Madrid had been drinking heavily, and was just now feeling somewhat sober. The sight of Isabella with half her skull bashed in had made him vomit out the alcohol.

“It’s me, Antonio.” The two men had gone to school together.

“Antonio?” The police chief said.

“Yes. Felix, what do we do?”

“You have to take her identity, her purse, and destroy it. I’ll send someone for the body. She’ll be a Jane Doe when she’s found. It’s the best way.”

“I don’t understand,” Antonio said.

“She’ll be found and be unidentified. The unidentified are cremated in two days. That will be the end of it,” the policeman said.

“There’s an autopsy, certainly?”

“Sometimes, but I’ll take care of that,” the policeman said.

“What about her family?”

“I’m afraid this has to be kept between us. That’s what the embassy wants. They’ve already called.”

“They called you, too?”

“Yes. Just now. I spoke to them. They’re sending the girl back to the States tonight. . . . Antonio, it has to be this way. You understand . . . they don’t want an incident. Not with the war on. Isabella’s family is famous. People here would be insulted.”

“Yes. Of course. I understand.”

“I’ll send someone right now,” the policeman said.

“Please.” Antonio put the phone down. It was a very old-fashioned phone, from the twenties, black and heavy. “They’re sending someone right now. He wants us to take . . . Isabella’s purse.”

“What do you mean?” the minister asked him.

“We have to take her purse,” Antonio said again.

“What about the family? We have to call her brother. I know him. You know him. We have to call Pedro, for God’s sake. Antonio, she has a son,” the minister said.

“We have to do what Felix says. The embassy has already called him. They’re sending the girl back to the States tonight.” He watched the minister fall into a brown leather club chair that had been bought years before, in London, and shipped to Guatemala.

“She didn’t deserve this,” the minister said. They had both known Isabella since they were children.

“It’s my fault,” Antonio said.

“What do you mean?”

“I was involved with the American girl. I should have taken Isabella home when I saw she was here. It was stupid. She told me she was jealous . . . I thought . . . I thought it was just talk,” Antonio said.

The minister got up and left the room. He said that he was going to leave, that he didn’t want to be here when they came for the body, that it was too gruesome.

“He said we have to keep our mouths shut,” Antonio said.

“Yes, of course. Of course,” the minister said. “It’s the American Embassy, after all. They’re helping us win this war.” He said that almost as if he were talking to himself.

“Yes,” was all Antonio said. “The war.”

TWENTY-FIVE

The currency had collapsed the week before. President Blanco declared a state of emergency and shut down the country’s banks, amid rumors that Blanco had precipitated the crash by emptying the treasury of dollars. The army had been called out to keep order in the capital.

The state of emergency had driven the foreign tourists out of the Camino Real hotel. The hotel’s pool, usually crowded by this time of the morning, was quiet when Russell passed. Military filled the hotel’s famous coffee shop. A few Americans from the embassy, in Gap pants and well pressed shirts, shared a joke with a group of high-ranking officers. But the laughter had a mirthless tone, Russell thought as he was shown to Mahler’s table. No one in the army knew exactly how it might go in the next few weeks, only that the Americans would reshuffle the deck and come out winners. The generals had simply come to the café to sell themselves, as they always did, like whores at a bar.

“Listen. I can’t talk for long,” Russell said as he sat down. Mahler was wearing the same dirty clothes he’d left the jungle in. He hadn’t shaved, and looked oddly glamorous because of it. A gaggle of well dressed bodyguards, waiting for their military employers, stared at them.

“Carl’s given me the money we needed. I . . . I just left him,” Mahler said. A waiter came, and Russell ordered. “You have to come back with me. Now.” Mahler handed back the menu.

“I can’t. Not right away. You have to go back without me,” Russell told him.

“We haven’t much time. Selva is going to win, or just take over. You know that. He’ll nationalize Tres Rios and take it all for himself. We have to take advantage of this chaos,” Mahler said. He ate scrambled eggs quickly, jamming them into his mouth.

“Blanco suspended the elections because of the crisis,” Russell told him. “I just heard it on the radio.”

Mahler snorted with contempt.

“Don’t be a fool. Blanco is on the way out, and Selva will be the next president. It’s pre-ordained. It’s what the Yankees want.” Mahler nodded towards the corner table of military men. “Selva’s their man. And that’s the way it’s always gone here. The generals always win.”

“Maybe not this time,” Russell said, trying to keep his voice down.

Mahler fished in his dirty vest and threw something on the table between them. “I found that before I left,” he said.

Russell picked up what appeared to be a small Mayan figure of a woman, solid gold, weighing several ounces.

“And some other things. We’re close to the Red Jaguar, I tell you.” Mahler’s blue eyes were electric. “You have to come back with me now. I can’t promise you I’ll wait. If I find the Jaguar—I can’t promise anything if I find it,” he said, wiping the plate with a piece of bread.

“But you haven’t found it. Or you wouldn’t be here,” Russell said, looking at the antiquity.

“No. I haven’t found it—yet,” Mahler said. “But I’m warning you. You’ve fucked around too much as it is.”

“I have a meeting,” Russell said, standing up. “I’ll see you at Tres Rios in a few days. I told you.” He tossed Mahler back the gold figure. The two men looked at each other.

“I’m trustworthy,” Mahler said. “If that’s what you’re thinking. And I saved your life, remember.”

The elevator opened and the IMF country team Russell had met earlier in the week trooped into the cafe, all very well dressed. They were all Russell’s age, or even younger. Mahler turned to look at them.

“Who are they?” he asked when he turned back around.

“IMF officials. They’re here to try and save the currency.”

“You mean they’ve come to arrange the deck chairs on the Titanic,” Mahler said.

“I’ve got to go. I have a meeting with Antonio,” Russell said. It was, he suspected, his political connection with Madrid that was keeping Mahler from stealing what he could and disappearing. For all he knew, Mahler had already found the damn Red Jaguar and was afraid Russell might be too important now to cheat.

“Madrid can’t win. If that’s what you think,” Mahler said, as if he’d been reading Russell’s mind. “Your man was finished before he ever started. The liberals here are a pack of fools.”

Russell sat down again.

“Don’t be a fool. Don’t you understand, Madrid has a good chance of becoming President. If he does, we’ll be able to do whatever we want at Tres Rios. Can’t you understand that!” Russell leaned forward and spoke in a soft voice. “Do you really think I’d back a loser?” He looked at Mahler carefully.

“What are you saying? Is there going to be a golpe, is that it?” Mahler said.

“I’m saying finish your breakfast and then get the fuck out of here before I decide I don’t need you,” Russell said.

•••

Monday May 24, 1988

The dawn had been red and sour-looking when Olga pulled the living room curtains open. She had sat patiently in the kitchen, looking at the clock on the wall, a white shawl around her deformed shoulders to keep off the cold. Sometimes she would get up and go to the hallway if she thought she heard something. Twice the phone rang and she ran to answer. But each time it was someone calling for Isabella. Each time she had to say her mistress was not in. When the callers asked when her mistress was expected back, she didn’t answer.