Finding Moon

The Third Day

BY MOON’S UNCERTAIN CALCULATIONS of the difference between Pacific Standard Time and whatever time it was in Manila, it was probably the wrong hour to call Ricky’s lawyer. But he placed the call anyway and heard an answering machine click on and a soft voice saying that Mr. Castenada would respond to a message when he became available. With Manila thus made to seem more real, Moon left a message asking Mr. Castenada to call him at the Airport Inn number where Shirley had made his reservation. Then he called a taxi and collected his mother’s luggage from the Philippine Airlines security office.

The traffic noise here from jetliners overhead and the freeway below his window was thunderous.

But he’d asked Shirley for convenience, not for comfort, and Shirley had delivered, as she always did.

He’d take a shower. Maybe that would revive him. He removed his shoes, his socks, and his trousers and then sprawled across the bed, dizzy with that odd sort of fatigue brought on by stress and sleeplessness. He pulled a pillow under his head, put the telephone on his chest, dialed the Colorado area code, then broke the connection and called West Memorial Hospital instead. The nurse who answered in the cardiac unit told him his Mrs. Morick was sleeping and doing as well as could be expected.

Then he called the paper. He asked Shirley for Hubbell, but Shirley wanted to talk.

“How is she?”

Moon felt hazy, one step removed from reality. “As well as can be expected,” he said. But that wasn’t fair. Shirley was a friend. So he gave her the full report, accepted her sympathy, and asked for Hubbell.

“He’s not back from something or other down at city hail,” Shirley said. “That’s the meeting you were supposed to sit in on. And you’ve had five or six calls.”

“Anything that looks important?” He asked it out of habit. What could be important today?

“Some long-distancers. One was from the AP bureau in Denver. Said they’d catch you when you got back to town. And then a couple from Los Angeles.”

“Did they leave any messages?” Again, habit was speaking. Who cared about messages?

“One was from the airline. They want you to let them know about your mother’s luggage. Do you want me to get that taken care of?”

“I picked it up,” Moon said.

“And one from a man.” There was a pause while Shirley shuffled papers. “A Lee Lum. No, I think it was Lum Lee. He had an accent. When I told him you were gone indefinitely, he said he was actually trying to reach your mother, and it was very important, so I told him he might reach you through the security people at Philippine Airlines.”

“Okay,” Moon said. The man must think his business was important to follow Victoria to Los Angeles. But what sort of business could it be? He was too tired to think. Add it to the list of puzzles.

“That it?”

“Except the usual stuff that somebody else can handle.”

“Did Debbie call?”

A slight pause. “Let me see. Yes.”

Moon allowed himself a tired grin. “And said what?” Moon asked.

“She said to tell you she hoped your mother was all right.” Shirley’s tone was precisely neutral. “And to remind you that Saturday was April twelfth. Was it her birthday?”

“If she calls back tell her I’ve been trying to call her.” Which was a small lie but undetectable, because Debbie’s office telephone was notorious for its busy signal, and so was the phone they shared at his house. Living with Debbie had taught Moon the value of small, undetectable lies told in the interest of keeping things peaceful.

“How old will she be?” Shirley inquired sweetly.

“I really don’t know,” Moon said, avoiding another small lie on technical semantic grounds. How old was Debbie? Twenty-two by her accounting, but since Debbie, too, sometimes told small lies, he really didn’t know.

“Is Rooney in? Let me talk to him.”

Rooney was working the slot, editing early and relatively unimportant copy to fill tomorrow’s inside sections.

“I didn’t hire on to do this kind of crap,” Rooney said. “When are you coming back?” Rooney sounded sober, which was encouraging if not an absolute guarantee. “And how’s your mother?”

“I guess she’s going to have to have bypass surgery,” Moon said. “But first I want to get a second opinion from a better doctor, and then if she needs an operation I need to find her a different surgeon. The one that has his hands on her now-I wouldn’t even let him work on you.”

“That bad, huh?” Rooney said. “The way you pick a surgeon is go out in the DOCTORS ONLY parking lot and find the custom-built Mercedes with the TV antenna and the chauffeur wiping the bird shit off it. There’s the surgeon who keeps ’em alive long enough to get the bills paid.” Rooney paused to consider this advice. “That’s what my old granny told me.”

