"No. I pay for mine."

"Oh, believe me, billonario, I paid for this. What do you think? It's magnificent, eh?"

"It's lit wrong."

"You're very blasé. I'm giving you a private viewing of one of the greatest works of art of the nineteenth century. Alas," he sighed, "no longer open to the public. It was in the Stadtische Kunsthalle in Mannheim. Well, anyway, it was wasted on the Germans. Becker, that's German, isn't it? No offense."

"None taken."

"I suppose the Germans wanted it because it's anti-French, or anti-Napoleonic, which to them amounts to the same. You know the story? Louis Napoleon flattered the Austrian Archduke Maximilian into thinking that a nation of Indians and half-castes would accept a Hapsburg for their emperor. Metternich's comment when he heard about the scheme was: 'What a lot of cannon shots it will take to put an emperor in Mexico and what a lot it will take to keep him there.' As soon as your Civil War was over, Secretary Seward complained to Napoleon about the Monroe Doctrine. It was more than that, actually. He threatened him with war. So much for old friends, eh? So Napoleon, lacking his uncle's determination-lacking everything of his uncle, as a matter of fact-withdrew his troops and left poor Max to face Benito Juarez and the brown hordes, with only his two Quislings there, Miramon and Mejia. Max sent his wife, the lovely Carlota, to persuade the Pope to send his troops to intervene. The Pope declined. It was too much for Carlota. She went mad right there in the Vatican. She was the first woman to spend a night there. Do you think she and the Pope…? Manet's comment on the entire sordid affair was to paint the execution in the manner of Goya's 'Third of May, 1808,' in which the first-and true-Napoleon's troops are in the process of slaughtering a bunch of Spanish peons-and to dress the Mexican firing squad in French uniforms! Bravo, eh? He tried to distribute a lithograph of it. Napoleon censored it. There's the power of art for you, billonario."

"It's still lit wrong," said Charley.

El Niño went on, borne on the current of his passion. "I first saw it as a child. Papa took us to Europe on a Grand Tour. He was worried that his children were turning out insufficiently plutocratic. My sister and I were always hanging out in the kitchen with the servants. In Europe we stayed with Papa's faded noble friends. He thought that would do it, seeing the splendor that was once the Old World. We stayed in these freezing-cold castles that had been in their families since the Bronze Age. You know the kind. They still lived in them but they couldn't afford to heat them. So where did my sister and I spend our time? In the kitchens, with the servants, where it was warm." He grinned. "My father was proud of being descended directly from the Pizarros. Proud of being a Pizarro! My God. When my bad attitude matured into political consciousness, he comforted himself that I was the result of a regressive, Inca gene that one of our ancestors had brought into the bloodline one night rolling around in the mud out by the stables. The truth, really, is that Papa was a greater influence on me than Karl Marx or Mao or Presidente Gonzalo."

"The plan is to bore me to death, is that it?"

"You were an orphan by fate, billonario. I'm one by choice. Is your Catholicism a leftover sentimentality from the Mexican nuns, or does it provide you with the father you never had?"

"It provides a place for people like you."

El Niño laughed. "Ah yes. But surely it's still easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for billionaire defense contractors? Do you think I do this just for money?"

"No. Being godfather to all those crack babies must give you a fine sense of accomplishment."

"The suffering of the innocents runs through history. Look at your own religion. Every male child in Galilee slaughtered by Herod's soldiers to make way for Gentle Jesus. Look at your own country. What about the baby sitting in the ruin of Hiroshima, screaming for its mother? The little Vietnamese girl running down the road after being napalmed by Uncle Sam's F-4 Phantoms? The crack babies are casualties of a war, billonario."

"War," said Charley. "What do you know about war?"

"I know that I'm winning one against your country."

"I thought your problem was with your daddy."

El Niño smiled. "My problem has matured. My problem is with history. Do you know who Atahuallpa was?"

"Yes."

"Then maybe you'll grasp the concept, Atahuallpa's Revenge. You have to admit, it makes Montezuma's Revenge seem insignificant by comparison. An amoeba that gives you diarrhea is nothing next to an alkaloid that makes people kill themselves and each other for it."

"As I recall, it wasn't the United States that killed Atahuallpa."

"No, but the United States has long since become the conquistador of record in our own hemisphere." He started for the door.

Charley said, "Son, you're obviously educated, intelligent. Do you honestly believe all this bullshit? Or did you just work it out this way on paper to get you through the nights?"

El Niño looked at him, then at "The Execution of Maximilian." "That gets me through the nights. If I were what you think I am, then we would be sitting in a house outside Medellin decorated by Liberace, and I would be showing you a nude with big tits by-at best-Botero."

He summoned his man back into the room. They wheeled Charley down the corridor. He felt a needle go into his arm and went under.

42

Diatri pounded on his leg. It had gone to sleep. The wire that stretched across his shin disappeared into some bushes about ten feet away. It was tight, and that was a problem. Some booby traps were rigged to go off if pressure was relaxed. He reviewed the traps he was familiar with: bouncing Bettys, friction fuses, rat traps, frag wires. He shone his light at the wire again and all he saw was bushes. It was probably a rat trap wired to a shotgun shell, but it was well worth waiting until light to establish that for a fact. He checked his watch for the two hundredth time and saw that a whole three minutes had gone by since he last checked. Two more hours to sunrise. The numbness came humming up his leg. He checked his watch again. The trick-he remembered this from boot camp-was not to lock your leg. His leg wasn't locked. So why was it numb? Maybe some snake had bitten him and the numbness was… for Christ's sake, Diatri, relax, it's not a snake. Yeah? So what's all that slithering going on down there? Look, if it was a snake, you'd feel it. I don't know, they got, they got some small snakes here, these palm vipers. Will you stop with the snakes? It doesn't have to be a snake. It could be a spider. They have some extremely horrible spiders down here. It's not a spider. It's asleep, all right? They have frogs, you know, that are poisonous. Frank, frogs don't bite. Look, the Super Bowl is on back home. Why don't you play Super Bowl? There's the toss, San Francisco will receive. What time is it? Don't look at the watch. The kick is high! What was that? Diatri shone his light. Something skittered away. This was no good. He felt for his nail clippers. No nail clippers. Terrific. Wonderful. Now the leg was starting to itch. Great.

Denver won. Diatri figured that would take longer.

The sky turned a faint blue and the forest awoke in a mad avian chatter. He saw monkeys in the trees above him. One took an interest in him and swung down to a low branch above him.

"Have you got a pair of nail clippers?" Diatri asked the monkey.

The monkey dropped to the ground.

"Shoo!" said Diatri. "Get out of here." The monkey cocked his head and stared, came closer. "No, no, go away!" The monkey stopped two feet away. Weren't they supposed to be scared of human beings? Diatri made a face. He growled. "Arrrrr!" The monkey made a face. Great, Diatri thought.