One night, the older man remained outside later than usual, staring across the lake toward Guazapa, the gentle slopes of the volcano luminous, a dark silvery green in the moonlight. Roque was about to say good night when his uncle gestured for him to sit.

-See that mountain, Roque? Celestina and I were living there when Pablo was born. We were part of the frente, frente, and the volcano was a staging area for raids into the capital. I've never told you about all that. People your age know so little. It isn't your fault. Hard to talk about. And what good does rehashing the bad do? and the volcano was a staging area for raids into the capital. I've never told you about all that. People your age know so little. It isn't your fault. Hard to talk about. And what good does rehashing the bad do?

He fussed with his shirt, waved away a nagging fly. Every little gesture, transformed by moonlight, seemed cinematic, even with the clumsiness of drink.

-I was a mechanic, changing tires, this little shop not far from Chinameca, where I grew up. I knew nothing of Marx, Lenin, that was all lofty nonsense as far as I was concerned. I just wanted a better job. I wanted my girlfriend to be a little less sad, you know? I wanted a country where I wasn't scared all the time, where I didn't have to go to work and listen to one of my buddies whisper, "Hey, Faustino, somebody heard you moping and groaning the other day and a couple guys came asking for you this morning."

Roque followed his uncle's gaze across the lake.-What was it you said that p.i.s.sed them off?

-Roque, I could have complained about the weather, okay? If some government snitch wanted to make points with the local jefe, jefe, he'd say I was bad-mouthing the army or the regime or some colonel's homely wife. Though, I admit, in this one case I'd shot off my mouth stupidly he'd say I was bad-mouthing the army or the regime or some colonel's homely wife. Though, I admit, in this one case I'd shot off my mouth stupidly.

There was this dentist named Regalado in Santiago de Maria, had connections with some colonels. Tight as t.u.r.ds in a frog's a.s.s, these people. He started what everyone thought was a boy scout troop, but these guys didn't go hiking in the hills, learning knots and birdcalls. They killed people-teachers, union members, anybody Regalado considered a Communist. Bodies showed up at the edge of town, maybe just a severed head in a ditch. One time two hands were nailed to the door of a church where the priests were sympathetic to the campesinos. campesinos.

Celestina was a teacher in Las Marias, doing Bible-study groups, teaching people their poverty wasn't a punishment from G.o.d, they had dignity. Regalado's scouts came looking for her one day. She got word just in time, slipped out a window in the schoolhouse, one shoe in each hand, running barefoot through the coffee groves.

I heard about it that night, no idea where she was, crazy with worry. At work the next day I was fuming, I wanted to butcher the little creeps who'd come to get her. There was a guy in the shop getting a flat fixed, some phone-company minion from Santiago. He heard me going on. We called them orejas, orejas, guys like that. Ears. They were everywhere, government informants, a hundred thousand of them, all across the country. Next day, it's my turn for a visit. And like Celestina, I was lucky-never forget that, Roque. Call it what you want: the hand of G.o.d, the Virgin Mother, your guardian angel or just dumb luck. All of us who survived the war, we know some unseen force got us out. The ones who didn't make it out, well, they weren't so lucky guys like that. Ears. They were everywhere, government informants, a hundred thousand of them, all across the country. Next day, it's my turn for a visit. And like Celestina, I was lucky-never forget that, Roque. Call it what you want: the hand of G.o.d, the Virgin Mother, your guardian angel or just dumb luck. All of us who survived the war, we know some unseen force got us out. The ones who didn't make it out, well, they weren't so lucky.

He reached suddenly for his gla.s.s of beer and, aiming badly, knocked it over. He cursed, his voice catching in his throat.

-Maybe it's time for bed, Tio.

-Don't treat me like an old fool. I haven't finished my story.

