38

Julian Carson walked behind the visiting team locker room and along the hallway to the small concrete room. As he stepped to the steel door it opened and Waters and Harper came out, wheeling the room’s safe, which was strapped to a two-wheeled dolly. Harper held the door while Waters pulled back on the handle of the dolly and steered it out into the hallway.

Mr. Ross, Mr. Bailey, and Mr. Prentiss came out after them. Julian noticed that once again, Mr. Prentiss held his hard-sided briefcase.

Mr. Ross acknowledged him first. “Hello, Mr. Carson. You’re right on time.”

The hairs on Julian’s arms rose. He had been trying to delay the manhunt by taking as long as possible with the old man’s file. Had he kept up the tactic too long? This would have to be the moment. “I think I know where to find the old man.”

Mr. Ross stopped. “Really?”

“Yes. He was in Vietnam in 1972 working with a platoon of ARVN rangers in the central highlands when the Easter Campaign began. He got his Silver Star because he was out alone on a scouting mission when the North Vietnamese regulars were moving in to massacre his men. He engaged the enemy by himself to sound the alarm and saved his men. They all got away alive because of him.”

“Good for him,” said Mr. Ross. “So?”

“Some of those ARVN soldiers are sure to still be alive. Any of those men or their families would be glad to hide Michael Isaac Kohler. And there will be a record in this country of who they all were. Military intelligence probably has it. All we have to do is pay each one a visit.”

“Interesting,” said Mr. Ross. “But this show is over. Time to fold up our tents and go.”

“What? Why?”

“Our guy is dead.”

“The old man?” said Julian. His mouth felt dry. He had known it was almost certainly going to end that way, but he had hoped that this time, this once, it would not.

“Not him. Faris Hamzah. His enemies assassinated him right in his house when his bodyguards weren’t looking. There’s nothing to be gained by going after the old man anymore. If he’s in Vietnam, then xin chuc mung to him. He’s not our problem. Or yours.”

“I suppose not,” said Julian.

On his way back to his office, he decided he would write an obituary for the Chicago Tribune. It would announce the death of Faris Hamzah, and it would be the last thing he placed in the paper with the initials J. H.