The man charged with making all this possible was Herbert Roper, an English anthropologist and linguist. He spoke a number of the languages of the Sino-Tibetan, Indo-European, Altaic, and Mon-Khmer groups and was a veritable erupting volcano of knowledge. He was the gentle type, with the build and manner of a man married to academia. But like many married men he had a secret life. His appetite for beautiful women was voracious and he unashamedly preferred the company of those who had husbands of their own. He was an unlikely but seemingly successful Lothario. Perhaps it was the thrill of the illicit that drew him to bored housewives and them to him. His list of conquests included the wives of men of wealth and power who, had they known, could have ended Roper’s philandering at the end of a razor blade.

When he arrived, flustered, in the UNDP foyer he was already sweating even though he’d come from his air-conditioned office. He was dressed for a chilly spring evening in Surrey. He gave a soggy handshake to Siri but wiped his hand on his trousers before taking the hand of Madam Daeng. Siri observed that this handshake lasted a little too long for his liking. Daeng didn’t seem to mind at all.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said unconvincingly in fluent Lao. He didn’t take them to his office or invite them to sit. He’d obviously planned for this to be a brief visit. That suited Siri.

“We’ve been informed that you’re traveling to Thakhek this weekend,” said the doctor.

“By helicopter,” said Daeng.

Roper only had eyes for her.

“That’s true,” he said.

“We would like to go with you,” said Daeng.

Roper produced one of those condescending British smiles that leaves a person in no doubt they’ve said something utterly ridiculous.

“Of course that would be totally out of the question,” he said. “Even if you were a politburo member I’d be unable to give permission for such a thing.” He started walking toward the door. “I’m sorry you wasted your time here.”

He noticed the old Lao couple were not following him.

“But there is a way,” said Daeng.

“This is the United Nations,” said the man. “It isn’t a travel agency.”

“Dr. Siri?” said Daeng.

Siri reached into his shoulder bag and produced a single sheet of paper. He unfolded it and read, “Madam Wojcik. The wife of the Polish consul.”

He looked up just in time to see what little color there was in the Englishman’s face drain into his button-down collar.

“I . . .” he said.

“Recently returned from a trip to Bangkok where a confidential maternity test revealed that, despite her advanced years, the good lady is five months pregnant,” Siri continued. “Whence a decision was made to terminate the pregnancy.”

“How . . . ?” said Roper.