-I'm sorry, I- -Be patient, Roque. Listen. I'm telling you this for a reason. A few weeks later, I met up with Celestina again at the stronghold on Volcan Guazapa. The comandantes comandantes discouraged men and women discouraged men and women getting together. Marry yourself to the struggle, they said. Trust me, people were s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g right and left. Not that we were atheist s.e.x fiends, having orgies and black ma.s.ses, all that government propaganda c.r.a.p. There was a very brotherly, sisterly feeling among us. The getting together. Marry yourself to the struggle, they said. Trust me, people were s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g right and left. Not that we were atheist s.e.x fiends, having orgies and black ma.s.ses, all that government propaganda c.r.a.p. There was a very brotherly, sisterly feeling among us. The compas compas would bathe in the river wearing just their scanties, the men too, and nothing would happen. But we paired up when we could, if only for comfort. Nothing makes you feel more alone than knowing how easily you can die. And so Pablito came along right before the government launched its huge offensive to get us off the mountain would bathe in the river wearing just their scanties, the men too, and nothing would happen. But we paired up when we could, if only for comfort. Nothing makes you feel more alone than knowing how easily you can die. And so Pablito came along right before the government launched its huge offensive to get us off the mountain.

We'd been staging raids from there against the army for a couple years by then. And we had radio broadcasts on Radio Venceremos telling people about the ma.s.sacres, the atrocities in El Mozote, Copapayo, Mirandilla, Zacamil. The army officers, they hated that radio, hated anyone who dared tell the truth. Finally they started bombing us with white phosphorus to burn away the trees, because we hid in the forests up the side of the volcano.

There was this American, a doctor who came to help us, his name was Charlie Christian. We called him Camilo. He'd been a helicopter pilot in Vietnam, then became a doctor just to help people like us. Celestina worked with him as a nurse. That's what most of the compas compas did, they worked medical, or food, or explosives. No joke, the women were very good at making and planting land mines, they had smaller hands, better control did, they worked medical, or food, or explosives. No joke, the women were very good at making and planting land mines, they had smaller hands, better control.

Celestina saw a boy who was burned all over his body being treated by Camilo and that was when she said we had to get out. The boy had been burned in a bombing raid. There was this kind of plane we called a push-and-pull, it circled once, saw a campfire, and came back, lower this time, so we knew it was on a bombing run. Everyone ran to their shelters-we called them tatus- tatus-but this boy's mother didn't get the door closed in time. The bomb was a direct hit. The explosion cut her in two, she was burned to cinders. The boy, he was maybe two years old, his skin hissed and steamed as they pulled him out. But he was still alive. His mother, shielding him with her body, saved him.

They took him to Camilo and he did what he could. When Celestina saw that little boy caked in mud and clay to cool his skin, only his eyes and nostrils visible ... She couldn't bear the thought of seeing Pablo like that. She began secretly making plans to desert. But it was too late. The cuilios, cuilios, the government troops, they were coming up the mountain. They sent their three toughest battalions-Atlacatl, Belloso, Bracamonte-plus the First Brigade. Ten thousand men. Only way out was to go by way of Copapayo to Chalatenango, cross the Rio Lempa up there. We called it a the government troops, they were coming up the mountain. They sent their three toughest battalions-Atlacatl, Belloso, Bracamonte-plus the First Brigade. Ten thousand men. Only way out was to go by way of Copapayo to Chalatenango, cross the Rio Lempa up there. We called it a guinda, guinda, a forced retreat, and even the villagers were coming with us, because they knew the troops would kill them regardless. That was just how it was a forced retreat, and even the villagers were coming with us, because they knew the troops would kill them regardless. That was just how it was.

He fell quiet for a moment, staring off as though at a ghost, or the hope of one. Roque brought him back with:-You had to leave the mountain ...

-Right. We were struggling through the forest, dragging our mules, carrying the wounded on our backs or in hammocks strung up to a pole so two men could carry them. Nothing to eat but tortillas and sugarloaf. Some of the children died of malnutrition. I saw one boy vomit up worms from his mouth, his nose, right before he died. His mother carried his corpse with her because there was no time to bury him.

