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was now a mottled dappled green, slapped on in an amateurish camouflage pattern. The leading edge of the wings had clearly been patched in several places, and the lower halves of the floats were coated with some sort of fungus or algae.
    “What on earth is that?” Peggy said, staring at the aircraft.
    “Our ride,” said Holliday.
    “You’re kidding me,” said Rafi. “It looks ancient.”
    “Nineteen thirty-six,” said a voice from behind them.
    The man standing behind them was medium height wearing a pair of greasy coveralls and wiping his hands off on a rag. His features were vaguely Asian mixed with something else and he had a long jet-black ponytail. On the bulging biceps showing below his T-shirt he had a U.S Army Ranger DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR tattoo. He walked toward them, his right leg noticeably stiff.
    “Peggy, Rafi, Eddie, this is my good friend Chang-Su Diaz.”
    “Hi,” said the man with the ponytail.
    “Diaz,” said Eddie.
“Hablas español?”
    “Sí.”
Diaz nodded.
    “Avión es bonita,”
said Eddie.
    “Gracias, senor. Eres un piloto?”
    “Sí. Gracias a la Fuerza Aérea de Cuba.”
    “Ah, Cuba,” said Diaz.
    “Charlie Diaz was part of a special incursion group into Colombia that I was heading up back in the ’nineties,” said Holliday. “He can fly anything with wings or rotors. He’s just about the only person who flies supplies up to the river tribes upstream. Doctors Without Borders use him a lot. Despite his looks he’s a good man.”
    “How did you lose the leg?” Peggy asked bluntly.
    “Doc and I were having a sit-down with a man named Tito Valdez. He shot me under the desk with a Turkish Bullpup shotgun.”
    “What happened to Tito Valdez?”
    “Doc shot him in the face six times.”
    “You can really fly with one leg?”
    “During World War Two, there was a man named Douglas Bader who flew Spitfires after losing both legs. He played a pretty good game of golf to boot,” said Holliday. “Now, enough history.” He turned to Diaz. “Did you get everything I asked for?”
    “All the practical stuff including the two inflatables you asked for, and the boat is waiting. Presumably Eddie can manage it.”
    “Qué tipo de barco?”
Eddie asked.
    “Un barco de rio,”
Diaz responded.
    “Grande?”
    “Quince metros.”
    “
No hay problema
.” Eddie smiled.
    “What about weapons?” Holliday asked.
    “Everything you asked for. Forty-fives, Winchesters, a Weatherby, some Stoner POWs, two Heckler and Koch MSG-90s and one FN Maximi light machine gun.”
    “Why do we need weapons?” Peggy asked, startled.
    Holliday laughed. “Because it’s a jungle out there, Peg.”
    •   •   •
    The priest sat in his small office in the Vatican Railway Station, his computer humming quietly and a copy of
Debrett’s Peerage
open on the desk beside it. According to Debrett’s, Lord Adrian Grayle was a long-standing member of Brook’s. The priest, a fifty-eight-year-old man named Francisco Garibaldi, had also hacked in to the Brook’s Web site and had discovered that one Lord Jonathon Gibbs, third Baron Vauxhall, now resided in South Africa and rarely came to the club although he still kept up his membership. Garibaldi went onto Google, found a recent photo of Vauxhall and printed it out. He picked up his telephone and dialed the special number in the Vatican Printing Office.
    “This is Father Garibaldi. I’d like a full identification package on Lord Jonathon Gibbs.” The priest paused. “Yes, a U.K. passport, as well, and also a membership card for Booth’s Gentlemen’s Club. Two days. Thank you.”
    Garibaldi broke the connection, then hit the buttons again. “Gino? Francisco. How is my father? Good, good. Look, Gino, I need a favor. I need you to find out the kind of playing cards they use at Booth’s in London, then make up a deck in my prescription. Fast, two days maybe.” He waited, listening, and then smiled. “
Buono
, Gino. You are a good friend. Call