“He wasn’t talking about dying,” lied Condley, turning around and watching his suffering, sweating friend as the cyclos wove their way along patched roads. He shouted over the noise of honking cars and droning motorbikes. “He said ‘dining.’ District Four’s got a lot of good restaurants.”

“Oh,” said Muir uncertainly, checking his watch again and blinking exhaust fumes out of his eyes. “Well, we already ate.” Muir thought about it some more. “Then why’d he say it was bad?”

“Because he knew we already ate.”

“I don’t believe you, Brandon.”

Just in front of them two motorbikes collided in the heavy traffic, sending their occupants spinning and sliding along the pavement. One, an older man wearing a worn brown army officer’s hat, whose fixed, stoic glare reminded Condley immediately of Colonel Pham, struggled to his feet and walked scraped and bleeding back to his bike. Picking it up, he drove away without so much as a word as blood dripped from his forehead and fingers. The other, a thin young man dressed in a flowing white shirt, lay motionless on the pavement, apparently out cold. The rear wheel of his motorbike still raced nearby as two pedestrians began to drag him out of the traffic, which had hardly slowed its incessant pace.

“Too many Hon Da,” noted Dzung philosophically.

“I need to call Hawaii,” moaned Muir, checking his watch.

“They’ll be there when we get back,” laughed Condley. “If you make it back.”

Muir was sweating profusely, even more heavily than Luong, who was transporting him with the power of his thin, churning legs. “You know, Brandon, the reason I’ll never trust you is that you really, honestly don’t give a damn! If something happened to us you’d probably think it was cool! It’d show you had . . . balls.”

“Relax, Professor. I’ve been out here a long time and I haven’t died once.”

“You’re only making me more nervous. We’re heading out of the city. Where are we going? I really don’t need this. We have a very important job to do over the next few days.”

Condley looked back to Dzung, grinning conspiratorially and speaking in Vietnamese. “My brother’s afraid.”

Now Dzung’s face changed. Once publicly admitted, Muir’s fear became personal to him, a matter of his own responsibility and honor. He took control, as surely as if this were a combat mission a whole lifetime before. He angled his cyclo closer to Luong’s and moved just ahead of Muir, so that he was now looking down directly at him.

“Mister Hanson! Sir!” Muir looked up at him, and Dzung waved one arm into the air as he pedaled. “No problem. I know, I know. Khong co sao. It’s okay. You go by yourself, maybe some problem. You my customer, Cong Ly he my good friend.”

“Are you sure?”