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Before lunch he had a passport for me with a commercial visa for the Philippines. My flight left at three, and we chased the sun through the longest evening of my life. Sixteen hours later we were in Manila. It was night, ten P.M., mist on the Plexiglas. A stewardess came to my seat as the engines spun down. She told me I was being met at the gate.

     The concourse was empty except for an American about my age. He was sallow, paunchy, unkempt. His polo shirt was rumpled, and several limp curls stuck wetly to his forehead. Later I would recognize the type, wilted denizens of bar and brothel. Someone would explain: Why bother looking sharp when any slob with dollars can satisfy any taste at any time—where's the incentive?

     “I think you're looking for me,” I said.

     He shook my hand. Hugh Dalzell, he said, from the embassy. My mind was loggy, and I had to think about it before I realized that he meant ours.

     “We've been in contact with your people,” he said. “Just want to make sure you're well looked after. The thing's a damn shame.”

     “Any news?”

     Killed in Bacolod, Gilsa had told me, shot through the head. It was all he knew.

     “Why don't we wait? Somebody from the police'll be at the hotel tonight. We only know what they tell us. They'll bring us both up to speed.”

     We walked down the concourse. Instantly I began to sweat. They should turn on the air-conditioning, I said, and Dalzell said, It is on, just wait.

     There were long lines at Immigration, but he went to an