Incredible, G.o.do thought, the att.i.tude. "And if Vasco says put me to work?"

"Put him off. Buy time." Happy reached out, took G.o.do's arm, a brotherly touch. "Two weeks, that's all we need."

THE CAR, A SIX-YEAR-OLD TOYOTA COROLLA, APPEARED IN THE morning, Sisco driving it, part of the arrangement with the salvatruchos salvatruchos for the trip back to the States. The money had finally come through. Roque guessed the car had been stolen up north and was making the return trip with a new VIN number and license plates, all part of Lonely's little empire. Roque could only imagine what a relief it was to unload this for the trip back to the States. The money had finally come through. Roque guessed the car had been stolen up north and was making the return trip with a new VIN number and license plates, all part of Lonely's little empire. Roque could only imagine what a relief it was to unload this cacharro cacharro on just the right bunch of suckers. He wondered what ridiculous price they'd been milked for but that was Happy's end. He chose to believe Happy knew his business. on just the right bunch of suckers. He wondered what ridiculous price they'd been milked for but that was Happy's end. He chose to believe Happy knew his business.

Tio Faustino worried over the thing throughout the day, replacing the serpentine belt, inserting new plugs, changing the oil and coolant. Test drives around San Pedro Lempa gradually increased his confidence level. Finally, late afternoon, came Roque's turn.

He slid behind the wheel and adjusted the seat, Tio sitting beside him, wiping his hands on a rag.-She loses power a little going uphill, probably carbon in the cylinders. That's most likely causing some of the knocking too. It's not so bad with the new plugs. I haven't seen smoke, so we're not burning oil. He tapped out a merry taradiddle on the console, then reached over to squeeze Roque's shoulder.-Love her, chamaco. She's our ticket home She's our ticket home.

Roque got the knack of the Corolla easily, a little loose in the wheel, a leftward drift in the front end, soft brakes. They barreled down a two-lane road lined with fields of sun-browned gra.s.s and scant trees. A man in an oxcart bearing plantains pa.s.sed a small abandoned house bombed with gang graffiti. A woman with a bright red water jug atop her head led her daughter by the hand, the girl staring as the car sped past, the thing no less mysterious for being familiar.

As they drove, he listened to his uncle recount what Carmela and her friends had told him the past few nights. Street vendors were being driven underground, labeled terrorists for selling pirated CDs and DVDs-Hollywood was incredibly, strangely p.i.s.sed about this, forcing the government to do something-plus the growing corruption in the national police, to where the FBI admitted they could find only twenty officers worthy of trust out of two thousand they'd polygraphed. Former guerrillas, desperate for jobs, now worked security for the very same men who, twenty years ago, wanted them dead. Whole farming communities had abandoned the land because they couldn't compete with the low price of imported American corn. The spiraling cost of oil, swelling demand for meat and dairy in China and India, the use of cropland for biofuels, it was all driving up prices. Families couldn't make ends meet. The number of people starving was larger than before the war.

-I have this terrible sense of deja vu, Faustino admitted.-I'm running away to save my boy. Except this time he's saving me.

It was after nightfall by the time they returned to the house in San Pedro Lempa. As they entered the courtyard, a figure they hadn't spotted at first rose from one of the chairs, unrecognizable in the darkness. Roque felt his heart bound into his throat but the man approached with an air of deference, clutching a small cloth bag to his chest. In an accent Roque couldn't quite place, the man said to Tio Faustino, "I believe you are Happy's father. My greetings to you." He placed a hand over his heart, bowing respectfully. "My name is Samir."

THEY SAT AROUND THE WOOD-PLANK TABLE BENEATH THE MANGO tree, the fragrance from Carmela's exotic flowers mixing with the scent of candle wax.

"Let me tell you something, your son was a worker, very dedicated. But also very kind, very brave." The Arab paused to take a sip of shuco of shuco, a hot corn sludge darkened with black-bean paste, thinned with scalding water and sweetened with raw sugar, something Carmela had worked up. "I owe him a great deal, your son. My being here tonight, not least of all."