The villagers were lagging behind because they had so many children. Celestina gave me Pablo, told me to go ahead, she would stay behind and round up the others, get them to pick up the pace. I argued, but there was something in her eye, something that scared me. I felt like I could see all the way down into her soul. And there was nothing there. She was already gone. How do you explain things like that? Anyway, it was the last time I ever saw her alive.

Roque reached out for his shoulder, thinking: Sin ti Sin ti. Without you.-You don't need to tell me any more, Tio.

-Please, Roque, let me finish. He smeared the heels of his hands across his face.-The government caught up with them near Tenango. The soldiers used guns and machetes. Twenty-eight people, mostly women and kids, butchered. By the time I made it back there, vultures were picking the flesh from the dead. Dogs were carrying bones away. Some of the women had been sliced open like iguanas when you harvest the eggs. You saw shoes, clothes, schoolbooks scattered all around, some of it charred black, because the cowards tried to hide the evidence by burning it. A few mules were still alive, torn up by gunfire or shrapnel, some with their guts hanging out. The braying, it was hideous. We shot them just for the silence. I found Celestina facedown in a clump of vultures were picking the flesh from the dead. Dogs were carrying bones away. Some of the women had been sliced open like iguanas when you harvest the eggs. You saw shoes, clothes, schoolbooks scattered all around, some of it charred black, because the cowards tried to hide the evidence by burning it. A few mules were still alive, torn up by gunfire or shrapnel, some with their guts hanging out. The braying, it was hideous. We shot them just for the silence. I found Celestina facedown in a clump of chichipince. chichipince. You're not a boy anymore, I don't need to spell out what they did to her You're not a boy anymore, I don't need to spell out what they did to her.

Roque felt paralyzed.-Tio- -I was such a loser compared to her. I fell apart, became worthless as a soldier, a father, a man. I knew that if I didn't get Pablo out of the country, he might get captured when I did, then he'd get sold to some family abroad. There was quite a racket in that back then. My superiors knew that too, finally they just told me to go, leave, head for the States, I was no good to the frente frente anymore. I was no good to anyone anymore. I was no good to anyone.

There was a group of people, a few nurses, a professor, a couple reporters, all marked for death and they were heading north, with plans to end up in Los Angeles. I went with them, bringing Pablo. But I couldn't stay, too many people around MacArthur Park just reminded me of what had happened. I had a friend working in the Napa vineyards, he said I should come stay with him, his wife could help with Pablo. And so I ended up in Rio Mirada. A few years later I met Lucha-and you, your brother.

Roque wished for something to say, anything to ease his uncle's heart, if only for a moment. But all he could come up with was:-I'm sorry.

Tio Faustino looked up, eyes gla.s.sy and vacant.-No, Roque. I didn't tell you all that to make you feel guilty.

-I meant- -You were kind to listen.

-Tio- -I'm a silly, sad old man. He hefted himself from his chair.- The moonlight, it makes me morose. And with that, yes, we should head off to bed. He turned to go in but then stopped, gazing one last time across the glimmering lake.-"We are the artificers of our own history," they said. A morbid chuckle.-Whatever the h.e.l.l that means. He wiped his face again, then gripped Roque's arm, squeezed.-I am so proud of you, you know? So gifted. So thoughtful. Everyone says so.

ROQUE STAYED UP LATE THAT NIGHT, UNABLE TO GET HIS UNCLE'S story out of his head, wondering how people survive such things. He sat beneath the mango trees, strumming gently as Carmela's exotic flowers filled the warm night air with their fruitlike scents: Arrayn Silvestre smelling like limes, sapuyulo sapuyulo like oranges. The full moon had waned, the yard was dark. like oranges. The full moon had waned, the yard was dark.

About midnight he heard a car slow and stop at the bottom of the hill, the motor died, a door opened and closed. He listened for footsteps, heard none, went back to playing. Then he sensed it, someone nearby, before hearing the twig snap. Turning toward the sound, he watched as Sisco ventured slowly forward, hands plunged into the pockets of his baggy pants.

"Hola, chero." The kid rocked on his heels, a kind of mocking uneasiness. The kid rocked on his heels, a kind of mocking uneasiness.

