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clearing.”
    The patient started to smile, but the scab cracked like a boiled egg. M.N.’s eyes registered a bolt of pain.
    â€œNot moving ist best,” advised Dr. Spracht. “No expression. Even talking ist nicht so gut. ”
    The patient grunted in response.
    â€œNow the nuss will apply special ointment, and we will bandage all over again. Agweed? No movement.”
    As a blond nurse in a gratifyingly tight lab coat leaned over and began to swab a stinging green unguent on the throbbing wound, ignoring the muzzled cries of pain, the door opened, and a very alarmed receptionist stuck her head in. “There’s an emergency call for General Noriega!” she announced.
    â€œI am busy,” the patient said through clenched teeth.
    â€œIt’s the president of Panama,” the receptionist exclaimed in an awed voice.
    â€œNicky, what the fuck do you want?” the patient asked as Dr. Spracht held the phone to his ear.
    On the other end of the line there was a brief transatlantic pause, then President Nicolás Ardito Barletta responded, “Tony, I have serious news. Something very important has come up. Incidentally, Roberto is also on the line.”
    â€œHi, Tony!” said Roberto Díaz Herrera, the colonel who was second in command of the Panama Defense Forces.
    â€œWhat is the problem?” Tony demanded.
    â€œHugo Spadafora has been murdered,” Barletta said in a strangely neutral tone of voice.
    â€œGood,” said Tony. “This is good.”
    â€œUh, yes, of course we agree, but the people are not taking it so well,” Barletta continued. “I don’t know if you can hear the honking outside. I’m holding the phone out the window for you.”
    Tony listened to the cacophonous traffic outside the presidential palace and the distant chanting of his name.
    â€œThere is great agitation,” Roberto added unhelpfully. “The people hold you responsible.”
    â€œListen, Nicky, I can’t talk about this now,” said Tony. “You should call me in New York next week.”
    â€œNext week!” said Barletta.
    â€œTony, what we’re saying is that the situation in Panama is very unstable,” said Roberto. “Maybe it is more important for youto be here than in Paris, or Switzerland, or New York, or whatever.”
    â€œWe think either you should come home right away, or else . . .” Barletta’s voice trailed away significantly.
    O R ELSE ?” The threat implicit in that phrase echoed in Tony’s mind as his limo crawled through the Geneva traffic. What did they think of him—that he would abdicate? Live the rest of his life in Switzerland? Who did they think they were dealing with? Did Nicky and Roberto imagine that they could run Panama without him? The thought would have made Tony laugh if the consequences weren’t so painful.
    His thoughts flew about in confusion. Hugo dead. Tony’s nemesis gone. Out of his life. Out of life itself. It should be an occasion to rejoice. It was certainly an opportunity to reflect on the nature of divine justice. Hugo had been everything Tony was not: tall, handsome, rich, loved. And now dead, a nothing, his fame turned to vaporous memory. Delicious victory, especially after the noise that Hugo had made about Tony and the narcos, the threats he had made on the radio, the “proof” he had boasted about having in that little book of his.
    But panic was banging on the door demanding to be admitted. Hugo—dead! Everyone would blame Tony for it. They already were! Something enormous had shifted in Tony’s universe, and only God knew how it would throw the planets out of alignment. A little change was containable. Too much change made everything crazy.
    But in any case, he had a more pressing concern impatiently awaiting for him at the Bank of Credit and Commerce International. Tony glanced at his watch and shuddered.
    Twenty minutes