"Dr. Koos is his name. Oh, no. The projectile will be removed now. But the restorative surgery-her jaw will of course have to be wired closed-is quite important, and should be placed in the hands of the best man available."

Jesus, that's Betty's skull I'm looking at.

Castillo suddenly felt light-headed, then dizzy.

What am I going to do, pa.s.s out? Throw up on Santa Claus's shiny floor?

No, G.o.ddammit, I will not lose control of myself!

He steadied himself with a hand on the X-ray display rack.

"Doctor, how soon can she be moved?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"How soon could I fly her to the United States?"

"Oh, I see what you're thinking." He thought the question over and then continued: "That would depend in large measure on what sort of support you could provide, in terms of oxygen, blood-in case of unexpected bleeding-et cetera, on the aircraft. And there would have to be provision to feed her. Liquids, of course. Her jaw, as I say, will be immobilized for at least two weeks. She would have to be accompanied by a physician and a nurse. I'm speaking of moving her soon-say, tomorrow or the day after. If you were willing to wait, say, seventy-two or ninety-six hours-three or four days-while she would be in some discomfort, she could travel far more easily. With medical personnel in attendance, of course."

"How long is she going to be in the operating room now?"

"Oh, I would say . . ." Dr. Rommine began, then thought that over for a good twenty seconds before finishing: "Two hours, perhaps a little longer. And I'd better get scrubbed. They almost certainly have the patient prepared by now."

"You're going to operate?"

"Of course. El Coronel Munz has explained the situation to me. It will be my privilege."

Dr. Rommine then walked out of his office without saying another word. He left so quickly that Castillo doubted Dr. Santa Claus had heard his somewhat belatedly expressed thanks.

"You all right, Karl?" Munz asked.

Castillo nodded.

"You looked a little pale there for a while."

"I'm all right. Thank you for everything."

"Let's see if we can find a cup of coffee," Munz said. "And we'd better start thinking about getting a little something to eat."

"Alfredo, I'm not hungry."

"If people don't eat, their blood sugar drops, especially after they have been subjected to stress, and they pa.s.s out," Munz said.

Castillo looked at him a moment, realized reluctantly that he was right, and nodded his thanks.

"Okay," Castillo said, starting for the door, "let's go."

"Sit down, Karl," Munz said. "I'll have something sent up."

"Alfredo, do you really think these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds would try to whack me in a hospital cafeteria?"

"That seems to be the problem, doesn't it? If you don't have any idea who the villains are, then it's rather difficult to a.s.sess their plans or their capabilities."

Munz punched an autodial key on his cellular and told someone to go to the cafeteria and bring up some sandwiches-lomo sandwiches, if they had them, otherwise ham and cheese-coffee, and some very sweet pastry. sandwiches, if they had them, otherwise ham and cheese-coffee, and some very sweet pastry.

Castillo sat in Dr. Santa Claus's chair and looked at the bullet lodged in Betty's jaw.

Jack Britton showed up at the same time as the sandwiches. He had a Madsen submachine gun under his arm, hanging from a web strap around his shoulder.

"She's in the operating room," Castillo told him without waiting to be asked. He pointed to the X-ray films and then the weapon. "Three wounds from one of those."

"From one of these?" Britton asked, incredulously.

"Yeah, from one of those. Where'd you get that?"

"Darby," Britton said. "He asked me if I could handle it, and I lied. I never saw one before. They hit Betty with one of these?"

"Yeah, a nine-millimeter model. And blew Sergeant Markham away."

"I heard that," Britton said. "What the f.u.c.k is going on, Charley?"

"I have no G.o.dd.a.m.n idea," Castillo confessed, and extended his hands for the Madsen. "Let me have that. I'll show you how it works."

Britton handed Castillo the submachine gun. He removed the magazine and checked to see that there was no cartridge left in the mechanism.

"Pay attention, Jack. You may have to use this," Castillo said.

"I'm all ears," Britton said.

"This is a Madsen M53," Castillo began, "caliber nine-millimeter Parabellum. This has a curved thirty-roundmagazine; the earlier models have a stick. It fires from an open chamber; in other words, to fire it, you pull the operating lever on the top to the rear. . . ."

He demonstrated by pulling the operating lever back. It caught in place with a firm click.

"The first thing you do is take the safety off. In other words, move this thing to 'F' . . ."

He demonstrated the functioning of the safety control.

"Then you select auto or single-shot mode. This is the selector lever for that; 'A' stands for automatic. . . ."

He demonstrated the function of the selector switch.

"Then you pull the trigger."

He pulled the trigger. The bolt slammed into the battery position.