His face-long and vaguely hourgla.s.s shaped, indented at the temples-rippled with shadow in the guttering light, his features both delicate and stern, a beak of a nose but womanly lips, sunken eyes, closely shorn hair. His age was hard to pinpoint, late thirties, early fifties, anywhere between. Given the honey color of his skin and his textbook Spanish, he might just pa.s.s for a guanaco guanaco at the various checkpoints, Roque thought, if he says as little as possible. His accent seemed a bit starched, vaguely Castilian. As for his English, which he preferred to use with Tio Faustino and Roque for the sake of practice, it too was oddly accented, not just with the usual clipped Arab inflections but a kind of plodding cadence, as though he'd learned the language reciting clunky poems. at the various checkpoints, Roque thought, if he says as little as possible. His accent seemed a bit starched, vaguely Castilian. As for his English, which he preferred to use with Tio Faustino and Roque for the sake of practice, it too was oddly accented, not just with the usual clipped Arab inflections but a kind of plodding cadence, as though he'd learned the language reciting clunky poems.

"I met Happy when the country was coming apart. The imams were in bed not just with the insurgency but with organized crime. Muqtada al Sadr and his thugs took over the hospitals. If a Sunni man came in with a gunshot wound, the Jaish al Mahdi would come, accuse him of being a terrorist, take him away. His body would get found a few days later, tossed in the street or a field somewhere."

Tio Faustino hung on every word. Roque remained unconvinced. The man seemed too put together, like an actor still working into the skin of his role.

"The Shia hated the Palestinians worse than they hated the Sunnis. And I served in the war against Iran-very odd, a Palestinian in the army, but that's another story. The Persians are Shia too, so I was particularly loathsome to them. But the worst thing? What my own in-laws did to me."

Tio Faustino looked puzzled. "How-"

"Two weeks after the election, my wife's brothers came, took Fatima and our daughter away while I was at work. Admittedly, things were getting much worse. Our neighbor, he had two uncles kidnapped, a note demanding $100,000 ransom arrived. Impossible. They tried to negotiate. Next day, the two uncles show up at the morgue, drill holes everywhere. This is the Jaish al Mahdi, okay? I could tell you stories even more horrible than this, trust me."

Tio Faustino gazed into the candlelight. "War is a kind of sickness. People go mad."

"Two days later, Fatima's brothers show up while I'm away. They left a letter behind, saying they couldn't just stand by and watch their sister and niece get raped and murdered while I did nothing, as though I didn't even want to protect them. Everything I did, every dollar I earned, was for them. But none of that mattered. They took Fatima and little Shatha and their own families and fled to Syria, but they couldn't get in. They're stuck."

One of the candles burned out. Tio Faustino watched the thin curl of smoke rise. "I'm sure my son understood," he said, "how hard it was for you, your family ripped apart like that, given what he himself has been through. Being deported, I mean."

Roque wondered where Tio was going with this. It seemed a morbid kind of one-upmanship, a game of dueling miseries.

"A week later, the Jaish al Mahdi drove me out. Three of them showed up, dressed all in black, the oldest maybe twenty-one. They pounded on the door, spat at my feet when I opened it, then handed me a bullet soaked in blood, told me I had three hours to get out or die in the street. I left behind everything I owned but what I could jam into a suitcase. I began sleeping on pallets of rice at the warehouse in Abu Ghraib, until they found a bed for me in the worker compound. That was when Happy and I got to know each other. I went to work for the Salvadorans because they were the only ones left. The Spaniards, the Hondurans, the Nicaraguans, all gone. Everybody was getting out if they could. The thing was a disaster. And everybody figured the Americans bungled their way in, let them bungle their way out."

A stray dog poked its head through a hole in the hedge of veranera veranera surrounding the garden, sniffing the air, eyes glimmering. Tio Faustino hissed, raised his hand in almost comic wrath. The dog shrank away. "Why didn't you try working for the Americans?" surrounding the garden, sniffing the air, eyes glimmering. Tio Faustino hissed, raised his hand in almost comic wrath. The dog shrank away. "Why didn't you try working for the Americans?"

"Of course I tried, the Americans and British both. They would have nothing to do with me. I know Israel gets blamed for everything, not wrongly in my view, but I have to believe my being Palestinian was why I was shunned. The Salvadorans, praise G.o.d, took pity on me. They were in Najaf, rebuilding the airport, the hospitals, a few small refineries. None of the roads into Najaf were safe. Muqtada al Sadr and his thugs put up their own barricades. And if they weren't shaking you down, the Badr Brigade was. I told you, your son was very brave. I grew to respect him very much. Entering the city took hours sometimes. Bribes just vanished, they did nothing, but without a bribe you sat there all night or got dragged away to a secret prison, ransomed off. Or got to star in one of those special videos, where your head disappears."

