The Lotus Eaters

Wrong not to let him go, sir. Bad precedent. Even if he is a scum-sucking lawyer.'

Carrera took in a half breath, then bit off a retort. If Mac says it's wrong, he thought, then there's a good chance that it's wrong. He rocked his head from side to side a few times in indecision. Finally he admitted, 'I suppose you're right, Sergeant Major. Please escort Mr. Guzman to the airport; he has an airship to catch. And Mr. Guzman? Don't come back to Balboa uninvited; I won't be responsible for your safety. And tell your people to keep their shit out of my country.'

On a whim, Carrera reached up and took from around his neck a golden crucifix on a chain. 'Give this to your masters,' he said, handing it to Guzman.

Belalcazar, Santander, Terra Nova

Even in an organization as egalitarian and non-traditional as the unofficially named 'Huanuco Processors, Shippers, and Vendors Free State' there were some members who were a little more equal than others. Jorge Joven was one among them. Indeed, his only true peer in the organization was Pedro Estevez. It was Estevez whom Belisario Endara had dealt with in preparing a team to get rid of Parilla and Carrera. All three sat now, along with Guzman, in a secure room, heavily and not too tastefully decorated, in the basement of Joven's palatial, isolated mansion, in the hills overlooking the city.

'Son of a bitch,' cursed Estevez. 'Offer him money . . . a decent offer you said it was, right, Guzman?'

'Si, patron,' the lawyer confirmed. 'A huge amount, twelve million FSD monthly.'

'And he won't take that? He's a mad dog, then, and mad dogs need shooting.'

Endara sighed, conscious that he'd been doing a lot of that lately. 'A mad dog he may be, Pedro, but he is more of a rabid mad dog. Very dangerous, too dangerous to fuck with lightly, as I have tried to explain to my uncle.'

'That was my impression, Padron,' Guzman confirmed to Estevez. 'If his assistant hadn't talked him out of it, I'd be in prison now.'

'Oh, no,' Endara said. 'I assure you, you would never have made it to prison.' Endara's look grew contemplative. 'You know, it's odd that he let you go. It's really not his style at all.'

'So I gathered,' the lawyer agreed. 'Indeed, I am so sure I was within inches of doom that I've paid to have a special mass said for his tall black.'

'Was that Jimenez or McNamara?' Endara asked.

'I don't know. He called the man 'sergeant major.' '

'Ah. That would be Sergeant Major General McNamara. Tough old man who manages to keep a very young and very beautiful wife very happy. He's one of the four or five people who actually have any personal control over Carrera.'

'Well no one is going to need to control the son of a bitch once he's dead,' Estevez said.

'I was rather hoping you would talk my uncle out of this,' Endara said, shaking his head, 'since he won't listen to me on the subject.'

Estevez nodded, seriously, even judicially. 'And so I would have if this man had not insulted me and mine,' Escobedo's head tilted toward Joven, 'by refusing our very generous offer.'

At the word, 'generous,' Guzman remembered something. He bent over and reached into his briefcase and withdrew from it a golden crucifix on a chain. This he handed to Escobedo with the words, 'Carrera said to give this to you.'

'What?' Escobedo raged. 'Is he trying to tell me to make my peace with God?'

'No . . . no,' said Endara, who knew a great deal about Carrera. 'I think Carrera meant something rather different.'

Once Estevez and Joven had heard just what Endara thought Carrera had meant by sending a crucifix, both their anger and their intentions expanded radically.

Federated States Embassy, Ciudad Balboa

Ambassador Tom Wallis came around from behind his desk to shake Carrera's and Fernandez's hands, then McNamara's. He then gestured to introduce them to another man, this one with a plainly cultured tan, heavily muscled, blue eyed, blond, tall, and gringo. Sunglasses hung suavely from the gringo's pocket; and—to blend in with the locals—he wore a guayabera which successfully failed to hide a Bertinelli high-fashion holster.

'This is Mr. Keith, gentlemen,' Wallis said.

'Gavin Keith,' the gringo added.

Carrera disliked Keith instinctively. He thought of a piece of advice once given by a Federated States Marine Corps acquaintance on how to find a 'Sea Lion,' the FS Navy's underwater recon and demolitions commandos: 'Go to the nearest high water mark and follow it until you come to the bodybuilder, laying in a lawn chair, catching rays, wearing sunglasses, and stylin' with an PM-6 submachine gun.'

'You used to be a Sea Lion, didn't you?' Carrera asked, suppressing a smile.

'Team Six out of Big River,' Keith answered. 'How'd you know?'

'Just a lucky guess,' Carrera answered.

If Keith suspected that he was somehow the butt of a private joke, his self image couldn't permit further inquiry.

Wallis also suspected that some sort of criticism had been passed. He decided to change the subject. 'Mr. Keith's organization has some information that might be useful to you. In fact, it might be critical.'

'What's that?' Carrera asked. 'And what organization?' Who knows; maybe the muscles haven't cut