St. Vincent nodded. “Point taken. I’m head of Directorate N. You can look me up.”

“And Directorate N is…?”

“Counterintelligence,” St. Vincent said a bit too quickly. “What d’you say? Are you prepared to come to the defense of your country?”

“I do that on every brief my team undertakes.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean to underplay your current role in America’s foreign policy. I’m merely asking you to take one more step.”

Flix chewed this over for a while. “What you’re proposing … if along the way my friends get hurt…?” He let his words fade out. Then he shook his head. “No.”

“Yes, I understand. USA is rather a closed shop, to say the least. A man like you, loyal to the bone, I imagined you’d turn me down. That, in itself, is good to know. A man venal enough to betray his fellows will easily betray his new master.”

Orteño bristled visibly. “I don’t have masters.”

St. Vincent said nothing, seeming lost in contemplation. Then, appearing to start out of it, he said, “But you do have a sister.”

Orteño stiffened.

“Her name is Marilena, yes.”

It wasn’t a question. Orteño didn’t say a word; he was scarcely able to draw a breath.

“And Marilena has a son, Leo. He was nineteen two days ago. I know how close-knit Latino families tend to be. Yours is no different.” St. Vincent sucked in his cheeks again. “I must remember to send him a present.”

“You’re not—” Orteño fairly choked on his words. “Are you threatening my nephew?”

“Good god, man, no. What do you take me for?” St. Vincent tapped his lips with a forefinger as if just now struck by a thought. “It’s only that … well, Marilena had another child, didn’t she?”

Orteño swallowed. His mouth was suddenly dry. With his good arm, he reached for the plastic pitcher of iced water, but St. Vincent beat him to it.

“Here, allow me.” St. Vincent filled a plastic cup, handed it to Orteño, watched him circumspectly while he drained it. When he was finished, he continued. “No disparagement meant, but this child—her name is Lucy—she was two years Leo’s elder, is that right?” He waited for a response, but when none was forthcoming, he went on. “According to the records I’ve seen, Lucy ran away from home when she was fifteen.”

Just like my grandmother, Flix thought.

“That was, what? six, seven years ago.”

“Six years, nine months, seventeen days,” Orteño said dully. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach was expanding. Almost a year of trying to find her had left him eager to join up with Whitman, get the hell out of the country, work off his frustration.

“Naturally Marilena tried to find her. So did you, as a matter of fact.”

“Lucy’s gone, lost to us,” Orteño said. “We’ve all but forgotten her.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” St. Vincent stood as he had when contemplating the print, with his hands clasped loosely behind his back. “I doubt that very much. After all, family is family, am I right?”