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corridor, and finally stand him in front of a steel door. One of the guards knocks twice. A peephole opens for an instant and then closes again.
    Kasper is brought inside. The first face he sees is the one he fears the most.
    Darrha.
    The lieutenant shows him where to go.
    The room looks like a doctor’s office: gray plastered walls, white ceiling, fluorescent lights. High up on one wall, two windows, grated and barred. Another torture room, he imagines.
    The seated man facing him—blue suit, dark tie—is a Westerner. So is the one standing behind him, but he’s not wearing a tie.
    Kasper has never seen them before.
    The seated man says to him in English, “Good morning. Have a seat.”
    He’s an American. Kasper recognizes a southern accent.
    A guard moves a plastic chair closer to him. Two guards seize his arms and handcuff his wrists behind the chair. He offers no resistance. Wasting his strength won’t help him. In the past week, he’s eaten very little and drunk very little. Suffered a great deal.
    “Are they treating you badly?” the American asks.
    Kasper looks at him, sizes him up. Latin features, dark eyes and hair, short, squat, grumpy. A bulldog that came out bad. Forty years old, maybe somewhat older. The one leaning on the wall is younger, thirty-five or so, blond and apparently in good shape. An American like his colleague, probably. But for the moment, he’s not opening his mouth.
    “Did you hear me? Are they treating you badly?”
    “What do you think?”
    “I think you don’t look all that great.”
    “I’ve seen worse.”
    “Right,” the grumpy fellow says with a sneer. “I’ve heard you’re a man of the world.”
    “Who are you?”
    “Let’s say we’re people in a position to help you.”
    If he needed confirmation, now he’s got it. So it’s just as he thought. And exactly what he was afraid of. The Cambodians are the muscle, the Americans the brains.
    “People who can get you out of here,” the grumpy American elaborates. “All you have to do—”
    “You’re the people who got me detained,” Kasper interrupts him. “You’ve committed a crime. A very serious crime. Where’s my friend?”
    “He’s fine,” says the one leaning on the wall. “Whitebeard’s doing better than you.” This one’s an American too, as predicted. Surely from the same
Company.
    “You two are charged with tax crimes and money laundering. If you stay in
their
custody, you’re finished. If instead you ask for protection from the U.S. government, then this nightmare will be over. Immediately. Your friend has already agreed—”
    “Sure he has.”
    “Believe me. He’s smart. He understands—”
    “He doesn’t have a fucking thing to do with any of this.”
    “So much the better. Now it’s your turn. Come on. Sign the documents and pack your bags. They won’t lay another hand on you.”
    Kasper laughs in his face. “
They,
huh?” He glances over at Darrha, standing impassively in his corner. “
They
don’t even take a dump without your permission. The Cambodians just follow your orders. Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to? And you want me to sign something for you? You’re crazy. What you’ve done is a disgrace. You dishonor the country my father was born in.”
    The grouch looks amused, but then he scowls like one who, were it up to him, wouldn’t devote quite so much time to mutual ball-busting with some smart-ass Italian. He says, “You’re telling us our offer doesn’t interest you?”
    “I’m telling you to go fuck yourselves.”
    The one leaning against the wall changes position but stays where he is. He says, “We’re not the same people you worked for. They fucked you over. We’re the good guys.”
    “Give me a b—”
    “I represent the Department of Homeland Security.”
    “Right. I’m with the Vatican, myself.”
    “And I’m with the FBI,” the grouch adds. “We arrived in Phnom Penh today. We’re here specifically for you and your