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must be won over to a sensible project of cooperation. I cannot believe that either side would gain anything by doing violence to me personally. They must realize this themselves. The murder of Larrinaga was surely a tragic mistake, committed by some lone fanatic. (What has, for that matter, become of the assassin? No one has said anything about that. Presumably he was caught. In which case his trial should prove productive.) Moreover, it was a provocation to give the post of Resident to an army man, even if he was retired and a national hero. A stupidity on the part of a Liberal government. What I am now embarked on is a matter of the well-being of three hundred thousand people. It is a great task. No, I am not afraid. But I shall naturally take all reasonable precautions. The best thing would be to rely entirely on the Federal Police. Without physical security one cannot work efficiently.
    Manuel had filled several pages of his notebook. He closed it and put it into the outside pocket of his briefcase. Then he leaned back and was lulled to sleep in the air pockets.
    At midnight they touched down at Lisbon. They still had the cold, raw chill of northern Europe in their bones, and they were taken by surprise by the night air which billowed up to meet them, heavy, hot, and suffocating.
    Like a small taste of the day to come.

The plane went down from twenty-six thousand feet to six hundred and drew a shining aluminum spiral over the capital of the Federal Republic. Manuel Ortega sat on the inside of the curve and through the window saw the city gradually become larger and nearer. It was white and beautiful with parks and wide tree-lined avenues, the sunlight winking on the cathedral’s copper roof and reflections glittering in hundreds of thousands of windowpanes. At this time of the day most of the shutters were not yet closed. The pilot flattened the plane out just above the rooftops; the circular bullring and an oval soccer stadium slipped by beneath the wing, then blocks of apartments and a suburb of dirty small houses and sooty black factories, but even they seemed neat and tidy. It was obvious that this was a great city in an orderly country, a country to be proud of. Then came a chicken farm with thousands of shapeless white blobs fleeing in all directions below the great shadow, then grass and the windsleeve and the first bounce on the concrete runway.
    As the plane was still rolling and long before the warning notices were switched off, a uniformed official, presumably the radio officer, came aft down the aisle and said quietly: “Would you and the lady kindly mind waiting in your seats until the other passengers have disembarked?”
    So they stayed seated and waited. When the plane was finally empty, a police officer in a white uniform stepped in through the doorway. He saluted and said: “Welcome home, sir.”
    His tone of voice was gruff and his face serious, as if he were on a difficult and important mission.
    At the foot of the steps stood a white American police car with a radio aerial and spotlights on the roof. The white paint was marred by the word
Policía
painted in (black) block letters across the doors. Ten yards away stood a white jeep. The engine was running, a policeman sat behind the wheel and another was standing upright in the back. Otherwise there was not a soul in sight. The plane had stopped unusually far away from the airport buildings.
    The officer opened the car door for them, made a commanding gesture to the guards on the steps, and then got into the back of the car himself. He was fat and it was quite a squeeze. The jeep drove past with its siren wailing and took the lead. Then the little convoy drove three hundred yards over to an annex of the airport buildings which was seldom used for anything but ceremonial welcomes for prominent visitors. Manuel Ortega threw a confused glance at the woman at his side. Her face was completely expressionless.
    The car had stopped, and although the