Dan and Robbie sat in the back of a motorised rickshaw, pushing southwards through traffic along Durbar Marg.
Robbie shouted above the hysterical whine of the two-stroke engine, “Your good mate Thierry is lying to you, Dad. And he seems such a cool guy. How come someone else got at the money? A monastery or an NGO or something?”
“I trust that man, even if he does lie to us. He’ll have a good reason. If I thought he’d changed just one little bit since we last saw him…I suppose you must think I’m mad.”
Robbie pulled a scarf across his face, a feeble attempt to prevent dense traffic fumes entering his lungs. He didn’t know what to make of unfolding events. It felt as if they were wading deeper and deeper into some kind of dark, pestilential swamp of past crimes.
“You have to know what to
