Three days later, Tommy Pinchot landed an Air America U-10 at the Vang Khom airstrip. Tommy stayed in the cockpit, looking glum, but Donovan climbed down. He wore a white blazer and a dark blue dress shirt and white slacks, and he looked more like a banker on vacation than a spy.
“We found Corbett’s plane,” he said. “Wrecked. Looks like it didn’t make a landing at a mountain airfield and fell off the fucking side.”
“Let’s take a walk,” Lincoln suggested. “I have a story to tell you.”
They hiked up from the village and sat on two big rocks near the peak, Vang Khom below them to the south and the Plain of Jars to the north. Lincoln indicated the Plain. “He’s down there.”
Donovan had been about to strike a match, but he paused, eyed Lincoln, and raised an eyebrow. “You know that how?”
“Told you I had a story,” Lincoln said. “Here’s what happened.”
He started from the beginning, told Donovan about his relationship with Sho, about Corbett and the poppies, about Mai, and about Corbett’s final betrayal. He almost teared up when he got to that part, but he held it in check. He hadn’t been back in the longhouse except to dress Sho and prepare her for burial, and to collect the cash he had tucked away in there. He was sleeping in the open because it was easier than being inside the place where he had found her.
Finally, he described the hunt for Corbett and the fight that had ended it.
“I tossed him in one of the jars,” he said. “You could search for a hundred years and never find him. I don’t even remember which one. I’d never been to that jar field before, and I wasn’t really paying attention to where the hell I was at the time.”
“You threw Corbett in a fucking jar?” Donovan asked, incredulous.
“He made a hell of a splash, too. Thing must have been half-full of rainwater.” Lincoln considered how it must sound to Donovan and added, “Guess I fucked up, huh?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, Corbett was CIA, right?”
“He was a contractor.”
“Whatever. He worked with you guys. He was an American.”
“He was an asshole,” Donovan said. “I can’t believe he did that.”
“Yeah, I guess he had it comin’.”
“He sure did.”
Donovan handed Lincoln the pack and let him light a smoke from the tip of his own. They sat on the rocks for a few minutes, both men staring off into the Plain. Lincoln couldn’t be sure what was on Donovan’s mind, but he knew what was on his.
When Donovan spoke again, it was clear he’d been thinking along the same lines.
“You want to stay?”
“In Vang Khom? Fuck no.”
“Anywhere in Laos.”
“Not really,” Lincoln said. “Not at all, in fact. This place is fucked up.”
“Like Vietnam’s any better.”
“At least there the people trying to kill you are the enemy.”
“Usually,” Donovan admitted. “Not always. Anyway, I can get you out of here. Vietnam, Germany, stateside, wherever you want to go. Just say the word.”
“Vietnam’s okay,” Lincoln said. “That’s where the war is.”
“It’s here, too,” Donovan countered. “We’re not done in Laos, you and me. I don’t want to get on some goddamn high horse, but democracy’s important enough to protect anyplace it’s in danger, and that includes Laos. But you can go back to Vietnam for a while.”
“What about Corbett? Will I face any charges?”
“Corbett died trying to desert to the north. In the process, he crashed the plane he wanted to trade for privileged status. He was a fucking traitor to his country, and he deserved to die.”
“But that’s—”
“Lincoln, the stories we tell about this place are what becomes the official version. Sooner or later, they become the truth. You see anybody who’s going to contradict it?”
Lincoln looked out toward the Plain again. The ghosts of the ancient travelers, maybe.
But they had been quiet for a long time. They had seen a lot of death. They wouldn’t say anything.
“Guess not.”
“Damn straight,” Donovan said. “Corbett will go down as a would-be Benedict Arnold, and when—if—Special Forces soldiers even mention his name, they’ll spit at the memory. And I’ll do whatever I can to help you out, Lincoln—here, and back in the world. We’re a hell of a team, and it would be stupid to break that up.”
“You sure?” Lincoln asked.
“You got any more dumb questions, soldier?”
Lincoln sucked down his last drag and squashed the butt under his heel. “Just one,” he said. “How soon can we get off this fucking mountain?”