He was wading through Manila’s crowded airport, on his way home, when he saw him. It was only for an instant, but Klay was certain. Crew cut, protruding ears, dark eyes. Botha’s head had appeared in a gap among Filipinos. Then he was gone. Klay hurried forward. He spotted Botha again walking toward a fast food restaurant.

“Botha!”

The South African turned. He scanned the gallery and seemed not to recognize Klay. Then, suddenly, he smiled. Klay pushed through the crowd. He felt his heart pumping, his adrenaline rising. Ras Botha waited, still smiling. Klay broke from the crowd, and paused. A young boy stood beside Botha.

Botha seemed pleased at Klay’s hesitation, as if he had achieved something. “Merlin,” he said, “this is an old friend of mine, a very famous journalist from The Sovereign. Tom Klay. This is my son, Merlin.”

Botha and his son wore matching red-and-yellow rugby shirts. The boy was the spitting image of his father.

“Hello, Mr. Klay,” Merlin said with none of his father’s harsh Afrikaner accent.

“Hello,” Klay said awkwardly and shook the boy’s outstretched hand.

For a moment no one spoke.

“Are you here for the rugby, Mr. Klay?”

Botha smiled even broader, his eyes awaiting Klay’s response.

“No, Merlin. I’m here on a project.” He looked at Botha.

“Merl, pick us out a table inside and I’ll get the food.”

“Okay, Papa.”

Botha nodded toward the Jollibee counter. “Walk with me,” he said. “You look upset, my bru.” Botha stepped to the counter. “Ya, hon, I’ll have us two Yumburgers. Two chocolate milkshakes. And a halo-halo for my boy.” He turned to Klay. “And something for my big friend here. What’ll you have? How about the Aloha Yumburger? That’s a good one. And a Coke for him, too.”

She brought the drinks. Botha handed Klay the Coke. “You here for the girls? I know you’ll stay away from little boys. But the women, if that’s what you want, it’s worth your trip. I got even better ones, though. You come see me. Czechs. Russians. Thais. I don’t go in for the fish heads, myself. Like getting sucked off by a bullfrog, you know? But Russians. They got noses and real tongues.”

“I heard you like Russians,” Klay said quietly. Inches from the man who had murdered Bernard, Klay could barely contain his fury.

“What’s got your broekies in a knot?”

“You murdered my friend,” Klay hissed. “You shot me.”