“Please.”
“Louder.”
“I can’t. Somebody will hear us.”
“We’re in a deserted mosque, Harry. No one can hear us.”
“Wait. We’re at my place?”
“Of course. You don’t remember?”
“No. I mean, yeah. I sort of knew. I guess I forgot. All mosques look pretty much the same to a guy like me.”
“You want to kiss my titties, Harry? This one? Or, this one?”
“Yes. Both.”
“Beg me, Mr. Brock.”
“Please. I beg you. I’m not kidding. I am sincerely begging here. This could be it for me. The swan song of Harry Brock.”
“There. Happy?”
“Oh god, yes. Now the other one.”
“Be gentle, Harry. That’s a good boy.”
WHEN HARRY WOKE up for the second time that morning he realized he had a cigarette in his mouth and involuntarily took a puff. Nothing in recent memory had ever tasted so good. The girl reached over and plucked it from his lips so he could expel the smoke. Shit. He was still cuffed to the damn bed. He must have dropped off for a couple of minutes. The girl took a drag herself and then she said, “I know a joke.”
“Yeah? What?”
“A man is in bed with a woman. After they make love, the man says, ‘Do you smoke after sex?’ and the woman smiles at him and says, ‘I don’t know, I never looked.’ ”
Harry burst out laughing.
“That’s pretty good,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Fell asleep, huh?”
“For about twenty minutes.”
“Did you call?”
“Mmm.”
“You called? Holy shit. Aw, Christ, Caparina.”
“Calm down, Harry.”
“Calm down?”
“I didn’t call who you think I called.”
“The number on the poster. For the reward.”
“No.”
“Ah. Well, okay, who did you call?”
“My ex-husband. He’s on his way.”
“Your ex-husband is coming here? Now?”
“What are you doing down here in Brazil, Harry? You’re obviously an American. You have no identification. No passport. Nothing. Only this gun and a few thousand pesos. You don’t speak Portuguese. Or even Spanish.”
“I’m a tourist.”
“You came all this way to buy those shitty Nikes? Six hundred tourists die every year in this crappy town. And that’s only the reported number.”
“That’s why I’ve got the gun.”
“I’ve got the gun, Harry. Last night, when you were drunk, you said something about las Medianoches.”
“Really? What’d I say about them?”
“That the jihadistas had your friend. You came down here to look for your friend, Harry? Who is your friend?”
“Why is this important to you?”
“Hassan can help you I think.”
“Hassan? Who the hell is Hassan? Every second guy you meet around here is called Hassan.”
“My ex-husband. He’s a good guy, speaks perfect English. Very tough. Not everyone in this country is intimidated by the Mafia-Araby.”
“How can he help me?”
“You can help him.”
“Why the fuck should I do that?”
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
“Not necessarily. Anyway, who’s your enemy?”
“The enemy of my people. The jihadists in the jungle who call themselves Las Medianoches. This bastard Papa Top.”
“What are you, Caparina? Some kind of spy or something?”
“I keep my eyes open.”
“Good. We’ve got something in common. Now, let me go. Okay?”
There was noise coming up the steps beyond the door. Caparina hopped off the bed and pulled her flowered blue cotton dress over her head and smoothed it down over that spectacular body. She was one of those women who look almost as good dressed as they do naked. She stepped into her pale blue panties, wiggled her butt as she hiked them up under her dress, and smiled at Harry.
Harry lifted his head and stared at the door. “Shit. They’re coming up the steps. Get me out of these cuffs, will you? Hurry up.”
“I can’t. No key.”
“No key? What?”
“We were playing a game. ‘Who’s the prisoner?’ You lost when you swallowed the key, remember?”
“Aw, shit, Caparina, they’re at the door. Can you at least throw the damn sheet over me or something? Jesus. This is embarrassing.”
“Say please.”
“No.”
“Harry?”
“Please.”
“Good boy, Harry.”
She was bent over picking the sheet up off the floor when the wooden door swung open and a man stepped inside, looking at the scene on the bed with a bemused smile.
“Harry?” the man at the door said.
“Saladin?”
“You two know each other?” Caparina said.
“Of course we know each other,” Harry said. “Jesus.”
It was Wellington Saladin Hassan. Few months ago, he’d paid this man a small fortune for finding Alex Hawke and returning him safely to England.
“Who’s got the key?” Saladin asked the two of them, a big smile on his face.
25
PRAIRIE, TEXAS
S unday morning just before noontime Franklin was in the cold barn mucking out the stalls. He had just about finished when he heard an automobile driving too fast up the long dirt drive from the highway. He leaned his pitchfork against the wall and moved over to the open window facing the road. It was Homer in the department’s
