"Don't call me anymore with this bullshit."

He clicks off.

- August in Mexico City is wet.

The rains usually come in the afternoon, and many of those afternoons find them in bed together, when her practice and his work allow. They meet at Marisol's and make love as the rain spatters against the bedroom window, then they get up, make coffee, and wait for the shower to pass before venturing out.

The protests against the election continue during the recount. There are marches out to the airport, marches downtown-demonstrations break out in other parts of the country, including Marisol's beloved Jurez.

Keller keeps up his surveillance of the Tapia money machine-it rarely varies as money finds its way to Los Pinos, or at least to its senior staff. And he keeps playing his dangerous game, socializing with the Tapias, provoking a response.

The Zetas don't contact him again, but he figures that they're doing what everyone else is doing-waiting for the election results, which might render their government problem moot.

Mexico is holding its collective breath, and then on August 28, the election commission releases the final count. By the slimmest of margins, virtually identical to the original results, Caldern is declared the winner and PAN retains Los Pinos.

New president, same party.

Marisol is devastated.

"They stole the election," she tells Keller, citing the various allegations of fraud, voter intimidation, miscounts, and no-counts. "They stole it."

The confirmation of the election results is also the confirmation of everything she's feared about her country, that it's hopelessly corrupt, that power will always protect power.

The rain keeps coming down.

Marisol becomes depressed, morose. Keller sees a person he didn't know was in there-quiet, uncommunicative, remote. Her disappointment turns to bitterness, her bitterness to anger, and with no legitimate outlet to turn it on, she turns it on him.

She's sure "his" government is pleased with the results, maybe even complicit. "His" politics are a little further to the right than hers, aren't they? He's a man (Keller pleads guilty), and no man can really be a feminist, can he? Does he have to hang his shirt on the bathroom hook, does he have to read her the headlines from the paper (she can read herself, can't she?), can a North American man really understand a Mexican woman?

"My mother was Mexican," Keller reminds her.

"Do I remind you of your mother?" she asks, deliberately taking the argument sideways.

"Not remotely."

"Because I don't care to be a mommy figure to-"

"Marisol?"

"You interrupted me."

"Fuck off." He takes a breath and then says, "I didn't steal the election, if, in fact, it was stolen-"

"It was."

"-so don't take it out on me."

Marisol knows she's doing it. Knows it but can't seem to stop doing it, and she's not proud of herself for it. She did the same thing to her ex, blamed him for things that he couldn't do anything about-for her own dissatisfaction, her own anger, her rage that life isn't what it should be, when she doesn't even know what it should be.

And Arturo-this beautiful, wonderful, loving man-is just so...North American. He's not only a North American, he's a North American law enforcement official, a drug cop who does God knows what and now somehow he's come to embody her...

...anger.

She tries to be reasonable. "What I'm saying is that there are a thousand years of history here that you North Americans don't comprehend and you come here stumbling around in ignorance and-"

"I came down here to-"

"Down here?" she asks. "Do you even hear the paternalism and condescension implied-"

"I meant 'down' as in 'south.'"

"South of the border, down Mexico way."

"Jesus Christ, Mari, stop being such a-"

"Bitch?" she asks. "That's what a woman who stand up for her own opinions is, right?"

Keller walks out of the apartment. He's angry about the election, too, and for reasons he can't tell her.

The continuation of a PAN administration is going to force his hand vis--vis the Tapia money tube. He'll have to do something-trust Aguilar or Vera-or finally take it to Taylor, who is going to reasonably ask why he wasn't told sooner.

And pull you out of Mexico, Keller thinks.

And then what?

Do you ask Marisol to come with you? She loves her country, it wouldn't be fair to ask her. So far, she's put up with the secret part of his life. She's smart, she senses that his job is more than "policy liaison," and she doesn't ask where he goes or what he does when he's not with her.

But that can't last; it's no kind of life.

In a different life, he'd ask her to marry him, and he thinks she'd say yes. In a different life, he'd leave the agency and settle in Mexico, find something to do-a job in SEIDO, or a private security firm. Maybe he'd open a bookstore or a cafe.

But that would be a different life.

You've been at this for coming on two years now and you're no closer to getting Barrera than you were when you started. Adn is more entrenched in power than he ever was.

And it's more than that-the validated election result will free Barrera to come after you.

He'll hunt you down in the States, or Mexico, or wherever you go, and it isn't fair to ask Marisol to endure that.

You don't do that to someone you love.

Keller knows what he should do, and knows that he should do it soon. The holidays will be here soon, and it's cruel to break off a relationship then. It's going to be cruel anyway-on both of them-but he doesn't have a choice.

That night at her place in Condesa, he says, "Marisol, I want to tell you something."

"I want to tell you something, too." She walks him over to the sofa and helps him sit down. Then she gently sits down next to him. "I guess this isn't the best time, but I want to tell you that I've moving."

"Where?"

"Valverde," Marisol says. "I've decided to go home."

