“Large amounts of money and very very good connections.”

     “I was told it couldn't be done.”

     “That is trash. No offense.”

     “A week before he left the States, Lito Sanchez bought sixty assault rifles and had them shipped to a warehouse near the docks. Ammunition, too.”

     He had been about to speak into the receiver. But he looked at me and put his hand over the mouthpiece and said, “He transferred them here?”

     “I don't know where else.”

     “After a while, huh?” he said into the phone, and then covered the mouthpiece again.

     “Do you know the vessel?” he said.

     “I'm not a hundred percent sure. There was nothing direct from California to Manila around that time. But if he was sending it out as soon as he could—I assume he would—there was a ship to Yokohama a couple of days later. Then it would have gone here on a feeder line.”

     “When does that arrive?”

     “About three weeks ago.”

     His mouth formed a small thoughtful O.

     “I don't believe we should travel by air,” he said.

     “Whatever you say.”

     “There is an inter-island ferry twice a week, Manila to Bacolod. It leaves again on Wednesday. The passage is twenty-four hours. It will not be so unpleasant if we book a first-class cabin. As for lodging, my sister and her husband have a spare room. Their home is unpretentious, but clean.”

     “It's up to you,” I said. “Why?”

     “If you arrive by air, if you stay at the Green Fields, they will know immediately that you are in Bacolod.”

     “Who do you mean?”

     “The friends of Lito Sanchez.” The question seemed to surprise him. That I would have to ask.

     “Who are they?”