"I feel a little better already," said Willy, climbing off the table. "If I could just have some fresh air…"

"An excellent idea," said Nora. "Fresh air. And only light meals. No milk." She headed out the door. "Have a good stay in Hanoi, Miss Maitland."

Miss Hu turned a smug smile on Willy. "You see? Even here in Vietnam, one can find the best in medical care."

Willy nodded and reached for her clothes. "I quite agree."

Fifteen minutes later, Nora Walker left the hospital, climbed onto her bicycle and pedaled to the cloth merchants' road. At a streetside noodle stand she bought a lemonade and a bowl of pho, for which she paid the vendor a thousand-dong note, carefully folded at opposite corners. She ate her noodles while squatted on the sidewalk, beside all the other customers. Then, after draining the last of the peppery broth, she strolled into a tailor's shop. It appeared deserted. She slipped through a beaded curtain into a dimly lit back room. There, among the dusty bolts of silks and cottons and brocade, she waited.

The rattle of the curtain beads announced the entrance of her contact. Nora turned to face him.

"I've just seen Bill Maitland's daughter," she said in Vietnamese. She handed over Willy's driver's license.

The man studied the photograph and smiled. "I see there is a family resemblance."

"There's also a problem," said Nora. "She's traveling with a man-"

"You mean Mr. Barnard?" There was another smile. "We're well aware of him."

"Is he CIA?"

"We think not. He is, to all appearances, an independent."

"So you've been tracking them."

The man shrugged. "Hardly difficult. With so many children on the streets, they'd scarcely notice a stray boy here and there."

Nora swallowed, afraid to ask the next question. "She said Sam's dead. Is this true?"

The man's smile vanished. "We are sorry. Time, it seems, has not made things any safer."

Turning away, she tried to clear her throat, but the ache remained. She pressed her forehead against a bolt of comfortless silk. "You're right. Nothing's changed. Damn them. Damn them."

"What do you ask of us, Nora?"

"I don't know." She took a ragged breath and turned to face him. "I suppose-I suppose we should send a message."

"I will contact Dr. Andersen."

"I need to have an answer by tomorrow."

The man shook his head. "That leaves us little time for arrangements.''

"A whole day. Surely that's enough."

"But there are…" He paused. "Complications."

Nora studied the man's face, a perfect mask of impassivity. "What do you mean?"

"The Party is now interested. And the CIA. Perhaps there are others."

Others, thought Nora. Meaning those they knew nothing about. The most dangerous faction of all.

As Nora left the tailor shop and walked into the painful glare of afternoon, she sensed a dozen pairs of eyes watching her, marking her leisurely progress up Gia Ngu Street. The brightly embroidered blouse she'd just purchased in the shop made her feel painfully conspicuous. Not that she wasn't already conspicuous. In Hanoi, all foreigners were watched with suspicion. In every shop she visited, along every street she walked, there were always those eyes.

They would be watching Willy Maitland, as well.

"We've made the first move," Guy said. "The next move is hers."

"And if we don't hear anything?"

"Then I'm afraid we've hit a dead end." Guy thrust his hands into his pockets and turned his gaze across the waters of Returned Sword Lake. Like a dozen other couples strolling the grassy banks, they'd sought this park for its solitude, for the chance to talk without being heard. Flame red blossoms drifted down from the trees. On the footpath ahead, children chattered over a game of ball and jacks.

"You never explained that telegram," she said. "Who's Bobbo?"

He laughed. "Oh, that's a nickname for Toby Wolff. After that plane crash, we wound up side by side in a military hospital. I guess we gave the nurses a lot of grief. You know, a few too many winks, too many sly comments. They got to calling us the evil Bobbsey twins. Pretty soon he was Bobbo One and I was Bobbo Two."

"Then Toby Wolff sent the telegram."

He nodded.

"And what does it mean? Who's Uncle Sy?"

Guy paused and gave their surroundings a thoughtful perusal. She knew it was more than just a casual look; he was searching. And sure enough, there they were: two Vietnamese men, stationed in the shadow of a poinciana tree. Police agents, most likely, assigned to protect them.

Or was it to isolate them?

"Uncle Sy," Guy said, "was our private name for the CIA."

She frowned, recalling the message. Uncle Sy asking about you. Plans guided tour of Nam. Happy trails. Bobbo.

"It was a warning," Guy said. "The Company knows about us. And they're in the country. Maybe watching us this very minute."

She glanced apprehensively around the lake. A bicycle glided past, pedaled by a serene girl in a conical hat. On the grass, two lovers huddled together, whispering secrets. It struck Willy as too perfect, this view of silver lake and flowering trees, an artist's fantasy for a picture postcard.

All except for the two police agents watching from the trees.

"If he's right," she said, "if the CIA's after us, how are we going to recognize them?"

"That's the problem." Guy turned to her, and the uneasiness she saw in his eyes frightened her. "We won't."

So close. Yet so unreachable.

Siang squatted in the shadow of a pedicab and watched the two Americans stroll along the opposite bank of the lake. They took their time, stopping like tourists to admire the flowers, to laugh at a child toddling in the path, both of them oblivious to how easily they could be captured in a rifle's cross hairs, their lives instantly extinguished.

He turned his attention to the two men trailing a short distance behind. Police agents, he assumed, on protective surveillance. They made things more difficult, but Siang could work around them. Sooner or later, an opportunity would arise.

Assassination would be so easy, as simple as a curtain left open to a well-aimed bullet. What a pity that was no longer the plan.

The Americans returned to their car. Siang rose, stamped the blood back into his legs and climbed onto his bicycle. It was a beggarly form of transportation, but it was practical and inconspicuous. Who would notice, among the thousands crowding the streets of Hanoi, one more shabbily dressed cyclist?

Siang followed the car back to the hotel. One block farther, he dismounted and discreetly observed the two Americans enter the lobby. Seconds later, a black Mercedes pulled up. The two agents climbed out and followed the Americans into the hotel.

It was time to set up shop.

Siang took a cloth-wrapped bundle from his bicycle basket, chose a shady spot on the sidewalk and spread out a meager collection of wares: cigarettes', soap and greeting cards. Then, like all the other itinerant merchants lining the road, he squatted down on his straw mat and beckoned to passersby.

Over the next two hours he managed to sell only a single bar of soap, but it scarcely mattered. He was there simply to watch. And to wait.

Like any good hunter, Siang knew how to wait.