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half a mile of the airfield. The utter chaos. How they almost didn’t make it up over the Catholic steeple beyond the runway.
    And then later entries about wanting to go back to the plane and bring Bobby home and return the statue to the Buddhists. He looked up at Besson. “But there is nothing here about the exact location. The other bag. The one she fought for…”
    “Has to be something. Or, maybe she committed the coordinates to memory.”
    “The woman’s damn near six feet tall. Can’t be hard to find. I want to talk to her tonight. Now.”
    “I have men all over the city looking for her. We’ll have her tonight. In the meantime, my chef is preparing your favorite dinner.”

9
    Miloon came into the small patio with a beaming smile. This guy was relentless with the upbeat personality. And she knew he had good news. “You found him?”
    “I find. He go Chenla Theater.” He looked around like he was expecting somebody. “You go?”
    “Yes. What’s there? A movie?”
    “No. Rock opera. Where Elephants Weep . Hurry.”
    “A rock opera? What kind of rock opera?”
    “Yes. Very important. Please. Get on, we go fast. Western rock, Cambodian music. A love story in the bad time. Where Elephants Weep .”
    Beneath the smile he seemed more nervous than he had been. She got on the Vespa and he took some dark backstreets, avoiding traffic and at times using narrow back alleys.
    A rock opera? This is what Porter Vale wants to see on his last night in Phnom Penh, music in the Killing Fields?
    “Can I get a ticket?”
    Miloon gunned out into traffic. “In Phnom Penh, you pay, you have. Everything for sale. I get you inside.”
    “Everything?”
    “Yes. Boy. Girl. Kidney, five hundred. You commit murder, you pay one thousand, maybe two. You buy land, water, building, police chief. Everything in Cambodia for sale.”
    “Porter Vale for sale?”
    Finally a frown when he looked at her over his shoulder. “He not Cambodian. Many enemies. Very difficult man.”
    “He is that. But I’m a difficult woman.”
    Miloon nodded in agreement.
    She couldn’t help thinking that she and Porter Vale would indeed make a formidable team.
    Ten minutes later they pulled into the nearly full parking area of the Chenla Theater in the Cultural Center on Boulevard Mao Tse Toung. The complex had two large buildings, one dome-topped, the other sporting a modernistic bent slab roof that turned out to be the crowded Chenla Theater.
    Miloon drove around to a side entrance and parked between a truck and what looked like the Land Rover she’d seen Porter driving.
    “How much do you need?” she asked.
    He shook his head. She gave him four ten dollar bills anyway.
    He looked at them and handed one back. “Cambodian no like if has tear.” He showed where the bill was slightly torn. “Bad luck.”
    She gave him another one that wasn’t torn.
    He looked around again, as if expecting somebody. He left her in the dark and hustled to the theater entrance.
    Miloon returned a few minutes after his negotiations and announced proudly, “I know manager. You will be special guest. I get you very good seat. Very close to Porter Vale.”
    He gave her a ten back. She refused the money.
    “Tip?” he asked.
    “Yes,” she said. “A tip.”
    A man met them at the door and took her back to the auditorium. There were a fair number of Westerners in the audience and at first Porter Vale didn’t notice her entrance. He was busy talking to a couple of Buddhist monks in saffron robes.
    When they left he turned and saw her and wasn’t happy to see her or to see she had a seat almost directly behind him. “Are you stalking me?”
    “Yes. I need you to look at something and then I’ll stop.”
    “Not here and not now,” he said.
    She nodded. “After the play.”
    He shook his head and turned away, his jaw clenched.
    He pretty much hates me, she thought.
    A young boy came by and handed her a playbill. She read a synopsis of the performance. The show was