misunderstanding with a bonded warehouse in Singapore, and to recover an aircraft impounded by Laos authorities at Vientiane. Castenada delivered this recitation slowly, digressing to explain if it seemed necessary. He paused and threw his hands open in a gesture of finality.
“The point is that our relationship was primarily business. Which bureaucrat at Bangkok in which office did one need to approach? Which law in Malaysia was being enforced this year and which one winked at? So I know his business associates. But I do not know his friends.”
He paused again, thinking, then added, “Only a few of them. And of course one’s daughter would be entrusted to friends, not to business associates.”
Moon could think of nothing to say to this.
Castenada waited, made a wry face. “I think to find the child you will need his friends. To help you.”
“I don’t know his friends either,” Moon said. “Not his friends out here.”
If Castenada heard this, he ignored it. “Because I think this person who was bringing out the child, I think he must have gone to earth somewhere. Somewhere safe until they could travel again.” Castenada threw up his hands. “Everything is going to hell over there. Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous. Nothing can be counted on, nothing. Offices closed. Flights are canceled. Telephones go unanswered.”
“So,” Moon said, feeling totally out of his depth, “what do I do now?”
Castenada considered, looking first at the pyramid he’d made of his fingers and then at Moon. To Moon’s amazement, Mr. Castenada was grinning.
“Oh, I know about you, Mr. Mathias,” he said. “Ricky told me. I think you will find a way.” The grin widened. “I think if Ricky’s daughter can be brought to Manila, you will bring her.”
“What the hell did Ricky-” Moon began, but the question was interrupted. A short plump woman slid into the room, bearing a black laquered tray. On it were two cups, a plate of rolls, and an oversized black Thermos.
“Mi, here is Electra,” Castenada said. And with a sweep of his arm: “Electra, we have with us Mr. Malcolm Mathias.”
Moon stood. “How do you do,” he said.
Electra’s expression reminded Moon of a woman he’d seen on a television newscast being introduced to Queen Elizabeth.
“This is Moon Mathias,” Castenada said. “This is the older brother Ricky has told us about.”
Electra was blushing. She performed something like a curtsy. She said, “Oh, yes, I am so glad to meet you,” and hurried out of the room.
Castenada poured, and served, and talked.
He assumed Moon knew Ricky had died intestate. That meant that in the absence of a will, and in the absence of any evidence that the child was actually Ricky’s daughter, Ricky’s heir would be his mother and-in most jurisdictions-his siblings. He said he understood Malcolm Mathias was the only surviving sibling. When Moon nodded, he said Ricky seemed to have been, as far as he could tell, a legal resident of Oklahoma, in the United States, even though his business address had been in the Republic of Vietnam. Therefore the estate would be adjudicated in an Oklahoma probate court and Moon would inherit- Castenada paused, sipped coffee, eyed Moon over the cup, continued.
“-one half of the estate. Presuming, of course, that there is no litigation.”
Castenada awaited a response from Moon, who had none to make. He hadn’t thought about this. He didn’t want to think about it now. How much could Ricky have accumulated-a retired army captain trying to get a business started?
“After legal fees, of course,” Castenada said, grinning at Moon. “Lawyers are known to be avaricious. International lawyers notably so. Your mother has asked me to handle this. I’ve retained a Vietnamese lawyer who did some work for R. M. Air last year. Reasonably honest, I think. But”- Castenada threw up his hands-“where is he now? When I tried to call him about the child, telephone service was no longer offered to his office at Can Tho. I think perhaps the Vietcong are running the telephone exchange there now.”
“Look,” Moon said, “I don’t want to talk about this. I want to talk about how to get the kid to Manila and from Manila back to the States.”
“All right,” Castenada said. “We talk about that. All I can do is give you the names of some of Ricky’s friends. Maybe they can tell you where to go.”
He flipped open a Rolodex file on his desk and began jotting notes on a pad. “Let us hope, let us pray, that they don’t tell you to go find her in Vietnam.” He glanced up at Moon, face somber. “Or, even worse, in Cambodia.”
1740 hrs. 4/16/75
TO: OfcMgrs
FROM: McK. Embassy
STATUS: Eyes Only-Burn. Rocket from H.K. this date orders top priority evacuation of nonessential personnel. Top limit essential U.S. citizens is 2000. Submit plan by 1400 hrs 4/17 listing essentials your mission and departure schedule for all others. Avoid any leak to non-U.S. personnel.
Still the Fifth Day
THE LIST OF FRIENDS MOON TOOK away with him was short, and only three of those named on it might have been in Manila. First came George Rice, a name Moon remembered from the letter in his mother’s purse. Rice, Castenada said, was in Manila “now and then, bringing things in and taking things out.” He had called some time ago about difficulties he was having about an aircraft he had flown into Quezon City.
Castenada had been leaning forward, expression quizzical, remembering the details. “Yes,” he’d said. “Mr. Rice said the customs people were talking of filing a charge and he wanted me to handle it. I told him this firm has no expertise in criminal matters and recommended another law firm to him.”
“Criminal?”
Castenada raised a hand, rubbed thumb against fingers. “It seems to have been some problem with the papers. The manifest. The customs agents of President Marcos follow the example of their leader and handle such things informally.” He smiled at Moon, making sure he understood. “And if the person involved is not willing to be sufficiently generous in rewarding this courtesy, there is sometimes the threat of arrest.”
“Oh,” Moon said. “So, what happened?”
Castenada shrugged. “The lawyer I recommended is experienced in such matters. I heard no more about it.”
“So he may still be here?”
“Or he may be gone. He said he had flown in an old aircraft that needed some sort of equipment installed. How much time does that take?” Castenada’s expression said he had no idea.
Next on the “possibly in Manila ” list were Thomas Brock, who Castenada described as marketing manager for R. M. Air, and Robert Yager, at the Quezon Towers Hotel. Yager was the name Moon remembered seeing scrawled at the end of the letter to Ricky in his mother’s purse. What did Yager do?
Castenada could only guess. “In Asia in these troubled times a business like Ricky’s needs someone who knows everybody, has connections everywhere, can find out-” Castenada hesitated, looking at Moon quizzically again, seeming to ask himself how much this American would understand such things. “Someone would know if General A actually works for the CIA. if General B is about to be fired. If Imelda Marcos is fond enough of this third cousin to cut him in on a construction contract. That sort of thing. I think Mr. Yager is a person who-if he does not know everything-knows someone who does.”
“I see,” Moon said. If Mr. Castenada was giving him accurate information, Ricky’s business seemed to be-well, less orthodox than he’d assumed.
“That is just an impression,” Castenada said. “Just an impression.” He made a deprecating gesture. “One hears things,” he said. “Some true. Some not.”
On the page he’d torn from his notebook to list the friends, Castenada now added the address of Ricky’s
