“This,” I said, “is a memento from our rampage this morning. The Ly collection is nine-hundred-and-sixty years old. This shard is two months old. From a distance, the pottery looks exactly the same. You only really notice the difference when you handle it.”

“As we did,” said Civilai.

“Nonsense,” said the curator.

“Fakes are heavier than the originals, they’re fired higher, and they have a sort of soapy feel to them. Antique ceramics are made of clay, and clay always has some impurities, often iron, but the collection in the gallery this morning had no rust spots at all. The exhibits on display at the museum comprised very clever fakes.”

“Now I’ve heard everything,” said the curator. “You think I wouldn’t know the difference between genuine and fake earthenware?”

“You certainly would,” said Civilai. “There’s no doubt you knew that the ceramics in the museum . . .”

The curator walked swiftly toward the door. “I won’t stay here to be insulted,” he said.

“Stop him,” said Blazer.

Two of the guards took Marchant by the arms and marched him back into the center of the room.

“How dare you treat me like this,” he said. “I have some very influential friends in parliament, I’ll have you know. You will certainly regret this.”

“I’ve found from experience,” said the prefect, “that people who actually have influential friends have no need to remind anyone of the fact. Go ahead, Doctor.”

“You should find the originals in warehouse eleven at the airport,” I said. “The crates are marked ‘repatriation32b.’ According to the bill of lading the trunks contain household goods belonging to some of your senior people. You’ll be looking specifically for crates eighteen, nineteen and twenty on the manifest.”

“Have your people open them carefully,” said Civilai. “We don’t want any accidents. The names of the three army officers who colluded with the curator here and the names and addresses of the potters and painters recruited into the scheme are in a large envelope tucked into the back of the visitor’s book at the museum. I was afraid it might have been confiscated and lost during my arrest.”

“Or ripped apart in a hail of bullets,” I added for effect.

The curator said nothing.

“How could you know all this?” asked Blazer.

“The Vietnamese who work under the curator and at the airport are no fools,” said Civilai, “although their superiors treated them as such. The Vietnamese staff discovered the plot to replace the collection with fakes, but, given the influence of those involved, they didn’t know who to tell. That’s why they contacted us.”

“And who are you exactly?” asked the prefect.

“A group of patriots who merely wish to protect Vietnamese culture,” I said. “When all this colonial malarkey is out of the way, this will be a single nation again with a common history. It’s probably best if you don’t know any more than that.”