“I’ll arrange translators for those that need them and have a talk with them,” said Phosy.

“But, you know, we’re really limiting ourselves,” said Bruce. “We might not be dealing directly with the man who made the threat. He could have hired someone.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Daeng. “The notes seem personal.”

“Then a relative?” said Bruce.

“That’s the most likely,” said Siri. “A vengeful son . . . grandson.”

“Then it could really be any one of the sixty-four journalists here,” said Daeng.

“I can’t interview all of them,” said Phosy. “And don’t forget, we only have threats so far. No dead bodies.”

Daeng said it was superstition, but Siri believed that talking about the dead increased the odds of encountering them. Fate had a wicked sense of humor. He immediately reached for the amulet beneath his shirt, but it was too late. Standing beyond the half-closed shutter was Phosy’s deputy, Captain Sihot.

“Evening, all,” he said.

“What is it?” Phosy asked.

“There’s been a . . . an accident,” said the captain.

“Anybody . . . ?”

“Two,” said Sihot.

“I knew it,” said Siri.

“I’m working sixteen hour days already,” said Phosy. “Can’t you just take care of it?”

The captain thought about it.

“No,” he said.

The morgue at Mahosot Hospital had been opened for the night. It had the smell of a plastic bag that had once contained stale pork sausages. The two bodies were laid out side-by-side on aluminum dollies. A half circle of non-matching people stood staring down at them. Siri recognized the new Minister of Justice, a short army general by the name of Sing; Comrade Sikum who had taken over as head of the Public Prosecution department following the execution of his predecessor; Bjorn, the disagreeable Swede from the previous evening; the Australian ambassador and his translator; and a man in short trousers with a fishing net over his shoulder. Finally, there was Comrade Intara, the head of protocol assigned to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the coordinator of the journalists’ visit. It was he who spoke first.

“Phosy, you have to do something about this,” he said.

“I don’t yet know what this is,” said Phosy.

“I think I can tell you,” said the Swede. His fluent textbook Lao felt overly fussy but it was understandable to all but the Australian. Phosy stepped up to the tables. He recognized the two men: the journalist scholar Marvin and the photographer Jim.

“I met you with these two last night,” he said. “What happened between then and now?”