That had been my thought right from the start when I had picked up that sheet of paper back home in Virginia, but to have it confirmed by this mild-mannered and elder banker before me chills me so hard and fast in this tropic sunshine that I shiver.

“Why did you keep your mouth shut all this time?”

“What could I say?” he says. “I could have begged to have been released, but that never would have happened, would it? You had a mission, to save your family, and they can only be saved by my presence. Like any good banker, I knew that someday there would be a final accounting for my sins.”

I pause for the briefest of moments. “How do you know this?”

A mournful shrug. “Pelayo is my son.”

CHAPTER 82

SITTING IN the rear of the Yukon with Tom Cornwall and the little girl, Pelayo Abboud allows himself a smile of satisfaction. It’s going well, better than expected, and in a very few minutes, this complex and very satisfying operation will come to a close.

Driving is one of his men, Paco, whose shoulders are so broad that they nearly rub up against the passenger up front, who is the Afghan boy, Hamid. The young Afghan lad still seems overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of wealthy Florida, and it’s now time to bring him back to earth.

“Paco,” he says, as the bulky man maneuvers around a slow-moving crowd of beachgoers.

“Jefe,” he replies.

In Spanish, Pelayo says, “Tell Hamid that he is doing a wonderful job for me and that he is going to be rewarded, as a true warrior of…God, Allah, whatever it is he believes in.”

Paco stops the Yukon for a moment, talks to Hamid in Pashto. The young Afghan turns and smiles at Pelayo, nodding his thanks.

Again in Spanish, Pelayo says, “Tell Hamid that the man sitting here next to me is married to the American woman who killed his family. Tell Hamid that when I call his name out, he has my permission to kill this man, to avenge the deaths of his family.”

About halfway through Paco’s talking to Hamid, his expression darkens, his eyes narrow, and he utters something and stares the look of utter death and hatred toward Tom Cornwall.

Paco says, “It is done, boss.

“Bueno,” Pelayo says.

He gently pats the upper leg of Tom.

“No worries, Tom. It will be over soon.”

Tom says not a word, but his eyes look to be swelling with tears.

The girl next to him also remains quiet.

I’m standing at the arranged meeting site, near a concrete park bench that is empty, still feeling cold and exposed with the skimpy bathing suit I’m wearing, and with Archie at my right, I say again, “Your son? Pelayo is your son?”

Archie says in a quiet voice, “Yes, by blood and birth, the boy is my son. I have disowned him many times…but still, he haunts my life. He knows I have always been a threat to him, and now, he has come to settle accounts, to make sure I will no longer be able to do him harm.”