We continued on in silence, the balance of power now subtly shifted back to the men who owned this land. I was in the middle of the pack now, surrounded at all times. Two men stayed close to me, evidently with orders to prevent my leaving again.
Another three hours, and we reached the point at which the fire had evidently burned itself out. The damage was not complete now, and tree trunks still stood erect in places. As we moved further west, there was foliage again, and within a short span of time we were back in the jungle. Only the smell lingered to remind us of what had taken place behind us. Another clearing, and a camp so similar that it could have been built by the same people that had constructed the first one. I dubbed the earlier camp "Horace Greeley" in my mind, just to have someway to refer to it in my notes.
The physical layout was essentially the same, one main building surrounded by three barracks. The wire fence still stood, along with the guard posts.
But there was one, very significant difference that I noticed immediately. This camp was occupied.
"Who?" I asked, pointing at the camp from the cover of brush.
The leader shook his head. "We go down there," he said. He gestured roughly toward the camp. I heard my two guards move closer, ready to insure that I obeyed.
A prison camp ― an occupied one. But from here, I could see no indication of its purpose. Was it still a prison camp of some sort? Surely it couldn't be a POW camp, not after all these years. Every rumor or trace evidence of such camps had been no basis for believing that this might indeed be such a facility.
Furthermore, there truly was no possibility that my father was alive and living in it. None at all. Despite my intellectual understanding of that, hope still beat wildly for a few moments in my chest.
Hope that was quickly dispelled once we entered the camp itself. It appeared to be nothing more than a military garrison, not a place of confinement. I saw no one under duress or chained, or in any way constrained in their movements. Instead, men in uniforms, ill-fitting cheap tunics and pants, went about what looked like the normal duties of soldiers in garrison.
"Was my father here?" I asked the leader. I did not know how much Than had briefed him on, but suspected he might know the purpose of my mission in his country. "Here?"
He shook his head, and refused to say anything. Instead, he proceeded to the main building. My two escorts indicated that I should follow.
He knocked once on the door, and stepped into the main building. The door opened onto a large area to the right. TO the left, there were a series of other doors, most of them closed. The leader walked in, held a short conversation with a sergeant seated at a desk, then walked back to the last office on the left. He rapped softly on the door and waited.
Finally, the door opened. I strained to hear the words of the conversation, but could make out only the tone. Something in the second voice sounded familiar, very familiar. It was clearly not Vietnamese. The accent was wrong, something else ― Slavic.
Seconds later Yuri Kursk stepped out of the room and regarded me across the twenty feet that separated us.
He was just as I remembered him, although it had been several years since we'd last seen each other. He was the Ukrainian admiral who'd been on board Jefferson during our attempt to resolve a crisis in the Mediterranean. I remembered him well ― it had been he who had set me on this path to find my father. His words were as clear as though they were spoken yesterday "I knew your father."
"He was here also, you know," Yuri Kursk now said.
"You knew I'd come." It wasn't a question as much as a statement. "And you knew I was in country now. That whole charade ― why? Did you do it just to torment me?"
Even as I asked the last question, I knew it was more than that. It always was, in the intricate game of cat and mouse that passes for politics within the former Soviet Union.
Kursk nodded slowly. "I was not certain, but I suspected you would come." He shrugged, dismissing the matter. "We've studied you for a number of years, you know. While you're not entirely predictable ― ah, and I wish that you were ― there are some things we know about you. Your attachment to family, your sense of duty. If there were an indication that your father might have survived, I felt relatively certain that you would feel obliged to follow his trail, however cold it might be."
"It was your plan."
He nodded. "There is more tied up in this than you know, Admiral Tombstone Magruder. Your father, problems that have simmered since the last time American armed forces waged war in this country, and even more." His eyes glowed at me, intense and penetrating. "I have some small reputation as a political analyst, Admiral. My own reputation rests on the success of this as well."
"So you win," I said, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice. "Some intelligence network bet, I guess. Can the great Yuri Kursk get Admiral Magruder on the ground in Vietnam? So what's the big prize? A two-week vacation on the Crimean Peninsula?"
Yuri shook his head. "That may be the result eventually, but the stakes are much higher than that. Much higher than even you know." A faint look of amusement crossed his Slavic features. "As much as I would like to claim that I engineered this entire thing simply as a demonstration of my political acumen, I had other motives. Good motives."
"Shall we play Twenty Questions, or are you going to tell me?" The conviction that I'd been a pawn in a game I neither understood nor wanted to play in grew on me steadily. Halfway around the world, away from Tomboy and everything I loved, threatened by the fire that could have killed us ― and for what?
"I will have to show you," Yuri said finally. He motioned to a couple of men, barking out a quick command in Vietnamese. One looked stunned, started to protest, and Yuri dismissed him abruptly. He turned back to me. "We will need a vehicle. At least for the first part of the journey. Then we will proceed on foot."
"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what this is about."
Yuri sighed. He gestured at a small table with two chairs pulled up to it in the center of the room. "Some coffee, something to eat? It will be a few minutes while they make preparations. I will tell you what I can."
"You'll tell me all of it and answer any questions I have or I'm not going anywhere."
"We'll see."
A sergeant produced two mugs of strong, black coffee, along with a serving set containing sugar and cream. A few moments later, plates heaped with steamy stew were brought to the table as well. "It's not fancy, but it is better than field rations," Yuri remarked as he shoveled up a spoonful of stew. "Go ahead, eat."
I glanced back at my Vietnamese contingent. "Feed them too."
Yuri studied me for a moment, then said, "As you wish." His people scurried around to make sure that it happened.
"This all began immediately following America's withdrawal from Vietnam," Yuri began. He broke off a piece of bread from a basket of rolls placed before us, dipped it in the stew, then bit into it. He chewed carefully, his eyes closed and appearing to think, then continued. "It left a power vacuum, you know. For decades, first the French and then the Americans were here, the primary powers within this country. Neither of you were able to accomplish what you wanted." He shook his head gravely, as though contemplating the mistakes of our respective countries. "This area is simply too alien to you, too foreign. It is my theory that peace was never possible here, not in any shape or form. Vietnam is a small country surrounded by more powerful ones, and she must inevitably ally herself with those more geographically close. But nevertheless, the presence of America here, or, I should say, the withdrawal ― worked major changes upon this country."
"How so?" I asked, beginning to eat my own stew. It was a strong, slightly gamy meat, but the rich broth and sustenance were welcome.