“I don’t know.” She watched him carefully, as if he were asking a trick question. “Why do they?”

“I don’t know either.” He waved to her, leaving the terrace. “And I don’t know why I’d rather be in Viet Nam. I only know it’s true.”

Hanson Muir and Paul Archer were waiting for him at a table in the Riverside Garden Café. The large café was crowded with western tourists of all ages and stripes, from a few sassy young American backpackers to a large group of loudly dressed older Germans who obviously were part of a tour. A uniformed flight crew from Air New Zealand milled among the tourists, catching a quick meal before a bus took them to the airport.

Muir stood and waved as Condley entered the café. Plates and bowls from a huge buffet breakfast lay scattered on the table in front of him and Archer. Condley teased the ample scientist as he took a chair at the table.

“Getting your money’s worth, huh, Professor?”

“A simple but ample meal, Brandon. I was famished! After the usual spy-infested omelettes of the Rex Hotel, not to mention weeks of airline food, I’m beginning to wonder if this isn’t simply a plot to make me lose weight.”

“The Brandon Condley Diet,” joked Condley. “Keep the boy on the road.” He rolled his eyes slightly, looking at Muir’s bright-orange shirt. “You just can’t get rid of that luau fashion statement, can you?”

Muir waved a huge arm into the air. “I’m perfectly at home here, Brandon. Look around you.”

“Yeah, all those I-went-to-Asia shirts hurt my eyes. It’s like they all stole the same tablecloth.” Condley pointed, sharing a quiet chuckle with Paul Archer. The fortyish, graying CIA agent had shown up in a coat and tie. “Now, look here, Professor. This is the way a self-respecting government employee dresses in Bangkok.” He had not yet met Archer, and now he extended his hand. “Brandon Condley.”

“Take a look at yourself, Brandon,” said Muir as the two shook hands, pointing to Condley’s casual sport shirt and blue jeans. Then he caught himself. “I know, I know. I won’t even finish that thought. So this is Paul Archer, from the American Embassy.”

“Your reputation precedes you, Mister Condley,” grinned Archer. “I’m told you’ve spent a bit of time over on this side.”

“I was a knuckle-dragger for a while,” said Condley. “Up-country and in Laos, mostly. Did some corporate security work after that. I had a few friends around here, but there was never much to do around Bangkok except get laid.” He thought about that. “Not that I have ever been opposed to getting laid.”

Archer laughed. “Like I said, your reputation precedes you.”

“If you didn’t see it with your own eyes, it’s a lie!” bantered Condley.