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"It's a deal," Jens said. "Now what do you need?"

Creasy thought for half a minute and then said: "The US Army has a permanent

Missing-in-Action section based inWashington . It's a big section. The American people are

highly sensitive about their Armed Forces personnel who go missing in foreign wars. It's a very

emotive issue, so the politicians make a lot of noise about it. They're still trying to find GIs, or

their remains, who went missing inKorea forty-five years ago. They still refuse to

recognizeVietnam until they've used up every effort to locate their missing persons." He glanced

at the Dane.

"In a way, Jens, it's the same thing that you and the Owl specialize in, which is why I

can use your help. I'd like you to go toWashington and talk to the people at the

Missing-in-Action section. Of course Bentsen has been in contact with them about that dogtag,

and they think it's authentic. I want you to get as much background as possible. Ask questions;

snoop around. Try to get a general impression of the case. Those guys must get all kinds of

information, a lot of it purely speculative. The kind of information they cannot pass on to the

families of the missing because it may raise false hopes. But that information could be useful to

me. Meanwhile I'll head forSan Diego . We take it one step at a time. I made some inquiries. The

guy who heads up the US Army Missing-in-Action section is a Colonel called Elliot Friedman.

Please go talk to him."

The Dane did something that he always did at such moments. He reached down to his feet and

pulled up the small case containing his computer. He laid it reverently on the table and a few

seconds later was tapping in a file entitled, 'Puppy'.

Chapter 02

Of course it was logical: first find the messenger, and through him find the sender.

Where to start looking? Obviously, at the place where the message was delivered.

Creasy sat in the overfurnished living room in the house inSan Diego , sipping a Budweiser. The

old couple sat opposite drinking coffee, their faces showing anxiety and a little embarrassment.

The woman said; "We have our savings, Mr Creasy...and we both have pensions. We can afford

to pay you something."

Creasy was deliberately blunt. "Mrs Bentsen, for a job like this I'd normally ask for a hundred

thousand up front...and a whole lot more for expenses. But this is not normal. I'm going to

spend a couple of weeks to satisfy my own curiosity. Right now I'm flush with money from the

last couple of jobs. What I need is not money but your memory. Think carefully, and describe

the man who delivered the dogtag."

Marina Bentsen was old, with a pinched, narrow face, but her eyes were bright and sparkled

with intelligence. Those eyes narrowed in concentration as she spoke.

"He was definitely Asiatic. We have quite a big Asian community here inSan Diego . Japanese,

Chinese, Korean and of course Vietnamese. For us, it's always hard to distinguish. Not only

their nationalities, but their ages. He was not young, I would guess between fifty and sixty...His

face was unlined. His hair, of course, was black and quite short... parted in the middle. His eyes

were small and very dark. His nose was slightly hooked and his chin was uncommonly narrow.

He was wearing dark blue trousers, and a light blue windbreaker. Also sneakers. When he

walked away I noticed that he had a slight limp."

"Which side?"

"He favoured his left leg."

"You're very observant, Mrs Bentsen."

For the first time, the thin lips on the narrow face smiled. She said: "I guess it comes from being

an artist."

"You're an artist?"

She gestured at the walls of the room. Creasy silently studied the half-dozen paintings. They

were all landscapes apart from one portrait of a young man. Creasy recognized the face of Jake

Bentsen. With sincerity he said: "They're very good; and the likeness of your son is excellent."

Her query was wistful. "So you recognized him, Mr Creasy?"

"Yes, but I'm going to need several photographs, which I'll get enlarged."

The old man pushed himself to his feet, saying: "We have plenty. We had them enlarged and

printed for the MIA." He walked over to a bureau, opened a drawer, and took out a large

envelope.

Creasy studied the score or so eight-by-ten prints and nodded with satisfaction, then looked up

at the old woman and asked: "Can you make a drawing from your memory, of the messenger?"

She leaned forward. "I did that the same night that he came here."

Her husband had not sat down. He went again to the bureau and came back with a tube of

paper bound by an elastic band. Creasy slipped off the band and unrolled the thick paper. The

portrait was drawn with broad strokes of charcoal. The face seemed to be alive, especially the

small black eyes between the high cheekbones. For a long time the old couple watched him

study the drawing. Then he turned back to the woman and asked in a very quiet voice: "Are you

satisfied that this is a good likeness?"

She was emphatic. "Yes. The face was stamped into my mind. I worked on the drawing late into

the night. Mr Creasy, that's the face of the messenger."

Creasy turned the portrait around and looked at it again. The old man asked: "Will it help?"

Creasy looked at him and said: "Mr Bentsen, I knew this man."

Silence hung in the air, finally broken by the excited voice of Marina Bentsen.

"So it does help!"

Creasy was looking at the charcoal face. He said: "Yes and no."

"What does that mean?"

Creasy tapped the portrait. "Like your son, this guy should be dead."

The old man was the first to find his voice. "Are you sure?"

"Yes...I killed him."

Chapter 03

After he had left, the old couple sat silently for several minutes.

Then the woman stood up and went to the bureau in the corner. She returned with a shoebox,

laid it on the table and took from it a bunch of envelopes tied with a yellow ribbon. She knew

exactly which letter she wanted. She flicked through the bundle and pulled it out. The pages

crackled in her hands. Her husband watched patiently as she looked for the paragraphs. Then

she started to read out loud.

"My outfit is doing long-range patrols (LRPs) into VC territory. We go in for days, and

sometimes weeks, at a time. Not like the units who go on a forty-eight-hour hike and have their

hot breakfasts flown in by the choppers. Sure it's dangerous work; but don't worry overmuch.

