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Mother Superior came into the reception area. The white coat she wore over her habit was heavily bloodstained and so was the surgical mask hanging loosely around her neck.

“I don’t know if it was your intention, Cletus, but they’re all dead,” she announced.

She turned to Second Lieutenant James D. Cronley Jr., pointed to the Thompson he held with the butt resting on his hip, and said, “You can put that down, young man. You’re not going to need it here.”

“All dead?” Cletus repeated.

“All of those nine men . . . the ones in the black overalls,” she amplified. “Plus one of your Húsares.”

“And the others?”

“Your German friend—Dieter? I think you said Dieter was his name—as you saw, he was hit twice, once in the side.” She demonstrated by stabbing at her body with a finger. “And again in the upper right leg.” She demonstrated that again with her finger. “There is considerable muscle damage, but he will live. The second of your Húsares did considerable damage—compound fractures in both areas—to his right arm and wrist when, according to him, he was getting out of his station wagon and slipped.”

“Can I see Dieter?” Frade asked.

“If you want to wait several hours until he recovers from the anesthesia,” Mother Superior said. “But I suggest you go to Casa Montagna and show Dorotea you’re all right. I don’t think she believed me when I told her that you were.”

“Why did you tell her anything, for Christ’s sake?”

“Spare me your blasphemy, please. To answer your question: because I knew word of this would quickly reach the estancia, and I didn’t want her to come down here.”

She turned to Cronley again.

“I asked you to put that down.”

“Sling the Thompson, Jimmy,” Frade ordered. “It’s over.”

“Sorry,” Cronley said.

He turned the submachine gun so that he could check that the safety was on. Because the Thompson fired from an open bolt, he could see that there was a round in the drum magazine, waiting for the bolt to be rammed into the chamber, whereupon the fixed firing pin on the bolt would strike the primer in the cartridge case. This would cause the weapon not only to fire, but to continue firing as long as the trigger was depressed and there were cartridges in the fifty-round drum magazine.

He saw that the little arrow on the side of the receiver pointed to “F”—for Fire—which meant the safety was not on. The Thompson had been ready to fire all along.

What the hell is the matter with me?

I know better than that.

He removed the fifty-round drum magazine from the Thompson, eased the bolt forward onto the empty chamber, reinstalled the magazine, and then slung the weapon on his shoulder.

—

I’m dazed, that’s what’s the matter with me.

What the hell happened?

The last thing I remember was being on my knees in the backseat, so that I could rest my arms on the back of the front seat.

I remember seeing Kilometer Marker 29, and that I was listening to Clete and Dieter talking.

About what? What the hell were they talking about?

And then the windshield blew up.

Windshields. Both of them. The one in front of Clete and the one in front of Dieter.

And Dieter grunted.

And Clete said, “Oh, shit!”