“Ting,” said Chet. He looked hurt. “I’m a businessman. I don’t deal with that. But no one was killed.” Although I felt certain that he was not sure of this. Chet’s eyes flickered over to me, then returned to the road. “You remember when Batac declared martial law. There was the bomb that went off in Plaza Miranda.”

I said, “I was three, and you were five, so no.” But I knew the Plaza Miranda bombing had been a false flag, the whole thing arranged by Batac, who blamed it on the communists. We had all known it was Batac, but the power of his story had overwhelmed the truth.

“Do you know how many people died that day? Nine, one of them was a five-year-old. Ninety-five people were injured. This was an incident without bombs. No blood was shed.”

But blood had been shed. There had been the bomb in Baclaran Church, now conveniently forgotten or downgraded to collateral damage. Chet had blood on his hands, and so did I.

We were quiet for some time. The air-conditioning was on full blast and the joints of my arms were beginning to ache, reminding me that I was still alive. Chet was following my thoughts. He did blame me. He blamed me for my stupidity. In the great machine of his plan, there had been but one faulty circuit, and that had been me. Or his inability to control me. He was now blaming himself.

“And what will happen to Laird?” I said.

“The plan is that he goes to Shanghai for a few months. After that, who knows?”

“Is that still the plan?”

“Now you’re worried about him?” Chet laughed coldly. He had a harsh smile in his eyes and for the first time I saw the wrinkles forming. “He’s the one who said you were with Inchoy. He knew from your aunt. It’s his fault they’re looking for you.”

We pulled up to a gate that opened to an enclosure encircled by a chain-link fence. A wiry old man with his cap pulled low over his eyes undid a padlock, pulled the chain, and let us through. Another man in jeans and sunglasses stood at a distance, an Armalite held casually in his hands. There was a hangar of rusting iron, a gas tank, a corroded water tower that was standing at a tilt and looked ready to collapse. The area was paved with deteriorating concrete, broken by uneven earth and young trees that burst through its seams. A rooster ran across the busted tarmac, flapping its wings but unable to take flight. We sped along, bumping across the rutted terrain, heading—now I saw—to a four-seater plane, its propellers going, the grumble of its engine reaching through the tinted windows and air-conditioned hum of the car.