He laughed loudly. “Oh, I’m not Chino. That’s just stupid. Do I look Chinese? Chino is up at his ranch, waiting for you. My name is Gregory. I work for Chino. Surely you see that I was going to kill these fools anyway. They were our only link to you and your husband, not to mention the insane fiasco at the airport. And some other details. I’ve said enough.” He was watching her eyes. “Of course the world has heard the last of you Merrills. Your government will move mountains to keep your fate a secret, because there is nothing it can do about it, now or later.”

Merrill was in motion again. He went as fast as he could go, hefting the shoulder bag, without attracting the attention of one of the automatic-toting teenage soldiers that seemed to be stationed at every other corner. This was supposed to be a democracy? By the scowls on their faces, these baby-faced thugs looked like they were ready to shoot up a preschool.

Merrill had already talked to O’Malley’s Bocagrande friend, Adolfo Ruiz y Something-or-other – Ruiz, he had told Merrill to say. He was an older man, by the sound of his voice. Merrill repeated what O’Malley had said, that he was O’Malley’s old friend and needed some confidential help. Ruiz’s immediate hesitation made Merrill suspicious. Ruiz wanted to meet with him. Where was he staying? The Tropicana, Merrill said. Ruiz laughed uproariously. It was the hotel O’Malley recommended, Merrill said – but he wasn’t there yet, he added quickly. He wouldn’t be there, in fact, for at least an hour. Ruiz said he would be at the Tropicana to meet Merrill at eight-thirty. As Ruiz talked, Merrill worked the laptop. The telephone turned out to be only a few blocks from the Tropicana.

Now Merrill was just around the corner from a hotel, within earshot of an orchestra, and according to a clock in a jewelry store, the time was not yet eight o’clock.

He stayed across the street from the entrance, looking for still another telephone. He wanted to keep a distance in case Ruiz – or anybody else – figured out that he had built himself a margin of safety. He called the number on the business card the Marine had given him. The telephone rang once.

“Cody.”

A half-dozen gaudily-dressed people emerged from the hotel and a doorman blew a whistle to bring up some taxis. “Mr. Cody, this is U.S. Coast Guard Lieutenant Commander Samuel Merrill.”

“At ease, Commander, I know who you are. Welcome to Cartagena.”

Hell on earth. “Then you know why I’m here.”