“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 associated 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 Japanese defeated the Nationalists. My grandfather was killed, and my father moved the family down toward the border of Vietnam. Then the Japanese 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 Japanese were driven out, and the Viet Minh, who had been fighting the Japanese, 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 assets 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.