A sudden stirring in the mango tree lifted everyone's gaze. A garrobo garrobo scurried among the branches, scaly and brown, staring back at them with elfin dinosaur eyes. scurried among the branches, scaly and brown, staring back at them with elfin dinosaur eyes.

"Not to sound morbid," Samir continued. "I just want you to understand, your son-"

A car roared up the hill, crunching to a stop in the gravel beyond the hedge. Doors opened, slammed closed. The scuffling of feet, harsh voices.

Lonely appeared, clutching Lupe by the arm with one hand, the other grabbing her hair as he dragged her forward. She bucked against his grip. Sisco lingered behind, hands buried deep in his pockets.

On impulse Roque stood up, regretting the move instantly. Who did he expect to fight, who would it save? He could feel the adrenalin crackling in his blood. Tio Faustino just sat there slack-jawed. Samir stared blankly.

Lonely shoved Lupe forward and she stumbled, trying to keep her feet. Even in the candlelight, Roque could see the fresh damage, the glistening lip, the crimped eye. He envisioned killing the two mareros mareros right there, bare hands if need be, knew as well it was his powerlessness triggering the fantasy, triggering all his fantasies. right there, bare hands if need be, knew as well it was his powerlessness triggering the fantasy, triggering all his fantasies.

Lupe dropped uneasily to one knee, her breath ragged. Eyes blazing, Lonely stepped forward, rocking his hip as though to kick her. She recoiled from him and he laughed, then looked up and met Roque's stare.

"Like the way she looks, jodido? jodido? She's yours. All the way to Agua Prieta. You deliver this She's yours. All the way to Agua Prieta. You deliver this pinche putilla pinche putilla to a dude called El Recio. He's your man, you wanna cross over. She gets handed over to him or your uncle and Turco the motherf.u.c.ker there don't make it home, get it?" to a dude called El Recio. He's your man, you wanna cross over. She gets handed over to him or your uncle and Turco the motherf.u.c.ker there don't make it home, get it?"

Tio Faustino rose from his chair, came around to see if Lupe needed any help. Easing the girl to her feet, he took her chin in his hand, regarded her face. She seemed responsive to the kindness. Roque thought: Hand her over, and then? Meanwhile, Samir's whole demeanor had changed. He seemed coiled, ready to lash out if need be and yet also indifferent. The look of an animal, Roque thought.

"Where are her things?" He felt the stupidity of the question instantly but couldn't help himself from clarifying: "Her clothes, I mean. Her stuff."

"Her stuff?" stuff?" Lonely cackled like a magpie. "You wanna talk about her Lonely cackled like a magpie. "You wanna talk about her stuff stuff?"

"You know what-"

"Pack up your own f.u.c.king stuff stuff and drag your punk a.s.s outta here, and drag your punk a.s.s outta here, mamon mamon. You gotta head for San Cristobal. Guy you're gonna meet there, his name is Rafa. He'll be looking for your car. Pull up about half a mile shy of the border, his gas station's there, blue lantern in the window. You see the bridge up ahead, you've gone too far, turn around and go back. And try not to be too f.u.c.king obvious about it."

He took one last glance at Lupe, looking like he was gathering saliva so he could spit. Tio Faustino moved between them. Lonely grinned, turned on his heel and plodded back to the car.

Sisco lingered, hands still balled in his pockets. "You know the secret of getting past the checkpoints, right?" His eyes focused on some nebulous point outside the circle of candlelight, a grin on his lips, childish and taunting and strange. "No matter what they do, or how they ask, just keep smiling."

THE COURTROOM DOOR WHISPERED OPEN, THUDDED CLOSED. Turning to glance over his shoulder, Lattimore spotted the strange man enter timidly under the indifferent eye of the bailiff, who sat perched on a stool at the back, thumbing through last month's Ebony Ebony.

The newcomer had a wonkish dishevelment, bristling salt-and-pepper hair, a close-cropped beard, gold-rimmed gla.s.ses that sat c.o.c.keyed on his face. His jacket, tie, shirt and slacks looked like they'd mugged him in the closet that morning. The man's glance met Lattimore's, followed by an unsettling smile. Lattimore turned back toward the proceedings.