Roque thought he smelled drink, but something else too, vaguely chemical, like ether or ammonia. "Why did you park down the hill?"

"What the f.u.c.k is that supposed to mean?"

"Is something wrong?"

"f.u.c.k yes something's wrong, puto puto. It's been, like, almost three weeks."

Roque put the guitar down, for fear Sisco might try to grab it from him, smash it against a tree, just to make some senseless point. "I don't have anything to do with that."

"f.u.c.k you don't."

"My cousin won't even talk to me about it. The money, it's in his hands."

Sisco pivoted a little in place, like he was trying to find something to kick. He began to cough, couldn't stop himself for several seconds, his chest rattling with phlegm.

Roque wondered at Sisco's life here. He'd heard stories about other DPs-deportees from the States-thinking in American slang, living in Spanish, the culture a fading reactionary echo of some fictive golden past, with a chafing revolutionary undertone. The DPs were the hip outsiders, the hopelessly lost but strangely successful: reggaeton reggaeton deejays, concert promoters, hair stylists, tattoo impresarios in a country that put you in prison for flashing your ink. The DPs had cache, if no real rank. They were, hey, Americans. Roque couldn't imagine Sisco in such company. What was his gift? Sulking, back talk, hanging around. He'd soon be on the way back north to some street corner. Or else get shot dead right here. deejays, concert promoters, hair stylists, tattoo impresarios in a country that put you in prison for flashing your ink. The DPs had cache, if no real rank. They were, hey, Americans. Roque couldn't imagine Sisco in such company. What was his gift? Sulking, back talk, hanging around. He'd soon be on the way back north to some street corner. Or else get shot dead right here.

The kid finally collected himself, got control of his cough, and the words uncoiled from within him as though off a spool. "Okay, f.u.c.k me, what I'm saying-hear me out, chero chero-what I'm saying? Next time, it won't be me standing here. Am I getting through? It's gonna be Lonely. And he don't like you. He thinks you wanted to snag his b.i.t.c.h. Look, look, just listen, a'ight? Lupe? She's fine and all but she ain't like his chorba chorba or nothin'-not even, not close. But you put p.u.s.s.y in the room, the smell gets on everybody, know what I'm saying? So he's got this thing for you now, he don't like you. He don't respect you. You're fool material. So get this s.h.i.t together. It's finance, man. Plans been made, the money's supposed to be, like, in hand, in place, what-the-f.u.c.k-ever, we ain't seen s.h.i.t, and it's a f.u.c.king problem. Get it done. Make a call. Or you can kiss that sorry old man you call your or nothin'-not even, not close. But you put p.u.s.s.y in the room, the smell gets on everybody, know what I'm saying? So he's got this thing for you now, he don't like you. He don't respect you. You're fool material. So get this s.h.i.t together. It's finance, man. Plans been made, the money's supposed to be, like, in hand, in place, what-the-f.u.c.k-ever, we ain't seen s.h.i.t, and it's a f.u.c.king problem. Get it done. Make a call. Or you can kiss that sorry old man you call your tio tio goodbye, 'cuz he ain't goin' no place." goodbye, 'cuz he ain't goin' no place."

HAPPY SQUINTED AGAINST THE SUNLIGHT, NURSING HIS LAST cigarette of the pack. Forklifts roared forward and beeped backing up, bearing pallets of shrink-wrapped bananas, plantains, mangoes and melons from long-bed containers, delivering them to the panel trucks ab.u.t.ting the loading dock. Hard hats-blue, white, yellow-bobbed everywhere like gumb.a.l.l.s; the workday hustle kicked into gear. With the concrete floor still wet from its morning hose-down, every footfall slapped or screeched.

Secretly he envied these men, honest work, honest pay, if there was such a thing. At a glance he could pick out at least half a dozen he suspected of being illegal, drivers especially, like his old man. Ironic, since at that very moment there were enough feds nearby to arrest half of Richmond.

