“And we just left a room full of foreign journalists who are in town for exactly two weeks with nice fresh correspondent visas in their passports,” said Phosy. “Any one of them could be our writer. Even the Eastern bloc boys would have a grounding in English.”

“We can’t interrogate all sixty-four of them,” said Daeng. “We need to eliminate some.”

“Well, he’s certainly not Vietnamese,” said Dtui.

“How do you know?” Siri asked.

“He gave Ugly a break,” she said. “They still eat dogs over there. No Vietnamese is going to balk at slicing up a flea bitten mongrel if it serves a purpose.”

They heard a low howl from the street. It might have been a coincidence but Siri doubted that.

“Okay, there are four Vietnamese journalists,” said Daeng. “That takes us to sixty.”

“Not much of a help,” said Civilai.

“We need to start with the threat itself,” said Phosy. “Siri, the writer made a promise that he would have his revenge. That his lust for vengeance is still burning inside him. I’m guessing that when he made that threat initially you would have sensed that it was more than just words. You would have seen him as capable of following through with it. It would have frightened you. For some time you would have been looking over your shoulder. On how many occasions have you experienced that type of fear in your life?”

All eyes turned to Siri. He looked up at the lamp and seemed to be fast-rewinding through his seventy-six years. He sniffed when he reached the end.

“Twice,” he said.

“Then, that’s—” Phosy began.

“Better make it three times,” said Siri. “Just to be sure. Three times when I truly believed the nasty bastard meant what he said and had the resources to keep his promise. I’m not given to panic, but I confess to missing a few heartbeats on those occasions.”

“Then that’s where we start,” said Phosy. “Who’s first?”

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Paris, 1932

I was sitting at an outdoor table in front of the Café de la Paix. I was alone, but I told the waiter in his long white apron that I was expecting someone. He was surprised to hear French from my lips. They usually were. He was unnecessarily polite. All the other tables were occupied by French sophisticates. White people as far as the eye could see. Dapper men with pencil mustaches and straw boaters. Vogue magazine women with bangs that restricted their vision to lap level. White silk dresses billowed in the wind. Champagne bubbled. You’d never have guessed France was in the middle of the Great Depression.