BACK AT THE NURSERY

“You understand what has to be done?”

“I do.”

“You have no problem about it?”

Reggie hesitated, then shook his head no.

“Good.”

Santos poured more Glenmorangie into his glass, swirled the brown liquid around and stared down into it.

“You and your cousin have been close friends, have you not?”

“We were raised together as boys, but then Romeo and his mother left Caribe. Since then we are in touch.”

Santos took off his yellow-framed sunglasses and set them on the table. He rubbed his eyes with his abbreviated left hand, then smoothed back his hair. He looked at Reginald San Pedro Sula, who wanted to turn away from the two small darting animals imprisoned in Marcello’s face, but Reggie steeled himself and did not flinch. Santos’s eyes were the color of Christmas trees on fire.

“It’s not that there is anything personal in this,” Santos said, “but Romeo has done some terrible things, things so terrible that not even the Mexican authorities can allow him to operate there any longer. I have sent some people in to take care of the situation in Zopilote. From now on we will handle the business. It was necessary to remove your cousin from the area in order to effect the change. In the meantime, he does us the favor of transporting other goods for us, for which he is fairly compensated. After the delivery is secured, you will pay him the remainder of what we have agreed, and then you will kill him.”

Santos lifted his glass with the fingers and opposing digit of his right hand and drank most of the Scotch in it.

“After Romeo is dead, of course,” he said, “the money is no good to him, so you will take it as payment for doing me this favor.”

“That is most generous of you,” said Reggie.

Santos closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Not generous, Reggie—just. There is a difference.”

He reopened his eyes and put his sunglasses back on. Reggie relaxed, taking off his powder-blue porkpie hat and wiping the sweat from his bald head with a lime-green handkerchief.

“Deception is merely a tool of resourcefulness,” said Santos. “Have you ever heard of Captain Philippe Legorjus?”

“I don’t believe so, sir.”

“Well, he is the commander of France’s elite anti-terrorist forces. Not long ago he was sent by his government to New Caledonia, which is in the South Pacific, to quell an uprising by the Kanak rebels on the island of Ouvea. New Caledonia is part of the French Overseas Territories, and so it was necessary to protect the French citizens who live there. It is also the place from which the French conduct their nuclear tests.

“In any case, Captain Legorjus was kidnapped by the rebels, along with twenty-two others. The leader of the Kanak Socialist National Liberation Front, I believe it was called, was something of a religious fanatic, and had been trained for guerilla warfare in Libya by Khadafy. This man vowed to maintain a state of permanent insecurity in the French South Pacific Territory if the separatists’ demands for independence were not met. A familiar story. I remember a newspaper photograph of him, wearing a hood and holding a rifle, the pockets of his field jacket stuffed with cartridges. He threatened to kill a white person a day so long as the French government occupied Noumea, the capital of New Caledonia.

“While the Kanak leader carried on making speeches to the press, Legorjus organized the hostages and not only led them to freedom but took control of the separatist stronghold, disarmed the rebel soldiers, and captured their leader, enabling several hundred French naval infantrymen to swarm in and restore order. Upon his return to Paris, Legorjus was accorded a parade down the Champs d’Elysées and declared a national hero.”

Santos paused and looked at Reggie, who smiled and said, “He must be a brave man, this captain.”

Santos nodded. “Brave and cunning, Reggie. I make a point of studying these kinds of extraordinary men. There is much to be learned from their behavior. My firm belief is that life must be lived according to a man’s own terms, or else it is probably not worth living.”

“I am sure you are right, Mr. Santos.”

Marcello licked the stub on his left hand where his thumb had been.

“I know you will do a good job for me,” he said, walking over to the window and looking out at the sky.

“Ah, si sta facendo scuro,” Santos said. “It’s getting dark. You know, Reggie, I am almost seventy years old, and despite all I know, there is still nothing I can do about that.”