Infiltrator

nightmare living within a few miles of someplace like that. But worse than the

smell is the fact that the runoff gets into streams and the bacteria get into the water supply. And as you know,' he tossed over his shoulder, 'diseases pass quite easily between pigs and humans.'

He'd leave it at that. Let people make of that what they would. Half the battle was getting people to just listen. So sometimes you just gave them these really vivid suggestions and let them process it through the back of their minds.

Eventually there would be enough frightening little tidbits back there to get 'em really pissed off.

Ron had some ideas for some really nasty tricks that could be played on the politicians who had allowed those places to be built and who refused to make the owners clean up their mess. Inside he smiled. Oh, yes, the day will come.

CHAPTER TWELVE

IVSUNCION. PARAGUAY: THE PRESENT

Marco Cassetti turned up the collar of his trench coat, then flicked his cigarette into the gutter in a world- weary gesture of disgust. There was really no need for him to turn up the collar of his coat, or even for the trench coat at all—the weather was sunny and dry, if a little cool by tropical standards. Neither was there any particular reason for him to be disgusted. He'd found out quite a lot in just an hour, all of it positive.

Still, a PI has a certain air to maintain. World-weary cynicism was part of the image, and Cassetti cultivated the image with the devotion of a religious fanatic.

He was a private eye, and he would be a perfect one if it killed him. So when he walked these mean streets he projected attitude.

These streets weren't as mean as those of Chicago or L.A., he knew, but there were parts of Asuncion that were extremely nasty; a little farther north, down in the viviendas temporaries on the floodplain of the river, for instance. Not here by the government buildings, of course. But in places.

Constant practice, that was the ticket. Improving and upgrading the image and building on the advantages that he already had. He liked his name, for example.

Marco Cassetti. It was a really good name for a private dick; it sounded tough and manly. Having an Italian name was a bit of a problem since so many villains were Italian. But there were a lot of Italian names that would be worse.

Buttafucco, for instance.

And finding the right kind of trench coat had been almost impossible. A Burberry would have been perfect, but who the hell could afford one? Haunting the thrift shops had eventually paid off, though, when a motherly Argentinean-Italian lady had held on to a vintage raincoat for him. He'd been ecstatic and had brought her a bouquet the next day to show his appreciation. Now he didn't dare go back. It seemed she had a single niece.

So now he looked just right. He had a Panama hat with the brim trained down over his eyes, his wonderful rumpled trench coat, and very thin shoe leather—

which was uncomfortable, but authentic. And he smoked—despite what his mother thought.

His mother was furious with him about it, but it was expected; part of the image.

Still, to please her, he tried not to inhale too often. He'd even learned to strike a match with his thumbnail, practicing in front of a mirror until he could do it without checking his hands. It looked fantastic.

He totally loved his job! If only I got to do it more often. But he'd had some successes, which he attributed to following his mail-order lessons assiduously.

Now the jobs trickled in. Okay, maybe trickled was an overstatement. Still, he was just starting out, as his mother was constantly telling him. And he was employed now.

The call had been unexpected, and his boss had been surly about calling him to the phone. Surely the man realized that Marco wasn't going to be a dishwasher all of his life.

It had been a woman. Cassetti was certain that she was a cool, leggy blonde—the type you knew were trouble the moment you set eyes on them. She'd hired him to check up on an Austrian immigrant named Dieter von Rossbach.

According to his description in his immigration records, the guy was enormous, over six feet tall, over two hundred pounds. But he was boring. A rancher, honest businessman, liked by people who dealt with him. He raised good beef, or should, because he'd purchased a first-rate herd. And he got along with the people who worked for him. Boring. But that's what his client got for being so cagey, flat refusing to paint in the background for him.

If she complained he'd say, Hey, doll, I don't know what you know. But I know more than I did. And what I know is this Dieter is a stand-up guy. So what's your beef with him?

Actually he wouldn't say anything like that. It would be unprofessional. Fun, but unprofessional.

In his imagination he saw himself as a lone wolf who had to scrounge for his living, blessed with a bighearted secretary who was more than half in love with him and willing to wait for her paycheck. In reality he lived with his parents and worked full-time as a dishwasher for a friend of his uncle's. If he played tough guy with his clients that would be his life.

So if she was disappointed he would ask her for more direction. Because he'd gone as far as he could in Asuncion, and he wasn't prepared to borrow a car and go to Villa Hayes with nothing more concrete to go on than 'find out whatever you can about Dieter von Rossbach.'

He sighed. The truth was he was sometimes disappointed by his jobs; they were often more sordid than exciting. But he told himself that was to be expected; novel after novel confirmed that this was a corrupt world full of self-serving, low-life creeps. Which explained all that world-weary cynicism he admired. He sighed again. It was much better admired from a distance.

At least this job wasn't totally routine; it had a little mystery about it. Marco hoisted the trench coat a little higher on his shoulders and made his way across the plaza, ignoring the curious glances of more appropriately dressed citizens in shorts and T-shirts.

Tonight he would speak to his client… and maybe find out what this case was all about.

VON ROSSBACH ESTANCIA, PARAGUAY: THE PRESENT

'Come in,' Dieter said to the knock on his office door.

Marieta entered wearing the expression of a woman who smelled something very, very bad. 'You have two visitors, senor' she said in clipped tones. 'I know one of them,' she continued. 'He's no good.' Marieta stood with her two hands clasped over her apron and looked deliberately over his head.

Dieter tapped his pen on the desk and studied her affronted countenance. 'Did they say what they wanted?'

She gave a little shrug. 'To speak to you, they said.' She sniffed. 'Shall I tell them you are busy, senor?'

'Did they say anything else?' he asked.

Marietta hesitated. Then she sniffed and said, 'They said something about a Senor Ferarri. I really did not pay that much attention.'

'Perhaps I had better see them, then,' von Rossbach said. 'I do know a man named Ferarri. If he's sent them I wouldn't want to offend him.' Ferrari was one of Jeff Goldberg's aliases. I wonder what this is all about, he thought.

'Very well, senor' she said, sounding like a nun about to usher in a whole herd of loose women.

When the men entered, Dieter immediately knew that one of them was from the Sector: the blond man dressed anonymously in good-quality dark clothing, he was of medium height and very fit. Central European of some sort. The other was definitely a local, and a small time sleazebag. Dieter could see why his housekeeper wouldn't want the man on her furniture. He was short, unshaven, and slightly overweight, with collar-length hair he apparently hadn't bothered to

wash for weeks. Nor the rest of him, from the smell. His small, close-set eyes darted around the room as though he expected an ambush, and his suit was baggy and sweat-stained.

The agent from the Sector met von Rossbach's eyes and with a subtle tilt of his head indicated that Marieta should leave. Dieter agreed with a narrowing of his eyes.