“So she won’t remember us?” asked Dzung cautiously, watching her face as he sat near Manh.

“What does that matter?” shrugged Manh. He opened up his pack and took out the boiled chicken and rice they had cooked in the embassy kitchen. “Shoot what you’re told to shoot, Mister Trong. As long as none of their people get hurt, they won’t care at all.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Hanson Muir was waiting for Condley at a table on the back terrace of the Oriental Hotel, idly nursing a beer as he looked longingly at a firmly built German woman in a string bikini who was sunbathing at the edge of the nearby swimming pool. Sharing a drink and a snack at the Oriental had been Condley’s idea. It seemed a nice way to kick things off, sitting next to the river under the smiling eyes of doting young waitresses who fawned over their every move, in the shadow of the grand hotel that had been there long before they were born and would still be there long after they were gone. The Oriental was expensive but Condley had recaptured his money, so at that moment expensive appealed to him. He took great delight in the idea of paying the bill with a wad of Ted Simolzak’s cash.

“You should buy her a lemonade,” said Condley, following the professor’s gaze as he took his seat.

“We don’t have time for that, do we?”

Condley checked his watch, eyeing Muir. “It depends on how fast you work.”

“Dreadfully slow,” chuckled Muir, patting his ample stomach with one hand. “You think in terms of minutes, Brandon, and I measure things in terms of centuries.”

“Better hold the lemonade.”

“Did you find Van?”

Condley beamed, raising his shirt slightly and tapping the pistol so that Muir could see. “I traded her for a Glock.”

“Simolzak?”

“Sort of,” said Condley. “Or I should say, for now. It could have been anybody. She wanted out.”

“Sorry about that, Brandon.”

“We’ve got more important things to think about.”

Professor Muir’s beer had sweated a little pool of water on the outdoor table. He twirled it, looking far upstream toward the setting sun. “Archer called. Sal Marino’s dead.”

Condley grunted, as if he was not surprised. “How many hands did he have when they found him?”

“One, actually.” Muir’s eyes were wide, and his face was lit with apprehension. Finally he could hold it back no more. “Is that all you have to say about this? The man is dead, Brandon. This was a rather prompt response, don’t you think? I just met him last night. He’s dead and his hand is gone. I doubt we have many copycat killers out there who know what we’re after. So what does this tell us?”

“It means Mister Deville is in town,” said Condley, “and evidently he’s pissed.”