Mr. Lee's hand was small and dry. Totally without strength. It made Moon think of bird bones.

"Excuse me," Mr. Lum Lee said. "I would present the son of my oldest daughter, Mr. Charley Ming. Mr. Ming has been good enough to be of a.s.sistance to me while I am in the United States."

Mr. Ming's hand, in contrast to his grandfather's, was a wrestler's: broad, hard, strong. But his smile was bashful. He held one of the room's two chairs for his grandfather, refused Moon's offer of the second one, and sat ramrod erect on the edge of the bed, holding his hat in his lap. Mr. Lee had placed his hat on the dresser beside his chair. His thick gray hair was cut short, into military bristles.

"I think your secretary will have told you I called," Mr. Lee said.

"Yes," Moon said. "But she didn't tell me anything about your business. She didn't say you would be coming to see me." How had this man located him? It must have been through either the airline security office or the hospital. And, if his courtesy went deeper than his words, why hadn't he called from the lobby to see if this visit was welcome? Was it because he didn't want to take a chance that Moon would want to avoid him? Moon found himself smiling at that. He'd seen too many movies about Oriental intrigue.

Mr. Lee looked abashed. "I am very sorry about this," he said. "I hope this visit is not inconvenient to you in any way. If it is-" Mr. Lee reached for his hat and started to rise.

"No, no. Not at all," Moon said. "I'm delighted to meet a friend of my brother."

"And a business a.s.sociate as well," Mr. Lee added.

"We don't know much about his death," Moon said. "Just what his attorney told my mother, and what the American consulate told us. All about the same. But no details."

"It was a tragedy," Mr. Lee said. "A genuine loss. A fine young man. An honorable man." He shook his head solemnly. His eyes behind the thick lenses seemed even more watery and vague.

"Could you tell me anything more about it? All we were told is that he was in a helicopter in Cambodia, and it crashed in the mountains near the border with Vietnam, and Ricky was killed."

"I understand the wreckage was found by a unit of the Army of the Republic of Vietnam," Mr. Lee said. "The helicopter had burned when this unit arrived."

"Ricky was flying it?" Moon said.

"I think not. Another man was the pilot, I believe, excuse me," Mr. Lee said. "A Mr. Pol Thiu Eng, who works for R. M. Air. I believe it was him. I beg your pardon."

"They never told us anything," Moon said. "Just that it was an accident. Do you know how it happened? Or what Ricky was doing? They said he was flying out of Cambodia."

Mr. Lee looked thoughtful. "Business," he said. The sound of jet engines overhead engulfed the room. Mr. Lee sat patiently, studying his hands, waiting for silence. "I would think it would have been business."

"His business was helicopter repair and maintenance," Moon said. "Mostly avionics. Repairing the electronic gear on aircraft. He has a maintenance contract with the South Vietnamese Air Force. Or had one."

"With the Army of the Republic of Vietnam, I believe," Mr. Lee said. "With ARVN and with the RVN, the navy, too. Excuse me. With General Thang, I believe. Yes. But Mr. Mathias also had other business as well, and in Cambodia I believe it would be primarily the delivery business."

"Delivery?" Of course Ricky would have other businesses. Ricky wasn't the sort to be happy with just one iron in just one fire.

"A good business in recent times," Mr. Lee said. And added what sounded like "Unfortunately." But the word was drowned by another jet overhead. When it had pa.s.sed, Mr. Lee allowed his small round mouth to shape itself into a smile. "Delivering things out of places where the Communists are coming in. Delivering property to Hong Kong and Singapore and Manila-places that are secure. People who own valuable things will pay well for such deliveries."

"Oh," Moon said.

Mr. Lee shrugged, his expression philosophical. "I myself have paid well," he said. "It is these terrible times we live in. Buddha taught us that one who runs against the wind carrying a torch will surely burn his hand. And yet we run against the wind."

"This is how you were a.s.sociated with Ricky?"

Mr. Lee nodded.

"As a customer?"

"As a contractor," Mr. Lee agreed. "Mr. Mathias's company sometimes contracted to pick up an item somewhere for me and take it someplace else."

"In Cambodia?"

"In Cambodia. In Laos. In Vietnam. My home had been in Vietnam, in the highlands where it is cooler. But unfortunately, the war-" Mr. Lee shrugged again and lapsed into silence. Moon thought of the letter to Ricky. The details that had been incomprehensible when he'd read it must have referred to this delivery business.

"And now, where is home?"

Mr. Lee smiled. "Home?" He thought about it and smiled ruefully. "It is still in Vietnam," he said. "I moved out of the mountains to a place near Hue. It proved an unfortunate choice."

"I guess I meant the family home," Moon said, wondering why he'd bothered to ask that standard polite question.

"The family comes from South China," Mr. Lee said. "Canton. But the Nationalist Army defeated the warlord faction there, and my grandfather moved our family to the south. Then the j.a.panese defeated the Nationalists. My grandfather was killed, and my father moved the family down toward the border of Vietnam. Then the j.a.panese were defeated by the Americans and we moved again. And then the Communists defeated the Nationalist Army and my father was killed."

