The Last Bridge

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This book is for five people. It is for Shan Botley, who shared with me the frustrations and joys of the writing. It is for August Lenniger, who sold it. It is for Charles Heckelmann, who edited it. And it is for my mother and father, without whom the others would have had nothing to do.

Colonel David Tyreen stood at the window and looked past his gaunt reflection at the slashing monsoon rain. His eyes were hooded, and cigarette smoke was strong in his nostrils. He pursed his lips waspishly, glanced at his watch, and turned his back to the window. Ceiling bulbs pulsed faintly with the rhythm of throbbing diesel generators beneath the building: this quarter of Saigon had no city electricity after dark.

David Tyreen crushed out his cigarette and crossed the room to a corner half in shadows. A freckled sergeant sat by the telephone, scrubbing his hands, gazing at the silent black phone with the studied concentration of a monk attending his breviary.

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