Russell got up and went to the window. He could see the mounted police below, wading into the crowd of teachers and clerks. An officer had shot his pistol into the air. Men were throwing rocks at the bank’s plate glass windows. A white puff from a tear gas canister burst into the air. The tear gas canister—shot from the other side of the street—tumbled under the horses. It all seemed so unnecessary, Russell thought. He didn’t bother to turn around to say goodbye to the IMF people as they left.

“Rudy has been arrested,” Antonio said. He’d walked up to the window, and was watching the crowd now, too. “It was Selva. Rudy won’t be able to keep quiet. You know what they’ll do. He’ll be forced to tell them everything.”

Russell was still watching the scene down on the street. Two men had managed to pull a policeman off his horse, and were stomping him. The policeman’s horse was running riderless through the crowd. The crowd had smashed the bank’s windows, and were running through the gaping holes into the building. It wouldn’t do them any good; the bank had no dollars left.

“Then we have to act soon. Tonight,” Russell said.

“We don’t have anyone to do it. There’s no one,” Antonio said.

“I’ll do it,” Russell said. “I told you. Before Blanco makes the announcement.”

“No,” Antonio said.

Russell turned around. He looked at De La Madrid.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s suicide. I won’t have it. Besides, I need you.”

“No. It has to be done,” Russell said. “It might as well be me. I can get near him. I have access.”

“Do you want to die? Is that it?”

“Of course not,” Russell said.

“Then what is it? You don’t owe this country your life. You’re not even really one of us.”

Russell grabbed Antonio by the collar and pushed him against the wall.

“Don’t ever say that again. Do you understand? Never. My mother died here, for what? Do you want the filthy communists to win? Is that what you want, you gutless shit? They will, you know. They’re just waiting out there, with their ignorant and stupid ideas, and as soon as it gets bad enough they’ll come out of their holes and win what thirty years of war couldn’t get them. Is that what you want?” Startled by what he’d done, he let go of Antonio. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . I’m sorry.”

Antonio looked at him. He turned his collar back where it had been pulled up.

“No. I understand. I had no right to say what I did. You are one of us. I knew your mother. She would be proud of you. Very proud. Your grandfather would be proud of you, too.” Antonio smiled at him. It was a strange smile, Russell thought. “You’re like a son to me, you know that. That was the only reason I said what I did. I apologize.”

“It’s okay,” Russell said.

“I promise you, you will have a place in the government.”

“Thank you. But I’m leaving. As soon as this is done.”

“I’ll make sure you are . . . I’ll make sure that if you want to come back some day, when this is over, that you’ll have a place here. We will owe you that,” Antonio said.

“I’m leaving with Carlos’s wife. I thought you should know that. I don’t want to keep anything from you. That’s why I have to go. I can’t stay here with her. It would be impossible.”

“I understand,” Antonio said. “You’re right, he’ll kill you if you stay here.”

“I’m going to do it there. When Blanco comes in to meet with the UN. I’m going to do it there, at the meeting,” Russell said.

“Do you want to see a priest?” Antonio said.

“No. I’m not going to die. He’s going to die.”

“God bless you,” Antonio said. “I have to go. Will I see you again?”

“No. I don’t think you should come tonight. Stay at home. If I fail, you’ll know it soon enough. If he’s dead, you have to move quickly and take power.”

“Do you think we can really win?” It seemed a strange question.

“I don’t know. Maybe. But you can’t if Carlos gets in. He won’t let go once he’s in. I know him; why should he?”

“Of course he won’t.”

They shook hands. There was nothing more to say. It was obvious that Antonio thought he was going to die. Maybe he would be successful, or maybe he wouldn’t, but nonetheless he was going to die.

“Let’s hope Rudy can hold out until tonight,” Antonio said.

“Yes. Let’s hope so,” Russell said.

•••

Important people, lifelong friends of Rudy Valladolid, had been warned. They were doing everything they could to intervene with Carlos, but Rudy had gone too far this time. Even President Blanco, who played cards with Rudy at the Club Alemán every Sunday afternoon, said that he’d gone too far, and refused to stop the inevitable. It pained him, he said, as he and the senator had grown up together. Everyone liked Rudy Valladolid, because he was charming.

The first rule in the torturer’s handbook is to leave the face alone, so that no photos can be leaked to the press. A beaten face says too much about what’s gone on.

So they had worked on Rudy Valladolid from the waist down. They’d used sand-filled garden hoses, as the handbook recommends. But he hadn’t cracked.

He’d come close. He’d lost control of his bodily functions at one point, but he held on, thinking about Isabella Cruz. It made him braver than he would have been otherwise. The men who beat him were surprised. He was an old man, after all, but he hadn’t cracked. He wanted to give Russell time. He owed him that much. He was very aware, however, that he would crack soon, and tell them everything.

“I’m sorry it’s come to this,” Carlos said. “I didn’t want this to happen.”

Carlos sat down. He had come back, after dinner with Beatrice and the children, stopped the beating and had his uncle brought to his office. He had told his men to go easy and make sure that his uncle could walk.

The office was on the military base, on the third floor, and had a view of the parade ground, that now, in the dark, was lit by stadium lights. “I truly wish you could see our point of view, uncle. I’m in an impossible situation.”

Rudy shook his head as if he were about to say something. His clothes were soiled, and he was shaking slightly. He had been given a glass of cognac, on Carlos’s insistence.

Carlos watched his uncle take a drink. Then, very carefully, Rudy reached over and put the empty glass down on the desk. Carlos noticed his uncle’s fingers had dried blood on them.

“The Americans are very concerned,” Carlos said. “Can you see my problem? I have to tell them something.”

“Could I have another? And would you mind pouring it for me? I’m afraid that would be beyond me.” Rudy spoke in the soft voice of a man that’s terrified and whose spirit has been damaged.

“Of course.” Carlos stood up, unscrewed the bottle, and poured out four fingers of brandy. He handed his uncle the glass, then put the bottle down and returned to his chair.

“This is an impossible situation, Rudy. Why don’t we find a solution?” Carlos said as Rudy drank the second drink.

Carlos looked out at the parade ground. A German shepherd ran across the grass with a sentry.

“They said there were riots. Is that true?” Rudy asked finally. There was brandy on his chin. He wiped it off.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. The banks. The people want their money,” Carlos said. “It’s natural.”

“Did you get yours out okay?” Rudy asked.

“Yes, thank God. Did you?” Carlos asked.

“Yes. Weeks ago.” Rudy smiled slightly. The second drink was doing its work. “Did Pablo do it for you? I mean, at the bank. He’s my cousin, you know,” Rudy said. He sounded very far away.

“Yes. It was him,” Carlos said. “I want you to know I didn’t want this.” He looked at his uncle. “Why don’t you tell me what you know, and I will personally put you on a plane for Miami. Then we can put this unpleasantness behind us.”

“He’s a good boy,” Rudy said. “Pablo, I mean . . . I’d like to get this over with now.”