"If there had been a loaded magazine in there, the bolt would have stripped off the top cartridge, shoved it in the action, and it would have gone bang bang. Then the bolt would return to the rear position. If you were in single-shot mode, to fire again, you would have to release your finger on the trigger and then pull it again. If you were in auto mode-your finger still holding the trigger to the rear-it would go bang-bang-bang bang-bang-bang at a rate of six hundred and fifty rounds per minute until you ran out of ammo. We try to teach people to try to get off three-shot bursts-it takes some practice-because otherwise, as when firing any other submachine gun, the muscles of the shooter tend to involuntarily contract, raising the muzzle, and you miss what you wanted to shoot." at a rate of six hundred and fifty rounds per minute until you ran out of ammo. We try to teach people to try to get off three-shot bursts-it takes some practice-because otherwise, as when firing any other submachine gun, the muscles of the shooter tend to involuntarily contract, raising the muzzle, and you miss what you wanted to shoot."

He looked at Britton. "I hope you took notes. There will be a quiz."

"When you said 'we try to teach people,' you meant Special Forces, didn't you?"

Castillo nodded. "You've fired submachine guns, right?"

"Yeah. But not this one."

"A lot of people like the Madsen," Castillo said.

He handed the weapon back to Britton.

"The bolt is forward," he said. "Put the safety lever on 'S' and the rate of fire selector on 'A,' " he said, and when Britton looked at him, added, "Yeah, now, please, Jack."

Britton did as he was told.

"Okay. It is now safe to load the magazine." He handed it to him, watched as Britton inserted it, and then went on. "Okay, all you have to do now is pull the action lever back, take off the safety, and pull the trigger."

"Got it," Britton said.

"Good," Castillo said. "Now, carefully lay it down on that shelf. I don't think you're going to need it in here right now, and I want to eat my sandwich. Are you hungry, Jack?"

"No. Thanks."

"You sure? These look good," Castillo said and reached for one.

Castillo was finishing a generous slice of incredibly good apfelstrudel-why I am surprised? This is the German Hospital- apfelstrudel-why I am surprised? This is the German Hospital-when there was a knock on the office door. A large man in civilian clothing came in and offered Colonel Munz a small, resealable plastic bag.

"And, mi coronel, mi coronel, there are Americans here for Senor Castillo." there are Americans here for Senor Castillo."

Munz didn't reply directly. He held up the bag. Castillo saw that it held two fired cartridge cases.

"There are others, right? We won't need these in court?"

"There are twenty-four in all, mi coronel. mi coronel. We are still looking. It is possible that some spectators took some others as souvenirs." We are still looking. It is possible that some spectators took some others as souvenirs."

Munz opened the bag and took out a bra.s.s cartridge case, examined it carefully, and then handed it to Castillo.

"Israeli," he said. "Same year stamp as the ones we found on Avenida Tomas Edison in the taxicab."

Castillo took the case and handed it to Britton.

"We now have conclusive proof that in 1999 Israel made nine-millimeter ammunition," he said.

Munz smiled at him.

"Don't smile," Castillo said. "I can't think of anything else we have conclusive proof of." He looked at Britton. "Just to satisfy my curiosity, what's in the emba.s.sy Madsen?"

Britton took a curved magazine from his pocket, thumbed a cartridge loose, and examined its base.

"Israeli, 1992," he said.

"And conclusive proof that the bad guys have fresher ammo than the good guys," Castillo said. "Not that it matters, as I'm beginning to wonder if we'll ever get a chance to shoot back."

"You want these?" Munz nodded.

"Yes, thank you," Castillo said, and took the plastic bag, put the cartridge Britton held out to him in it, zipped it shut, and dropped it in his pocket.

"Americans for me?" he asked Munz's man.

"Si, senor."

Castillo gestured for them to be brought in.

A civilian-Castillo recognized his face from the brainstorming session but couldn't come up with a name-and a Marine. The man, in his middle twenties, was olive-skinned, and Castillo decided he was probably one of the Drug Enforcement Administration agents. He was carrying an M-16 rifle.

The Marine, who was in greens and had a Beretta in a field holster hanging from a web belt, was a corporal.

"I'm Castillo. You're looking for me?"

"Solez, Mr. Castillo. DEA. I was told to report to you and do whatever you told me to do."

"Do you speak Spanish, Mr. Solez?" Castillo said in Spanish.

"I spoke it before I learned to speak English," Solez replied in Spanish.

Castillo picked up on the accent.

"And where are you from in Texas?" Castillo asked, still in Spanish.

"San Antone, senor."

"Me, too."

"Yes, sir, I know."

"How do you know?"

"My father is Antonio Solez, sir. I think you know him."

Antonio Solez had been one of Castillo's grandfather's cronies, a familiar face around both the offices and the ranches, and a pallbearer at the funeral of Don Juan Fernando Castillo. A mental image of him, a large swarthy man, standing across the open grave with his chest heaving and tears running unashamedly down his cheeks, leaped into Castillo's mind.

"Indeed I do. How is he?"

"Still taking care of Don Fernando," Solez said, with a smile. It took a moment for Charley to take his meaning. He smiled back.

"When did my fat and ugly cousin start calling himself 'Don Fernando'?"

"People started calling him that after Don Fernando pa.s.sed. I think he likes it. Dona Alicia does, I know."

"You're Ricardo, right? The last I heard you were at College Station."