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sipped the iced tea.
    Kruger nodded. “Everything. We meet Meyer in Asunción. Tsarkin has arranged for a suite in the Excelsior. We leave here on the sixth. That’s also confirmed. As is the stopover in Mexico City with Haider.”
    The silver-haired man spoke softly, but his voice was compelling, and Kruger listened respectfully.
    “Before we leave, I want everything in this house destroyed. Everything we’re not taking must be burned. Nothing must be left behind. As if we had never existed. You’ll see to it, Hans?”
    Kruger inflected his head in reply.
    “Thank you, Hans.”
    The security chief moved into the house, his footsteps echoing on the floorboards.
    Alone now, the silver-haired man removed his wallet from the inside pocket of his linen jacket and slipped out a photograph.The grainy print showed a blond young woman and a dark-haired man.
    He stared down at the photograph as if mesmerized.

4

    ASUNCIÓN, PARAGUAY. NOVEMBER 23
    A high wall surrounded the perimeter of the property, but Hernandez could see the expansive, sun-washed lawns as he drove up toward the house. House was not the word: the property was a large estate, barely visible beyond the pepper and palm trees that lined the long driveway. It stood on a hill overlooking the city, large, two stories high, the bland, gray-painted exterior imposing but not inviting attention.
    The wrought-iron front gates were open, and Hernandez was about to drive the rusting old red Buick through when he saw the young policía step forward from behind the cover of the wall, hands dug into the leather belt that held his holstered pistol.
    He raised his hand for Hernandez to stop. Hernandez hit the brakes abruptly and leaned out of the window, flashed his press identity card as he smiled, tried to look friendly.
    The young policía checked the identity card, stone-faced. Hernandez said, “Nicolas Tsarkin. Old guy. Suicide. I’m here to cover the story for La Tarde .”
    The policía nodded. “Yes, Señor Hernandez. I was expecting you. Captain Sanchez left word.”
    Hernandez looked up at the house in the distance. “Is Vellares up there now?”
    “Sí, señor, he’s waiting for you.” He gestured through the open gate, and Hernandez passed through.
    The old guy, Tsarkin, had had money. Lots of it, for sure.
    The manicured lawns stretched down from the house for more than a hundred yards. Hernandez could make out the house beneath the red, pantiled roof. He glanced to the left and right as he drove up the asphalt driveway; beyond the pepper trees, yellow and pink hibiscus were in bloom.
    The gardens were something else. Mango trees, peach trees, a couple of coconut palms, their fronds heavy and limp in the breezeless, hot afternoon air. They were the best-kept gardens he had seen in Asunción.
    He kept the old Buick at a slow pace all the way up, taking in the place, remembering how he had wondered what it would look like beyond the white walls that led up from the road below, something telling him there was more to be learned here in this house than what Rodriguez had told him.
    Halfway up the hill, the Buick’s engine started to groan, racking the old rusted chassis.
    He swore.
    The big old American Buick was ready for the scrap heap. Fifteen years old, a hundred and fifty thousand miles on the reconditioned engine. It had been a trusted friend for a long time, but he badly needed a new car. He took a little pressure off the accelerator. The car stopped groaning, then started up again after another twenty yards. He was coming around the bend now, seeing the house clearly and unobstructed for the first time: big and expensive-looking.
    Thirty yards from where the asphalt driveway became gravel, the Buick gave out, the engine not responding to his foot as he pumped the accelerator hard, the car coasting along now, the road still a little uphill. He swung the wheel to the left and pulled over onto the grass shoulder, slammed the steering wheel with his