Buchanan vividly remembered the images that showed Delgado raping and murdering Maria Tomez. As soon as he had the information he needed, Buchanan planned to kill him.

Delgado came closer, his English impressive, although his syntax was somewhat stilted. 'It is always a pleasure to speak with members of the American press, especially when they work for so distinguished a periodical as The Washington Post. Seorita.? Forgive me. I have forgotten the name that my secretary.'

'Holly McCoy. And this is my interpreter, Ted Riley.'

Delgado shook hands with them. 'Good.' He ignored Buchanan and kept his attention on Holly, obviously intrigued by her beauty. 'Since I speak English, we will not need your interpreter.'

'I'm also the photographer,' Buchanan said.

Delgado gestured dismissively. 'There will be an opportunity for photographs later. Seorita McCoy, may I offer you a drink before lunch? Perhaps wine?'

'Thank you, but it's a little too early for.'

'Sure,' Buchanan said. 'Wine would be nice.' There hadn't been time to teach Holly not to turn down an offer to drink with a target. Refusing alcohol stifled the target's urge to be companionable. It made the target suspect that you had a reason not to want to relax your inhibitions.

'On second thought, yes,' Holly said. 'Since we're having lunch.'

'White or red?'

'White, please.'

'Chardonnay?'

'Fine.'

'The same for me,' Buchanan said.

Delgado continued ignoring him and turned to the servant, who had remained at the door. 'Lo haga, Carlos. Do it.'

'Si, Seor Delgado.'

The white-coated servant stepped back and disappeared along the hallway.

'Sit down, please.' Delgado led Holly toward one of the padded leather chairs.

Buchanan followed, noticing a man on a patio beyond the glass doors that led to the study. The man was an American in his middle thirties, well-dressed, fair-haired, pleasant-looking.

Noticing Buchanan's interest in him, the man nodded and smiled, his expression boyish.

Delgado was saying, 'I know Americans like to keep to a busy schedule, so if you have a few questions you would like to ask before lunch, by all means do so.'

The man came in from the patio.

'Ah, Raymond,' Delgado said. 'Have you finished your stroll? Come in. I have some guests I would like you to meet. Seorita McCoy from The Washington Post.'

Raymond nodded with respect and went over to Holly. 'My pleasure.' He shook hands with her.

Something about the handshake made her frown.

Raymond turned and approached Buchanan. 'How do you do? Mister.?'

'Riley. Ted.'

They shook hands.

At once Buchanan felt a stinging sensation in his right palm.

It burned.

His hand went numb.

Alarmed, he looked over at Holly, who was staring in dismay at her right palm.

'How long does it take?' Delgado asked.

'It's what we call a two-stepper,' Raymond said. As he took off a ring and placed it in a small jeweler's box, he smiled again, his blue eyes bottomless and cold.

Holly sank to her knees.

Buchanan's right arm lost all sensation.

Holly toppled to the floor.

Buchanan's chest felt tight. His heart pounded. He sprawled.

Desperate, he fought to stand.

Couldn't.

Couldn't do anything.

His body felt numb. His limbs wouldn't move. From head to foot, he was powerless.

Staring above him, frantic, helpless, he saw Delgado smirk.

The blue-eyed American peered down, his empty smile chilling. 'The drug comes from the Yucatan Peninsula. It's the Mayan equivalent of curare. Hundreds of years ago, the natives used it to paralyze their victims so they wouldn't struggle when their hearts were cut out.'

Unable to turn his head, unable to get a glimpse of Holly, Buchanan heard her gasp, trying to breathe.

'Don't you try to struggle,' Raymond said. 'Your lungs might not bear the strain.'

5.

The helicopter thundered across the sky. Its whump-whump-whumping roar vibrated through the fuselage. Not that Buchanan could feel the rumble. His body continued to have absolutely no sensation. The cabin's presumably hard floor might as well have been a feathered mattress. Neither hard nor soft, hot nor cold, sharp nor blunt had any significance. All was the same: numb.

In compensation, his senses of hearing and sight intensified tremendously. Every sound in the cabin, especially Holly's agonized wheezing, was amplified. Beyond a window of the cabin, the sky was an almost unbearably brilliant turquoise. He feared that he would have gone blind from the radiance if not for merciful flicks of his eyelids, which - like his heart and lungs - weren't part of the system controlled by the drug.