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look,” Moon said, “It doesn’t bother me. Go ahead and smoke.”
    Mr. Lee extracted the case, and from it a cigar, snipped off the end with a little silver tool designed for the purpose, gave Moon a grateful smile, and lit it with a tiny silver lighter that seemed to be built into the end of his fountain pen. He looked relieved. For the first time in months, Moon found himself yearning for a cigarette.
    “Give me a telephone number where I can contact you,” Moon said. “Or an address. I’ll need that.”
    “That is most kind of you,” Mr. Lee said, savoring the taste of the cigar smoke. “Unfortunately, I think it would not be practical.” He turned his face away from Moon and exhaled a thin blue cloud. When he turned back he exposed an apologetic smile. “You see,” he said, “I know something of your brother’s business procedures. He was most careful. Not just in where he kept records but in what he wrote, when something had to be written.”
    Mr. Lee’s smile apologized in advance again. “Not that this transaction was in any way illegal, you understand. But in Asia these days things are not normal. These days one does not encourage authorities to cause trouble.”
    “Because of the way he was using government copters?”
    “Well, yes. There is that,” Mr. Lee said.
    “So why keep records at all?”
    Through the blue haze which now shrouded him, Mr. Lee looked incredibly old. When he allowed the smile to fade away, his small round face sagged. “I do not know,” he said, “but he did. I suppose it was necessary because other people worked for him. And with him. In various businesses. He would need to keep them informed. He wrote letters. He wrote in a way that would be really understood only by those who needed to understand. If I could see such letters, I would recognize any references to—”
    The telephone by Moon’s elbow rang.
    Moon glanced at Mr. Lee, said, “Excuse me,” and picked it up.
    “Mathias,” he said.
    A moment of silence. Then a cough. Then, “Yes. Hello. Yes.”
    “This is Malcolm Mathias,” Moon said. “Is this Mr. Castenada?”
    “Yes,” the voice said. “Roberto Castenada. How can I be of service?”
    “I’m the brother of Richard Mathias,” Moon said. “Your client.” He hesitated, thinking he should correct that. Former client. Former brother. “I believe my mother made arrangements with you to bring Richard’s daughter to the United States.”
    “Ah,” Castenada said. “To Manila.”
    “Manila, then,” Moon said. “Is she there?”
    “Ah,” Castenada said. “There are. . .” The telephone was silent except for the sound of breathing. Moon was tired. Here he was in a Los Angeles hotel room, hearing a man exhaling in Manila.
    “Complexities,” Castenada said. “Confusions. Many confusions. The child has not yet arrived in Manila. Or if she did arrive, I have not been informed and the child has not been delivered to the Sisters. I just called them and they said no. They have heard nothing.”
    “Then where is she?”
    Mr. Lee had let his fatigue overcome him and sat with eyes closed, head tilted forward. The tone of Moon’s question jerked him awake. He sat up, reached for his hat, and stood, signaling his intention to leave. Moon motioned him to sit.
    “I do not know what happened,” Castenada was saying. He spoke in precise English about the disorders in Laos, advances of the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia, a flood of refugees reaching Saigon, disruptions of communications, cancellations of airline schedules, unusual troubles with visas. “Perhaps they arrived in Manila but are staying with friends. Perhaps they are still in Saigon, having difficulties with exit papers and aircraft reservations. Perhaps. I have tried to make calls, to make inquiries, no one picked up the telephone, and since then I have not been able to get a call through.”
    “I see,” Moon said.
    “One cannot do anything,” Castenada said, and, in his precise, prissy