Ours is an elite unit. We know what we're doing. It's mainly recce work but occasionally we make

contact. The fire-fight is always short and sharp. Over the weeks we've come out on top,

although we've suffered some wounded. We have a few 'unofficials' with us. I'm not allowed to

tell you where they're from. Let's just say these guys have been around in a lot of wars and

compared to them we're kinda green; but we learn fast."

"One of those guys is sort of a friend. Well, maybe not a friend. I don't think he has any friends.

He doesn't talk much. Fact is he hardly talks at all. There are all kinds of rumours about the guy,

that he was in the French Foreign Legion and fought all over the place. He's got scars just about

everywhere. They say he also fought in theCongo andBiafra . Thing is, when you ask him, he just

shrugs and says he can't remember."

"I'm the youngest in the outfit and some of the guys kinda trash me. But not this guy. He takes

me seriously. Sometimes he gives me pointers on weapons and things. For sure, he knows a hell

of a lot more than the NCOs and the lieutenant. When he occasionally says something you'd

better believe they listen."

"When there's a fire-fight I always look for him. I guess it's natural. Also I get the feeling that

maybe he keeps an eye on me. Nothing obvious but just a feeling. I can't explain, but I want to

be his friend. His name is Creasy."

She folded the sheets of paper and slid them back into the envelope. She pulled out another

letter from the bundle and read: "We just got back from another LRP way up north. I never

thought a man could get so tired as I did. I guess I only kept going because the others did.

Maybe that's the way it works. Everybody watches the others, waiting for the first one to crack,

waiting for an excuse to give up yourself. We made no contact with 'Charlie' but something

interesting happened. Our orders were to check out a valley and a small Vietnamese village in it.

We entered the place at dawn and picked up the headman and took him away for questioning.

This is a dirty war and you won't be shocked to know that the questioning can get rough. Of

course, we good guys don't get involved like that. We always have a couple of NVA guys along

to do the translating and the dirty work if necessary. But it turned out that the headman was

educated and spoke French. Our lieutenant is supposed to speak French but I guess it was

third-grade stuff because the guy couldn't understand more than a word or two. The lieutenant

got mad and told the NVA guys to work him over. But Creasy told them to wait. Then he had a

long conversation with the headman in French. I guess he must have been in the Legion. They

seemed to get on fine, the headman was smiling and laughing. Creasy told the lieutenant that he

had learned all they needed to know.

Then he spoke a few more words with the headman and

then he beat the guy up. Beat him up bad. He didn't break any bones but the old guy was

bleeding all over. None of us could figure it out. Not even the lieutenant. I mean, the headman

had co-operated.

Most of the guys figured that Creasy was just a sadist getting his kicks. I didn't

believe it. Over chow that night I went over and asked him about it. He just told me to use my

brains and think it out. A couple of days passed. Then I worked it out. We had been deep into

VC territory. For sure the next time the VC visited that village, they would find out that we had

been there and questioned the headman. If he was unmarked, he would face their suspicions. If

he was only roughed up, the suspicions would be deeper."

"The point is that Creasy never bothered to explain this to me or the other guys. He's different.

He just lives inside himself."

She folded that letter too, and slid it back into the envelope. Then she read the final letter, which

was full of enthusiasm. He had just completed an intense final six weeks' course in mine laying

and clearance. Together with his qualifications from earlier courses, this meant he was now

promoted 'specialist first class'.

She remembered their pride when they had received the letter; it was as though their son had

graduated with honours fromHarvardUniversity .

And then, three weeks later, the letter from the Pentagon. Missing in action. The weeks and

months of waiting and praying and hoping to hear that he had been taken prisoner. The

twenty-six years of waiting to hear anything at all.

Her husband stood up, gently took the box from her hand, and locked it away in the bureau.

Chapter 04

"Fucking computers!"

Colonel Elliot Friedman looked around the spacious office, and then said to the Dane: "I've

been working in this department for thirty years now. I remember when the whizz-kids first

came in with the computers. They told us all the paperwork was going to be eliminated. Bullshit!

We generate more paper now, in spite of the fancy machines. Do you know why?"

Jens Jensen shook his head. "I don't know why, but I guess it comes down to bureaucracy. I used

to work in the Missing Persons Department in the Danish Police. Of course we had computers,

and of course we had giant printers that spewed out paper all day long. It reminds me of a story

back in the last century, whenBismarck discovered that the German bureaucracy had two great

warehouses full of documents that were completely useless. He gave an order to burn all that

useless paper. Two years later he remembered the order and asked his chief of staff to check

whether it had been carried out. The chief of staff returned and reported that after two years

only ten per cent of it was burned. 'Why?' askedBismarck . The chief of staff replied: 'Because the

bureaucrats told me that it would take many more years to make copies of the documents

before they were burned."

For the first time the Colonel smiled. It changed his tired, lined face. His was not a job to envy.

The building contained tens of thousands of files which held the details of American servicemen

missing in action, going all the way back to World War I. Of course by now it was only those

missing since the Korean War in the early fifties, and through the Vietnam War, which caused

the heartache of so many thousands of relatives and loved ones. No other country in world

history had spent so much time and money trying to trace their missing servicemen. It was

emotive and it was political. And it was why in the modern age American presidents were so

reluctant to commit their servicemen to wars; and why they so often used a hammer to crack a

walnut.

Jens knew all about that. He had been inWashington only one week, but had burrowed like a

beaver, and he now knew a great deal about the Missing-in-Action department. He knew that the

colonel was efficient and conscientious. He knew that in spite of his rank he had never fired a

gun in anger. He had a staff of over three hundred which included experts at identifying human

remains.

The Dane passed across the dogtag, saying: "I know your people have seen this before. As far as

they know, it's authentic."

The colonel studied the dogtag and nodded his grey-haired head.

"It looks authentic," he said. "Vietnamera. What's your interest?"

"Concerns a friend of mine. A very close friend. That dogtag belonged to a special forces GI.