For the second time, Rafferty catches a whiff of something that is quite distinctly not the perfume of paradise. “What am I smelling?”

The smile, such as it is, reappears. “That’s the other creation myth. You’ll see it in a moment.” The golf cart labors up a hill. “I must warn you, your reception will probably not be a warm one.”

“I’m not expecting a corsage.”

“He seems to regret the entire evening. And especially you.”

“Oh, fuck him,” Rafferty says, and Dr. Ravi’s startled sideways glance makes the cart swerve. “I’ll give him whatever he gives me. And something really stinks. It smells like-”

The furrows in Dr. Ravi’s brow are so pronounced that he looks like a basset hound. “I’m quite serious. He’s not at his best this morning. I would avoid offending him.”

“Or what?” Rafferty says. “That’s the question of the day. Or what?”

Dr. Ravi says, “Oh, dear.”

“What do you care? I suppose you have to put up with him, but that’s not my problem. And you know what? You don’t actually have to put up with him. There are lots of jobs for a broad-voweled Oxford graduate like you.”

“ Cambridge.”

“Just checking.”

“You really are a disastrous choice. I don’t know what he was thinking.” The cart crests the hill, and Dr. Ravi says, “There it is. Your other creation myth.”

At the foot of the gradual downslope before them gleams a white marble mansion, a Parthenon of twenty or twenty-five rooms, marble columns and all. In front of it is a small, rickety, blow-the-house-down northeastern farm village: four raggedy stilt houses and a rice paddy half the size of an Olympic swimming pool. A bamboo fence surrounds a churned-up sea of filth in which five mammoth pigs wallow. From the sheer volume of the stink, rich enough to thicken the air to an unwholesome syrup, it’s clear that the pen has not been mucked out in some time. During Rafferty’s weeks in Rose’s village, he has become familiar with pigsties.

“It’s not usually this bad,” Dr. Ravi says, averting his face from the smell without taking his eyes off the road. The paved track, Rafferty sees, will take them past the pigsty before delivering them to the classical pretension of the front porch. “As I said, he’s got an event tonight, an antimalaria fund-raiser, and lots of the big folks will come. He likes to let it all ripen when they’re here.”

“My wife says he rubs their noses in it, but I didn’t know she meant literally.”

“Your wife is Thai?”

“As Thai as tom yum kung.” Tom yum kung is the national soup, eaten everywhere.

“Was she poor?”

Rafferty glances over at Dr. Ravi, but he seems to be giving all his attention to the task of steering the cart. “Very.”

“Then she’ll appreciate this,” he says as the stench envelops them. “The pigs are named after our last five prime ministers.”

AFTER THE SCRAMBLED symbolism of the grounds, the house is just another ordinary Greek Revival mansion roughly the size of the Taj Mahal. Rafferty follows Dr. Ravi across gleaming marble floors until they reach the big, closed double doors at the back of the house.

Dr. Ravi’s knock, so feathery it wouldn’t wrinkle linen, is answered by something that sounds like a sea lion nailed to a rock. With a final glance that combines haughtiness and supplication, Dr. Ravi opens the door and gestures Rafferty through. Rafferty has the feeling that Dr. Ravi wants to hide behind him.

The room they enter is square, with walls approximately twenty-five feet long. The focal point is a teak desk inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The far wall is glass, opening onto a sun-soaked vista of plants and flowers. Seated behind the desk, his back hunched defensively against the glare, is Pan. Without looking up, he says, “You.”

“Always a good guess.” Rafferty bends down to look at Pan’s face. The man cradles his head in both hands as though afraid it will roll off his neck and crack open on the desk. His eyes are deep-sunk and red-rimmed, and a silvery little aura of gray bristle glints on his chin. He has not shaved this morning. The silver dusting his chin looks odd beneath the bootblack sheen of his hair.

“You didn’t waste any time, did you?” Pan snaps in Thai. Dr. Ravi starts to translate, but Rafferty raises a hand.

“If you mean the newspapers,” he replies, also in Thai, “I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Of course you did.”

Rafferty says, “Good-bye, and good luck with your hangover.”

“Wait,” Dr. Ravi says, putting a placating hand on Rafferty’s arm.

“Like I said in the cart, fuck him. I took all the shit last night I’m willing to take.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t mean to offend you,” Dr. Ravi says with an imploring glance at Pan.

“Who else?” Pan squeaks. “Who else had anything to gain?”

Rafferty has a hand on the doorknob. “Any of them. Anybody who wanted a journalist in his pocket.”

After an evaluative moment, Pan mops his face, lowers his head even farther, and says, “Owwwwww. I hurt.”

“Tell somebody who cares.”

“Okay, okay,” Pan says. He closes his eyes in a long wince. “How much not to write it?”

Rafferty hasn’t expected this, although he realizes he should have. He thinks for a moment and says, “I’m not sure I can have this conversation.”

“Five hundred thousand baht. Cash, right now.” Pan slowly opens a drawer, like someone pushing his way through a thick liquid, and pulls out a wad of thousand-baht notes.

“Even disregarding everything else,” Rafferty says, “and there’s a lot to disregard, that’s peanuts.”

Pan’s face is suddenly a deep, choleric red, and he slams the drawer closed with a sound like a pistol shot. He starts to sputter something, then removes one hand from his temple and actually covers his mouth with his fingers and lets his eyes droop shut. He sits there for a moment, breathing heavily, then lowers his hand, opens his eyes, and says, “All right. You’re angry. Pim told me it was my fault.”

“Pim?”

“One of my bodyguards. He said I was terrible.”

“You were.”

“I’m not-I’m not a good drinker,” Pan says.

“You were-” Rafferty turns to Dr. Ravi and says, in English, “I don’t know the Thai. Tell him he was appalling.”

“I think…” Dr. Ravi swallows. “I think he’s already gotten that message.”

“A bodyguard can level with him and you can’t? What kind of amanuensis are you?”

“I’m not an amanuensis. I’m his media director.”

“Goddamn it,” Pan says in heavily accented English. “Speak Thai. Or translate.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Dr. Ravi switches to Thai. “The farang said he also sometimes behaves unwisely when he drinks.”

“I did?” Rafferty asks.

“He is certain he contributed to the problem.” There is a sheen of perspiration at Dr. Ravi’s hairline.

Pan’s eyes look like they were pounded into his head solely to hold up the bags of fluid hanging beneath them. They creak around to Rafferty’s. Pan waits, the pink mouth half open, like someone watching to see whether the water will ever boil.

“I did,” Rafferty says. “We all did.”

A sigh escapes Dr. Ravi.

“All of us,” Pan says. He burps and pats the center of his chest. “We all behaved badly.”

“Fine.”

Pan nods. “One million baht.”

Rafferty says to Dr. Ravi, “Am I allowed to sit down or what?”

“Please, please,” Dr. Ravi says. “Sit.”

“Thanks.” Rafferty pulls a chair to the edge of the desk. “I need to think for a second.”

“Fine.” Pan puts his forehead back into his hands. “If I start to snore, wake me up.”

“How are you going to get in shape for your party tonight?”

Pan says to the desk, “Steam, sauna, herbal tea, massage, boom-boom with triplets from Laos, a few drinks.”

“Triplets?”

Pan grunts. “I really only like one of them, but I’m never sure which one it is.”

“I want to ask you a question.”