“You realize, you're talking crates of guns. Cases of ammunition. Have to bring that, too, 'cause ammo's just as hard to get. Crates and cases of stuff so hot, the money involved—forget money, it would transcend money—no way. And what would he do with it anyhow? Enough to equip two platoons of infantry. No way.”

     He looked over at me.

     “No way,” he said.

     The Silahis was in a strip of high-rise hotels strung bayside, facing the water, just below downtown. They are slick, bright places, set in the belly of Manila like faceted quartz in dirty fieldstone. An attendant was at the curb. His white glove was on my door before the Dodge had stopped.

     When we were out of the car, Dalzell pulled a wad of peso bills from his pocket, notes of red and blue, green and brown. He passed the attendant a blue one—blue, I would learn, is the color of twos—and flicked a finger at a Jeep in dark drab, parked in front of the Dodge.

     “Whose is that?” he asked.

     “Sir, that belongs to a colonel of the Philippines Constabulary, and a captain, I believe.”

     “That has to be them,” Dalzell said to me. We climbed the steps. “The P.C. is the national police, but they're military—lots of juice. Hot to trot, what'd I tell you, they wheel out a P.C. colonel and a captain. You must be Queen for a Day. Now, I know you're feeling wiped. But you should talk to them before you check in. You cannot let these honchos sit around waiting for you. It isn't done.”

     The lobby was brass and marble and polished wood. To one side was a coffee shop, slightly elevated on a low balcony. The two officers were at a table by the rail, wearing khaki, sprawled in their chairs, holding cigarettes and tipping squat brown bottles of San Miguel beer; they were watching women walk by in the lobby, smirking, and we