Manh grunted. The question was beyond his authority to answer. “I cannot tell you, and again I must warn you. Do not ask me that, and do not mention anything about this mission when you are back in Sai Gon. To anyone. I am serious. It never happened, do you understand? But you should not feel bad. It was like killing the devil.”

The embassy was very near. Dzung knew he would never have another chance to discuss it. “The devil was trying to kill Cong Ly?”

“Yes,” said Manh.

Dzung nodded. They were at the embassy steps. If all went well, he would soon have a good meal and a long sleep on a real bed.

“Then I was on the right side,” he finally said. “And that is good enough for me.”

The gunfight had become irrelevant in a matter of minutes. No one offered to help Condley and Muir, and no one asked them any questions about what had happened. At some point, perhaps tomorrow, the police would arrive and questions would be asked. But for now, it was simply another night in Klong Toey.

Condley eased Muir over the low wall of the slaughter pen, and they moved slowly across the street, finding a place to rest on the wooden slats that made the old lady’s floor. The rats came out, scurrying from beneath the raised slats and heading toward the river. The drivers of other trucks had dragged the five dead bodies out of the road, making a litter pile not far from where Condley and Muir now sat.

Neither was badly shot. The sniper either had an awkward firing angle from behind his truck or had rushed himself after Condley’s ear-shattering scream. Condley took off his T-shirt and ripped it, fashioning a battle dressing that he pulled tightly over the wound in Muir’s thigh. He then folded another piece into a square and pressed it hard into his shoulder, holding it there in an attempt to stanch the bleeding.

“What now, oh master improviser?” asked the professor. His shoes stank of river mud and hog guts, and his face was wet with sweat as he fought against the pain of his wound.

“Now comes Father Mike,” said Condley, nodding toward the rear of the line of trucks.

From the moment he was shot he had known that Father Mike would find him. The only question was whether the priest would bandage him or bury him. Father Mike’s ministry was in Klong Toey. Nothing in the district went past him. And here the frail priest came, half jogging along the dirt road, his hands fussing with each other just above his waist as if he were counting beads on an imaginary rosary. His eyes went this way and that, searching, until he saw the bodies in the road. He stopped, looking down at them and shaking his head. And then behind the bodies he finally saw Condley.