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professional team of archaeological divers the Museum often employed to beef up its own over-stretched resources. Bonifacio Liwag had a real liking for fieldwork, to the extent that his desk in the office down the passage was nearly always empty. He had, Sharon had observed over the years, a real interest in Chinese ceramics and Australian divers. He was rumoured to be a member of Opus Dei, too, an organisation with a shadowy reputation for being a cross between Masonry and the Mafia. She wondered what he would make of Ysabella.

5
    I T WAS NOT UNTIL late morning, after Vic Agusan had said ‘John, it’s a chance’ for the umpteenth time, that the two watchers saw the Tamaraw van approach down the track, lurching in the potholes. They were crouched in weeds, hot and shadeless behind the burnt-out remains of a Fuso truck caught months ago in the crossfire of hardscrabble living. It was an overcast December day but the sunlight was still intense enough for objects to throw faint shadows. In front of them stretched the marshy fringes of northern Manila Bay. They were well off the map, up in the wilds of Navotas, Prideaux thought. He had become lost once Vic had turned off Honorio Lopez after crossing the estuary. Beyond the last housing project – which he noticed was called Singalong Subdivision – was a grey rim of shantytown, and beyond that these tidal flats sculpted into eccentric lots as fishpans. It was hard to see where land ended and water began. Much of Manila was low-lying and subject to floods, parts of Tondo being virtually tidal. (The highway authorities there planned roadworks around the phases of the moon.) Here, too, were clear signs of flooding. A line of salt ran at mid-door level around the rusted cab of the hulk they squatted behind. Everything was festooned with rags of plastic, tatters of bags snagged on tussocks, lengths of timber and tangles of wire. So flat was this terrain that, three miles to the south across the estuary, Smoky Mountain reared up like a volcano, flanks steaming, its fallout of effluent and litter spreading far beyond these marshes.
    ‘There,’ said Vic in triumph. ‘I told you my guy was reliable. Thesepolice don’t even bother to hide it now. Broad daylight.’ He took a reading from the light meter hanging on its cord and raised the Nikon, resting the long snout of the lens on the truck chassis. He shot the van bumping down the boggy track towards them, the windscreen’s intermittent glare. ‘That’ll do. Right there, please. That’s far enough. You might get stuck.’
    As if the driver agreed, the vehicle swung to a halt a hundred yards off, angled slightly away from the watchers. Prideaux was tense with fear. He had been hoping the Tamaraw would not come so close. He wished the camera’s shutter was quieter. It sounded like machine-gunning.
    ‘’ Yon… ’ Vic was breathing. The doors had opened and the driver had turned his face. ‘Sergeant Cruz! I love you, baby.’ Flack-flack- flack-flack-flack.
    A third man in jeans and T-shirt became visible as he stood up in the rear of the van, tugging at the yellow tarpaulin. The three blue drums emerged and gleamed dully. Cruz’s assistant climbed up and helped the man tilt and roll one of the drums on its rim, at the last moment heaving it off the end so that it cleared the dangling tailgate. It fell with the weight of a dud bomb, embedding itself with a wet thud which reached the watchers a half second later. Sergeant Cruz appeared with a mallet and long chisel. The T-shirts huddled over the drum. The hammer rose and fell.
    ‘Move your ass! C’mon, c’mon, move. I can’t see a – ’yon! Ayos!’ as Cruz straightened up. The last of the clips was whacked loose. The lid burst open and liquid gushed out. The two men upended the drum as Cruz watched. When it was empty they set it aside and the other two were dealt with in the same way. Prideaux wondered what Vic was getting. They were crouched so low the intervening