He didn't notice me. I had approached from his side, and he was turned toward the door, with a thicket of bodies in front of him. He stood once on his toes, trying to see above the crowd, and when he settled back on his heels a moment later, the ends of his mouth dropped deeper.

     “Are you looking for Jack Hart?” I said.

     “Yes! Absolutely!” he said, turning. “That is you?”

     “That's me.”

     “I am Bembo Rojas,” he said, sounding proud about it. I took his hand when he offered it. I could feel the bones under his skin. “Bembo Rojas. I am your resident operative in the Philippines.”

     “Right,” I said. Works cheap, and you get what you pay for.

     “I telephoned our office in San Francisco. They informed me that you were in route. How was your flight?”

     “I'm here.”

     “Yes. Excellent. I must talk to you. The death of our colleague—we must talk. You have reservations at the Silahis, I believe. My car is nearby, a short distance only.”

     “I have a ride,” I said, and he looked at Dalzell beside me.

     “Ah. Then if you could spare me a few minutes tonight at your hotel.”

     “The police,” Dalzell said to me.

     “When is that?”

     “Appointments don't mean much here, but I'd say not too late. It's embarrassing, an American businessman getting murdered, and they're working overtime to salvage a little face. I'd take advantage while you can. Ningas cogon.”

     “Ah. You speak our language,” Bembo said. The lift had gone out of his voice.

     “What's that?” I asked Dalzell. “What you said?”

     “Ningas cogon,” Bembo said. “A brushfire in the cogon grass.”

     “That's right,” Dalzell said. “Hot as hell for about a