Just off to their left, on a powder-dry half acre turned into a playground, a dozen little children pretended to chase an uninterested dog. A shirtless man walked toward them along a mud pathway. His muscles were young and hard, but his face was devastated with wrinkles. His eyes were so red that they appeared to be burned by fire. A naked boy ran happily toward him from the little plot of dirt. The man grabbed his young son in his arms, turned him upside down, and put the boy’s penis in his mouth.

Dzung walked a few steps further, uneasy in these raw surroundings. “What do they call this place?”

“They call it Klong Toey,” said Manh, enjoying his status as an expert travel guide. “We are at the very end of the district, in what is called the slaughterhouse section. The river is down there, on the other side of these buildings.”

It was four o’clock. Even as they walked, the trucks began arriving, one at a time, bringing the hugest hogs Dzung had ever seen to the concrete pens. Young men with hard bellies and shattered faces and wild tattoos were waiting for the hogs. They quickly unloaded each truckload at the pens’ open gates and shuttled the hogs inside. Soon the slaughter would begin, and it would last all night.

“So, this is the place where I will . . . sell my rice,” said Dzung, watching Manh’s face for clues as he spoke.

“Yes,” said Manh simply. “But we still have preparations to make. Nothing can go wrong. We will get only one chance.”

“I know that,” said Dzung. “You’ve told me a thousand times.” He checked Manh’s face again. “Where?”

“There, I think,” said Manh, pointing to the road just before them, where two open-bedded trucks were now waiting to unload their hogs. He stopped on the road, squinting at the trucks for a moment. “Think of yourself right here, Mister Trong. In the dark. Think hard! Get your bearings.” He looked at Dzung, his dark eyes searingly alive, then began walking toward a narrow path that bordered one of the concrete gutters. “Now down here. Follow me!”

Dzung caught up with him and began following him down the dirt path. Cong Ly? Here? “Who?” he asked.

“Whoever I tell you to,” said Manh. “You must not think of a person, Mister Trong. You must keep your mind totally clear of that. You will be shooting a target, that is all. It has no face, no name. You cannot afford to personalize this mission. You will shoot only when I tell you to, and only the person I tell you to shoot.”

“Tonight?” asked Dzung. The path dropped slightly, and through the little slum of makeshift hooches he saw the wide, churning river.

“Tonight, I am fairly sure,” said Manh. “But there is a possibility that he may not be here tonight.”

“If he is not here, what do we do?”