Julio moved toward the door and Cielo faced Emil. The others had gone back to the kitchen; it was only the three of them, and Kruger who stood at the far end of the hall blocking it, his back to them and his shoulder propped casually against the doorframe. Emil at the mirror finally got his hair stuck down and turned to glance at Cielo. Something in Cielo’s expression betrayed him and Emil went rigid. His face, almost always studiedly calm, went slack and his thief’s eyes went restlessly around the room. Julio lifted the .44 Magnum revolver into sight and made a show of cocking it, the noise quite loud in the room. “Stand still now.”

Cielo walked toward Emil, a gun in his fist. He felt foolishly melodramatic. Emil flattened himself back against the wall. “What’s this? What’s this?”

Julio said, “I guess nobody trusts you, Emil. I’m sorry.”

The flash in Emil’s eyes, Cielo thought, was that of someone in the climax of orgasm.

They went out to the yard. “Bring his car around.”

Emil’s car was a sporty little Mustang convertible, dented here and there, the paint flaking off; it had seen better days. Kruger got in behind the wheel and Cielo pushed Emil into the back seat, feeling foolish with a gun in his hand.

Julio stood outside the car. “All right?”

Cielo nodded to him and Julio walked away to get into the VW. It followed the Mustang down the driveway and they went in convoy up the El Verde road through the town onto Highway Three; then a few miles of divided road and another turnoff to the seacoast road, passing through villages. The morning’s rain had left puddles in the chuckholes. They went out into the banana farms and Kruger stopped the car at the verge when Cielo tapped his shoulder. Kruger got out of the car; Julio’s VW stopped alongside and Kruger got into it and the VW drove away leaving Cielo alone in the Mustang with Emil. The keys dangled in the ignition. Cielo climbed out and reached for the keys, put them in his pocket and spoke. “Stay there. We’ll talk a minute.” Through the open door he kept the revolver pointed at Emil.

Emil, breathing through his open mouth, stared at him without blinking.

Cielo said, “Other people’s lives don’t seem to mean much to you but I wonder how you feel about your own.”

Emil’s mouth snapped shut. “I came here to get killed, not to listen to a speech.”

“Listen to this one and maybe you won’t get killed.” He studied his revolver. “So?”

“So I’ll listen.”

“I brought you out here as a favor to your grandfather. Otherwise I’d have had to shoot you in front of the others. You understand? It’s nothing to do with you—I don’t care if the others see this or not—but I prefer not to offend the old man.”

“That’s smart.”

“Don’t sneer, Emil. The order not to harm the hostages came from your grandfather, not from me. You knew that. It was your grandfather you disobeyed. He’s run out of patience with you. Just the same I owe him something—I’d rather not be the instrument of murder against his family, but he’s told me he won’t stand in the way of my disciplining you.”

“What do you want?” Emil feigned disinterest.

“I want you to remember that Julio and I are the padrones and that you are with us by our sufferance. I want you to learn, and never forget, who runs this outfit.”

“I believe my grandfather runs it.” Emil had a hot kind of courage and this icy calm was unlike him; Cielo stepped back a pace to keep his revolver out of Emil’s reach.

“Your grandfather is the President, so to speak, but I am the General. I give the orders in the field and he doesn’t countermand them. Am I getting through to you? When you volunteer to serve with an army you take orders from its generals, no matter who your grandfather is. Your grandfather understands that. I understand it. Now it’s time for you to understand it.”

Emil considered the Magnum. “You can’t teach a man much by killing him. Now it seems to me either you’re going to shoot me or you’re not. Which is it?”

“If you turn on us, sooner or later one of us will finish you. If that happens you won’t have an easy death. What if Julio gets at you, or Vargas? Vargas, for example, has a thing about pouring boiling water into a traitor’s ear through a funnel,” he lied. “You look unimpressed. All right—I’ll impress you.” And he clubbed Emil across the side of the head with the revolver.

It wasn’t a very hard blow but Emil fell back with a grunt and it dazed him enough so that he didn’t put up effective resistance when Cielo proceeded methodically to batter him with his boots, cracking a rib and bruising a kidney but not doing anything that would leave visible scars. A man of Emil’s vanity wouldn’t be able to live with that; he’d have to come back for revenge. This way perhaps Emil would get over the rage and chalk it up to lessons learned.

He nudged Emil to make sure he was awake. Emil uttered a sound and blinked up at him. “The point is,” Cielo said, “I can be just as hard as you when I need to be. And I’m a kitten beside Julio or Vargas.”

He tossed the car keys on Emil’s chest and walked away.

A few hundred yards round the bend he reached the Volkswagen. Julio, in the back seat, leaned forward to open the door for him. Cielo got in and they drove off. Kruger said, “All right?”

“Yes.”

Julio was dour. “What if he learns nothing from it?”

“Those who do not learn from history,” Cielo said airily, “are doomed to die from it.”

Kruger said, “I don’t trust Emil. I never will.”

“He understands power,” Cielo said, “and he understands fear. In any case, as long as the old man is alive we’re saddled with Emil.”

“And afterward?”

“Emil’s the sort who’ll destroy himself, I think. He may not even need any help from us.” Cielo sank back in melancholia. “The old man won’t live forever. Neither will any of us.”

Chapter 8

Glenn Anders unpacked his suitcase with the efficiency of long practice. It wasn’t merely his suitcase; it was, largely, his home.

At the bedside desk he swept aside the fan display of tourist folders and local guides—This Week in Mexico—and reached for the phone to buzz Rosalia’s room but before he touched it the instrument rang. Disquieted by the coincidence he picked it up tentatively. “Hello?”

“Anders?”

“Yes.”

“Wilkins.”

“Hello, George.”

“How’re they hangin’, old buddy?”

“All right.”

“O’Hillary asked me to brief you. Right now all right? I’m in the lobby.”

“Come on up.” Anders pushed the cradle down to break the connection. Then he dialed Rosalia’s number. “If you’re all beautiful and your pantyhose are on straight, come on down to my room. Bring your notebook. We’re getting a briefing from the station chief.” He hung up and glanced around the room. No possibility of its being bugged; he’d booked it at random. That was the best kind of security. He had no reason to suspect anyone might be interested in his conversations but when you went into any foreign country where you were known as an agent of the U.S. government you had to expect counterintelligence types to keep an eye on you as a matter of drill.

Rosalia’s tap; and as he opened the door to her he saw George Wilkins tramping forward in the corridor. Wilkins’ high long face developed a funereal smile as he followed the girl into the room.

Rosalia perched by the desk with her notebook, looking efficient, but the soft smile in her eyes betrayed something else and Wilkins seemed wise enough to spot it and cosmopolitan enough to refrain from comment.

“Welcome to the pits,” Wilkins said. “I suppose I should say something like that. By way of official greeting and all.”

“How’re things?”

“Tedium, ever tedium. I wish somebody would try to overthrow the government around here. At least it would give us something to take an interest in.”