A FUNERAL

Ephraim Ward and Maximilian Braun were buried during a steady downpour. The graves in the military cemetery at Paco were half filled with water and the lowered coffins floated for a second before submerging with a syrupy gurgle. Caramel bubbles floated on the surface for a moment before the first shovelfuls of mud and gravel splashed in. Carriscant took the envelope containing the men's death certificates from his pocket and passed it to Paton Bobby.

'Before I forget,' he said.

Bobby tucked the envelope away in his jacket. 'Thanks,' he said. 'Uplifting little ceremony.'

Apart from the burial party and the army chaplain, Carriscant and Bobby were the only others present. They trudged back through the puddles past the mildewed rows of wooden crosses to Bobby's motor car, a new acquisition for the constabulary, a neat little Charron 628, and climbed inside where they sat morosely while the burial party filled the grave and hammered in two fresh and sappy wooden crosses. Bobby waved a goodbye to the chaplain as his carriage pulled out of the cemetery and headed off down the road that would take him back to the barracks at Pasay, a mile or so distant.

Bobby took out a cigar and lit it, a disgruntled expression on his face. Beyond the tattered screen of banana trees that marked the northern boundary of the cemetery was the long thin shape of the Concordia cigar factory. For an idle moment Carriscant wondered if the cigar Bobby was smoking had been made there and wondered further if there was any significance to be drawn from this morbid conjunction of factory, smoker and graveyard. His tired brain could not come up with one so he let it drop.

'It annoys me,' Bobby said slowly, 'it annoys me intensely that we couldn't pin these killings on anyone. Those are two murdered American boys lying in their graves in this godforsaken hole and the killers are still out there.' He paused. 'And that fucking annoys me.'

Carriscant shrugged. 'You did your best,' he said. 'It was an impossible case to solve. No one could criticise you.'

'Yeah, well… Did you bury the woman?'

'Last week. Nobody claimed her.'

'That's what really finished me. I mean, where's the connection there? How do you make that fit?'

'You don't. I don't think the woman's death had anything to do with the other two.'

'Yeah, well,' Bobby said grumpily. He looked uncomfortable again and Carriscant wondered anew why Bobby had placed his scalpel by the body. He looked round at the sound of carriage wheels as a victoria with its canopy up turned into the cemetery and pulled up beside them.

Sieverance leaned out. 'I guess I'm too late,' he said. 'Sorry.'

They watched him go to the graveside and bow his head for a minute or two before he rejoined them at the motor. He looked suitably pious.

'Great shame,' he said. 'Braun was a fine soldier. Real professional. You know, it kind of makes you sick. You survive everything the plains Indians can throw at you then you get cut up by some damned gu-gu.' His outrage seemed a little willed, Carriscant thought, a little cooked up. They listened patiently as Sieverance outlined some of Braun's military exploits against the Oglalas and the Unkpapa Sioux.

'It's a fucking disgrace,' Bobby said, with feeling. 'A damn fucking disgrace.'

'I'd better get along,' said Sieverance. 'By the way, Carriscant, Mrs Sieverance is feeling fine, in fine fettle.'

'I'm so pleased.'

They watched him go. Bobby took a long slow draw on his cigar. 'It never ceases to amaze me,' he said, 'how some pissant little cocksucker like that gets to be a full colonel.'

'I suppose if your Daddy's a general and a friend of Teddy Roosevelt that might have something to do with it.'

'You don't say…'

'Did you tell him we were burying the men?'

'Sure. I figured he'd need to inform Taft.'

'Yes…' Carriscant thought further. 'Did you ever tell him that the "Brown" we found was the "Braun" who used to be in his regiment?'

'No. No, I don't think so,' Bobby said reflectively. 'I guess he must have made enquiries. Why?'

'Just curious.'

When he returned to Manila Carriscant found a note from Pantaleon on his desk. There had been some further problems with the Flanquin engine. The attempted flight on 13 May was now postponed: the new day set was to be 15 May.

THE LOST FLIGHT OF PANTALEON QUIROGA

He woke well before dawn on the morning of 15 May 1903. He had a slight headache and he lay still in the bed for a while, watching the room lighten slowly, telling himself not to think any further ahead than the next hour. If he took the day at that pace, with that absolute concentration on the present moment, he might be able to survive it, he told himself.

Beside him Annaliese slept on, her mouth open, little mumbling snores coming from her. He had rejoined her in the marital bed these last few nights in order not to provoke any suspicions that their reconciliation was not genuine, and the thought came to him as he slid from between the sheets that he would not be sleeping in it for much longer. This brought a mild pang of sadness but it was replaced by a charge of excitement when he considered the future waiting for him. He had no animus against Annaliese, no regret about leaving her, but he did admit that their 'reconciliation' made what he was about to do that much harder on her. Still, there was no way he could prevent that.

He dressed and was driven to the hospital without breakfasting. It would have been hard enough counting the hours and days without the added prospect of Pantaleon's assault on the Amberway-Richault prize complicating matters. He was consoled by the thought that some malfunction was bound to occur and necessitate a further postponement. He might even, he thought, indulge in a spot of covert sabotage himself if the opportunity arose. But whatever happened he had to go through the motions of participating in order to neutralise Pantaleon's threat. It would occupy some hours of a long day, in any case, keep his mind busy.

At the San Jeronimo he made his final arrangements. He checked the rotas of the night staff for 20 May, confirmed that his theatre nurses had been given the relevant day off and ensured that certain key components in the plan were in their allotted places.

As he set off for the nipa barn he felt a strong sense of purposeful calm descend on him, marred only by a feeling of irritation with Pantaleon and his absurd obsession with heavier-than-air powered flight. He had hoped for rain and indeed a fine drizzle was falling and the day was already overcast and muggy. As Constancio drove him over the Colgante bridge he saw the turning that led to San Miguel and the Calle Lagarda. He wondered how she was bearing up, how the strain of waiting was affecting her… But again he felt a quiet confidence return: she was strong too, they both knew exactly what they were doing, together they would come through.

To his surprise the road to the nipa barn was busy with pedestrians and some dozens of carriages were parked on the verge of the track where the path led to the meadow. He had expected one or two official witnesses but this had all the signs of a sizeable crowd. As he pushed through the gap in the plumbago hedge he was amazed to see upwards of a hundred people standing or sitting along the western edge of the meadow. On the eastern fringe there was a roped-off area equipped with folding wooden chairs where he imagined the adjudicators and official witnesses would sit. The barn was prettified with palm fronds and bunting, strings of fluttering pennants-crimson, moss green and buttercup yellow. He eased his way through a large group of well-wishers and journalists and found himself confronted by the Aero-mobile itself, standing in the opening to the barn, the doors thrown wide. Painted on the nose in a cursive cobalt script was Aero-movil numero uno. Dr Pantaleon Quiroga-Dr Salvador Carriscant.