The boy glances behind him. A little way off, an older soldier, and one of higher rank as evidenced by the insignia on his jacket, is following the proceedings closely from under a pair of sunglasses and a beret pulled over his forehead.

‘¿Su sargento?’ Duval asks.

‘Sí.’ The soldier waits for the nod from his superior then loops two fingers through the plastic casing of the six-pack.

‘So,’ Duval says with studied casualness, ‘are we okay?’

Again the boy looks to his superior and waits for the nod. ‘We’re okay,’ he confirms and signals at the soldiers behind him to move the tree trunk. ‘¡Buena suerte!’

Simon and Garfunkel are playing on the radio. Duval whistles along under his breath.

‘Why buena suerte?’

‘You know,’ he muses, ‘I never understood the lyrics to this song. Am I supposed to lay me down on the bridge? Under the bridge? Be the bridge?’

‘Good luck with what?’ I press.

‘And why is the poor water troubled? What could possibly be troubling it?’

‘What did you say when they asked if you had any marijuana?’

‘Is it perhaps a song about poaching off bridges, I wonder?’

I punch him in the arm.

‘All right!’ he says, mock offended. ‘I said why would I need marijuana when I had a beautiful, albeit vicious, English girl to keep me high.’

‘So chivalrous . . . What were they looking for, do you think?’

‘Oh, just rich tourists to rip off.’

‘And we didn’t fit the bill?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘So . . . good luck with what?’

He sighs. ‘If you must know, I told them I was out scouting for a suitably romantic location to have my wicked way with you.’

‘And are you?’

‘Let’s just say it’s not the furthest thing from my mind today.’ He pulls the truck sharply off the track ignoring a bilingual sign commanding all vehicles stay on the road. ‘But right now, I want to show you something.’ He climbs out of the truck and I follow him to the edge of the hill. ‘See that clearing on the mountain?’ He points to a bald spot on the carpet of green in front of us. ‘Temerosa’s on the other side of that.’

‘It is?’ I stare at the horizon trying to make sense of the geography.

‘About fifteen miles if you were to walk straight over the top.’

‘Can you do that? Can you cross from here?’

‘People try. People die trying.’ He narrows his eyes against the sun. ‘Looks almost easy, doesn’t it? And it should be. There are no heat sensors, no fences, no motion detectors, not even the BP like to come out here. It’s a nasty, near-impossible bit of desert unless you know the way.’

I stare at the great wall of mesquite and suddenly understand why he’s showing me. ‘This is where Benjamín crossed, isn’t it?’