"Your guy's in love with his f.u.c.king phone," Vasco said, glancing for the thousandth time at his watch. "Feels like all I've done since you talked me into this is wait."

"If I've already talked you into this," Happy said, "what the f.u.c.k are we doing here?"

In truth, everybody was getting itchy, unless he had a badge. Happy'd heard that morning from his father in San Pedro Lempa that the mareros mareros were suddenly jacked with impatience, leaning hard now, popping up in the middle of the night, wanting their money, ready to pull the plug if it didn't get wired down yesterday. And Vasco just got greedier the longer Happy stalled, the greed made him edgy, his edge made him an impossible pain in the a.s.s. But Lattimore worked on government time, which seemed to have only three gears: Stalled. Stuck. Backwards. were suddenly jacked with impatience, leaning hard now, popping up in the middle of the night, wanting their money, ready to pull the plug if it didn't get wired down yesterday. And Vasco just got greedier the longer Happy stalled, the greed made him edgy, his edge made him an impossible pain in the a.s.s. But Lattimore worked on government time, which seemed to have only three gears: Stalled. Stuck. Backwards.

It wasn't like they had to wire up the warehouse. The feds had used it before, their favorite snare, home field, hidden video everywhere. When stings weren't in play, the company that actually owned the place used the cameras to guard against employee theft-"shrinkage," they called it. Even the office was miked, everything go. It was the paperwork jamming the gears.

Two days after that first face-to-face at the Vietnamese restaurant, Happy went in for his free talk, as Lattimore called it, or "off-the-record proffer," per the a.s.sistant U.S. attorney. Happy laid out everything he'd done, no threat of prosecution: sneaking back into the country with the help of his ganged-up polleros polleros, planning to do the same for his dad, lending some muscle to Vasco's pathetic moving-van shakedowns, stripping copper wire for him. But it wasn't Happy's past that brought them all together. They wanted to hear about the future.

The conference room had a flag in the corner, a tray of coffee and ice water anchoring a long shiny table, a portrait of FBI director Robert Mueller III-Bobby Three Sticks, Lattimore called him. His supervisor, a reedy and taller-than-average Filipino named Orpilla, pa.s.sed a consent form in front of Happy that a.s.serted he willingly agreed "to a.s.sist in the making of undercover recordings at the sole direction of law enforcement officials." The form promised Happy the federal government wouldn't prosecute him for anything that popped up in those recordings; all bets were off, though, if state or county prosecutors went ahead. He'd have to work that out on his own. Happy read the form, waived his right to have someone from the public defender's office advise him. Prior experience convinced him public defenders existed simply to slow things down, not change their direction or, G.o.d forbid, improve their odds. He signed where he saw his name. Orpilla took the executed form and tucked it into a folder.

It was the AUSA, though, who was driving the bus. The guy's name was Jon Pitcavage-overachiever eyes etched with crow's-feet, a tight scrub of graying black curls, the build of a serious gym rat. He wore a snappy pinstripe suit and leaned into his words. If Happy read Lattimore's body language right, he had little use for Pitcavage, except he was the one AUSA in San Francisco, supposedly, who knew where the gas pedal was, not just the brake. He got points among the agents for that-though, apparently, only that.

Happy repeated for Pitcavage what he'd already laid out for Lattimore. The attorney listened with elbows on the table, hands clasped, thumbs bobbing against his chin. Once Happy wrapped up, the guy leaned back in his swivel chair, crossed his legs, rocked pensively back and forth. Guy likes being watched, Happy thought, while over the man's shoulder, far beyond the conference-room window, an airliner razored a vapor trail across an otherwise perfect sky.

"This scenario," Pitcavage said finally, "the quid pro quo-this Vasco character gets sole control of the narcotics operation involving the Valle Norte cartel and shot-caller status with Mara Salvatrucha, in exchange for funding the smuggling of this Arab alien, this would-be terrorist, into the country-as I understand it, this was all your idea?"

Happy felt the familiar bilge of nausea rising from below. "Yeah."

"But there is no smuggling operation, correct? And the Arab, as far as you know, owes no allegiance to any known terrorist organization."

