The first squad car showed up in about five minutes. Within the hour there were five other squad cars and a panel truck for command and control. I was impressed to learn that the Newport Beach Police Department also had an explosives disposal vehicle, which they drove onto the lawn to get as close as possible to the guesthouse. It was a black Ford van with armor plating between the front seats and the cargo bay. In back was a large steel box with a heavy-hinged door facing the rear.

Teru wouldn’t be pleased with the damage it did to the lawn.

My assurances that the bomb wasn’t operational and my offer to carry it out for them were both ignored. They sent in a guy wearing a disposal suit. He hobbled into the house like a sumo wrestler in body armor, pushing a small cart that had oversized rubber tires and an elaborate shock-absorbing suspension. The bomb was on the cart when he came out. At the rear of the explosives disposal vehicle, he lifted the bomb and put it in the steel container. Then he closed the heavy interior door and the two exterior doors and began removing his body armor.

Around noon the police were finally done with their work. They told me their lab had confirmed that the C-4 and the detonator were both real, but the timer was faulty. I asked if the timer had been purposely modified. They said it appeared the defect had been caused when it was manufactured. So it seemed more likely that the bomb was no mere warning. Maybe they had thrown it through the window just to make double sure. Or maybe they wanted me awake when it happened. Maybe they wanted me to know I was about to die.

The police explained to me that the bomb had been thrown through my bedroom window after the glass had already been shattered by a brick, which was taken from the edging of the planting bed outside, and there was in fact no other evidence relating to the crime elsewhere on the property. I didn’t tell them I already knew all of that.

A Newport detective asked if I had any enemies. I told him I had several and explained that I was in the personal security business. I told him about the two Latinos in the Suburban, that they had been following me for at least two days. I gave him their vehicle’s tag number. He promised they would run the plates and question the owner. He said they had found no fingerprints on the bomb except for mine, and no DNA evidence.

When the crime scene crew had gone, I went into the guesthouse and started another pot of coffee brewing. While I waited, I went over recent events.

The bomb was interesting. I thought about the fact that it was interesting, and my first encounter with Vega and Castro had been interesting, and being followed by the guy with the gold medallion and his partner was interesting, and I decided it was a good thing to be interested in something. It was a relief, and I had a feeling I should try to make it last.

So to remain interested, I considered the two guys in the Suburban, Medallion and the Other One, following me and threatening to kill me if I agreed to work for Vega. They had made a tactical mistake. I tended to press into threats, not run away from them.

And of course, there was still Castro. I went back and forth on Castro. Sometimes I wished I had killed him, and sometimes I pitied him because I had the feeling he wasn’t totally in control of his own actions. But I figured Vega might be in control, and it would be a good thing to find out for sure.

The most interesting aspect of it all was Haley’s plans to produce the film in Guatemala. It could be a coincidence, of course. It probably was. At any given moment, she had been working on about a dozen business deals all around the world. But that particular deal had been centered on Guatemala, and tenuous though the connection was, I had no other leads, nothing that tied in with her murder. There was no way I could ignore the slim possibility of a connection with the rest of it.

Everything pointed back to Vega’s proposition, one way or the other.

When the coffee was ready, I poured myself a cup, carried it over to the telephone, and called the Renaissance Hotel. I asked the hotel operator for Mr. Brown. Castro voice came on the line.

He said, “Bueno.”

I replied in Spanish. “It is Cutter. I want to speak with Vega.”

There was a long pause. I heard him breathing into the telephone’s mouthpiece. Finally he said, “A moment.”

Half a minute later, Valentín Vega came on the line. He spoke cheerfully in English. “Good morning, Mr. Cutter. This is a pleasant surprise.”

Either he was an excellent actor, or he didn’t know what Castro had tried to do to me the last time I saw him. I said, “Did Castro tell you what happened at the cemetery?”

“Cemetery?”

I explained that I had nearly killed his bodyguard, and why. When I was done, he said, “Mr. Cutter, on behalf not only of myself but also of my people, I wish to apologize for Fidel’s threats against you and his disrespect toward your deceased employer. He will most certainly be punished.”

“Do what you think best. As far as I’m concerned, it’s over and done with unless Castro wants to press his luck.”

“I assure you he will not ‘press his luck,’ as you say.”

“Fine. He got it wrong, by the way. I’m not connected with the guys following you.”

“I did not think you were.”

“You need to convince Castro. And don’t let him come at me again. For his sake.”

“I am beginning to realize it was a mistake to bring him on this mission. But Fidel can be controlled.”

“If not, I won’t be responsible for what happens.”

“Yes, I understand. And I would not blame you.”

“All right.” I took a sip of coffee. I swallowed. “Do you still want some help?”

“Very much. Are you now interested?”

“It depends. If I take the case, I’ll follow it wherever it goes. I’ll expose the truth, even if the truth isn’t convenient for you. That’s the only way I work.”

“This is not a problem, Mr. Cutter. The URNG had no involvement in the matter.”

“Okay, what are Castro’s specialties?”

“I do not understand your question.”

“Is he a specialist in hand-to-hand, small weapons, artillery, motor transport, munitions?”

“I believe it is accurate to say he is a specialist, as you call it, in everything you mentioned.”

“Where did he qualify in munitions?”

“Qualify? You speak as if Fidel has had formal training. We learned what we know of warfare in the mountains, by—what is your expression?—trial and error?”

“He didn’t train at the School of the Americas?”

“Of course not. Your country reserved that opportunity for our enemies, as you most certainly know. Please explain these questions, Mr. Cutter.”

I told him about the bomb, including the fact that it had been made from US military ordnance.

He said, “You have my word no person connected with our cause had anything to do with that. We are a political party now. We do not resort to violence. But in the days when we did use bombs, you can be sure they always exploded.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m in.”

15

Simon prepared grilled-cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for himself, Teru, and me. We ate together at a table in the shade of the stand of palms beside the pool. Teru complained about the damage to the lawn. I noticed that he still cared about the lawn even though he would soon no longer be responsible for it. I thought a moral lesson was in there somewhere. Something about caring for caring’s sake. Honor. Duty. All that kind of thing. But I didn’t want to read too much into it. After all, I was the reason he would soon no longer be responsible for the lawn.