HARTOG was staggering on through the labyrinth. His shoulder was numb. He was also losing all sensation in his head. The redhead’s temples were throbbing with fever. Otherwise, he was almost happy. He liked the surroundings. He crossed a room with giant furniture, went down a damp, dark, and probably underground passageway, then climbed steps that brought him back out into the open air amid a profusion of flowers in an elevated garden. From this practical vantage point he viewed the maze of roofs, roof terraces, and little courtyards that made up the Moorish Tower. He felt envy for Fuentès, which reminded him that he had to kill the man. The Arminius was in his left hand. Hartog crouched among the flowers and kept watch. From not far away, behind the walls, came the sound of gunfire. He counted four reports. He waited.