“Klong Toey.” Archer sighed now, as if defeated. “Okay, here’s how it works. Every night in Klong Toey they slaughter around three thousand hogs for the Bangkok market. Thai pork is famous.”

Condley gave Archer a knowing grin. “I sold a few hogs there back in the late seventies. When I worked security for the Black Diamond Food Group.”

“You do get around, Mister Condley,” said Archer, recognizing the company as an old CIA front. He loosened up a bit. “Take any goats to Iran?”

“Lots of goats. A nasty place, Iran.”

“Right. Okay. Then you know they kill the hogs in Klong Toey at night, because there’s no refrigeration. It’s cooler then, and they can deliver the meat to the shops and restaurants at first light. A lot of hogs are raised in the west. So the Burmese trucks bring in hogs from Chiang Mai along with their heroin. It makes the trucks less conspicuous when they’re heading into Bangkok, just in case some dumb police officer who hasn’t gotten the word stops them on the highway. And once the trucks are switched at Klong Toey, it’s not unusual to see empty trucks heading back toward Chiang Mai in the morning. Same with the Vietnamese trucks. They bring in a load of hogs that they pick up after they cross the Cambodian border. After they’re slaughtered they drop off the meat in Bangkok—legitimate business, there—and hit the road. Bring back a load of stereos and TVs in the trucks with the heroin.”

“Two truckloads of heroin a week.” Condley let out a low whistle. “Very serious money, even if you’re just taking a payoff.”

“Millions,” agreed Archer. “I couldn’t even put a number on it.”

“Pigs!” exclaimed an amazed Muir. “A brilliant idea, actually. What policeman in his right mind would want to search a truck filled with stinking, stomping, screaming hogs?”

“Exactly,” shrugged Archer. He straightened his tie, a signal that he was finished. “Look. I’ve given you what I know. But I’ve also done my best to warn you. If you try to pull off something stupid, you’re not only going to get killed, you’re going to embarrass the government of the United States of America.”

“And how would that happen, Paul?” asked Condley, weary of the CIA agent’s persistent nervousness. “All you have to do is deny that you knew what I was up to. Tell them that my track record indicates I was down in Klong Toey trying to fuck a pig.”

“We’ll definitely do that,” said Archer, closing his briefcase and standing. “Seriously, Mister Condley, I’d suggest that your most logical course of action would be to rethink your whole involvement here. Give us some time. If we can establish that Brandywine is indeed this man Deville, and if you can get us something more concrete regarding his past criminal activities, we’ve got a case.”