“No, because then you would be in danger. And I would have an angry sister. And I can’t have that.”

“I see.”

“I knew you would. I told you it’s a dangerous country for journalists,” Carlos said. “Will you come to Tilapa? We would love to have you.”

“I’ve been very busy. I don’t know.”

“You don’t want to hurt your aunt. I told her you would come. It doesn’t matter in the least that you’ll be working for Antonio, if that’s what you’re worried about. Your aunt is supporting him too, for God’s sake! She’s practically a Communist,” Carlos said, and laughed.

They drank port after the meal. It had gotten cloudy; the garden, which had been bathed in blazing light, its flowers beautiful in full sun, was now quieter. The corners of the big garden had become shaded. The waiters started to close the windows in anticipation of the rain.

They finished their drinks and left together. Carlos stood up and put on his hat and coat. He caught everyone’s attention as they left. He was going to be president; it was on everyone’s face. He had great power as chief of the intelligence services, but he would have even more soon. People looked at Russell differently too, as if he were a rock star.

Two bodyguards in mufti were waiting for the general in the garden. They had been there all along, watching over them unseen. They had been trained by the Americans, and were much more professional than the run-of-the-mill type. One was an American, probably an active duty Ranger or Delta Force soldier. The embassy didn’t want to lose their man before the election, Russell imagined. It was a clear sign the Americans were supporting Carlos.

They walked together out to the patio, the bodyguards trailing after them. Russell was a little high from the wine and the port. Carlos was talking about Ubico. He had met him at Russell’s grandfather’s plantation as a child, he said.

“Ubico liked to dress like those soldiers in a Gilbert and Sullivan musical,” Carlos said. They stopped at the fountain, the bodyguards in front of them and to the side. The American looked at Russell, then looked quickly away. Carlos had led him toward the fountain. It was a large one, and it was making a pleasant noise.

“I want to trade you something. Can we do that? Off the record?” Carlos put his well-shined shoe on the edge of the stone fountain and lit a cigarette. “Maybe you’ll understand the importance of family then, and we can be friends.” He inhaled and threw the spent match in the water.

“What is it I have that you want?” Russell asked.

“I want you to have an open mind about these human rights issues I’ve been accused of, in the press.” The general looked into the water. He turned around and put his hand on Russell’s shoulder. “An open mind is all I ask, Russell. . . . Now I’m going to tell you something. You have a friend, an American girl named Katherine Barkley.”

“Yes?”

“There are people here that don’t like her. She should leave the country as soon as possible. It’s no longer safe here for her. Do you understand?”

Carlos turned and smiled at two businessmen who were leaving the restaurant. Carlos, with the formality singular to Latin men of a certain class, motioned them over and introduced Russell to them, not as Russell Price but as Isabella Cruz’s son. It was the first time it had happened since he’d been back.

“One last thing, Russell,” Carlos said when the men had left. His guards were anxious to leave before it rained. The temperature was dropping quickly, and it was almost cool now. “I expect, when I’m president, that your project out at Tres Rios will not be bothered by the ministry of culture. However, I’ll expect to share in whatever you and that lunatic German find out there.” And then, as the first rain drops were falling, Carlos was escorted from the garden.

NINETEEN

He’d called Katherine and left a message on her cell. She called him back almost immediately.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“You don’t care.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m working.”

“I want you to come back to the city,” he said. “Now.”

“No. Why should I? I think it’s over,” she said. “Goodbye.”

“Please.” She hung up.

He didn’t know what to do. A bus honked and pulled around him. He moved his jeep closer to the curb. A street urchin who’d been doing magic tricks in the intersection approached and tapped his windshield. He ignored the kid’s painted clown face, the eyes big, the nose orange. Small raindrops started to hit the windshield, exploding against the dusty glass. They were going to kill Katherine and anyone with her. It wouldn’t matter how many students were in the car with her; he knew how they worked. They would all die.

He picked up his phone and dialed Carlos’s cell number. He looked out on the street as he heard Carlos’s voice ask him, in Spanish, to please leave a message. She’s innocent. What had Katherine done to deserve this? She’d only built houses for poor people, for God’s sake!

Outside, on the street, people were beginning to run for cover as the rain suddenly began to pour down. An explosion of rain hit his windshield, and everything in sight seemed to melt and blur. The young boy stood by his window waiting for money, staring in at him, his glue sniffer’s eyes red, his white painted face hideous. The paint on his face had started to run, so that Russell could see streaks of brown skin underneath the white. He dug in his wallet while rolling down his windshield. He could hear the rain hitting a long row of ragged store awnings across the street. The boy reached for the worn bill with filthy wet fingers.

“Gracias, Señor! May god bless you,” he said, unfazed by the rain.

“It’s me,” Russell said. He had called Beatrice at home in the city. “I have to talk to Carlos. It’s important. Is he there?” He had dialed her number despite his promise never to call her at home. “I’m sorry; it’s an emergency.” He could hear the maids in the background, and a child crying. “Beatrice, is he there? Is Carlos there? I have to speak to him.”

“No,” she said finally. “Where are you?”

“I’m in the city. Where is he?”

“At the office . . . I think. What’s wrong?”

“I’ll explain later. Give me the number.”

“I can’t.”

He was stunned.

“Beatrice! For God’s sake, give me the number!”

“He said I wasn’t to give that number out. Ever.”

“Beatrice. Do I have to beg you?”

“He’ll know if I gave it to you. He’ll know,” she said.

“I don’t care if he knows or not. I have to speak to him now, damn it.”

She hung up. For a moment, all he could hear was the beating of the rain on the top of his jeep in a sick unison with his own heart. Everything outside was obscured, otherworldly, the traffic, buildings, and pedestrians melded into a loose wet fabric, roughly laced together by the rain’s great tension.

He drove a block in fear and desperation. He’d wanted to ask Carlos to send some men to protect Katherine immediately. He was going to beg him. He would write whatever Carlos wanted him to write about him.

The avenue spilled him out onto La Reforma, in front of a hulking gray statue of Ubico on his marble stallion, crowded with pigeons. He was trapped by the traffic, which swept him into one of the massive circular roundabouts. He saw the U.S. embassy on the corner, its roof bristling with communications equipment, its huge white satellite dishes pointed at the dark sky. He instinctively moved towards the building, catching a break in the traffic. He pulled back onto La Reforma and drove toward the embassy like a madman.

He knew from experience that in the afternoon the embassy was quieter. Guatemalans, soliciting visas for the United States, were only allowed access in the morning, and at a special door. The main entrance to the embassy was protected by two checkpoints. What had once been, in the mid 20th century, a home away from home for Americans, designed for their convenience, was now in the twenty-first century a fortress, designed to keep everyone at bay. Manned by Marines, the embassy had turned into a stronghold housing the DEA, FBI, CIA, NSA and their support staff. Ironically, the smallest contingent was State Department workers. The CIA delegation had gotten so big that it had spilled out and taken over its own building nearby.