Moon was not in the mood for Rooney at the moment. “What’s on the menu?” he asked. “What story are you leading with?”

“I don’t know yet,” Rooney said. “We have a thing out of the State Police and the Game Department about dog packs worrying tourists up around the ski run. I told Hubbell we ought to play that one. Give it eight columns, ninety-six points, all caps: TERRIERS TERRORIZE TOURISTS. Or maybe PET PACKS PROWL PARK. Or how about-”

“Get serious,” Moon said. Rooney had been hired as a feature writer and did mostly special assignments for the city desk. But once, after too many whiskey sours at an office party, he had confessed to working in a former life as rim man on the Kansas City Star. That careless admission of editing experience had made him the paper’s utility desk man, writing headlines and handling copy in emergency manpower shortages. It was a job he detested, and Moon had learned that his news selection tended to be eccentric if he was drinking. But now, as Rooney provided a rundown on what he’d been using on inside pages and what he was stacking up for potential front-page use, his judgments seemed reassuringly orthodox. There wasn’t anything hot going on, either locally or statewide. Rooney had given big inside space to the Senate approval of price ceilings on domestic oil, which Moon would have used on page one, and the same sort of inside treatment to President Ford’s request to Congress for more aid for Saigon. For the front, he was holding the daily Nam battle story, with a sidebar about refugees clogging the highways; a feature about a local kid building his own computer; a two-fatality collision on the Interstate; and a city council discussion of a proposed sewer bond issue. Not bad, considering that Rooney had written the computer yarn himself before Moon’s departure had switched him from reporter to desk man.

“Then there’s another sidebar on Cambodia that maybe ought to go on page one. Sounds like the Khmer Rouge is gobbling up Phnom Perth.” Rooney’s tone had lost its flipancy earlier in the recitation of the day’s woes. Now it was grim. “Some of this stuff sounds like Attila the Hun is loose again. Everything but the giant pyramids of skulls.”

“Yeah,” Moon said. He felt a twinge of anxiety through the fatigue. “Well, tell Hubbell I’m at the Airport Inn and that Shirley has my number. And switch me back to her.”

“Debbie’s been calling. Asking about you. I think she misses you.” Unlike Shirley, Rooney liked Debbie. All males liked Debbie.

“What’s she want?”

“To know when you’d be coming back.”

“Tell her I’ve been trying to call her,” Moon said. “And, look, did I ever tell you how nasty Shakeshaft gets about drinking? If I didn’t, I’m doing it now. When he hired me I got the temperance sermon. My first job is to make sure nobody drinks in the newsroom. And my second job is to make sure nobody’s been drinking before they come in. After that, I worry about getting the paper out.”

“I’m not drinking,” Rooney said. Coldly.

“Good,” Moon said. “But did I tell you old Jerry has a habit of looking into desk drawers, poking around under piles of papers, and-”

“And smelling your breath,” Rooney said. “I used to have a managing editor like that.”

“You still do. I smelled it last Monday,” Moon said, and dropped it there.

He called Colorado Mortgage and Title Insurance. The woman on the reception desk was somebody he didn’t know. She said Debbie’s line was busy. She took his hotel number and said, yes, she’d tell Debbie he’d called and to call him.

“You did say J.D., didn’t you?” she asked.

“No,” Moon said. “Tell her Moon Mathias called;”

He looked at his watch. Probably too soon to try the Manila number again. Not the hour to sleep either. He was tired, almost dizzy with fatigue, but too tense to sleep. The shower would help. He rescued his shirt from the floor and inspected it. He’d packed without any real thought-shirts, socks, and underwear for a couple of days. The shirt he’d been wearing was knitted of something or other and could serve a second day. He carried it into the bathroom and carefully rinsed out a smudge below the pocket. He was hanging it up to dry when he heard a tapping at the door.

“Just a second,” Moon said. He pulled on his trousers.

Two men were at the door, the one in front small, frail and old, the one behind big and young. Both Chinese, Moon thought and, as he thought it, amended the thought to Oriental, and amended that to Asian. It seemed clear that his dead brother was pulling him inevitably into a world where one would need to know the difference between Chinese and Vietnamese and Japanese, Cambodians, Indonesians, and all the rest.