"We're not asking for any more than the court provided in U.S. v. Fort U.S. v. Fort, Your Honor." Pitcavage stood at the prosecutor's table, hands clasped behind him, a skipper on deck. His trial team, a claque of mannequins with law degrees, sat to his right. "We have no obligation to provide police reports or 302s to the defense any earlier than the Friday before testimony."

"We can't prepare an adequate defense under those restrictions, Your Honor." This came from Tony Torreta, lead defense counsel, representing Hugo "Little Brother" Rodriguez, the shot caller for the Fogtown Brujos, a Mara Salvatrucha clica clica that ran a car-theft ring and various shakedown rackets plus good old-fashioned dope in the Outer Mission and Visitacion Valley. He was on trial with two of his lieutenants for the murder of a witness in a federal racketeering trial last spring. "We get, what, two days?" Torreta continued. "Two that ran a car-theft ring and various shakedown rackets plus good old-fashioned dope in the Outer Mission and Visitacion Valley. He was on trial with two of his lieutenants for the murder of a witness in a federal racketeering trial last spring. "We get, what, two days?" Torreta continued. "Two weekend weekend days at that, to track down and interview more than one hundred witnesses. In an excess of caution, or bowing to the government's paranoia, we've agreed not to share the witness names with our clients." days at that, to track down and interview more than one hundred witnesses. In an excess of caution, or bowing to the government's paranoia, we've agreed not to share the witness names with our clients."

"An inadequate prophylactic, Your Honor. Again, U.S. v. Fort U.S. v. Fort-"

"This sabotages a deal made only a week ago."

Feeling the pressure of the stranger's gaze boring into his neck, Lattimore decided what the h.e.l.l. He rose, eased his way past two other agents in attendance and headed down the center aisle toward the courtroom door, avoiding the stranger's eye, choosing instead to c.o.c.k his hand into a gun, then firing at the bailiff who glanced up from his Ebony Ebony just in time to die. just in time to die.

Lattimore waited in the corridor, figuring it would take only seconds. True enough, the door eased open, the rumpled man with the scratchy beard and off-kilter gla.s.ses materialized, breaking into an ample smile, teeth the color of b.u.t.terscotch, plowing forward, hand outstretched. His footsteps echoed brightly in the empty corridor, a sound like he was tap-dancing across a shower stall.

"Jim Lattimore? My name's McIlvaine, Andy McIlvaine. I'm with the Banneret Group."

They shook hands. "Can't say I know your outfit."

"We're security specialists, out of Dallas."

Lattimore was thinking Midwest, not Texas, given the accent. And he would have guessed OGA, Other Government Agency, the new nickname for the CIA. As though changing acronyms hid anything. Maybe he was a cutout. But a security firm, what kind of cover was that?

"Might I have a moment of your time?" McIlvaine at last let go of Lattimore's hand. "It concerns your interest in a man by the name of Samir Khalid Sadiq."

Lattimore led him to the prosecution conference room. It was clubby in atmosphere and no one else was there at the moment, the day being set aside for pretrial motions and other drudgery. Lattimore gestured McIlvaine into a plump leather chair and dropped into the one opposite, saying, "Not to be rude, but could I see some form of ID?"

McIlvaine hefted his battered leather briefcase into his lap as though it contained a bowling ball, unhitched the clasps and withdrew a business card. "If you call the home office, ask for Ron Stillwagon, he was with the bureau's Houston office for quite a while. I think he might be able to fluff your comfort level."

"Give me a minute." Lattimore rose, thumbing his cell phone, but the number he entered wasn't the one on the card. He called the secretary for his unit, ran the company and its numbers past her, then the names McIlvaine and Stillwagon. "Text me back if it all checks out. Call otherwise." He flipped the phone closed, walked back to his chair and sat. "Sorry."

"Not at all. I'd do the same."

For the first time, Lattimore noticed that one of the man's ears was half an inch lower than the other. It explained the crooked gla.s.ses. He had to resist an impulse to dock his head, render the face plumb. "Mind if I ask why you're interested in Samir Khalid Sadiq?"

