I left my name and waited, ate breakfast in my room, watched a morning news broadcast. Two teenage assassins had ambushed an army major and his driver in Manila. A spokesman for the president's office downplayed rumors of a military coup, but acknowledged that loyal military units had taken up positions guarding the palace. Flooding from a recent typhoon had uncovered a mass grave believed to contain bodies of missing left-wing activists. The army reported skirmishes—the news anchor called them “encounters”—with communist rebels in the provinces of Cagayan de Oro, Nueva Ecija, Samar, Leyte; and Negros Occidental.

     Outside, jeepneys wriggled along the boulevard like spawning salmon packed in a stream.

     Around mid-morning a clerk at the front desk rang to tell me that an envelope had been delivered. I dressed and went downstairs. That's when I saw him, sitting in a corner.

     He looked up as I approached.

     “Mr. Rojas,” I said.

     “Ah no, Bembo,” as he stood.

     “I've been trying to get in touch with you.”

     “I am here,” he said. His face showed sly delight. “You wish to speak with me?”

     “I think I need you.”

     “I am at your service, of course.”

     My right hand kept wanting to do something, so I put it out. It seemed a feeble gesture when I did it. But he grasped it anyway, and pumped it.

     We went up together after I got the report. It was in a brown envelope, and it came with a cover note on letterhead that said P.C. Headquarters, Camp Crame, Manila. The colonel exclaimed his pleasure at meeting me, hoped