She feels useless here, she says, treating rich patients, when there is so much poverty and need back home. She could do something there, mean something to people there, be part of the struggle instead of just making symbolic gestures at protest marches. She can't live like this anymore.

"We can still see each other," she says. "I can come down here, you can come to Jurez..."

"Sure."

It's the sort of thing people tell each other when they both know it isn't really going to happen.

"Arturo, please understand," she says. "I feel like I'm living a lie here. That we're living a lie."

Keller gets that.

He knows about living lies.

- Adn decides to make peace in the Gulf.

The CDG and their Zeta troops have proved to be a surprisingly tough and resilient enemy, even with Osiel Contreras in jail. There have already been seven hundred killings in Tamaulipas, another five hundred in Michoacn, and the Mexican public is growing tired of the violence.

"Do you think they'd come to the table?" Magda asks. She knows her role-play devil's advocate to let him test his ideas. So she asks, "Why make peace now?"

"Because we can get what we want now," Adn says.

"What about La Familia?" Magda asks. "They've been good allies, and they'll never make peace with the Zetas."

She's heard the story about the murdered young whore and the boy who loved her.

It's almost romantic.

"The Zetas can have Michoacn," Adn answers. "I don't want it."

Magda knows what he does want.

- Eddie sits with Diego and Martn Tapia in the back of a Cessna 182 on its way to the meeting with the CDG and Zetas. After long negotiations, the Sinaloans had agreed to meet at a ranch Ochoa owns between Matamoros and Valle Hermosa.

"Let me teach you what my mother taught me," Diego says to him. "If you keep your mouth shut, no one can stick his dick into it."

"Your mom didn't teach you that, Diego," Eddie says.

Diego says, "What I'm telling you is, at this meeting, you keep your fucking mouth shut."

Eddie looks out the window at the sere landscape below. "If you think I'm just going to sit there with the people who tortured my best friend to death-"

"S, m'ijo, I think you are," Diego says. "Or you take your money, go back el norte, and open a Sizzler's or whatever."

"Maybe a Soup Plantation," Eddie mutters.

"Cheer up," Diego says. "Things might go bad and then we can kill everybody."

God knows they have enough firepower to do it. They didn't come light-four airplanes full of automatic rifles, handguns, grenade launchers, and the people to use them. If this is a trap, they aren't going to be defenseless.

"Remember, I get Forty and Ochoa," Eddie says.

Gordo Contreras-aka Jabba the Boss-he could give a shit about either way, although it was Eddie who started the joke: "What happened when Gordo took over the Gulf?" "The water level rose three feet."

Martn has warned Eddie that if he wants to do jokes, he should find an open mike night at a comedy club, but definitely, definitely not try out his material at the peace table.

The plane lands on a strip on the west side of Ochoa's ranch. Eddie looks out the window to see a dozen jeeps, three of them with machine guns trained on the aircraft, and Forty on full alert.

"Yeah, I can feel the love here," he says.

"If that's you keeping your mouth shut, it's not working," Martn says.

- The hacienda has a tiled roof and a broad, covered porch where a long table has been set with carafes of ice water, iced tea, and bottles of beer. Ochoa, looking like a matinee idol from one of those old movies, steps down from the porch and walks toward Adn as he gets out of the jeep.

It's a key moment, Adn knows. Everyone here knows that the whole thing could go south and the guns will come out. He looks Ochoa up and down and then says, "You're as good-looking as they said. If my gate was hinged on the other side, I'd marry you."

A moment of silence, then Ochoa cracks up.

Everyone laughs and then they go up onto the porch.

Gordo Contreras-the little brother who is now the putative head of the CDG-is sitting at the table, not having bothered, Adn notes, to haul his fat ass out of the chair. He's sweating heavily-it's disgusting. All the more so when he leers at Magda.

"I didn't know segunderas were invited," Gordo says. "I would have brought mine."

Adn is about to step in when Magda says, "Partners were invited, Gordo. Your segundera can stay home where he belongs."

The look on Gordo's fat face is priceless-slack-jawed and furious at the same time. He glares at Magda but she looks coolly back at him until he drops his eyes.

Advantage Magda, Adn thinks.

They sit down, Adn and Ochoa at respective ends of the table. Drinks are poured and then Nacho says, "I think we should limit our discussions as to how we move forward. I see no gain in bringing up the past."

"We didn't start this war," Gordo says.

"Your brother tried to have me killed in Puente Grande," Adn says calmly. "I considered that a declaration of war."

"There was a gap of several years before you acted on it," Gordo says, already huffing with effort. He leans over and gulps from a glass of ice water.

Adn shrugs. "I have a long fuse."

"Can we just focus on how to end the war?" Nacho asks.

"Sure," Gordo says. "You withdraw all of your people from Tamaulipas, and if you want to use the Laredo plaza, you pay us tax. And we want what-do-you-call thems...reparations."

"You're out of your mind," Magda says.

Adn notices that Ochoa has said nothing. The former soldier is sitting back, letting Gordo go through the preliminary nonsense. As To taught me, Adn thinks-el que menos habla es el ms chingn.