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Michael is going to need medical assistance," she said

softly.
    Jeremy called for the guard, produced his gun, and pointed it at me.
    I pulled myself back up onto the cot.
    I breathed deep, swore inwardly, pulled out the knife, and sent it clattering to the

floor.
    "What I’ll need," I began between clenched teeth, "is a letter from the Spanish government

stating that all charges have been dropped. So you won’t be able to hold that over me

indefinitely."
    Samantha smiled.
    "I’ll get our lawyers working on it immediately," she said.
    "And I’ll want a document from the Spanish, British, and United States attorneys general that

I will not in the future be extradited to Mexico under any circumstances," I said.
    "I will get working on that, too," Samantha said. "Is there anything else?"
    "Aye, a guy called Goosey who was picked up with me, him out as well," I gasped.
    "I’ll also see to that."
    "I have your word?"
    "You have my word," she assured me.
    "Fine, in that case. I’ll do it."
    "Good," Samantha said and snapped my folder shut.
    Within an hour, I was stitched, sutured, shaved, and sitting on a taxiing RAF Hercules

transport plane that would be taking me to Lisbon. From Lisbon, the direct flight to Boston

Logan.
    Samantha sat beside me, organizing her briefing notes.
    The big Hercules taxied down the runway. A military aircraft, tiny slit windows and you sat

facing backwards.
    Samantha passed me earplugs. I put them in. Looked out.
    The harsh volcanic mountain, the outline of banana plantations, the aerodrome. The propellers

turned, the transport accelerated, lift developed over its wings, and we took off into the

setting sun.
    The blue water. The other Canary Islands. Africa.
    We flew west over Tenerife, and through the safety glass and smoke I could see what the

hooligans had wrought on Playa de las Americas and what the concrete-loving developers at the

Spanish Ministry of Tourism had done to the rest of the island. Humboldt for one would have been

displeased. Samantha saw my grimace, patted my knee. Her big pouty red lips formed into a

sympathetic smile.
    "Don’t worry, darling. It’s going to be all right," she soothed and, of course, as is typical

when someone in authority tells you that, nothing could have been further from the goddamn

truth.

CHAPTER   2:
AN ASSASSINATION IN REVERE

    The lough was dead and across the water I could hear jets land on the baking runways of Logan

airport. The day dwindling to an end in heat and the ugly noise of massive tunneling machines in

the vast scar of Boston’s Big Dig.
    Kids playing stickball. Old ladies in deck chairs on the sidewalk. Families heading back from

the beach. It was August on Boston’s North Shore. The temperature was hitting ninety degrees

outside. Even the elderly mafiosi with thin blood and poor circulation had shed their jackets for

a stroll along the sidewalk of Revere Beach.
    I threw away my unsmoked cigarette, walked into the bar.
    An Italian neighborhood but an Irish pub: the Rebel Heart. Tough one, too. Posters of old IRA

men. Bobby Sands, Gerry Adams.
An Phoblacht
propaganda sheets. Guinness merchandise. The

usual slogans: "Brits Out," "Thatcher Is a War Criminal," "Give Ireland Back to the Irish."
    About a quarter full. Maybe thirty people. At least half a dozen of them, I assumed, were FBI

men. I sat down at the bar. An aroma of spilled beer, body odor, and sunscreen.
    The assassin came in two minutes after me and ordered a Schlitz Lite, which I took to be a

sign of absolute evil. Anyone drinking lite beer is suspect to begin with, but this guy clearly

had no depths to which he would not sink.
    He was a hard bastard who’d entered with some kind of automatic weapon under his raincoat,

which he kept buttoned despite the heat. A dead giveaway. His face was scarred, his hair jagged,

and either he was from Belfast or he worked twelve hours a day in a warehouse that got no natural