There were also five passengers, all of whom were gathered in the very private midcabin. The door was shut and the heavy drapes were drawn over the two portholes. The passengers, all men, were seated around a large, ivory-colored table. There was a thick, oversized leather binder in the center of the table and a bottle of vintage Madeira beside it. The dinner plates had all been cleared away and only the near-empty wineglasses remained.

The men were dressed in expensive pastel-colored blazers and large, loose-fitting slacks. They wore jeweled rings and gold or silver necklaces. Their socks were silk and their shoes were handmade and brightly polished. Their haircuts were fresh and short. Their cigars were Cuban and four of them had been burning for quite some time; there were more in a humidor in the center of the table. The men's hands were soft and their expressions were relaxed. When they spoke their voices were soft and warm.

The owner of the Verídico, Seńor Esteban Ramirez, was also the founder of the Ramirez Boat Company, the firm that had built the yacht. Unlike the other men, he did not smoke. It wasn't because he did not want to but because it was not yet time to celebrate. Nor did he reminisce about how their Catalonian grandparents had raised sheep or grapes or grain in the fertile fields of León. As important as his heritage was, he couldn't think about such things right now. His mind and soul were preoccupied with what should have happened by now. His imagination was consumed with everything that was at stake-much as it had been during the years of dreaming, the months of planning, and the hours of execution.

What was keeping the man?

Ramirez reflected quietly on how, in years gone by, he used to sit in this very room of the yacht and wait for calls from the men he worked with at the American CIA. Or wait to hear from the members of his "familia," a very close and trusted group comprised of his most devoted employees. Sometimes the familia henchmen were on a mission to deliver packages or to pick up money or to break the bones of people who didn't see the sense of cooperating with him. Some of those unfortunate people had worked for one or two of the men who sat at this table. But that was in the past, before they were united by a common goal.

Part of Ramirez yearned for those more relaxed days. Days when he was simply an apolitical middleman making a profit from smuggling guns or personnel or learning about covert activities by the Russians or Moslem fundamentalists. Days when he used familia muscle to obtain loans that the banks didn't want to give him, or to get trucks to carry goods when no trucks were available.

Things were different now. So very, very different.