“That’s why they’re importing the poppies,” Whitman said. “For an alkaloid with which they’re trying to make the perfect killing machine.”

“If not for you, compadre, they would have succeeded.”

“Maybe not,” Whitman said. “Remember when I got to you, you were about to rip your face off.”

“About those poppies you’re supposed to pick up,” Charlie said to Dante. “Where are they?”

Dante stared down at el-Habib. “Didn’t he tell you?”

“Not a word,” Charlie said. She was fed up with the Saudi’s fabrications and lies of omission. She jumped down into the grave, grabbed el-Habib, hauled him roughly to his feet. He bounced off the soft wall in a shower of sandy soil as she shook him like a plaything. Then she pulled the rag out of his mouth.

“How about it, Saudi?”

He glared at her, his face a mask of naked hatred. “In the kitchen. Under the floorboards.”

“Flix,” Charlie said.

Flix bent over, hoisted el-Habib out of the grave. Charlie climbed out without help from anyone.

They trooped inside. The kitchen floorboards were stained with Alice’s blood, dried to a shiny mahogany. El-Habib, on his knees, found the hidden latch, and the trapdoor opened onto a shallow space dug out of the ground. He pushed aside the plastic flaps of a container. At once, the sickly sweet scent of opium poppies filled the room.

“Christ,” Flix said.

“What’s the next step?” Whitman said to Dante.

“I make contact with the States, tell them the package is ready for shipment.”

“And then?”

“I drive back to the airstrip, where a refueled plane is waiting.”

“Make the call, just as if you never met us.”

“My sat phone is back in the truck.”

Charlie and Whitman exchanged a look. Each knew precisely what the other was thinking.

“Saudi, you and Dante bring the poppies.”

Dante worked with el-Habib to maneuver the payload out of its lair. The plastic container made their work easy. It was like carrying a coffin, only lighter. Flix backed away as the poppies passed him. Charlie couldn’t blame him; she was sure she would have done the same had she been injected with their alkaloid.

Back outside, Charlie directed them to shove the payload into the rear of the truck. Then Whitman monitored Dante as he placed the call. Afterward, he destroyed the sat phone.

“None of this will do you any good. You think you’re escaping, but you’re not. There is no escape.” A peculiar calm had come over Dante, as if he had entered a kind of meditative state.

The short hairs on the nape of Whitman’s neck stirred and there was a ball of ice forming in his belly. He’d seen that kind of meditative state before, had even, for a time, entered into it himself.

He shook Dante like a ragdoll. “Explain yourself, shitbird.”