And now, jogging along, feeling Maggie’s heat, smelling her particular scent of cinnamon and bitter, burnt almond, he did something he hadn’t been able to do before. He looked back over those five years. He had been wandering in a desert. Maybe it was a desert of his own making, he thought, but it was no less real for that. Now, at last, he thought he was ready to leave that barren place and rejoin the world in which he and Amanda had laughed and loved and talked and just, well, enjoyed each other in the pure way that Cleo enjoyed her runs.

Hendricks, feeling lighter, became aware that he was enjoying jogging. He was enjoying not being alone. Maggie said something to him and he said something back. A moment later, he couldn’t remember what either of them had said, and, what’s more, it didn’t matter. He hadn’t shied away from her, he didn’t feel embarrassed or a need to run away. In fact, he wished the course was five miles, instead of three. So that when they came to the end, he turned to her and said, “Would you like to have some dinner with me tonight?” as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

She must have felt the same way, because this time she said, “I would like that very much.”

Estevan watched the storm coming in over the horns of the Cordilleras while Rosie was preparing dinner. She worked slowly and methodically, as she always did. Her hands were strong and sure as they trimmed the meat, seasoned it, and set it to braise in a pan slicked with hot oil.

When the rain came, it slashed at the windows and rattled the loose roof tiles he had promised to fix but never had. She lifted her head and smiled, the familiar sound assuring her that everything was as it should be. The end of the day grew dark as night and, for a moment, he saw her reflection in the mirror, the livid scars the margay had made down both sides of her neck. Outside, the white cross Estevan had fashioned from hardwood rose stark as bleached bone from the spot beneath the tamarillo tree that had been her favorite ever since he had brought her to his house screaming and severely wounded.

She turned away from the window and, touching her upper chest, where matching scars rose like white welts, lowered her head, and wept silently. At once, he was at her side.

“It’s all right, Rosie,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

“He’s out there,” she said, “in the rain.”

“No,” Estevan said. “Our child is in heaven, safe and secure in God’s light.”

There would never be another child, so the doctors told them. Estevan knew that she had expected him to throw her out, convinced that the infant’s death was her fault. Instead he had treated her with even more kindness. Hearing her weeping in the night, he had held her tight, rocked her, told her to forget about what the doctors had said, that they would keep trying to have another baby, that surely, by the grace of God and Jesus Christ, His son, a miracle would befall them. That had been three years ago, but since then nothing had grown inside her.

She was transferring the meat to the pot of cut-up potatoes, onions, and chilies when they heard the alarm. He could feel her body tense.

“Don’t worry,” he said, leaving her in the kitchen. He rustled around the living room, making his preparations.

“¿Son ellos?” she asked. “¿Han venido por fin?” Is it them? Have they come at last?

When Vegas returned to the kitchen, he had a shotgun in one hand. “Look at the filthy weather.” He dragged his fingers through his thick beard. “Who else could it be? If I was them I’d make my move now.”

Vegas was beside her, one strong arm around her, pulling her close. He kissed her cheek, her temple, her eyelids, and she felt the familiar tickle from his mustache.

“No te preocupes, hija mía,” he said in her ear. “Everything is ready. They can’t touch either of us. We’re safe, do you hear me? Safe.”

He left her then to see to the last of the preparations, which were elaborate. Placing the lid on the pot, she wiped her hands on her apron and moved to the den where Estevan was crouched over the equipment he had spent months installing and tweaking until everything worked to his complete satisfaction.

“¿Los ves, mi amor?” Do you see them, my love?

“It’s a jeep.” Estevan Vegas pointed to the green-and-black infrared image on the small screen just to his left. To his right was a laptop computer connected to the array. Vegas had installed a software package that identified the infrared images. It currently showed a closed-top jeep. “It’s them,” he said. “No doubt.”

“How long?”

Vegas looked at the meter on top of the infrared projector. “Three hundred yards,” he said. “They’re close now.”

Rosie placed her hands on his substantial shoulders.

“Se acerca el final.” It is the end.

“Para ellos, sí, el final.” For them, yes, the end.

Vegas’s fingers danced over the laptop’s keyboard and the image on the screen was wiped clean, to be replaced by images of the video cameras he had installed around the perimeter of the property.

For a moment all they could see were gray sheets of rain, and then all at once a shape—the jeep cutting through the rain, jouncing along the road to Vegas’s house. Rosie, feeling Estevan’s muscles bunch in tension, leaned farther over him. She inhaled the raw oil smell of him, so ingrained that nothing could erase it.

“Cerrar ahora,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Muy cerca.” Close. Very close.

“Will it work?” she breathed.

“Yes,” he said. “It will work.”

And then, a moment later, the fruits of his labor arrived. They saw the explosion just before they heard it. The explosives he had planted beneath the road detonated by the vibration of the jeep’s engine.

The vehicle jetted into the air, for a moment out of range of the video cameras. When it appeared again, crashing to earth, it was in pieces, ragged, fiery, smoking, twisted, almost unrecognizable.

Almost.

Estevan Vegas breathed a sigh of relief. “Ya está hecho.” It is done.

The wreckage of the jeep, smoldering, guttered in the downpour.

“Hay es el fin de ellos.” There is the end of them. “But just to make sure.” Vegas was not a man to leave anything to chance. This was how he had always lived his life; the philosophy had been good to him. It had made him a rich man.

He rose, took up his shotgun, and stepped to the front door. “Lock it behind me,” he said without turning around, and Rosie moved to do as he asked.

He went outside and strode through the driving rain, looking for the dead men.

Book Two

10

BORIS KARPOV FOUND plenty to dislike about Munich. Like almost all Russians, he despised the Germans. The bitter taste of World War II was impossible to dispel; the Russian senses of outrage and revenge were ingrained in him as deeply as his love of vodka. Besides, despite the city’s new motto, “München mag Dich”—Munich Likes You—Munich was easy for Boris to dislike. For one thing, it was founded by a religious order—the Benedictines—hence its name, derived from the German word for “monk.” Boris had an atheist’s staunch distrust for organized religion of any stripe. For another, it was in the heart of Bavaria, home of right-wing conservatism that had its roots in Adolf Hitler’s hateful National Socialism. In fact, it was in Munich that Hitler and his supporters staged the infamous Beer Hall Putsch in 1923, an attempt to overthrow the Weimar Republic and usurp power. That they failed only delayed the inevitable. Ten years later, Munich finally became the stronghold of the National Socialists, who, among other heinous crimes, established Dachau, the first of the Nazi concentration camps, ten miles northwest of the city.