"Good," María said. "I want to see someone on the general's staff." She didn't really. She wanted to see the general. But if she demanded that right away she'd never get it. She had to give someone more information than they could handle so that she was moved along the chain of command.

A door opened a short way down the wide corridor. A young captain with curly brown hair stepped from a room on the other side of the detention area. As he emerged, his expression quickly shaded from puzzlement to annoyance to anger. He began walking toward her. He wore a.38 on his hip.

María looked at him. His green eyes held hers. She decided not to say anything to him; not yet. Hostage negotiations were the opposite of chess: whoever made the first move was always at a disadvantage. They gave up information, even if it was just their tone of voice telling an opponent their level of confidence in a situation. Quite often that information was enough to let you know whether they were ready to kill you, ready to negotiate, or hoping to delay things until they could decide their next step.

The officer's tan uniform was extremely neat and clean. His black boots shone and the fresh soles clicked sharply on the the floor. His hair was perfectly combed and his square jaw was closely shaved. He was definitely a desk officer. If he had any field experience, even in war games, she would be surprised. That could work in her favor: he wasn't likely to make an important decision unless he checked with a superior officer.

"So," he said. "Someone does not wish to cooperate."

His voice was very strong. María watched his hand. She didn't think he was going to reach for his gun. Not if he were a desk officer who'd never had to look into someone's eyes while he pulled the trigger. On the other hand, he might want to impress his soldiers and the prisoners by making an object lesson of her. If he did, she'd shoot him and head toward the staircase.

"To the contrary. Captain," María replied.

"Explain," he snapped. He was less than three yards from her.

"I'm with Interpol," she said. "My ID is in my pocket. I was working undercover and was accidentally rounded up with the rest of this familia.

"Working undercover with whom?" he asked.

"With Adolfo Alcazar," she said. "The man who destroyed the yacht. He was murdered this morning. I was on the trail of his killers when I was apprehended."

That much was true, of course. She didn't say she was looking for information about Amadori.

María had spoken loudly and, as she'd planned, Juan had overheard.

"ĄEl traidor!" he shouted, and spat. "Traitor!"