But maybe he’d learn today that Rice hadn’t escaped and there was no practical way to find the child and recover her. There would be nothing to do but call Shakeshaft and tell him he was on his way home. He yearned for that to happen. He did yearn for it, didn’t he?
He looked at Osa, holding back the dusty curtain, watching for Rice or for the police. He’d miss her.
Mr. Lee’s tap on the door was so polite that Moon barely heard it. He gave Moon his frail hand to shake, but in the dark eyes of Osa van Winjgaarden Mr. Lee somehow recognized a fellow Asian. To her he bowed over hands prayerfully pressed together. She returned the gesture exactly.
But otherwise today Mr. Lee made unusually short work of the polite formalities. He sat on the edge of the chair Moon had offered him and got right to the point.
“At the airport there were police,” he said, his eyes on Moon’s face. “It was said an inmate had left the penal institution without permission. It was said the one who escaped was an American.”
“Probably George Rice,” Moon said.
“Yes,” Lum Lee said. “And why do you say that? Could it be only because you understand there are very few Americans in the prison here?” Mr. Lee’s expression suggested he doubted that.
“He told us he planned to get out.”
“Ah,” Lee said, nodding. “I am told that getting out is easy. Getting off the island is very hard. Did he suggest you help him accomplish that?”
“I think he expected a friend to fly in and pick him up.”
“A friend?”
“Just a guess,” Moon said, thinking, How much should I tell this little man? Have I already dug us deeper into trouble?
“Ah, yes,” Lee said. “A guess. And since the police are still at the airport, and the police are still around the port at Puerto Princesa, I would guess that the friend has not yet come.”
“That sounds logical,” Moon said, wondering how Mr. Lee knew about the police at the port. Hadn’t he come here directly from the airport?
Mr. Lee, deep in thought, extracted his cigar case, opened it, extracted a slim black cigar, and suddenly became aware of his rudeness. He gave Moon an apologetic look.
“If Osa doesn’t mind,” Moon said, “go ahead and smoke.”
“Please do,” Osa said.
“A bad habit,” Mr. Lee said, lighting it. “But it sometimes seems to help one think. And now one needs to think.”
“Trouble is, I can’t think of anything helpful,” Moon said.
“It all seems strange,” Mr. Lee said. “Perhaps the friend of Mr. Rice betrayed him. Or perhaps Mr. Rice did not find a way to notify this friend of his need. Or of his schedule.”
“Perhaps,” Moon said. “Or-”
He paused, looked at Osa. Osa shrugged. What the hell, Moon thought. “Or perhaps the friend’s telephone in Manila had been disconnected. Perhaps there was no way the friend could be contacted.”
Mr. Lee exhaled cigar smoke, careful to aim it away from them.
“Yes,” he said. “Either way, the problem is the same for Mr. Rice.” He looked at Moon, expression quizzical. “And for others.”
He considered this, eyes down, hands folded across his waist.
“I would believe Mr. Rice to be a most shrewd man,” Mr. Lee continued. “Reckless at times, but most intelligent.” He nodded, agreeing with his conclusion. “Yes. He would never think he could simply walk up to the airport buildings in his prison uniform and wait for this friend to arrive. He would need to be certain that the friend was coming, and to know precisely when this friend would arrive. And precisely on what part of the runway he was landing his airplane. I believe that Mr. Rice would wish to conceal himself in the jungle until he saw this aircraft land. Then he would hurry out from the trees and get aboard before being detected.”
“Exactly,” Moon said.
“So he was coming here? To learn from you what arrangements had been made by his pilot friend?”
Moon nodded. “He was supposed to come last night. But he didn’t make it.”
“So now the police search for him.” Mr. Lee reached for the telephone. Withdrew his hand with an apologetic look at Moon. “May I?-”
Moon gestured his permission.
“It will be necessary to speak in Chinese,” Mr. Lee said. “I am afraid neither of you speak that language.” He hesitated a moment, looking at Moon and then at Osa for confirmation. “I will apologize that such impoliteness is necessary, but my friend here at Puerto Princesa does not speak English.”
It was a long conversation, involving at various times at least three people on the other end of the telephone.
Moon sat on the edge of the bed, looking away, watching Osa van Winjgaarden, who stood motionless at the window. He tried to read significance into the tone of Mr. Lee’s voice and learned only that Mr. Lee seemed to be in charge. The tone suggested that Mr. Lee was not asking favors. Only once did he raise his voice in anything that might have been irritation. Once he paused and asked Moon if he remembered the name of the prison official who had been in charge of him. Moon didn’t, but Osa provided the name of the lieutenant and Lum Lee repeated it into the telephone.
Osa had looked away from the window then and watched Lee. Her face registered puzzlement, then surprise, then intense interest. It occurred to Moon that Osa as a child had had a Chinese nanny. She would understand Chinese, or at least a little of it.
She looked at him and then moved her hands down where they would not be visible to Mr. Lee and made with her fingers the tong signals she had shown.
Mr. Lee hung up.
“Thank you very much,” he said. “Now I think we should go into Puerto Princesa and make some arrangements.”
“I’ll have to wait for Rice,” Moon said. “We can’t-”
“We go now,” Lum Lee said. “The police are coming.”
“For us?” Moon said. Not that he hadn’t been expecting it.
“Yes,” Mr. Lee said. “I think they would have been here much earlier, but your lieutenant had the day off.” He was moving toward the door. “Quickly, now. Quickly.”
The anxiety in Mr. Lee’s expression spoke as loud as the words. Moon stuffed everything he had into his bag in a matter of seconds. Even so, he found Osa in the hall, bag packed, waiting.
Mr. Lee was walking, rapidly and silently, down the hallway toward them. “A policeman has just come into the lobby,” he said. “Is there another stairway down?”
“There’s a little porch at the end of the building, and a door opens out onto it,” Moon said. “Maybe it’s a fire escape.”
It was. They scrambled down the ladder.
“Where are we going?” Moon asked.
“Where the police won’t find you,” Mr. Lee said. “Until we can collect Mr. Rice.”
WASHINGTON, April 23 (AP)-A spokesman for President Ford said today that sixty helicopters have been assembled on three aircraft carriers off the coast of Vietnam prepared for speedy evacuation of Americans if it becomes necessary.
Evening, The Fourteenth Day
THE PLACE WHERE MR. LEE had arranged to hide them proved to be a ramshackle two-story house on a potholed street of ramshackle two-story houses near the port that gave Puerto Princesa its name. The house was built partly of concrete blocks, partly of planking, and partly of bamboo logs, roofed partly with tile and partly with palm thatching-pretty much in keeping with the low-income urban architecture Moon had been noticing in the Philippines. What was less common, or so Moon presumed, was the section of flooring in the back hall. Mr. Tung, who Moon now presumed was the homeowner as well as their cabdriver, slid away the hallway rug, lifted this section, exposed a steep stairway, and led them down it into a large room with a concrete floor. Three of the walls and about four-fifths of the remaining one were also of concrete.