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on board, then wire shut the door and douse the bus in petrol and shoot anybody who tried to leap from the windows.
    The communications man on the shooting team would call the press to make sure they arrived for video and photos before the fire was out.
    Cuchillo thanked the man and disconnected, thinking of how much he was looking forward to seeing those news accounts.
    He hoped the man who had shot at him would be watching the news, too, and would feel responsible for the pain the victims would experience.
    Glancing up from his armchair, he happened to notice that a book was out of order.
    It was on the shelf above the case containing the Ulysses .
    He rose and noted the leather spine. The Robbers . How had a Schiller gotten here? He disliked disorder of any kind, particularly in his book collection. One of the maids, perhaps.
    Just as he plucked the volume from the shelf, the door burst open.
    “Sir!”
    “What?” he turned quickly to Jos .
    “I think there’s a bomb here! That man with the book dealer, Davila; he’s fake. He was working with the American!”
    His eyes first went to the Dickens but, no, he’d flipped through the entire volume and there’d been no explosives inside. The assassins had simply used that as bait to gain access to Cuchillo’s compound.
    Then he looked down at what he held in his hand. The Schiller.
    “What is it, sir?”
    “This book … It wasn’t here earlier. Abrossa! He planted it when I gave him the tour.” Cuchillo realized that, yes, the book was heavier than a comparable book of this size.
    “Set it down! Run!”
    “No! The books!” He glanced around at the library.
    22,000 volumes …
    “It could blow up at any moment.”
    Cuchillo started to set it down, then hesitated. “I can’t do it! You get back, José!” Then still holding the bomb, he ran outside, the security guard remaining loyally beside him. Once they were to the garden, Cuchillo flung the Schiller as far as he could. The men dropped to the ground behind one of the brick walls.
    There was no explosion.
    When Cuchillo looked he saw that the book had opened. The contents—electronics and a wad of clay—colored explosives—had tumbled out.
    “Jesus, Jesus.”
    “Please, sir. Inside now!”
    They hurried into the house and got the staff away from the side of the house where the box lay in the garden. José called the man they used for making their own bombs. He would hurry to the house and disarm or otherwise dispose of the device.
    Cuchillo poured a large Scotch. “How did you find this out?”
    “I got the data-mined information on the American in the bar, the one who was drinking with Carmella. I found records that he was making calls to the book dealer. And he used his credit card to buy electronic parts at a supplier in town—the sort of circuits that are used in IEDs.”
    “Yes, yes. I see. They threatened Davila to help them. Or paid the bastard. You know, I suspected that man, Abrossa. I suspected him for a moment. Then I decided, no, he was legitimate.”
    Because I wanted the Dickens so much.
    “I appreciate what you did, José. That was a good job. Would you like a drink, too?”
    “No, thank you, sir.”
    Still calm, Cuchillo wrinkled his brow. “Considering how the American tried to kill us—and nearly destroyed a priceless collection of books—how would you feel if we instructed our people on Highway 26 not to get the women and children off before setting fire to the bus?”
    José smiled. “I think that’s an excellent suggestion, sir. I’ll call the team.”

     
    Several hours later the bomb had been slipped into a steel disposal container and taken away. Cuchillo, the engineer explained, had unwittingly disarmed it himself. The panicked throw had dislodged the wires from the detonator, rendering it safe.
    Cuchillo had enjoyed watching the bomb-disposal robot—the same way he liked being in his parts manufacturing operation and his drug synthesizing facilities. He enjoyed