They danced through the song, and then another, older-sounding song called "Shout" came on and everyone seemed to know how to dance to it. He just followed Lina's example.

A drunken woman with outrageously large, fake breasts, kept bumping into Lina and him during the song as her tall boyfriend attempted to spin her every so often. Pelly didn't mind it. In fact, he was enjoying his first night out on the town in the United States. Maybe this wasn't such a bad assignment after all.

Pelly found the rhythm to the song and enjoyed seeing Lina's form move to the beat. He felt his hair below his face mat with sweat, but knew it was unnoticeable under his long-sleeved shirt. He had shaved a small circle near his throat so he could leave his shirt opened one button.

Then the drunken, top-heavy woman seemed to turn an ankle and started to go down hard. Pelly twisted to catch her at an awkward angle, but it was too late. With her long nails she groped out, looking for a way to keep from falling on the dance floor.

She found his collar and grabbed on instinctively.

He felt his shirt start to tear and buttons start to pop even as he tried to catch the woman.

As she landed and rolled slightly, he felt the front of his shirt fall open before he could stop it. Even in the low light of the dance floor, he knew everyone could see him. He felt his thick chest hair untangle and fall out of the tear in his shirt. He touched his chest and realized the shirt was open almost to his stomach. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the hair near his shoulder start to pop straight up now that it was free. Dark, tall, proud strands of hair he battled with daily. Now, when he needed to win the battle most, the hair had defeated him and escaped.

Then he heard someone with a thick New Orleans accent say, "Jesus, would ya look at that boy. He must be part monkey."

Pelly's fist was in the man's mouth before he could follow up the comment. Someone stepped up to grab Pelly, then fell to one side. Pelly turned and saw Lina, the girl he had just met, standing over him, her foot coming back to the ground after kicking the man who tried to accost him from behind.

Maybe she really was a kickboxing champ.

39

BACK IN HIS HOTEL ROOM IN NEW ORLEANS, ALEX DUARTE HAD tossed and turned for the few hours he laid in bed. He got up before dawn and turned on the TV, wondering if there would be any stories about the killing of Forrest Jessup just outside Biloxi, Mississippi. Now he saw some good reasons to have called the cops and explain what he had seen, but it was too late. He'd be tied up for days in the investigation. He wanted to find William Floyd and that truck and its cargo, then get Floyd to explain this whole plan and why so many people had died for it. Duarte had a hard time conceiving of people killing over a load of pot. He knew it had to be more. Cal Linley's idea that it would start a revolution was as cryptic as the kid in Omaha saying it had to do with cranes.

He kept in his mind the connection to oil and the Houston address of Forrest Jessup that the ATF analyst had found. The old man had been in the oil business as a "wildcat" or independent operator. It didn't look like the racist leader had ever made a lot of money in the business. Maybe the item Cal Linley had unloaded at the port had been for the oil business. He had to keep an open mind.

He stretched as he watched CNN until the earliest local news popped on. Shortly after seven, while he was up in the army resting position of a push-up, his three hundredth, his cell phone rang.

He popped up off the floor and found the Nextel with his ID and gun on the small desk in the room.

"Duarte."

"Even at seven in the morning, you answer like that?"

He smiled at Alice's voice.

"Even at midnight. Just habit."

"You doing okay?"

He thought about his night and then said, "Yeah, nothing new, really." His eyes moved over to the baggie with a blood sample in it. Was this the right time?

"Well, I have a couple of reasons to call other than just missing you and wanting to hear your voice."

He smiled. "It's nice to hear your voice, too."

"That's sweet." There was a pause until she realized he wasn't going to speak again. "I have two things to tell you. First, the DNA sample was not in the Florida Department of Law Enforcement database."

"Does that mean if I have a comparison sample I could send it to you?"

"If you had a sample, yes."

"I'll get it out this morning."

"How'd you get a sample so fast?"

"Don't ask."

She paused and then said, "I also found out that the shipping notices you packed the lock in are radioactive."

Duarte paused and considered this. "What form of radioactivity?"

"You know about all that stuff? I'm impressed."

"Did you get a particle spectrum?"

"Not yet. I wanted to ask you. First, a Geiger counter noticed them, then I took them to U.S. Customs to get a confirmation from one of their pagers."

"That's smart, Alice. Now I'm impressed. Did the customs guy give you a particle spectrum?"

"No, he just said they were probably around tile or something and, I quote, 'not to worry my pretty little head about it.'"

"Is he still alive?"

"He was too cute to punch. But it still scared me about the reading. You want me to insist he get a particle spectrum?"

"No, not yet. That calls in a whole bunch of other agencies. I want to find a reason that might get them moving from here and leave you out of the mix."

"Now tell me something besides work."

"Like what?"

"I'm your girlfriend, Alex. I don't care."

And to his surprise he did talk to her about things unrelated to the Department of Justice.

Alex Duarte sat at a booth in the outrageously overpriced restaurant inside the Marriott. It was nearly ten in the morning, and he was still waiting for Félix Baez to meet him. As he sat alone, he sketched out a little diagram with some of the major players in the case to see if he noticed any links he had missed before. He wrote in "B.G." for poor, dead Byron Gastlin and "W.F." for William Floyd. He just wrote a big "O" at the top. He felt certain the shadowy Mr. Ortíz had something to do with the overall scheme.

His concern came when he wrote "L.C." for Lina Cirillo at the bottom of the page. She knew more than she claimed. He also wrote "L.S." next to Lina's initials. Colonel Lázaro Staub appeared legit, but his trip to New Orleans and lingering presence had set off an alarm inside Duarte's head. Not a serious one yet, but the colonel might also be better informed than he claimed. His English had improved drastically in his short visit to New Orleans, and every day he seemed to disappear with someone for a while. Duarte decided he didn't want to take his eye off the colonel.

He looked up from his diagram and saw Félix crossing the restaurant.

Duarte saw the look on his face and said, "What's wrong?"

"I got more bad news from Panama."

"What's that?"

"First I spoke to Staub, then I asked my buddy with the DEA down there, John Morales, to find out about the first mate of the Flame of Panama."

"Yeah."

"The captain was found dead on the ship. Two bullets in his face. No one knew anything about the crew. No records, no payroll, nothing. They already renamed the ship, and it's hauling something else."

"Dammit." He looked up at his friend. "Félix, does it seem like everyone involved in this case dies violently?"

Félix seemed to flinch as he slid into the booth. "As long as it's not you or me."

Duarte looked at the DEA man. "You okay? You hurt yourself?"