“How would he know you met with Marino?”

“We don’t know what he knew, and we don’t know why he did it.”

“Of course we do! Brandon, don’t play games with me, not when we’re about to try to—apprehend this man.”

Condley’s eyes had gone molten, as if there was so much burning inside him that his brain had turned lava-hot. “It already happened, okay? What can we do about it? Let the Thai police figure that out. We don’t have the time.”

Muir looked worriedly around the terrace, as if he might see Deville creeping toward him at that very moment. “Archer says he can’t imagine them going through with the delivery tonight.”

“Sure they will. He’s already launched the job. The Vietnamese trucks had to leave Sai Gon yesterday in order to get here tonight. He knows we work for the government, and he knows governments are slow. And around here they’re either bought off or deliberately looking the other way.”

“Don’t you have any thoughts about your friend Sal?” Muir said nothing else, just sitting at the table, staring upriver into the fading pink sun and twirling his beer.

“Focus your mind, Professor. If you want the truth, it’s obvious. He killed Marino to scare us.”

“Well, it worked with me.”

“Why? Didn’t you think this was real before?” Condley watched the gentle scientist for another moment and melted a bit. After all, this was his calling, his way of life, not Muir’s. “You can always wait for me here. Or just go back to the hotel.”

Muir twirled his beer some more, staring at the bottle as he worked his mouth into little grimaces. “Obviously, I am tempted by that thought.”

“You’ve got nothing to gain by going down there. And no offense, but you’d probably be in the way.”

Muir thought about it some more and then looked up at Condley. “We’ve been through a lot together, Brandon.” He smiled self-consciously. “I guess that sounds like a cliché, but I’m oddly proud of it, sick as it might seem. And if I didn’t come tonight, I’d feel like I was abandoning you. You need someone to look out for you, whether you’ll admit it or not.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Condley, reaching his hand across the table.

Muir took his hand, shaking it firmly. “Actually, I’m counting on you to indeed have some kind of a plan.”

“I do,” said Condley, smiling grimly. “My plan is to see their plan, and then improvise.”

Muir rolled his eyes, then sighed deeply. “Are there any . . . shall we say, specifics to this idea?”

“Four trucks,” said Condley. “Two driven by Vietnamese, two driven by Burmese. A white guy taking a payoff. And drivers trading places.”

“A white guy with a gun.”

“There’ll be more than one gun. So maybe I can use your eyes.”