“He’s the purser on the runs.” Archer squirmed in his chair, his face buried again in the notes of his folder. “The money guy. He makes the deals and he runs the exchanges.”

“What do you know about him? Tell me everything.”

Archer watched Condley nervously. “I know what you’re thinking, but you can’t do this. It will blow up in all our faces. We can’t stop you but we can’t help you either, Mister Condley.”

“I’m not asking for help. I just want some information.”

“These guys are well-trained and well-armed. You don’t have a prayer. I’m not kidding you.”

“Brandon,” said Muir. “Listen to him. He’s a very realistic man.”

“I want to know about Brandywine,” said Condley. “A very good source told me this is our guy Deville. You know Sal Marino?”

“Sal Marino?” Archer shook his head dismissively. “We’ve followed Sal for a long time. How do you think he got busted in Japan? Not your most credible witness in a trial.”

“I’ve known him for twenty years,” said Condley. “I even—uh, dated his daughter at one point. He’d never bullshit me about something like this.”

“But what do you know about him and Brandywine?” Archer had become intense, with the demeanor of a defense counsel. “For all we know, your friend Marino is playing off a grudge. Maybe Brandywine crossed him up over something. Maybe he thinks Brandywine got him thrown into jail in the Japan deal. He could be setting us all up, Mister Condley. He isn’t too happy with our own drug-enforcement people, and he’d be laughing his rear end off if we bumbled around and embarrassed the American drug effort here. A true Sal Marino moment, setting off two enemies against each other.”

Condley grunted, folding his arms in disgust. “No wonder you guys never solve shit around here.”

“We put Sal Marino away.”

“Now, there’s a major victory. A true kingpin.”

Archer took a deep breath, looking again inside his folder. “Okay. All right. Brandywine is a rather mysterious fellow. I don’t think we even have a picture of him. According to local lore, he’s been living in the mountains west of Chiang Mai for decades. He’s got his own army up there. Apparently he fought and killed his way up through the ranks of the drug business, so to speak. He’s the Svengali of the Vietnamese connection. He set it up, he runs the show, he pays the bills, and he keeps the money.”

“How often do they run the trucks?”

“Once a week. They’ve never been challenged, so it’s a clockwork operation.” Archer rubbed his temples. “I hate to say this, but the next drop-off is probably tonight.”

“Where?”