"Samir-he's Palestinian-he actually helped the coalition forces in Iraq."

Pitcavage glanced toward Lattimore. "An interpreter."

Happy said, "That's right."

"And this coconspirator in Richmond, the warehouse owner, the person who is supposed to receive these fict.i.tious shipments of cocaine from, where was it?" He leafed through his notes. "Turbo, Colombia-you just made that up."

"Read about it on the Web, actually. Sounded good. Thought it'd get Vasco to bite."

"But he didn't bite, did he?"

Happy cleared his throat. "Not exactly."

"He wanted verification. He wanted to see an honest-to-G.o.d warehouse, a real live owner. Golly, I'm stunned. Just like he'll probably want to see a cocaine shipment before too long, don't you think? Where do you suppose that might come from?"

Happy felt like he had a living thing thrashing around in his gut. "I figured I'd be in touch with you people by then. That was something we'd have to work out."

"We." Pitcavage's eyes looked scorched. "How I always love the sound of 'we.'"

"Look," Happy said, "if you think I just made this c.r.a.p up so I could shake Vasco down, get him to pay for my old man's trip back, you weren't paying attention. Get serious, I do that, and Vasco finds out everything else, the c.o.ke, the Colombians, the terrorist, it's all just c.r.a.p? He'd lean hard. Me and my family, we'd pay and just keep paying. Like I told you, I want citizenship, me and my dad both. Can't get that from Vasco. I want that, I gotta come here. Way I see it, my cousin G.o.do already earned it, earned it for me, my dad, both. But I'm ready to go the extra mile, make sure you get what you want, 'cause yeah, I surf the Net, I read the articles about how you guys are trying to link up gangs and the ragheads. Dream bust, those two tied together. And I know how to make that happen, who to put with who. I give you your shot. And I know this doesn't just stop here. I know this opens doors for you. People gonna read about this case and they're gonna say: We gotta stop these maras maras, these gangs. We gotta let the cops off the leash. So instead of treating me like I'm the s.h.i.t on your shoe, maybe you should see I'm not the problem here. I won't ask for thanks but I won't sit here and beg, neither. Just want what me and my family deserve. And what I deserve, this minute? Is to be taken a little more serious."

Pitcavage ran his tongue inside his lower lip, as though scouring out a speck of food. "You honestly believe that this bag of snakes you came in here with is a dream bust?"

"I deserve deserve to be taken more to be taken more serious." serious."

The lawyer turned to Lattimore and Orpilla and, as though Happy had just vanished, launched off on a new tack. "I'll sign off on the recording, it's reasonable and legal. As for the setup, the way I understand it there's been no Barraza hara.s.sment, no pressure, no cajoling. Admittedly, your genius here has devised the crime but we're clear there, that's established law. If there's no prior disposition to terrorist activity there certainly is to the smuggling. No special feel-good motive's been contrived, n.o.body's gone all buddy-buddy. It's about greed, period.

"The one weak spot, beyond the obvious tactical headaches, is the unusual attractiveness of the crime. What is it, anywhere from one and a half to three mil this Vasco clown thinks he'll be clearing per annum? But there's been no promise it's a sure thing, he hasn't been told they can't get caught. He knows the risk. And one discussion, boom, he's in. You get him and these other idiots on video, you get them on tape, plenty of it, you know the drill. And it's all got to happen quick, before somebody catches on there aren't any shipments coming from Turbo and never will be. I figure we've got a month, tops. Any longer, the thing will unravel. And unless I'm mistaken, this interpreter and the source's father should be back in the States by then. So that's your time line."

Pitcavage rose from his chair, stole a glance out the window. The vapor trail resembled a line of c.o.ke on a blue mirror.