The small man dipped his head slightly and looked up at Moon through thick round glasses. “Mr. Malcolm Mathias?” the man said. “I beg your pardon for this intrusion.”

“Yes,” Moon said, “I’m Malcolm Mathias. What can I do for you?” The man was wearing a brown suit made of some expensive-looking silky material which, so it appeared, had been slept in. Behind him, the big young man was smiling an apprehensive smile.

“My name is Mr. Lum Lee. I wish to express my concern about the health of your mother.” He dipped his head again. “Also, I wish to express my condolences at the death of your esteemed brother, Mr. Richard Mathias.” Mr. Lum Lee cleared his throat. “Your brother was a good friend to me…” He paused, inspecting Moon, and added in a voice not much above a whisper, “And sometimes an associate in business.” He cleared his throat again, looked at Moon, and added, “Sometimes. Yes. And I hope the health of your mother is improving.”

“Yes,” Moon said. “Thank you.” He held out his hand. “Malcolm Mathias,” he said. “How do you do. Come on in. Find a place to sit down.”

Mr. Lee’s hand was small and dry. Totally without strength. It made Moon think of bird bones.

“Excuse me,” Mr. Lum Lee said. “I would present the son of my oldest daughter, Mr. Charley Ming. Mr. Ming has been good enough to be of assistance to me while I am in the United States.”

Mr. Ming’s hand, in contrast to his grandfather’s, was a wrestler’s: broad, hard, strong. But his smile was bashful. He held one of the room’s two chairs for his grandfather, refused Moon’s offer of the second one, and sat ramrod erect on the edge of the bed, holding his hat in his lap. Mr. Lee had placed his hat on the dresser beside his chair. His thick gray hair was cut short, into military bristles.

“I think your secretary will have told you I called,” Mr. Lee said.

“Yes,” Moon said. “But she didn’t tell me anything about your business. She didn’t say you would be coming to see me.” How had this man located him? It must have been through either the airline security office or the hospital. And, if his courtesy went deeper than his words, why hadn’t he called from the lobby to see if this visit was welcome? Was it because he didn’t want to take a chance that Moon would want to avoid him? Moon found himself smiling at that. He’d seen too many movies about Oriental intrigue.

Mr. Lee looked abashed. “I am very sorry about this,” he said. “I hope this visit is not inconvenient to you in any way. If it is-” Mr. Lee reached for his hat and started to rise.

“No, no. Not at all,” Moon said. “I’m delighted to meet a friend of my brother.”

“And a business associate as well,” Mr. Lee added.

“We don’t know much about his death,” Moon said. “Just what his attorney told my mother, and what the American consulate told us. All about the same. But no details.”

“It was a tragedy,” Mr. Lee said. “A genuine loss. A fine young man. An honorable man.” He shook his head solemnly. His eyes behind the thick lenses seemed even more watery and vague.

“Could you tell me anything more about it? All we were told is that he was in a helicopter in Cambodia, and it crashed in the mountains near the border with Vietnam, and Ricky was killed.”

“I understand the wreckage was found by a unit of the Army of the Republic of Vietnam,” Mr. Lee said. “The helicopter had burned when this unit arrived.”

“Ricky was flying it?” Moon said.

“I think not. Another man was the pilot, I believe, excuse me,” Mr. Lee said. “A Mr. Pol Thiu Eng, who works for R. M. Air. I believe it was him. I beg your pardon.”

“They never told us anything,” Moon said. “Just that it was an accident. Do you know how it happened? Or what Ricky was doing? They said he was flying out of Cambodia.”

Mr. Lee looked thoughtful. “Business,” he said. The sound of jet engines overhead engulfed the room. Mr. Lee sat patiently, studying his hands, waiting for silence. “I would think it would have been business.”

“His business was helicopter repair and maintenance,” Moon said. “Mostly avionics. Repairing the electronic gear on aircraft. He has a maintenance contract with the South Vietnamese Air Force. Or had one.”

“With the Army of the Republic of Vietnam, I believe,” Mr. Lee said. “With ARVN and with the RVN, the navy, too. Excuse me. With General Thang, I believe. Yes. But Mr. Mathias also had other business as well, and in Cambodia I believe it would be primarily the delivery business.”