"We have units stationed in Iraq, doing both VIP transport and antifraud. We work closely with the bureau over there, among other agencies. One of our men in the Green Zone is an old Urgent Fury pal, the two of us were intelligence a.n.a.lysts with the Second Fleet, we stay in pretty regular touch. Your inquiries came to his attention and he thought, given the fact your case touches on matters relevant to my region of interest-that would be Mexico, Central America-that I might want to connect with you, see if I could be of any a.s.sistance."

Lattimore felt vaguely backdoored. The bureaucratic merry-go-round in this thing was already mind-numbing. Beyond the guys on the ground in Iraq whom this McIlvaine bird had already mentioned, there was the counterterrorism desk in Washington, the Transnational Anti-Gang Task Force in Los Angeles, and outside the bureau he'd had to involve ICE on the immigration angle-without a significant public benefit parole, Happy Orantes would get grabbed right out of Lattimore's office and deported so fast his head would spin, no matter what he had to say or who he had to offer. Then there was Homeland Security's inspector general on the corrupt border agent angle, and if they decided to pa.s.s-he was still waiting for an answer-it would be back to ICE, their office of professional responsibility. And then there was the Pentagon, the NSA, even the OGA/CIA, who'd be tracking the cousin Roque through his cell phone and informing trusted local contacts in Mexico and Central America of his whereabouts in case something went sideways. The State Department insisted on notification too, since they were permitting known criminals to enter a sovereign ally, and most likely they'd inform the MFJP, the Mexican Federal Judicial Police, the gold standard for south-of-the-border corruption, something to put off as long as possible.

He felt his cell phone vibrate in his breast pocket, pulled it out. A text: "All OK." He dropped the phone back in his pocket.

"So then, Mr. McIlvaine-"

"Andy. Please."

"What can I do for you?"

The bristly face rubbered up another b.u.t.terscotch smile, further skewing his gla.s.ses. He fussed again with his briefcase clasp, rummaged about inside, finally extracting a thin sheaf of papers. With no more exertion than that, a bead of perspiration formed in the hollow of his temple, hanging there, a minor defiance of gravity. "This may still be making its way to your desk." He leaned forward, holding the doc.u.ments out. "I thought I might facilitate."

Taking the papers, Lattimore noticed the cover sheet bore no agency heading or seal, just a line at the top for subject reference-in this instance, the name Samir Khalid Sadiq-then another line for the date, a third bearing a source code he couldn't decipher. He pictured the original gathering dust on somebody's desk in Baghdad. Typical, he thought, and yet the poverty of detail on the face sheet suggested clandestine channels, spooks in the ether, dead drops. OGA. How many lies would he have to sit through, he wondered, if he asked Mr. Itchy Teeter-Peepers how he got his hands on the thing?

The second page was in Arabic, the third a translation. It appeared to be a data sheet of some sort, for an employee, a contact, maybe the target of an inquiry. Lattimore's eye, trailing across the page at random, quickly settled on the word "Mukhabarat."

"You may or may not know this," McIlvaine ventured, the lone bead of sweat still hovering at eye level. "Forgive me if I'm belaboring the obvious. After the fall of Baghdad, coalition forces took control of various government ministries, including the Mukhabarat, Saddam's secret police. By the time they arrived, unfortunately, many of the files had been destroyed in the invasion's first wave of bombings. Most of the rest were boxed up by loyalists and hustled away or carted off by looters. In the weeks after Baghdad fell, some files resurfaced, many of them ransomed off to the families of men who had disappeared. Some were sold to journalists-it was practically a cottage industry. It's difficult to know the value of what remained. This, for example." He wiggled his hand at the sheaf of papers. "Your man Samir was on the payroll, that much appears certain. What does it mean? He may have been an interpreter through the foreign press office or a minder for a foreign journalist. They may have enlisted him as an informer, they kept a close eye on the Palestinians in-country. Or he could have been nothing more than a driver for one of the car companies the Mukhabarat operated." He shrugged, then crossed his legs, revealing a bright hairless shin above the bunched gray sock. "Maybe he collected payoffs. Maybe he was an a.s.sa.s.sin. Maybe this doc.u.ment is fake."

Lattimore had to resist an impulse to reach over and wipe the drop of sweat away, maybe straighten the man's gla.s.ses while he was at it. He handed the papers back. "You came all the way from Dallas to tell me that?"

