything. All that mist and smoke hanging over the valleys. The trees so thick, the ground never sees the light of day. But you’ll get a feeling for it yourself soon enough. When are you leaving for Saigon?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“And the Vietnamese have agreed to discuss this matter?”