Germ

The air below was moist and cool and redolent with an earthy scent that reminded Julia of clean skin. Without a word, the man turned and walked into a tunnel, carved through red dirt and clay. She followed. As they moved deeper, the sounds of the other men's boots on the steps, the creaking of leather holsters and jackets, the rattle of their weapons became ambient white noise, like the dull roar of a conch. When the man in front of her spoke again, he was a decibel shy of yelling.

"These passageways were constructed during General Stroessner's dictatorship. He had a passion for torture. Paraguay has been free of him for three decades now, but evil still haunts this little town, so the tunnels remain. The trapdoor we used has a metal core and a good lock on the underside, but even if your mates with the guns get in, they probably won't find us."

"Probably?" Julia said.

"Best we can do on short notice."

They came to a room from which a half dozen tunnels branched off. The man lit a lantern that hung from a hook in the ceiling and waited for the other men to stream in. He spoke in a foreign tongue and someone responded.

"Everyone's here," he said. "Name's Sebastian Tate." He flashed a set of big teeth and held out his hand.

"Julia," she said. "This is Stephen."

His eyes settled on Stephen's shoulder. "You're hurt." He called to someone behind them. An old man with a mangy long beard stepped forward, pushing a huge revolver into the front of his pants. He gingerly peeled Stephen's jacket and shirt off the shoulder and prodded the wound with long, bony fingers. He waved his hand at it, as if disappointed. "Pire erida," he said.

"Flesh wound," Tate interpreted. "Are you in pain?"

"I'll live."

To the old man, Tate said, "Poha."

The man rummaged in a leather pouch tied around his waist, produced three white pills, and handed them to Stephen.

"Aspirin," Tate said. He turned to Julia. "You look like you can use some too."

She touched the gash in her forehead. "Yeah, thanks." She dry-swallowed the pills and asked, "How did you know to help us?"

"Those freaky triplets were shooting at you."

"Triplets? We only saw two. I think."

"There were three, as identical as Oreos. One of the men saw them come into town from Angra Road. Only one place those geepas could have come from. And if that place wants you dead, you must be worth saving."

"What place is that?"

"The old air base. Now let's get going." He strode into one of the tunnels. As they walked, he explained that he'd come to Paraguay as a journalist for the London Times, covering the country's escalating organized crime problem. What he found, however, was infinitely more sensational—the regular disappearance of the citizens of Ponta Pora and Pedro Juan Caballero. Men, women, and children, simply

gone. One per week, on average. His editors were not interested, so he took a year-long sabbatical to investigate, try to write a book. He "came under the enchantment of a beguiling inamorata," was the way he put it—and the year stretched into two, then three. Despite the area's paltry cost of living—the typical Paraguayan pulled down less than most Americans spend on cable television—his savings eventually eroded, and he took a job as the northeastern correspondent for ABC Color, Paraguay's national daily newspaper.

He stopped and turned around, his hand gripping the side of a staircase leading up to a trapdoor, a thin bead of light seeping along its edges. Muted voices filtered through as well. And laughter, which made Julia smile thinly.

"We're here," Tate said.

eighty-five

Julia and Stephen followed Sebastian Tate up from

the tunnel into what amounted to its polar opposite: a cavernous warehouse, brightly lit by hanging metal lamps and warmed by a clanking industrial furnace. Boxes and crates lined the walls, leaving a ballroom-sized area in the middle. Like the room at the other end of the tunnel, the floor here was hard-packed earth. A fine pelt of grass had sprouted around the edges of the open area. A flea market's assortment of tattered sofas, disemboweled easy chairs, automobile seats, and lawn chairs with missing webbing appropriated half of this open area, along with a hodgepodge of shelves, tables, and dressers. The spirited conversation Julia had heard from below came from roughly two dozen people, mostly women.

One of them, a pretty woman in her thirties with flowing black hair, walked quickly toward them. "Mba'eicha?" she asked.

"Opavave al pelo pa," Tate answered.

She collided with him and wrapped her arm around his neck. He groaned as she squeezed him. Then they kissed, long and passionately. She broke away and studied Julia and Stephen.

Tate spoke to her, and she returned to a small group of women.

"My Rosa," he said, flashing two rows of big teeth.

Rosa returned with two other women, each trying to talk louder than the others until they were very nearly screaming.