Knight would gladly take all the cubs off their hands, but what he really needed were fully grown breeding cats he could launder into Lee’s big-cat “sanctuaries” in Southeast Asia. He clicked deeper down his in-box, stopping at an e-mail featuring a mature purebred Sumatran with a stunning iridescent burnt-orange pelt. The price was $100,000—fair market value for such a specimen. Knight raised his phone to call the owner, then paused, entranced by the tiger’s fiery eyes peering back at him with their raw, primal intensity. A few seconds passed. Knight realized he had stopped breathing. All he could think about was the fact that any tiger he bought would end up in a vat of rice wine. He forced himself to take a breath and shut his computer.

Knight crossed to the window, feeling unmoored and adrift as he looked out into the dying light of the city. He thought about pouring himself a Johnnie Walker from the minibar, but he couldn’t move.

For the past several years, his mind had been orbiting an idea. It was like the sun: always there, just out of sight, never to be examined directly. But ever since he saw the farm in Thakhek, he had felt the urge to stare into it, though knowing that if he did, it would be blinding. That thought was the ghastly possibility that Knight had built his life profiting off the suffering of animals.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He answered, gathering himself.

“How are my tigers coming?” Lee asked.

“I’m working on it.”

“Good. I also owe you some gratitude. We investigated the rhino poisoning you mentioned, and discovered the source. It was one of our suppliers—a South African.”

Knight’s stomach sank. He remembered that in his frightened state in Myanmar, he’d tried to prove his indispensability by revealing to Lee that his supply chain was being poisoned. He hadn’t mentioned Cobus by name, but it wouldn’t have taken long for Lee’s people to connect those dots. Knight had written the conservationist’s death warrant. The only remaining question was whether it had already been carried out. He swallowed, his throat dry.

“A South African?” Knight played dumb. “Where is he now?”

“Macau. We’re handling it.”

Knight called down for the valet to fetch his rental car, then raced out the door. Within minutes, he was pulling onto the newly constructed Hong Kong–Macau Bridge. The cars formed a uniform stream of electrons traversing the circuit over the inky void of the Pearl River Delta.

Knight mashed the gas pedal, swerving chaotically around traffic as he dialed his phone. He had already tried Cobus twice and hadn’t gotten through. “Come on, you dumb tree-hugging son of a bitch! Answer your phone!” The call went to a generic voicemail, and Knight hung up.

The cars ahead slowed as a road worker waved for them to stop. Knight gripped the wheel in frustration.