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disoriented as he waited to go through customs. He imagined being taken from the line to a windowless, soundproof room where he would be strapped to an uncomfortable wooden chair by terrifying, steely-eyed interrogators and confronted with the money that had been found in the lining of his suitcase. But when it was his turn, a bored customs inspector asked him a few perfunctory questions before stamping his passport and waving him on.
    Dennis hurried to reclaim his suitcase. He tried to stay calm as he waited for the baggage handlers to bring it from the plane but he found it difficult to keep from shifting in place and impossible to keep his head from swiveling this way and that looking for the policemen he felt certain were closing in on him. He also checked the crowd in the baggage claim area for Charlie Marsh, who was supposed to meet him at the airport and drive him to his hotel, but he saw no one who resembled the smiling, dreamy-eyed swami he'd seen in the photographs in the file.
    Dennis spotted his suitcase and grabbed it, expecting to be pounced on any minute. When there was no pouncing, he carried the valise to the front of the terminal where groups of Batangans and a few expatriates were greeting his fellow travelers. A man detached himself from the wall and walked toward Dennis. He wore dark glasses, khaki pants, a sweat-stained T-shirt advertising Guinness Stout, sandals, and a baseball cap.
    You from World News? he asked.
    Dennis Levy, Dennis answered with a smile of relief. He extended his hand. Charlie hesitated, then glanced around anxiously as he shook it. Charlie's grip was limp and disinterested and his palm was sweaty.
    Let's get out of here, he said, and headed for the door.
    Dennis caught up with Charlie when he stopped at a rusty, dented, dirt-stained Volkswagen standing at the curb in a no-parking zone. Two policemen were standing next to the car. Dennis froze, certain that they were about to be arrested. Then Charlie slipped each cop some money and Dennis realized that they had been paid to watch the car. Charlie opened the trunk so Dennis could put his suitcase in it.
    Do you have the money? Charlie asked as soon as they were in the car.
    Yes. It's in the lining of my suitcase.
    The full seventy-five?
    It's all there.
    Thank God, Charlie intoned, closing his eyes briefly.
    Moments later, they were careening down a two-lane highway just as the sun was starting to disappear behind a row of low green hills. Dennis waited for Charlie to say something else, but the subject of his future best-seller was concentrating on the road and seemed to have forgotten that there was a passenger in his car.
    Are we going to my hotel, Mr. Sun? Dennis asked in an attempt to get a conversation going.
    Marsh, Charlie Marsh. Call me by my right name.
    So, you don't go by Gabriel Sun anymore?
    Charlie glared at him for a second before returning his eyes to the road in time to veer around a stray goat.
    Forget about all that Sun shit, he said when they were out of peril. That's way in the past.
    Okay.
    The Volkswagen drove by an outdoor market that had been set up in a clearing at the side of the road. Dennis shifted in his seat to take in the scene. Native women wrapped in multicolored cloth carried babies strapped to their backs while balancing baskets of fruit, rice, and fish on their heads. Men in khaki shorts and disintegrating T-shirts that hung in shreds from their well-muscled backs passed in front of wooden stalls selling red, yellow, and blue tins and boxes. Oddly, the goods in each stall appeared to be identical. Children played among the stalls. Some of the people on the roadside smiled and waved when the car flashed by. Dennis waved back. Marsh ignored them, jamming the heel of his hand on the horn if someone got too close, but never decreasing his speed.
    Look at those dumb bastards, he muttered.
    Dennis gave Charlie an odd look. This wasn't going the way he'd expected. Marsh appeared to be an angry and