"Get these guys expressing full knowledge and consent. I don't need a pledge to al-Qaeda, like those buffoons in Liberty City, though that would be sweet. But they make it clear they know what's going on: quid pro quo, a cocaine franchise for a terrorist across the border. You get me that, I don't see a jury backing off a verdict. You've heard me say it before: We don't have to wait until buildings come down to prove somebody's a terrorist. And your genius is right, the MS-13 angle makes it particularly attractive. These guys want to claim they weren't predisposed, they can walk away any time they want. Make sure everybody on the joint task force stays in the loop. I'll be surprised if we don't see plea deals all the way down the table. Defense will cry entrapment but they always do. And they always lose. Entrapment's just what they tell their clients so the bills get paid."

He tamped down his tie and turned to leave, stopping himself only to address Happy one last time. "You're absolutely certain this interpreter's name is Samir Khalid Sadiq?" He posed the question as though to imply there were varieties of deceit, especially in the Muslim world, that were not just hard to discern, they were impenetrable.

"Yes." Happy swallowed. "At least, you know, that's the name he always used around me. Always."

The lawyer shot a warning glance across Lattimore's bow, then left like time was money and the money was down the hall. And that was pretty much the last Happy saw of a.s.sistant U.S. Attorney Jon Pitcavage.

LATTIMORE GUIDED HAPPY TO THE ELEVATOR AND DOWN TO A LOWER floor where his own cubicle was buried. Happy felt a little shocked to see what a rat's nest it was, binders stacked helter-skelter on every surface, copies of National Gang Threat a.s.sessment, National Intelligence a.s.sessment: The Terrorist Threat in the U.S. Homeland, A Parent's Guide to Internet Safety National Gang Threat a.s.sessment, National Intelligence a.s.sessment: The Terrorist Threat in the U.S. Homeland, A Parent's Guide to Internet Safety and a dozen others scattered everywhere to the point you had to wonder if something might collapse if it was all hauled away. The only personal items he could see were a gym bag stuffed with ripe sweats and three framed photographs on the shelf, one of a sprawling colonial-style house in the country somewhere; another of an older couple, parents maybe; the third of a tricked-out Harley with gold and crimson flames on the gas tank. Happy supposed the mess made sense. For all the sharp, battened-down att.i.tude the man possessed, it wasn't too much of a stretch to imagine a daredevil slob lurking just beneath the skin. He wore no wedding band, never spoke of kids. Maybe the whole of his life was contained, one way or another, in this clutter. and a dozen others scattered everywhere to the point you had to wonder if something might collapse if it was all hauled away. The only personal items he could see were a gym bag stuffed with ripe sweats and three framed photographs on the shelf, one of a sprawling colonial-style house in the country somewhere; another of an older couple, parents maybe; the third of a tricked-out Harley with gold and crimson flames on the gas tank. Happy supposed the mess made sense. For all the sharp, battened-down att.i.tude the man possessed, it wasn't too much of a stretch to imagine a daredevil slob lurking just beneath the skin. He wore no wedding band, never spoke of kids. Maybe the whole of his life was contained, one way or another, in this clutter.

Removing a clump of files from the chair beside his desk, Lattimore waited for Happy to sit, then commenced to unpack his memory, searching out every possible detail he could bring to bear about Samir: schooling, family, wife, in-laws, best guess on dates he stayed in Abu Ghraib, dates he traveled with the convoy to Najaf, everything and anything so it could be pa.s.sed along to field agents in Baghdad. "If your story doesn't pan out on that front," Lattimore said, "the plug gets yanked quick, understand? We can't have a Trojan horse rolling toward the border. Everything shifts gears then and we focus on making sure he gets nowhere close."

Happy glanced again at the pictures in their dime-store frames. "You live with a man day in and day out," he said, "you go through h.e.l.l with him-I told you, he saved my life-you get a sense of when he's making c.r.a.p up. You know, tell a good story. You figure out too, when he's speaking for real."

From there it was farther still into the bowels of the federal building, to the lair of a tech named Merriwether. Curiously, given the cutting-edge nature of his job, he was the oldest guy Happy met that day-mudslide of chins, wispy hair swirling around a freckled bald spot. Happy found it easier to picture him selling vacuum cleaners to housewives than miking up snitches.

