Back in the United States, things were no calmer for the real Pedrito. He had bundled up all his microfilm and stolen documents and marched away from the office. He drove to his rendezvous, anxious to be out of this country and back to his own interesting life.
Unseen behind him, a green, unmarked sedan eased to a stop alongside the road. Three people sat crammed in the front seat, the bloated Fats stuffed behind the wheel, Lefty crushed against the passenger door, both of them pleased to have Joan Turner crowded in the center and pressed against them.
Joan, though, was more intent on the object of her vengeance than on her discomfort. “That’s him,” she said bitterly.
Pedrito Miraflores, in a starched naval uniform and formal white-topped cap, parked his car and strode briskly up the st