“Delivery?” Of course Ricky would have other businesses. Ricky wasn’t the sort to be happy with just one iron in just one fire.

“A good business in recent times,” Mr. Lee said. And added what sounded like “Unfortunately.” But the word was drowned by another jet overhead. When it had passed, Mr. Lee allowed his small round mouth to shape itself into a smile. “Delivering things out of places where the

Communists are coming in. Delivering property to Hong Kong and Singapore and Manila -places that are secure. People who own valuable things will pay well for such deliveries.”

“Oh,” Moon said.

Mr. Lee shrugged, his expression philosophical. “I myself have paid well,” he said. “It is these terrible times we live in. Buddha taught us that one who runs against the wind carrying a torch will surely burn his hand. And yet we run against the wind.”

“This is how you were associated with Ricky?”

Mr. Lee nodded.

“As a customer?”

“As a contractor,” Mr. Lee agreed. “Mr. Mathias’s company sometimes contracted to pick up an item somewhere for me and take it someplace else.”

“In Cambodia?”

“In Cambodia. In Laos. In Vietnam. My home had been in Vietnam, in the highlands where it is cooler. But unfortunately, the war-” Mr. Lee shrugged again and lapsed into silence. Moon thought of the letter to Ricky. The details that had been incomprehensible when he’d read it must have referred to this delivery business.

“And now, where is home?”

Mr. Lee smiled. “Home?” He thought about it and smiled ruefully. “It is still in Vietnam,” he said. “I moved out of the mountains to a place near Hue. It proved an unfortunate choice.”

“I guess I meant the family home,” Moon said, wondering why he’d bothered to ask that standard polite question.

“The family comes from South China,” Mr. Lee said. “ Canton. But the Nationalist Army defeated the warlord faction there, and my grandfather moved our family to the south. Then the Japanese defeated the Nationalists. My grandfather was killed, and my father moved the family down toward the border of Vietnam. Then the Japanese were defeated by the Americans and we moved again. And then the Communists defeated the Nationalist Army and my father was killed.”

Mr. Lee sighed. “A long story,” he said. “I moved the family into Indochina. But the French came back in when the Japanese were driven out, and the Viet Minh, who had been fighting the Japanese, began fighting the French. My two brothers and my son were killed then. After the French were driven out, the Americans came in, and my wife and one of my grandchildren were killed and we moved again-” Mr. Lee broke off the recitation with an apologetic look at Moon. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “You were being polite. I was boring you with a family history.”

“No, no,” Moon said. “I am interested.”

“But you are also a busy man. With many responsibilities. I must not waste your time. I must tell you that I am here because one of the very last transactions your brother and I engaged in was not concluded. Not totally completed. The tragedy interrupted it. The delivery was not consummated.”

He peered at Moon through the thick lenses, his watery eyes seeking understanding.

“The goods were on the helicopter when it crashed?”

“I think not,” Mr. Lee said, looking sad.

A jet came over, lower than usual. Mr. Lee waited.

So did Moon. It was the fatigue, he thought, that gave these two men, and the room, and everything else, a sense of unreality. He glanced at Mr. Charley Ming, who-caught staring-looked away. Mr. Lee was looking down at his small hands, folded in his lap.

“I want to learn where my merchandise has gone,” he said. “I think Mr. Mathias put it somewhere for safekeeping. But the people at his company knew nothing about it. Your brother’s papers had already been sent to his attorney in Manila. But when I got to Manila, again I was too late. He had sent everything to your mother in the United States.” He shrugged, looking at Moon with the question in his face.

“You want to look at Ricky’s papers to see if they’ll help you find-whatever it was?”

“Exactly,” Mr. Lee said. “For that I came to the United States. But when I reached Miami Beach, your mother had already left.”

“She brought a few things with her,” Moon said. “Mostly letters, I think. She wouldn’t have brought business papers. In fact, I doubt if she would have received his business stuff. Whoever is running the business would need them. They would still be in his office, I’d think.”

Mr. Lee looked at Moon, examining his face. He made a deprecatory gesture. “I think not necessarily so,” he said. “Too bad, I think, but some business in some places must be kept very confidential.”