Mr. Lee sighed. "A long story," he said. "I moved the family into Indochina. But the French came back in when the j.a.panese were driven out, and the Viet Minh, who had been fighting the j.a.panese, began fighting the French. My two brothers and my son were killed then. After the French were driven out, the Americans came in, and my wife and one of my grandchildren were killed and we moved again-" Mr. Lee broke off the recitation with an apologetic look at Moon. "I beg your pardon," he said. "You were being polite. I was boring you with a family history."

"No, no," Moon said. "I am interested."

"But you are also a busy man. With many responsibilities. I must not waste your time. I must tell you that I am here because one of the very last transactions your brother and I engaged in was not concluded. Not totally completed. The tragedy interrupted it. The delivery was not consummated."

He peered at Moon through the thick lenses, his watery eyes seeking understanding.

"The goods were on the helicopter when it crashed?"

"I think not," Mr. Lee said, looking sad.

A jet came over, lower than usual. Mr. Lee waited.

So did Moon. It was the fatigue, he thought, that gave these two men, and the room, and everything else, a sense of unreality. He glanced at Mr. Charley Ming, who-caught staring-looked away. Mr. Lee was looking down at his small hands, folded in his lap.

"I want to learn where my merchandise has gone," he said. "I think Mr. Mathias put it somewhere for safekeeping. But the people at his company knew nothing about it. Your brother's papers had already been sent to his attorney in Manila. But when I got to Manila, again I was too late. He had sent everything to your mother in the United States." He shrugged, looking at Moon with the question in his face.

"You want to look at Ricky's papers to see if they'll help you find-whatever it was?"

"Exactly," Mr. Lee said. "For that I came to the United States. But when I reached Miami Beach, your mother had already left."

"She brought a few things with her," Moon said. "Mostly letters, I think. She wouldn't have brought business papers. In fact, I doubt if she would have received his business stuff. Whoever is running the business would need them. They would still be in his office, I'd think."

Mr. Lee looked at Moon, examining his face. He made a deprecatory gesture. "I think not necessarily so," he said. "Too bad, I think, but some business in some places must be kept very confidential."

Mr. Lee's expression said that he knew Moon, a sophisticated man, would have already known this, but he explained.

"It is not just in deference to the interests of his clients who don't want their privacy invaded, but in the interests of your brother. He wouldn't want too much unneeded information written down in files. Almost everybody can open files."

"Oh," Moon said, digesting this. "You're saying some of the things Ricky was doing were illegal?"

Mr. Lee looked startled. "Oh, no. No," he said. "Mr. Mathias was an honorable business person. But-" He paused, shrugged. "The helicopters, for example," he said, voice patient. "One of the a.s.sets of Mr. Mathias's company is control of helicopters of the Army of the Republic of Vietnam. And sometimes RVN helicopters. His people fix them and test-fly them, and then he notifies the army, and ARVN pilots come to fly them back to Saigon. Or sometimes pilots of R. M. Air return them to their bases."

"And who is to say where the copter was flown on the test flight?" Moon said. "Or how long it took to repair it?"

"Exactly," Mr. Lee said. "And who is to care? And, of course, a helicopter of the Army of the Republic of Vietnam can fly to places where flying other aircraft would be-" Mr. Lee searched for the right explanation.

"Not be allowed?" Moon suggested. "Or raise questions? Or provoke curiosity?"

"Exactly," Mr. Lee said again. "There would be much filling in of forms, and getting permits, and waiting, and-" Mr. Lee grimaced and rubbed thumb and fingers together, the universal symbol for bribery.

Moon nodded. Ricky was not the sort to overlook an opportunity.

"So one would not look for a file on the business he did with me in the business office of R. M. Air," Mr. Lee said. "One would expect more discretion."

"What was the merchandise?" Moon asked. It wouldn't be drugs. Ricky wouldn't deal with that. Not that Mr. Lee would tell him if it was. Some sort of contraband, though. Something that would require a bit of smuggling. But not something that would make you ashamed.

"An urn," Mr. Lee said. "Antique. Very old. Not very valuable to others, but priceless to our family."

For the first time the big man, whom Moon had come to think of as the bodyguard, spoke. "Yes," he said. "It holds our luck."

"Worth how much?" Moon asked, trying to understand all this.

"Beyond price," Mr. Lee said.

"And my brother seems to have lost it?"

"No, no," Mr. Lee said, agitated that Moon would read such an implication into this situation. "No. Mr. Mathias was a most efficient man. Most dependable. Worthy of complete trust. He would have placed it somewhere safe until he could complete the delivery. But then-" Mr. Lee shrugged, not wanting to mention Ricky's death. "Some things cannot be predicted."

"I'll go through all the papers my mother was sent," Moon said. "If I find anything, where can I reach you?"

Mr. Lee did not react to that. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and extracted a flat case of well-worn silver. He opened it and held it out to Moon, displaying six thin black cigars.

"If you smoke tobacco you will find these excellent," he said.

"I've finally managed to quit," Moon said. "But thank you."

