Nick and his men lie prone in a gravel-strewn gully six kilometers inland. Three hundred yards in front of them stands a clapboard farmhouse in the middle of a dirt clearing, surrounded by jungle. Chickens and pigs wander around the unkempt yard.

Since their landing at 0245, the marines have covered fifteen clicks through uncut jungle, following the winding path of the Azul River, which in fact is no more than a stream. In some places it is dry and overgrown with jungle foliage. The marines rely on Nick to find the next outcropping of water.

It is 0700. Nick and his men are fatigued and must take salt tablets to combat the loss of water. He double-checks the Magellan Satnav direction finder and confirms they are bang on their coordinates. He tunes in the operational frequency and keys in a double-click to confirm their position, then signals for Ortiga, his Filipino gunnery sergeant, to fall in. Ortiga is a small soldier, five foot five on his best day, and tired after humping through the dense undergrowth. He flops down beside the first lieutenant. Next to Ortiga lies Quaalude, breathing unevenly. He is a pasty white. Ortiga, a former navy corpsman, checks Burke's pulse and heart rate. Pulse is 110, heart fluttering. Heat exhaustion. Lost his conditioning aboard the Guam. No way Quaalude can take the shot.

Nick removes the Winchester 30.06 from Burke's back and instructs Ortiga to keep pouring fluids down Burke's throat. Even if Burke can't shoot he'll have to hump out like the rest of them.

Nick's walkie-talkie burps and squelches. Keely. A white pickup will arrive at the farmhouse in fifteen minutes. Arturo de la Cruz Enrile will be alone.

Above the nine marines, the jungle canopy comes to life as the first rays of morning sun warm the uppermost leaves. A red-beaked macaw screams.

Nick hefts the Kentuckian's rifle. It is long and heavy, at least twice the weight of the M-16 with grenade launcher that Nick and his men carry. Burke has carved "USMC," and under it "First to Fight," into the stock of his rifle. Nick raises the weapon to his shoulder and presses his eye to the scope. The magnification is so great that he can zero in on the ear of a sow rooting in the garden.

The morning is hot and calm. Steam rises from the clearing. Nick's eyes burn. The sweat from his forehead has melted the jungle camouflage painted onto his face. He signals for his men to take their weapons off safety. No aggressors reported in this sector, but the jungle has eyes. Burke is feeling better. He pukes into the dry creek bed at his feet. Ortiga gives him more water.

An engine backfires far off in the distance. Nick makes out the road leading to the ramshackle farmhouse at the opposite end of the clearing. In a moment, an ancient Ford pickup rumbles into view. Maybe it's white, but all he can see is rust and the gray of unprotected metal. The glare of the morning sun off the windshield keeps him from noting if the driver is alone.

The pickup stops behind the farmhouse.

Nick cannot see anyone. He hears a voice. Enrile is yelling. He is expecting someone. Nick can't make out what he is saying. Is it Tagalog?

Enrile comes round the side of the farmhouse and walks toward Nick. Through the scope he appears to be less than ten meters away. He is wearing a clean white guayabera shirt. His hair is wet, combed back neatly over his forehead. Dressed for church.

Christ, he's no older than I am, thinks Nick.

Enrile searches the yard. He yells again.

A rooster crows.

Enrile moves skittishly. He dances on his toes and lifts his head, as if straining to see a point one degree below the horizon. He looks behind him. Nervous. Getting ready to run.

Nick's hand closes over the rifle stock. A bead of sweat trickles into his eyes. He tries to keep the crosshairs centered on the doomed guerrilla, but his hand is shaking.

Enrile shields his eyes and looks directly at him.

Nick holds his breath. Slowly, he squeezes the trigger. Arturo de la Cruz Enrile spins. A cloud of pink vapor erupts from his head. Nick feels the rifle kick and there's a loud crack, like a small firecracker, a Black Cat. He was aiming for the heart.

Enrile is down. He is motionless.

The marines lie and wait. The sharp report of the rifle drifts into the air, as fleeting as the morning steam rising from the paddies.

Ortiga scans the clearing and is up, running to confirm the kill. He removes his K-Bar, raises it high into the air, and brings it down into Enrile's chest.

Abruptly, Nick spun on his heels and buried his face in the shoulder of his overcoat. He squeezed his eyelids and prayed for the machine to stop projecting his relentless nightmare. Momentarily, he was aware of the freezing night air. The snow that had fallen on Zurich for the better part of the day had begun to taper off. The wind had died down.

He had taken a young man's life on that morning. A true believer, like himself. For one minute only, he had believed that his actions had been correct; that his responsibility as commander of the insertion team dictated that he take the shot in place of Burke; that his job was not to question the directives of his government, but to faithfully execute them.

For one minute only.

Nick stood in the men's room of Emilio's Ristorante, his sweaty hands clutching the sink, and stared into the mirror. His eyes were open wide, unnaturally so. His hair was dripping wet. The walk from the lake had done little to calm him. He was still jittery, his system jerky with adrenaline. He shut his eyes and strengthened his grip on the sink. It's done, he told himself. You can't change the past.

Nick turned on the water and splashed several handfuls in his face. He grabbed a paper towel and dried off his hair, then leaned over the sink, placing his ear next to the running tap, listening to the water fall onto the polished porcelain. He didn't know how long he stayed in that position, maybe five seconds, maybe a minute, maybe longer, but after a certain time his breath came normally and his heartbeat slowed. He lifted his head and looked in the mirror. Better now, but hardly perfect. Remnants of coarse paper stuck out here and there, contrasting sharply with his disheveled black hair. He plucked the flakes free, one by one. "Good evening, Dr. Schon," he rehearsed saying. "Don't mind me. Just a mild case of dandruff. Happens all the time." And seeing himself like that, hair mussed, fingers searching for the damp morsels of paper, mouth much too anxious, he managed a laugh, and slowly the tension began to slip away.

"Am I late?" Sylvia Schon inquired, checking her wristwatch incredulously.

"Not at all," said Nick, standing and shaking her hand. "I got here a little early. I had to get out of the snow."

"You're sure? We did say seven, didn't we?"

"Yes. Seven." He felt calmer now, no small thanks to the double vodka he had finished in several hurried gulps. "By the way, thanks for the invitation."

Dr. Schon looked surprised. "Manners too? I see the Chairman has brought us a gentleman and a scholar." She slid into the booth next to him, and eyeing the empty highball glass said to the hovering captain, "I'll have the same as Mr. Neumann."

"Ein doppel vodka, Madame?"

"Yes, and one more for my colleague." Then to Nick: "It is after hours, isn't it? One thing I love about you Americans is that you know how to enjoy a decent drink."

"Some opinion you must have about us. A nation of noncommittal drunks."