Martelino sifted through his photos. “I have something.” He opened a desk drawer and shuffled through papers. “Their troops have agreed to turn over their weapons. It is wonderful. We will have peace after so many years. Yes, this is what I mean.” He withdrew a color photograph from a manila envelope and handed it to Klay.

In the photo, six men and a woman stood in a line behind a long table covered in food.

“This is a boodle fight. Do you know boodle fight?”

“I am not a fighter, Father.”

“Oh, ha ha. You could be. A boodle fight is not a fight. It is a feast. Like your Thanksgiving. It’s how the cadets used to eat at the Philippine Military Academy, you know . . .” He shoveled at his face with his hands.

Klay was looking at the figures, memorizing their faces.

“We cover a long table with banana leaves. Then lay down a wide road of rice. Let’s see. It is shrimp, mussels, crabs, bangus—milkfish, which is our national fish. Ampalaya, which I don’t like, too slimy. Adobo. Tilapias. Pork. Chicken. Duck. Anything.” Martelino licked his lips. “You must repeat the ingredients over and over so that everyone can get some of everything. You eat it with your hands. Oh, not pork.” Martelino tapped the photograph. “I remember. We did only seafood and chicken for this because pork is haram. You see, I wanted to honor my uncle. They eat boodle-fight-style because they need to move quickly and cannot have glassware breaking. And also, you eat standing up, shoulder to shoulder, for the team building.”

“Who are these people, Father?”

Martelino leaned forward and lifted his glasses. “Of course that is me.” He pointed a chubby finger to himself at one end. “I am the president’s peace negotiator. There is the leader of the Abu Sayyaf. That one is MILF, who is my uncle. There is the one for the communists. Here is Mr. Wei from the Chinese embassy.”

“China?”

“Ah, so close to the South China Sea. The president said we must involve them. I told him it is a mistake—the Moros will not do business with China. But he has other concerns . . .”

Klay studied the photograph. At the photo’s edge was a tall woman with closely shaved hair and skin the color of milk tea. She seemed uncomfortable, leaning at the edge of the photo as if to evade it. “This one?”

“Ah, that one is called Mapes, or something. The Moros would not accept an American government observer, so then we got her. She is a businesswoman.” He shrugged. “She works for the Perseus Group companies.”

A SURPRISE ENCOUNTER

Ninoy Aquino International Airport

Manila, Philippines