“I’ll go through all the papers my mother was sent,” Moon said. “If I find anything, where can I reach you?”
Mr. Lee did not react to that. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and extracted a flat case of well-worn silver. He opened it and held it out to Moon, displaying six thin black cigars.
“If you smoke tobacco you will find these excellent,” he said.
“I’ve finally managed to quit,” Moon said. “But thank you.”
Mr. Lee reluctantly closed the case and returned it to its pocket. “You were wise,” he said. “It is known to be bad for one’s health.”
“But 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 voice, explained why. Nothing was working in Saigon anymore without bribery. Planes that were scheduled to fly sat on the runways. Planes that were scheduled to arrive didn’t arrive. Airports were closed. Borders were closed. Castenada droned on, describing chaos replacing civilization. Across the room Mr. Lee was slumping again, fighting off sleep, being overpowered by some terrible accumulation of fatigue. He sagged in the chair, face bloodless. Through the thick, distorting lenses his eyes seemed to waver out of focus. Moon glanced at Lee’s grandson. The big man was watching his grandfather, looking concerned.
“What are you doing now?” Moon asked. “What steps are you taking to find that child?”
Silence while Castenada considered this. Lee sighed, removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes.
“Everything that can sensibly be done,” Castenada said, finally. “We are waiting for information. When the child arrives at the school, the Sisters will-”
“Can’t you do more than wait?”
“Mrs. Mathias arrives today. I will help her make contacts. There seems to be a need to trace this situation backward.”
“My mother won’t be there today,” Moon said. “She’s in. the hospital. I think she had a heart attack.”
Castenada expressed shock. He expressed sympathy and regrets. He would do what he could, but Moon must understand that might be very little. More was beyond his power. He could determine if the child had arrived in Manila. If she had, he would attempt to trace her. If she had been delayed en route, he would attempt to find where this had happened. But it was not likely that he, Castenada, would have the power to effect the outcome of this affair if the Asian mainland was involved. Perhaps someone would have to go. Sometimes the personal touch was needed. But he could not travel. He could serve only as adviser.
“Thank you,” Moon said. “I will call you when I decide what to do.”
“And I will keep you informed,” Castenada said. “If I learn anything.” His tone suggested he didn’t expect that to happen. “Good-bye.”
Mr. Lee’s eyes were open again, his consciousness returned to this hotel room by some triumph of will.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “We have intruded on your privacy. A family matter.”
Moon dismissed that with a gesture. “We were talking about records of your transaction.”
“Yes,” Mr. Lee said. “I was about to ask if you could allow me to look through your brother’s letters. I hope that will help me determine the place where my family’s little urn was left.”
“That might be possible,” Moon said. “I will get them from my mother and look through them and get in touch with you.”
“You don’t have them?” Lee no longer looked sleepy. His eyes shifted to the luggage beside Moon’s dresser-a woman’s matching blue suitcases, an expensive-looking leatherbound case, and Moon’s grubby hanging bag.
Moon’s distaste for deception warred with his fatigue and lost. He was tired. He yearned for solitude to consider what Castenada had told him. To decide what he must do about it. Besides, the sympathy he felt for Mr. Lee was overlaid with skepticism. None of this seemed real.