Mr. Lee reluctantly closed the case and returned it to its pocket. "You were wise," he said. "It is known to be bad for one's health."

"But look," Moon said, "It doesn't bother me. Go ahead and smoke."

Mr. Lee extracted the case, and from it a cigar, snipped off the end with a little silver tool designed for the purpose, gave Moon a grateful smile, and lit it with a tiny silver lighter that seemed to be built into the end of his fountain pen. He looked relieved. For the first time in months, Moon found himself yearning for a cigarette.

"Give me a telephone number where I can contact you," Moon said. "Or an address. I'll need that."

"That is most kind of you," Mr. Lee said, savoring the taste of the cigar smoke. "Unfortunately, I think it would not be practical." He turned his face away from Moon and exhaled a thin blue cloud. When he turned back he exposed an apologetic smile. "You see," he said, "I know something of your brother's business procedures. He was most careful. Not just in where he kept records but in what he wrote, when something had to be written."

Mr. Lee's smile apologized in advance again. "Not that this transaction was in any way illegal, you understand. But in Asia these days things are not normal. These days one does not encourage authorities to cause trouble."

"Because of the way he was using government copters?"

"Well, yes. There is that," Mr. Lee said.

"So why keep records at all?"

Through the blue haze which now shrouded him, Mr. Lee looked incredibly old. When he allowed the smile to fade away, his small round face sagged. "I do not know," he said, "but he did. I suppose it was necessary because other people worked for him. And with him. In various businesses. He would need to keep them informed. He wrote letters. He wrote in a way that would be really understood only by those who needed to understand. If I could see such letters, I would recognize any references to-"

The telephone by Moon's elbow rang.

Moon glanced at Mr. Lee, said, "Excuse me," and picked it up.

"Mathias," he said.

A moment of silence. Then a cough. Then, "Yes. h.e.l.lo. Yes."

"This is Malcolm Mathias," Moon said. "Is this Mr. Castenada?"

"Yes," the voice said. "Roberto Castenada. How can I be of service?"

"I'm the brother of Richard Mathias," Moon said. "Your client." He hesitated, thinking he should correct that. Former client. Former brother. "I believe my mother made arrangements with you to bring Richard's daughter to the United States."

"Ah," Castenada said. "To Manila."

"Manila, then," Moon said. "Is she there?"

"Ah," Castenada said. "There are..." The telephone was silent except for the sound of breathing. Moon was tired. Here he was in a Los Angeles hotel room, hearing a man exhaling in Manila.

"Complexities," Castenada said. "Confusions. Many confusions. The child has not yet arrived in Manila. Or if she did arrive, I have not been informed and the child has not been delivered to the Sisters. I just called them and they said no. They have heard nothing."

"Then where is she?"

Mr. Lee had let his fatigue overcome him and sat with eyes closed, head tilted forward. The tone of Moon's question jerked him awake. He sat up, reached for his hat, and stood, signaling his intention to leave. Moon motioned him to sit.

"I do not know what happened," Castenada was saying. He spoke in precise English about the disorders in Laos, advances of the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia, a flood of refugees reaching Saigon, disruptions of communications, cancellations of airline schedules, unusual troubles with visas. "Perhaps they arrived in Manila but are staying with friends. Perhaps they are still in Saigon, having difficulties with exit papers and aircraft reservations. Perhaps. I have tried to make calls, to make inquiries, no one picked up the telephone, and since then I have not been able to get a call through."

"I see," Moon said.

"One cannot do anything," Castenada said, and, in his precise, prissy voice, explained why. Nothing was working in Saigon anymore without bribery. Planes that were scheduled to fly sat on the runways. Planes that were scheduled to arrive didn't arrive. Airports were closed. Borders were closed. Castenada droned on, describing chaos replacing civilization. Across the room Mr. Lee was slumping again, fighting off sleep, being overpowered by some terrible acc.u.mulation of fatigue. He sagged in the chair, face bloodless. Through the thick, distorting lenses his eyes seemed to waver out of focus. Moon glanced at Lee's grandson. The big man was watching his grandfather, looking concerned.

"What are you doing now?" Moon asked. "What steps are you taking to find that child?"

Silence while Castenada considered this. Lee sighed, removed his gla.s.ses, rubbed his eyes.

"Everything that can sensibly be done," Castenada said, finally. "We are waiting for information. When the child arrives at the school, the Sisters will-"

"Can't you do more than wait?"

"Mrs. Mathias arrives today. I will help her make contacts. There seems to be a need to trace this situation backward."

"My mother won't be there today," Moon said. "She's in. the hospital. I think she had a heart attack."

Castenada expressed shock. He expressed sympathy and regrets. He would do what he could, but Moon must understand that might be very little. More was beyond his power. He could determine if the child had arrived in Manila. If she had, he would attempt to trace her. If she had been delayed en route, he would attempt to find where this had happened. But it was not likely that he, Castenada, would have the power to effect the outcome of this affair if the Asian mainland was involved. Perhaps someone would have to go. Sometimes the personal touch was needed. But he could not travel. He could serve only as adviser.

"Thank you," Moon said. "I will call you when I decide what to do."