“Already is.”

“Are you feeling okay?” He stood silhouetted against the window, his unbelted trousers slung low over his hips. Once again she saw the scar, noticed how it rippled its way down his abdomen before vanishing beneath the waistband.

“I’m hot,” she said. “And filthy. And I probably don’t smell so good.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” He paused and added ruefully, “Probably because I smell even worse.”

They laughed, a short, uneasy laugh that was instantly cut off when someone knocked on the door. Guy called out, “Who’s there?”

“Mr. Barnard? It is eight o’clock. The car is ready.”

“It’s my driver,” Guy said, and he unbolted the door.

A smiling Vietnamese man stood outside. “Good morning! Do you still wish to go to Cantho this morning?”

“I don’t think so,” said Guy, discreetly stepping outside to talk in private. Willy heard him murmur, “I want to get Ms. Maitland to the airport this afternoon. Maybe we can…”

Cantho. Willy sat on the bed, listening to the buzz of conversation, trying to remember why that name was so important. Oh, yes. There was a man there, someone she needed to talk to. A man who might have the answers. She closed her eyes against the window’s glare, and the dream came back to her, the grinning face of her father, the sickening climb of a doomed plane. She thought of her mother, lying near death at home. Heard her mother ask, “Are you sure, Willy? Do you know for certain he’s dead?” Heard herself tell another lie, all the time hating herself, hating her own cowardice, hating the fact that she could never live up to her father’s name. Or his courage.

“So stick around the hotel,” Guy said to the driver. “Her plane takes off at four, so we should leave around-”

“I’m going to Cantho,” said Willy.

Guy glanced around at her. “What?”

“I said I’m going to Cantho. You said you’d take me.”

He shook his head. “Things have changed.”

“Nothing’s changed.”

“The stakes have.”

“But not the questions. They haven’t gone away. They’ll never go away.”

Guy turned to the driver. “Excuse me while I talk some sense into the lady…”

But Willy had already risen to her feet. “Don’t bother. You can’t talk sense into me.” She went into the bathroom and shut the door. “I’m Wild Bill Maitland’s kid, remember?” she yelled.

The driver looked sympathetically at Guy. “I will get the car.”

THE ROAD OUT OF SAIGON was jammed with trucks, most of them ancient and spewing clouds of black exhaust. Through the open windows of their car came the smells of smoke and sun-baked pavement and rotting fruit. Laborers trudged along the roadside, a bobbing column of conical hats against the bright green of the rice paddies.

Five hours and two ferry crossings later, Guy and Willy stood on a Cantho pier and watched a multitude of boats glide across the muddy Mekong. River women dipped and swayed as they rowed, a strange and graceful dance at the oars. And on the riverbank swirled the noise and confusion of a thriving market town. Schoolgirls, braided hair gleaming in the sunshine, whisked past on bicycles. Stevedores heaved sacks of rice and crates of melons and pineapples onto sampans.

Overwhelmed by the chaos, Willy asked bleakly, “How are we ever going to find him?”

Guy’s answer didn’t inspire much confidence. He simply shrugged and said, “How hard can it be?”

Very hard, it turned out. All their inquiries brought the same response. “A tall man?” people would say. “And blond?” Invariably their answer would be a shake of the head.

It was Guy’s inspired hunch that finally sent them into a series of tailor shops. “Maybe Lassiter’s no longer blond,” he said. “He could have dyed his hair or gone bald. But there’s one feature a man can’t disguise-his height. And in this country, a six-foot-four man is going to need specially tailored clothes.”

The first three tailors they visited turned up nothing. It was with a growing sense of futility that they entered the fourth shop, wedged in an alley of tin-roofed hootches. In the cavelike gloom within, an elderly seamstress sat hunched over a mound of imitation silk. She didn’t seem to understand Guy’s questions. In frustration, Guy took out a pen and jotted a few words in Vietnamese on a scrap of newspaper. Then, to illustrate his point, he sketched in the figure of a tall man.

The woman squinted down at the drawing. For a long time, she sat there, her fingers knotted tightly around the shimmering fabric. Then she looked up at Guy. No words were exchanged, just that silent, mournful gaze.

Guy gave a nod that he understood. He reached into his pocket and lay a twenty-dollar bill on the table in front of her. She stared at it in wonder. American dollars. For her, it was a fortune.

At last she took up Guy’s pen and, with painful precision, began to write. The instant she’d finished, Guy swept up the scrap of paper and jammed it into his pocket. “Let’s go,” he whispered to Willy.

“What does it say?” Willy whispered as they headed back along the row of hootches.

Guy didn’t answer; he only quickened his pace. In the silence of the alley, Willy suddenly became aware of eyes, everywhere, watching them from the windows and doorways.

Willy tugged on Guy’s arm. “Guy…”

“It’s an address. Near the marketplace.”

“Lassiter’s?”

“Don’t talk. Just keep moving. We’re being followed.”

“What?”

He grabbed her arm before she could turn to look. “Come on, keep your head. Pretend he’s not there.”

She fought to keep her eyes focused straight ahead, but the sense of being stalked made every muscle in her body strain to run. How does he stay so calm? she wondered, glancing at Guy. He was actually whistling now, a tuneless song that scraped her nerves raw. They reached the end of the alley, and a maze of streets lay before them. To her surprise, Guy stopped and struck up a cheerful conversation with a boy selling cigarettes at the corner. Their chatter seemed to go on forever.

“What are you doing?” Willy ground out. “Can’t we get out of here?”

“Trust me.” Guy bought a pack of Winstons, for which he paid two American dollars. The boy beamed and sketched a childish salute.

Guy took Willy’s hand. “Get ready.”

“Ready for what?”

The words were barely out of her mouth when Guy wrenched her around the corner and up another alley. They made a sharp left, then a right, past a row of tin-roofed shacks, and ducked into an open doorway.

Inside, it was too murky to make sense of their surroundings. For an eternity they huddled together, listening for footsteps. They could hear, in the distance, children laughing and a car horn honking incessantly. But just outside, in the alley, there was silence.

“Looks like the kid did his job,” whispered Guy.

“You mean that cigarette boy?”

Guy sidled over to the doorway and peered out. “Looks clear. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

They slipped into the alley and doubled back. Even before they saw the marketplace, they could hear it: the shouts of merchants, the frantic squeals of pigs. Hurrying along the outskirts, they scanned the street names and finally turned into what was scarcely more than an alley jammed between crumbling apartment buildings. The address numbers were barely decipherable.

At last, at a faded green building, they stopped. Guy squinted at the number over the doorway and nodded. “This is it.” He knocked.

The door opened. A single eye, iris so black, the pupil was invisible, peered at them through the crack. That was all they saw, that one glimpse of a woman’s face, but it was enough to tell them she was afraid. Guy spoke to her in Vietnamese. The woman shook her head and tried to close the door. He put his hand out to stop it and spoke again, this time saying the man’s name, “Sam Lassiter.”

Panicking, the woman turned and screamed something in Vietnamese.