“Hello, Daddy!” came a yell.

Guy sighed. “We can’t even get rid of him.”

Willy stared hard at Guy’s reflection. And she thought, But I can get rid of you.

MAJOR NATHAN DONNELL OF the Casualty Resolution team had shocking red hair, a booming voice and a cigar that stank to high heaven. Guy didn’t know which was worse-the stench of that cigar or the odor of decay emanating from the four skeletons on the table. Maybe that’s why Nate smoked those rotten cigars; they masked the smell of death.

The skeletons, each labeled with an ID number, were laid out on separate tarps. Also on the table were four plastic bags containing the personal effects and various other items found with the skeletons. After twenty or more years in this climate, not much remained of these bodies except dirt-encrusted bones and teeth. At least that much was left; sometimes fragments were all they had to work with.

Nate was reading aloud from the accompanying reports. In that grim setting, his resonant voice sounded somehow obscene, echoing off the walls of the Quonset hut. “Number 784-A, found in jungle, twelve klicks west of Camp Hawthorne. Army dog tag nearby-name, Elmore Stukey, Pfc.”

“The tag was lying nearby?” Guy asked. “Not around the neck?”

Nate glanced at the Vietnamese liaison officer, who was standing off to the side. “Is that correct? It wasn’t around the neck?”

The Vietnamese man nodded. “That is what the report said.”

“Elmore Stukey,” muttered Guy, opening the man’s military medical record. “Six foot two, Caucasian, perfect teeth.” He looked at the skeleton. Just a glance at the femur told him the man on the table couldn’t have stood much taller than five-six. He shook his head. “Wrong guy.”

“Cross off Stukey?”

“Cross off Stukey. But note that someone made off with his dog tag.”

Nate let out a morbid laugh. “Not a good sign.”

“What about these other three?”

“Oh, those.” Nate flipped to another report. “Those three were found together eight klicks north of LZ Bird. Had that U.S. Army helmet lying close by. Not much else around.”

Guy focused automatically on the relevant details: pelvic shape, configuration of incisors. “Those two are females, probably Asian,” he noted. “But that one…” He took out a tape measure, ran it along the dirt-stained femur. “Male, five foot nine or thereabouts. Hmm. Silver fillings on numbers one and two.” He nodded. “Possible.”

Nate glanced at the Vietnamese liaison officer. “Number 786-A. I’ll be flying him back for further examination.”

“And the others?”

“What do you think, Guy?”

Guy shrugged. “We’ll take 784-A, as well. Just to be safe. But the two females are yours.”

The Vietnamese nodded. “We will make the arrangements,” he said, and quietly withdrew.

There was a silence as Nate lit up another cigar, shook out the match. “Well, you sure made quick work of it. I wasn’t expecting you here till tomorrow.”

“Something came up.”

“Yeah?” Nate’s expression was thoughtful through the stinking cloud of smoke. “Anything I can help you with?”

“Maybe.”

Nate nodded toward the door. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”

They walked outside and stood in the dusty courtyard of the old military compound. Barbed wire curled on the wall above them. A rattling air conditioner dripped water from a window of the Quonset hut.

“So,” said Nate, contentedly puffing on his cigar. “Is this business or personal?”

“Both. I need some information.”

“Not classified, I hope.”

“You tell me.”

Nate laughed and squinted up at the barbed wire. “I may not tell you anything. But ask anyway.”

“You were on the repatriation team back in ’73, right?”

“Seventy-three through ’75. But my job didn’t amount to much. Just smiled a lot and passed out razors and toothbrushes. You know, a welcome-home handshake for returning POWs.”

“Did you happen to shake hands with any POWs from Tuyen Quan?”

“Not many. Half a dozen. That was a pretty miserable camp. Had an outbreak of typhoid near the end. A lot of ’em died in captivity.”

“But not all of them. One of the POWs was a guy named Luis Valdez. Remember him?”

“Just the name. And only because I heard he shot himself the day after he got home. I thought it was a crying shame.”

“Then you never met him?”

“No, he went through closed debriefing. Totally separate channel. No outside contact.”

Guy frowned, wondering about that closed debriefing. Why had Intelligence shut Valdez off from the others?

“What about the other POWs from Tuyen Quan?” asked Guy. “Did anyone talk about Valdez? Mention why he was kept apart?”

“Not really. Hey, they were a pretty delirious bunch. All they could talk about was going home. Seeing their families. Anyway, I don’t think any of them knew Valdez. The camp held its prisoners two to a cell, and Valdez’s cellmate wasn’t in the group.”

“Dead?”

“No. Refused to get on the plane. If you can believe it.”

“Didn’t want to fly?”

“Didn’t want to go home, period.”

“You remember his name?”

“Hell, yes. I had to file a ten-page report on the guy. Lassiter. Sam Lassiter. Incident got me a reprimand.”

“What happened?”

“We tried to drag him aboard. He kept yelling that he wanted to stay in Nam. And he was this big blond Viking, you know? Six foot four, kicking and screaming like a two-year-old. Should’ve seen the Vietnamese, laughing at it all. Anyway, the guy got loose and tore off into the crowd. At that point, we figured, what the hell. Let the jerk stay if he wants to.”

“Then he never went home?”

Nate blew out a cloud of cigar smoke. “Never did. For a while, we tried to keep tabs on him. Last we heard, he was sighted over in Cantho, but that was a few years ago. Since then he could’ve moved on. Or died.” Nate glanced around at the barren compound. “Nuts-that’s my diagnosis. Gotta be nuts to stay in this godforsaken country.”

Maybe not, thought Guy. Maybe he didn’t have a choice.

“What happened to the other guys from Tuyen?” Guy asked. “After they got home?”

“They had the usual problems. Post-traumatic-stress reaction, you know. But they adjusted okay. Or as well as could be expected.”

“All except Valdez.”

“Yeah. All except Valdez.” Nate flicked off a cigar ash. “Couldn’t do a thing for him, or for wackos like Lassiter. When they’re gone, they’re gone. All those kids-they were too young for that war. Didn’t have their heads together to begin with. Whenever I think of Lassiter and Valdez, it makes me feel pretty damn useless.”

“You did what you could.”

Nate nodded. “Well, I guess we’re good for something.” Nate sighed and looked over at the Quonset hut. “At least 786-A’s finally going home.”

THE RUSSIANS WERE SINGING again. Otherwise it was a pleasant enough evening. The beer was cold, the bartender discreetly attentive. From his perch at the rooftop bar, Guy watched the Russkies slosh another round of Stolichnaya into their glasses. They, at least, seemed to be having a good time; it was more than he could say for himself.

He had to come up with a plan, and fast. Everything he’d learned, from Alain Gerard that morning and from Nate Donnell that afternoon, had backed up what he’d already suspected: that Willy Maitland was in over her pretty head. He was convinced that the attack in Bangkok hadn’t been a robbery attempt. Someone was out to stop her. Someone who didn’t want her rooting around in Bill Maitland’s past. The CIA? The Vietnamese? Wild Bill himself?

That last thought he discarded as impossible. No man, no matter how desperate, would send someone to attack his own daughter.

But what if it had been meant only as a warning? A scare tactic?

All the possibilities, all the permutations, were giving Guy a headache. Was Maitland alive? What was his connection to Friar Tuck? Were they one and the same man?