Germ

"Wouldn't you know," she said to his reflection. Before leaving Atlanta they had transferred their belongings— a change of clothes for each, light jackets, toiletries, Julia's computer gear—into two JanSport daypacks, khaki for him, olive for her. They'd stuffed the remainder of the cash into the padded shoulder straps. That turned out to be an unnecessary caution; customs officials in Sao Paulo were beyond lax. They gave the packs nothing more than a heft, as if they were so attuned to contraband, they could recognize it by weight alone. Julia wished she'd brought her gun.

Stephen pulled the packs out of the small overhead compartments above their seats and started forward.

Julia reached for hers. "We're going to have to pull our own weight. Starting now."

"So don't let me be gentlemanly." He winked and relinquished his grip.

The attendant was having a hard time holding a grin as rain blew through the door, soaking her uniform and plastering her bangs to her forehead. She swung a hand toward the open door, hurrying them along. "Adeus. Por favor, va depressa."

"Adeus. Obrigado," Stephen answered. He caught Julia's bemused stare. "There was a language card in the seat-back pocket."

He ducked through the portal and started down a short flight of rolling metal stairs to the water-covered tarmac and was immediately drenched. Blinking rain out of his eyes, he turned back to see how Julia was faring. She skipped the last step, hopping past him, and darted for the airport door—a lighted rectangle in an otherwise black silhouette of a building.

Inside, she bent at the waist and briskly fanned her fingers through her hair. Big plumes of droplets burst from her head. She said, "Can you believe this?"

"Can we use it in our favor?" He was appraising the small airport, giving each person a few seconds of scrutiny.

Julia slapped him on the back. "Now you're thinking."

He handed her a jacket from his pack, slipping an arm into his own. In the high heat of mid-May Atlanta, they hadn't remembered that it was late fall here. Subtropical though it was, the temperature was in the brisk fifties. The rain made it feel even cooler.

They pushed through big glass doors and found themselves protected from the rain by a deep portico. At least ten cars were parked at the curb, none of them cabs. Right in front of them, an old Ford station wagon began chirping something melodious from a modified horn. A man behind the wheel leaned toward the passenger-side window and waved them over. He had long black hair and cocoa skin, and appeared more Indian than Latin.

"Para onde quer ir?"

Stephen shook his head. "I'm sorry . . ."

"Oh, ha-ha! Where to? You need hotel? I know good hotel."

"No," Julia said behind him. "We'd like to eat. Do you know a decent restaurant?"

"O restaurante? Sure, sure! Come inside."

Stephen pulled a ten-dollar bill from his breast pocket. He showed the driver. "American?"

"Sure, sure!"

They climbed into the backseat, which was like a carcass, its skin stripped and picked away, and sat on wiry stuffing. Stephen shifted and settled into the least uncomfortable position, with a coiled spring pushing up into his thigh.

Julia asked, "Can you get us to Pedro Juan Caballero? Is it a problem getting across the border?"

"PJC. No problem. Open borders. No one cares." He ground the transmission into gear and swerved away from the curb without checking for oncoming traffic.

Thinking of the tracking device's position outside of town, Stephen leaned forward and asked, "Do you know, is there another town or an estate or something about ten miles northwest?"

Julia touched his arm. When he looked, she gently shook her head: Don't talk about it.

"Northwest?" the driver said.

"Never mind. It's okay."

"Nothing that way," the driver said. "Just forest. Trees."

"We'll do our own recon," Julia whispered.

"I figured knowing what we're going into couldn't hurt."

"We don't know who we can trust."

Stephen caught the cabbie scowling in the rearview mirror. South Americans were known for their exceedingly good manners toward strangers. He'd heard that they'd rather suffer an indignity than offend with a retort. But then, they were only human. He supposed the cabbie didn't appreciate his passengers whispering secrets.

"I'm sure there are plenty of good restaurants around here," Stephen said to the driver, trying to make amends by pulling the man into a conversation.

"Yes," he replied, curt.

"Almost there," Julia said and squeezed Stephen's hand.

He looked out at the dark, wet day. "I only pray we're not too late."