It turned out there wouldn't be a body wire. "Very old school," Merriwether explained. Instead they had a flannel shirt with a microphone in the collar, a tiny video camera in one of the b.u.t.tons. Happy felt like 007 as he shouldered into it.

"We used to have an on/off switch right here in the cuff," Merriwether said, "but defense lawyers complained that if the CI could switch the tape on or off himself, how did anyone know when he might have been making a threat, offering a bribe?"

The backup recorder turned out to be the battery for a cell phone. It sent out a continuous signal to the nearest relay tower, no need for a booster transmitter.

As they walked back to the elevator together, Merriwether put his hand on Happy's shoulder. "Don't worry about anything except getting these people to say what they're supposed to say." A few brisk pats. "You'll be frightened. That's understandable. If you find yourself at a loss for what to say, ask a question, any question. You'd be surprised how often that works."

"THIS YOUR GUY?" VASCO POINTED WITH HIS CHIN ACROSS THE TRUCK yard at the figure striding toward them. He was lithe but short, a boxer's gait, decked out in a black suit, a silver silk shirt b.u.t.toned tight to the collar.

"He'll call himself Zipicana," Lattimore had said, "the name of some underworld spirit, Mayan Quiche lore. And don't wear your flannels or bring the cell-phone battery to the meet. You'll see why."

As the man named Zipicana came nearer, Happy could make out the smeary reddish blotches on his face and neck, the faint outlines ghosting the skin, and wondered at the missing tattoos, a.s.suming laser treatment. The guy skipped up the concrete steps onto the loading dock but ignored both Happy and Vasco, continuing on instead toward the office across the warehouse floor. Vasco and Happy exchanged baffled glances, then fell in behind.

Zipicana gestured for them to wait outside as he climbed the wood-plank steps to the office, which resembled a work-site trailer. He knocked, entered, spoke briefly with the owner, who was still yammering away on his phone. Happy was beginning to wonder just how long this charade was going to last when the balletic Zipicana turned back, opened the office door and snapped his fingers for them to step inside.

Before anyone could say boo, the warehouse owner rose from his desk and approached Happy and Vasco, bearing a black wand-like instrument. He waved it up and down both their bodies, like he wanted to remove some lint, and Happy realized why he'd been told to leave the spy gear behind, not just because it was redundant. The guy was checking for RF frequencies, to be sure neither of them was wired. It was all pure theater, of course; the guy was undercover FBI. He knew better than anyone he'd find nothing, unless Vasco had secrets of his own.

A murmured apology, the magic wand returned to its drawer, introductions ensued. The owner-agent identified himself simply as Nico. Happy resisted the impulse to glance around the room, search out the cameras, the microphones.

"You're here," Nico told Vasco, plopping back down in his chair, "because Happy put your name forward. Otherwise we could just as easily turn to Sancho Perata."

Like that, Vasco flushed bright red. "Listen, Sancho's got no trucks. I do. I'm watching your dock here all morning, thinking this is perfect. I'm your guy."

Happy could only marvel at Vasco's predictability. Make it a compet.i.tion, make it with Sancho, he'd throw all qualms overboard and fight to win.

Nico just stared across the desk, unfazed. "My point, you're here because you've been vouched for."

Vas...o...b..t back his pride, let it drop. The talk turned to the operation, Nico explaining the code they'd use over the phones: "produce" for cocaine-the particular fruit would change day to day, the meaning wouldn't-and Vasco would refer to his wholesalers as "grocers," not customers. "Other than that, a shipment's a shipment. I'm the consignee on all bills of lading, you place orders through me. I mention a number and an invoice, that's what you owe. Keep it simple. You get shorted on your end, it's not my problem."

"What kind of loads are we talking?"

"Five hundred kilos."

Vasco looked like he'd just swallowed an egg. "Okay. But you break it down here in the warehouse, right? Separate my product out from, you know, the fruit."

"Why would I do that?"

Vasco's shoulders buckled together. "What the f.u.c.k am I gonna do with a couple dozen pallets of bananas?"