“Let’s eat.”

Over a cold beer and grilled pork, Helen couldn’t help probing the new situation like a toothache. “She’s an orphan?”

Darrow took another bite, then wiped his mouth. “In effect. The family’s too poor to come this far. As far as they’re concerned, she’s just a girl.”

“You’ve probably got plenty of footage already. We could finish in California.”

Darrow turned and signaled for another dish. “I want to show her full… progress. We’ll do other assignments in the meantime.”

“I thought…”

He stopped and looked at her. He understood the fear, and he also understood, as she didn’t, that she would get over it. He reached across the table and took her hand as the Vietnamese at the nearby tables tittered. “Hey, time is on our side now.”

Helen looked across the street to the center’s walls, blinding, its aspect dull and impassive and unyielding.

Thao went home that night tired of the brattish girl she tended, filled with the certainty that the American woman was the reason she could not get Linh’s affections. His duty was to marry her. It was not an unusual thing during the war for such unions of convenience. Linh appeared lost to her, and she could be a good wife, saving his money, caring for him, while he watched over her and her children.

That night, she invited him over for dinner. With the money she earned for Lan, she had bought a new smock and pants, new pillows for the apartment. She had never known such luxury. Thao and Mai had come from simple peasant stock; strong, healthy girls, Mai the beauty, Thao the brains.

She arranged for a neighbor to take the girl for the evening. The baby slept. She wouldn’t wait Linh out any longer, what ever visions he had for himself. He was a man, after all, and she knew how to deal with a man.

When Linh arrived, the apartment was filled with smells of food cooking. It was uncharacteristically quiet.

“Where are the children?” His main reason for visiting was the joy he got playing with them.

“With neighbors. The baby sleeps.”

Linh sat down. When Thao came out, his throat caught at the transformation: her hair oiled, face powdered, a pale pink smock of silk.

“You look beautiful,” he said. What he meant was that she looked like Mai. She smiled and poured him a rice brandy she had bought for the occasion.

“What is all this?”

“Nothing. A thanks for all you have done for us.”

The evening proceeded, Thao a perfect hostess, plying him with alcohol, serving his favorite crab and asparagus soup, heaping his plate with food, asking intelligent and flattering questions about his work. When the dinner was finished, she had him sit on the new cushions she had bought for the Western-style sofa that came with the apartment.

“I’m tired. Drunk,” he said.

“Let me massage your neck,” she said, and turned him away from her, lowered the lights, and began kneading into the muscles of his neck. “Lots of tension.”

Afterward, they sat side by side and sipped tea. In the dimness, Linh looked over, and his heart skipped at the image of Mai. Although he knew better, he couldn’t hold out against Thao, all these months of her seduction. He stroked her arm. But later, when she was naked and lying spread out on the bedding, when he felt his hardness begin, it felt like a desecration of Mai’s memory. What type of a weak man was he? He pulled away from her, head hidden in hands in confusion and disgust. Thao got up, slammed a cup in the sink, went to check on the baby.

Weeks passed, and the agreed-upon time to leave drew further and further away as they approached it. Darrow, swept into the pull of the war, gave terse answers when Helen questioned him.

In desperation she accepted an assignment to go with him and Linh into the field. Four other reporters were joining them to Quang Ngai province. Darrow almost always chose to work alone, hated the “junkets,” but he accepted this situation. To Helen, it proved Robert right in guessing Darrow’s desire to cover anything, indiscriminately.

It wasn’t until they had already boarded the cargo plane for the first leg up to Danang that they realized one of the four was Tanner. As soon as he noticed Darrow, he came over, cracking a tight smile over his small, yellowish teeth. He held out his large hand. “Let’s forget that other day.”

Darrow paused, then clasped the man’s hand. “What other day?”

Tanner nodded his long, narrow head. “That’s it, man. The war’s bad enough, we don’t need to fight each other.”

The journalists divided up between two companies. Helen was irritated to see that Tanner had joined theirs; his presence would only grate at Darrow. Bad luck. The companies had orders to sweep three hamlets and meet back at base camp if they didn’t encounter resistance.

When they met the commanding officer, Captain Molina, a slight, dark-complexioned, humorless man, he told them his company had been ambushed the day before, although it had sustained no casualties. The coolness of his report belied the tension visible in the troops. Helen saw spooked faces; the eyes of the soldiers hard and distrustful. Jumpy. Hot and without sleep, walking around with fingers tight on the triggers of their weapons. Linh’s presence created a stirring, soldiers growling low to each other, casting long, stony looks. Molina went to talk with his NCO and returned.

“He can’t come along,” he said, pointing his thumb at Linh.

Darrow stretched his arms overhead, then bent to retie his bootlaces. “Do you have any moleskin you can spare? I think I’ve got the beginning of a blister.”

Molina took off his helmet and wiped his face. “Sure.”

Darrow untied the laces and began to pull off the boot. “He’s accredited, and he’s been my assistant for the last four years. I can’t do my job without him.”

Molina moved closer. “The men are a little wired after yesterday. Thing is, I can’t guarantee his safety.”

“Can I quote you? Their commanding officer?” Darrow pulled off his boot and his sock. “Besides, who speaks enough Vietnamese to question these villagers?”

Tanner had come up and stood listening. “Listen, Molina, these guys are okay,” he said. “They’ll make your little company look like heroes.” The captain went back to talk with his men.

They waited in the shade of a large granite boulder, drinking warm sodas someone had scrounged up. Darrow nodded at Tanner. Linh stood to the side. “Too much, huh?” Darrow said, rolling his eyes. “Too much. What kind of captain admits he can’t control his men?” Fifteen minutes later, Molina came back saying they reluctantly agreed.

“Linh’s the best scout you could hope to find.”

Molina grimaced. “He gets it first if he leads us into an ambush.”

After he walked away, Helen tugged on Darrow’s arm. “This feels bad. We should get out of here.”

“You’re skittish.”

The soldiers moved out single file along the narrow trail of crushed shell that wound through the high sand dunes. Tanner walked point singing, “ ‘Hi, ho. Hi, ho. It’s off to work we go,’ ” making the soldiers around him snicker. Midmorning, the temperature climbed over a hundred, the sky a low, gloomy, saline white. The soldiers wore flak jackets open over bare chests. Under their helmets, they wore bandannas to keep sweat out of their eyes.

The first hamlet contained fifty adults. The huts clustered at the base of a chiseled limestone cliff next to the ocean. The villagers seemed friendly enough; they smiled and went through the charade of carrying on as if the soldiers were not there. A thorough search yielded nothing, and the soldiers got ready to move out again.

Linh and Helen entered a hut at the urging of an old woman who waved them in. The room was small and dark, filled from floor to ceiling with paper flowers. Rows of reds and yellows and white lined up. Linh hesitated, wiping his face. “She makes these,” he said, “for celebrations, for altars.”