Mr. Lee’s expression said that he knew Moon, a sophisticated man, would have already known this, but he explained.

“It is not just in deference to the interests of his clients who don’t want their privacy invaded, but in the interests of your brother. He wouldn’t want too much unneeded information written down in files. Almost everybody can open files.”

“Oh,” Moon said, digesting this. “You’re saying some of the things Ricky was doing were illegal?”

Mr. Lee looked startled. “Oh, no. No,” he said. “Mr. Mathias was an honorable business person. But-” He paused, shrugged. “The helicopters, for example,” he said, voice patient. “One of the assets of Mr. Mathias’s company is control of helicopters of the Army of the Republic of Vietnam. And sometimes RVN helicopters. His people fix them and test-fly them, and then he notifies the army, and ARVN pilots come to fly them back to Saigon. Or sometimes pilots of R. M. Air return them to their bases.”

“And who is to say where the copter was flown on the test flight?” Moon said. “Or how long it took to repair it?”

“Exactly,” Mr. Lee said. “And who is to care? And, of course, a helicopter of the Army of the Republic of Vietnam can fly to places where flying other aircraft would be-” Mr. Lee searched for the right explanation.

“Not be allowed?” Moon suggested. “Or raise questions? Or provoke curiosity?”

“Exactly,” Mr. Lee said again. “There would be much filling in of forms, and getting permits, and waiting, and-” Mr. Lee grimaced and rubbed thumb and fingers together, the universal symbol for bribery.

Moon nodded. Ricky was not the sort to overlook an opportunity.

“So one would not look for a file on the business he did with me in the business office of R. M. Air,” Mr. Lee said. “One would expect more discretion.”

“What was the merchandise?” Moon asked. It wouldn’t be drugs. Ricky wouldn’t deal with that. Not that Mr. Lee would tell him if it was. Some sort of contraband, though. Something that would require a bit of smuggling. But not something that would make you ashamed.

“An urn,” Mr. Lee said. “Antique. Very old. Not very valuable to others, but priceless to our family.”

For the first time the big man, whom Moon had come to think of as the bodyguard, spoke. “Yes,” he said. “It holds our luck.”

“Worth how much?” Moon asked, trying to understand all this.

“Beyond price,” Mr. Lee said.

“And my brother seems to have lost it?”

“No, no,” Mr. Lee said, agitated that Moon would read such an implication into this situation. “No. Mr. Mathias was a most efficient man. Most dependable. Worthy of complete trust. He would have placed it somewhere safe until he could complete the delivery. But then-” Mr. Lee shrugged, not wanting to mention Ricky’s death. “Some things cannot be predicted.”

“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.

“I will have to get them,” Moon said. “Where can I call you?”

Mr. Lee made a faint sound that probably would have become the first word in an argument. But he cut it off and rose shakily to his feet. He extracted a card from his wallet, a pen from his coat, and wrote.

“Here is where I am staying.” He handed Moon the card and walked stiffly to the door, trailed by his grandson. There he turned back and looked at Moon. “This urn is very important to my family,” he said. “I intend to offer a reward of ten thousand dollars for assistance that leads to its recovery.”

“I’m not eligible for a reward,” Moon said. “If my brother misplaced your urn, I feel responsible. I’ll do all I can to help you recover it.”

Mr. Lee made a movement that was something between a bow and a nod.

“Mr. Mathias,” he said, “your brother talked of you often. From what he told me of you, I place a high value on that promise. And if I can help you locate your niece, I hope you will allow me to do so.”

“Thank you,” Moon said. “But first I have to decide what to do.”

But he had a sick feeling. He knew what he’d have to do. He’d have to go find Ricky’s kid.

BANGKOK, Thailand, April 15 (Agence France-Presse)-Two refugee South Vietnamese military officers said today that embittered ARVN troops used their tank gun to destroy the ancestral tombs of President Nguyen Van Thieu before they withdrew from Phan Rang, the home of the president’s family.

The two, with seven other refugees, arrived at Bangkok airport yesterday in a military helicopter. They said their ranger battalion had been cut off and destroyed by Communist troops south of Phan Rang.