Crux [antikvár]

PrologueAccording to the wall, he was dead. Keith Johnson stood at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial and saw himself reflected in the polished black granite, a tall, powerfully built man with prematurely gray hair and borderless black eyes. Inscribed in stone was his own name, Keith Everett Johnson, one of thousands who died in Vietnam.But he was not dead.Keith glanced at his watch and a drop of water fell from his hair to his wrist. The rain had stopped, leaving the sidewalks puddled and the gutters noisy. A low sun peered through layered clouds, painting the white Washington monuments a pale amber. It was five o'clock. Time to settle accounts, time to finish what began a generation ago in Vietnam.Keith turned and walked up the sloping brick pathway. It was early Spring, the cherry blossoms were out, and the first flood of tourists had descended on Washington. The entrance to the Memorial was marked by a flagpole surrounded by the emblems of the five military services. Waiting for him was Senator Alex Wes-cott and his wife, Chris. When she saw Keith, Chris ran forward and they embraced. The texture of her hair, the shape of her body, the fragrance of her perfume, all so familiar to him.1