Germ

moved deeper, the sounds of the other men's boots on the steps, the creaking of leather holsters and jackets, the rattle of their weapons became ambient white noise, like the dull roar of a conch. When the man in front of her spoke again, he was a decibel shy of yelling.

'These passageways were constructed during General Stroessner's dictatorship. He had a passion for torture. Paraguay has been free of him for three decades now, but evil still haunts this little town, so the tunnels remain. The trapdoor we used has a metal core and a good lock on the underside, but even if your mates with the guns get in, they probably won't find us.'

'Probably?' Julia said.

'Best we can do on short notice.'

They came to a room from which a half dozen tunnels branched off. The man lit a lantern that hung from a hook in the ceiling and waited for the other men to stream in. He spoke in a foreign tongue and someone responded.

'Everyone's here,' he said. 'Name's Sebastian Tate.' He flashed a set of big teeth and held out his hand.

'Julia,' she said. 'This is Stephen.'

His eyes settled on Stephen's shoulder. 'You're hurt.' He called to someone behind them. An old man with a mangy long beard stepped forward, pushing a huge revolver into the front of his pants. He gingerly peeled Stephen's jacket and shirt off the shoulder and prodded the wound with long, bony fingers. He waved his hand at it, as if disappointed. 'Pire erida,' he said.

'Flesh wound,' Tate interpreted. 'Are you in pain?'

'I'll live.'

To the old man, Tate said, 'Poha.'

The man rummaged in a leather pouch tied around his waist, produced three white pills, and handed them to Stephen.

'Aspirin,' Tate said. He turned to Julia. 'You look like you can use some too.'

She touched the gash in her forehead. 'Yeah, thanks.' She dry-swallowed the pills and asked, 'How did you know to help us?'

'Those freaky triplets were shooting at you.'

'Triplets? We only saw two. I think.'

'There were three, as identical as Oreos. One of the men saw them come into town from Angra Road. Only one place those geepas could have come from. And if that place wants you dead, you must be worth saving.'

'What place is that?'

'The old air base. Now let's get going.' He strode into one of the tunnels. As they walked, he explained that he'd come to Paraguay as a journalist for the London Times, covering the country's escalating organized crime problem. What he found, however, was infinitely more sensational—the regular disappearance of the citizens of Ponta Pora and Pedro Juan Caballero. Men, women, and children, simply

gone. One per week, on average. His editors were not interested, so he took a year-long sabbatical to investigate, try to write a book. He 'came under the enchantment of a beguiling inamorata,' was the way he put it —and the year stretched into two, then three. Despite the area's paltry cost of living—the typical Paraguayan pulled down less than most Americans spend on cable television—his savings eventually eroded, and he took a job as the northeastern correspondent for ABC Color, Paraguay's national daily newspaper.

He stopped and turned around, his hand gripping the side of a staircase leading up to a trapdoor, a thin bead of light seeping along its edges. Muted voices filtered through as well. And laughter, which made Julia smile thinly.

'We're here,' Tate said.

eighty-five

Julia and Stephen followed Sebastian Tate up from

the tunnel into what amounted to its polar opposite: a cavernous warehouse, brightly lit by hanging metal lamps and warmed by a clanking industrial furnace. Boxes and crates lined the walls, leaving a ballroom-sized area in the middle. Like the room at the other end of the tunnel, the floor here was hard-packed earth. A fine pelt of grass had sprouted around the edges of the open area. A flea market's assortment of tattered sofas, disemboweled easy chairs, automobile seats, and lawn chairs with missing webbing appropriated half of this open area, along with a hodgepodge of shelves, tables, and dressers. The spirited conversation Julia had heard from below came from roughly two dozen people, mostly women.

One of them, a pretty woman in her thirties with flowing black hair, walked quickly toward them. 'Mba'eicha?' she asked.

'Opavave al pelo pa,' Tate answered.

She collided with him and wrapped her arm around his neck. He groaned as she squeezed him. Then they kissed, long and passionately. She broke away and studied Julia and Stephen.

Tate spoke to her, and she returned to a small group of women.

'My Rosa,' he said, flashing two rows of big teeth.

Rosa returned with two other women, each trying to talk louder than the others until they were very nearly screaming.

Tate calmed them down, addressing each in turn. He grinned at Julia and Stephen. 'Rosa wants to wash your clothes. She says she's never seen two dirtier people.'

A young woman stepped closer. 'Jahu?'

Tate nodded. 'Ernestina will prepare baths for you in the back rooms. And Fatima will get you drinks and soo ha chipa—meat and bread.'

'How nice,' Julia said, nodding. 'I feel like I should understand them. That's not Spanish?'

'Guarani. Mostly an aboriginal tongue, with a measure of Spanish tossed in.' He pointed at Stephen's side. 'You've got another injury.'

Through the soaked and muddy clothes seeped a basketball-sized circle of blood.

Stephen looked under his arm at the splotch. 'Must have torn out the stitches.'

'Roberto will see to that.'

He hailed the old man who'd helped earlier. Roberto grunted off the floor, where he was removing his boots, and began a shuffling journey toward them.

Tate said, 'He was trained as a vet, but he's pretty good with humans too.'

Julia nudged Stephen. 'I guess I get a bath first, then.'

'Enjoy.'

Ernestina took her hand and led her toward a door. Before stepping though, Julia looked back. Tate was kneeling by two men, showing them how to field-strip an automatic pistol.

Fifty minutes later, Stephen was sitting on a sofa, Julia

beside him in one of the formerly overstuffed chairs. Both were wrapped in heavy Indian quilts, self- consciously waiting for Rosa to return with their clothes. Whatever the temporary discomfort of sitting almost nude among strangers, Julia thought, being warm and clean was worth it. She'd had to drain the tub of its murky red water after a quick submersion and refill it to soak the rest of the grime off her body. Even so, she was still dislodging granules of cinnabar sand whenever she ran her fingertips over her scalp.

Fatima stepped up to the low table before them, balancing three large bowls in her arms. As she set each on the table, she announced its contents. 'Yva.' She lowered a bowl of whole fruit: apples, bananas, mangos, and mostly oranges. 'Asodos.' Steaming slices of charbroiled meat.

A hearty aroma washed past Julia, and despite the meal she'd eaten at the Pig's Eye Tavern, she felt hungry again. By Stephen's rapt attention to the bowl, she guessed he was feeling the same.

'Chipa.' Loaves of brioche-type bread, so hot the girl's beaming face wavered behind its steam. Fatima straightened, planted her hands on her hips, and smiled, pleased with herself.