"It's still lit wrong," said Charley.
El Niño went on, borne on the current of his passion. "I first saw it as a child. Papa took us to Europe on a Grand Tour. He was worried that his children were turning out insufficiently plutocratic. My sister and I were always hanging out in the kitchen with the servants. In Europe we stayed with Papa's faded noble friends. He thought that would do it, seeing the splendor that was once the Old World. We stayed in these freezing-cold castles that had been in their families since the Bronze Age. You know the kind. They still lived in them but they couldn't afford to heat them. So where did my sister and I spend our time? In the kitchens, with the servants, where it was warm." He grinned. "My father was proud of being descended directly from the Pizarros. Proud of being a Pizarro! My God. When my bad attitude matured into political consciousness, he comforted himself that I was the result of a regressive, Inca gene that one of our ancestors had brought into the bloodline one night rolling around in the mud out by the stables. The truth, really, is that Papa was a greater influence on me than Karl Marx or Mao or Presidente Gonzalo."
"The plan is to bore me to death, is that it?"
"You were an orphan by fate, billonario. I'm one by choice. Is your Catholicism a leftover sentimentality from the Mexican nuns, or does it provide you with the father you never had?"
"It provides a place for people like you."
El Niño laughed. "Ah yes. But surely it's still easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for billionaire defense contractors? Do you think I do this just for money?"
"No. Being godfather to all those crack babies must give you a fine sense of accomplishment."
"The suffering of the innocents runs through history. Look at your own religion. Every male child in Galilee slaughtered by Herod's soldiers to make way for Gentle Jesus. Look at your own country. What about the baby sitting in the ruin of Hiroshima, screaming for its mother? The little Vietnamese girl running down the road after being napalmed by Uncle Sam's F-4 Phantoms? The crack babies are casualties of a war, billonario."
"War," said Charley. "What do you know about war?"
"I know that I'm winning one against your country."
"I thought your problem was with your daddy."
El Niño smiled. "My problem has matured. My problem is with history. Do you know who Atahuallpa was?"
"Yes."
"Then maybe you'll grasp the concept, Atahuallpa's Revenge. You have to admit, it makes Montezuma's Revenge seem insignificant by comparison. An amoeba that gives you diarrhea is nothing next to an alkaloid that makes people kill themselves and each other for it."
"As I recall, it wasn't the United States that killed Atahuallpa."
"No, but the United States has long since become the conquistador of record in our own hemisphere." He started for the door.
Charley said, "Son, you're obviously educated, intelligent. Do you honestly believe all this bullshit? Or did you just work it out this way on paper to get you through the nights?"
El Niño looked at him, then at "The Execution of Maximilian." "That gets me through the nights. If I were what you think I am, then we would be sitting in a house outside Medellin decorated by Liberace, and I would be showing you a nude with big tits by-at best-Botero."
He summoned his man back into the room. They wheeled Charley down the corridor. He felt a needle go into his arm and went under.
42
Diatri pounded on his leg. It had gone to sleep. The wire that stretched across his shin disappeared into some bushes about ten feet away. It was tight, and that was a problem. Some booby traps were rigged to go off if pressure was relaxed. He reviewed the traps he was familiar with: bouncing Bettys, friction fuses, rat traps, frag wires. He shone his light at the wire again and all he saw was bushes. It was probably a rat trap wired to a shotgun shell, but it was well worth waiting until light to establish that for a fact. He checked his watch for the two hundredth time and saw that a whole three minutes had gone by since he last checked. Two more hours to sunrise. The numbness came humming up his leg. He checked his watch again. The trick-he remembered this from boot camp-was not to lock your leg. His leg wasn't locked. So why was it numb? Maybe some snake had bitten him and the numbness was… for Christ's sake, Diatri, relax, it's not a snake. Yeah? So what's all that slithering going on down there? Look, if it was a snake, you'd feel it. I don't know, they got, they got some small snakes here, these palm vipers. Will you stop with the snakes? It doesn't have to be a snake. It could be a spider. They have some extremely horrible spiders down here. It's not a spider. It's asleep, all right? They have frogs, you know, that are poisonous. Frank, frogs don't bite. Look, the Super Bowl is on back home. Why don't you play Super Bowl? There's the toss, San Francisco will receive. What time is it? Don't look at the watch. The kick is high! What was that? Diatri shone his light. Something skittered away. This was no good. He felt for his nail clippers. No nail clippers. Terrific. Wonderful. Now the leg was starting to itch. Great.
Denver won. Diatri figured that would take longer.
The sky turned a faint blue and the forest awoke in a mad avian chatter. He saw monkeys in the trees above him. One took an interest in him and swung down to a low branch above him.
"Have you got a pair of nail clippers?" Diatri asked the monkey.
The monkey dropped to the ground.
"Shoo!" said Diatri. "Get out of here." The monkey cocked his head and stared, came closer. "No, no, go away!" The monkey stopped two feet away. Weren't they supposed to be scared of human beings? Diatri made a face. He growled. "Arrrrr!" The monkey made a face. Great, Diatri thought.
The monkey reached for the wire. "No!" said Diatri. The monkey withdrew its hand and scowled. "Wire bad," said Diatri. "Wire bad. Bad wire! No!"
The monkey walked over to where the wire disappeared into the bushes. "Yo, hey, Bonzo! No!" Great, killed by a monkey. Diatri fished in his pocket, took out a disposable cigarette lighter. The bushes were rustling. He held it underneath the wire and spun the striker wheel. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Bonzo had disappeared. Jesus. He put the lighter inside his armpit, which was about the temperature of the sun anyway. He held it clamped there as sweat poured off him. Then he held it under the wire. A tiny blue ball of flame, barely enough to warm a cold mosquito, appeared. Come on, come on. The wire glowed red, then white. Come on. The blue ball of flame died. The wire cooled. Shit!