McIlvaine's smile turned sly. "A link to the Mukhabarat is, of course, inherently significant. Top to bottom-a.n.a.lysts, case agents, drivers, torturers, common thugs-they were jobless after Baghdad fell. Many went to the Americans hoping for a job and got brushed off. That left the resistance, which they flocked to, angry, humiliated, out of work, but also well informed and lavishly armed since neither the Third Army nor the First Marines were a.s.signed to guard the weapons depots."

Lattimore studied the man's eyes, which had hardened almost imperceptibly behind the old-fashioned lenses. Anyone who'd served in uniform couldn't look at that war and not turn bitter at the recklessness, the idiocy, the arrogance. But that wasn't quite relevant to the matter at hand. "The fact we can't be sure exactly who this man is as yet," he said carefully, "argues for the greater control we can exert by keeping tabs on him, which this investigation does. What would you rather have us do, let him move at will?"

Another smile from McIlvaine, less sly than indulgent. "We've learned Mr. Sadiq was sponsored by a prominent Salvadoran of Palestinian descent for his visa, not someone we know, exactly, but a friend of a friend, let's say, two or three degrees removed from people we trust. That doesn't mean he's a genius or a saint but he's on our side, as far as we can tell."

"Let me stop you for a second. Tell me again, this is all of interest to you why?"

"To be honest, I thought the more relevant issue would be its interest to you."

"My interest is obvious. Yours-"

"As I said, this is my area of expertise. I work in the private sector. When you have the fee structure we do, you'd better know your business. We can't wait to educate ourselves as circ.u.mstances dictate. We're paid to predict, not react."

"What concerns me," Lattimore said, "is why my business is your business."

"Mr. Sadiq is my business. Any potential threat in the region is. Now, may I continue?"

Lattimore felt outmaneuvered. Still, better to see where the thing was heading.

McIlvaine toggled his gla.s.ses. "Where was I? Yes, a foreign affairs officer from the emba.s.sy followed up-our emba.s.sy, down there, in Santa Elena. The sponsor said he was asked to back Samir because he'd helped the Salvadoran troops in Najaf. That's all he knew. He preferred not to say who asked him to step up for the sponsorship but claimed it was absolutely not someone who would knowingly get involved in a plot to move a terrorist across three borders into the States."

Lattimore marveled at the scant rea.s.surance the word "knowingly" provided. Given the capacity for ignorant blundering you saw everywhere, Iraq most of all, what difference did it make what you knew or intended? Still, despite the sense of being outflanked, he took some relief from McIlvaine's news. It basically confirmed Happy's version of events.

"El Salvador," McIlvaine continued, "is relatively enlightened on immigration issues, curiously enough. During World War II, the Salvadoran emba.s.sy in Geneva issued citizenship papers to more than forty thousand Hungarian Jews. Of course, most didn't emigrate. But the citizenship doc.u.ments kept them from being deported to the camps." He drummed his fingers on his briefcase. "The curse of all intelligence a.n.a.lysts: I'm a history buff."

"Fascinating," Lattimore said.

McIlvaine took no offense. "There's a word you use for the kind of case you're working, if I'm not mistaken, where you insert an informant into a nest of bored, restless, vaguely ill-inclined but not yet traitorous young men, with the hope that, given a little stirring of the pot, a dash of conspiratorial brio-a pledge of allegiance to al-Qaeda in a warehouse rigged for video, let's say-you can charge them all for conspiracy to commit terrorism. An acronym, am I right?"

A flume of bile lodged in Lattimore's throat. "BOG," he acknowledged.

"And that stands for ...?"

"Bunch of guys."

"Exactly. The full power of the American government brought to bear against ... a bunch of guys."

"Mr. McIlvaine-"

"Boy, if that doesn't shiver Old Glory right up the flagpole, I don't know what does."

Lattimore checked his watch. He was due to meet Happy back at his office in half an hour, review his most recent tapes, which were, by and large, not just boring and repet.i.tive but worthless. "So you didn't come all the way from Dallas just to show me an essentially meaningless one-page doc.u.ment."

"As I told you-"

"You came to put me in my place."

"It's no secret your bunch-of-guys cases haven't fared too well. Snitch problems."

"Snitch problems are a given."

"The Liberty City trial's a debacle. What is it now, two hung juries in a row?"