"Comandante Duffy, Gendarmeria Nacional!" he shouted at the Policia Federal policemen. "We have just been ambushed. Shot at. Look for a battered white Ford 150."
They took him at his word.
The driver, a young officer, jumped out of the car, drew his pistol, and looked up the highway. The passenger, a sergeant, walked to the SUV.
By then Duffy had the microphone of his radio in his hand.
"All gendarmeria hearing this. Comandante Duffy has just been ambushed at kilometer forty-six on the Panamericana. I want the nearest cars at the Shell station, kilometer thirty-eight, southbound. En route, stop all old white Ford 150 pickups and inspect right rear of vehicle for collision damage."
It will do absolutely no fucking good, Duffy thought. The bastards are long gone.
But nobody's hurt, and cars are on the way.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, thank you for answering my prayer.
Duffy got out of the car, put the pistol back in the holster in the small of his back under his shirt, then opened the rear door of the Mercedes.
He picked up the seven-year-old Jose and said, "Why don't we go in there and get a Coke, and then we'll go see Abuela?"
His wife, holding the baby, looked at him.
"Well, we'll have something to talk about when we get to your mother's, won't we?" Liam asked.
"Goddamn you, Liam!" Monica said.
II
[ONE]
7200 West Boulevard Drive
Alexandria, Virginia
1145 25 December 2005
A yellow Chrysler minivan with the legend Captain Al's Taxi Service To All D.C. Airports painted on its back windows drove through the snow of the long, curving driveway up to the big house and stopped before the closed four doors of the basement garage.
The sole passenger--a trim woman who appeared to be in her sixties but was in fact a decade older, her jet-black hair, drawn tight in a bun, showing traces of gray--slid the door open before the driver could get out of the van to do it for her.
There was a path up a slope from the driveway to the front of the house, but there were no footprints in the snow to suggest that anyone had used it recently.
The driver took a small leather suitcase from the rear of the van, thought about it a moment--What the hell, it's Christmas Day--and then said, "I'll walk you to the door, ma'am."
"That's very kind of you."
She followed him up the path. When he had put the suitcase at the foot of the door, she handed him a folded bill.
"Thank you," she said. "And Merry Christmas."
He looked at the money. It was a hundred-dollar note.
The fare was thirty-three fifty.
"Ma'am, I can't change this."
"Merry Christmas," she said again, and pushed the doorbell button.
"Thank you very much, and a Merry Christmas to you, too."