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More boots were marching this way. They were slowing. We were trapped. The one narrow window wouldn’t let a skinny kid through it. The old man looked at us, then said slowly, “There’s no more time. Both of you, get under the bed, quickly. I will deal with the men.”

If he betrayed us, we had less of a chance pinned under the narrow sagging bed in the far corner. We had no choice. Laura and I scooted under it. At least the stringy blanket fell over the bed nearly to the floor. We fit, barely. I was nearly lying on the AK-47, Laura pressed against my back, her weapon pressed against my spine.

The door opened, no knock. I saw at least three pairs of boots. I heard a man with a shrill voice say in Spanish, “Father, have you been here long?”

“Sí. I am still eating my breakfast.”

“You haven’t heard anything, no people, no running?”

“Just you, señor, and your men. ¿Qué haces? What is the matter? Is there a fire?”

“Oh no, nothing like that. Some people—a man and a woman—we were holding them for the policía. They’ve gotten away. Don’t worry, Father. We’ll find them.”

The priest didn’t say anything. Was he giving them a sign? No. The men turned and marched back out the door. Then, suddenly, one of them said, “Father Orlando, the woman Hestia told me that her son is in great pain. She wants you to see him now. Can you come? My men will escort you to keep you safe from the foreign man and woman.”

“I will come,” said the priest. He was wearing old Birkenstock sandals, no socks. His feet were as worn and scarred as a tree trunk.

The door finally closed. We slowly moved out from under the bed.

“That was close,” Laura said, wiping herself down. I stared toward the small table. There were three soft tortillas just lying there. I was still hungry. I grabbed them up, rolled them, gave Laura a big bite, and stuffed the rest in my mouth.

“I’m starting to feel human again.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

We were in some sort of old wooden barracks that turned and twisted about like a rabbit warren. The first two rooms we looked into were empty, but in the third one there was a man sleeping in a lower bunk, his back to us. He didn’t stir. We quietly closed the door and kept looking. Savich and Sherlock had to be in one of these rooms.

We eased out into the corridor again. We came to a corner, and I motioned Laura to stay back while I went down on my haunches and took a quick look. I nearly lost my tortillas I was so startled. Not fifteen feet from me were at least ten men of all ages, dressed in fatigues and combat boots, all at stiff attention, their weapons held against their shoulders, their backs to me. They were silent, not a single twitch. I couldn’t even hear them breathe.

An older man, in his early fifties, stood in front of them. He wore civilian clothes, a white linen shirt open at the neck, tan slacks, and Italian loafers. He was perfectly bald. It looked like he shaved his head for effect. He was a large man, nearly as tall as me, and solid with muscle. He was carrying a white lab coat over his arm. He was speaking quickly in Spanish. I understood most of it. I slowly eased back as he said, “. . . we must find the man and the woman. They are dangerous American agents here to destroy us. If you see them, you must not kill them. That is forbidden.”

I whispered to Laura, “A dozen soldiers ahead. The man who called the others off us, was he really big, muscular, and bald?”

“No, it was another man.”

“This one seems to be the boss. He’s giving them orders about us. He doesn’t want us killed. I suppose that’s good news. Oh yeah, he’s a sharp dresser.”

“Let’s get out of here.” We came quickly to the other end of the long corridor, to a big double door. I tried the shiny brass doorknob.

It turned easily and silently. I went in low and swung around, fanning the room with my weapon. It was a very fancy office at first sight, with lots of gold-trimmed antique furnishings and several incredible Persian carpets. It wasn’t much of an office. There wasn’t a telephone or a fax or a computer,