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dialed the number direct but did not get through. Instead he got through to the secretary and told her his decision.
    “Check-in time at Arlanda is three-fifteen. You must be at the airport by then. The car will pick you up at exactly half past two. Tickets and money are arranged for.”
    Everything was so businesslike.
    Just as he put down the receiver, the telephone rang. It was the Ambassador.
    “After our conversation this morning I have been thinking the matter over further. I have reconsidered my ideas. It would be wrong for you to refuse the assignment, to reject the faith that has been shown in you.”
    “Good. I have already said that I accept.”
    “What? Excellent. I am pleased that my little experiment worked so well.”
    “Experiment?”
    “Yes. Now I can admit that what I said earlier was not meant very seriously. A stupid attempt to test your ability to deal with matters and make independent decisions. At least partly. But, you must understand, all the facts were correct. But forgive me all the same.”
    “Of course.”
    He felt his mouth go dry.
    “One more thing. In Copenhagen you will be meeting one of your co-workers. A lady who will act as your secretary. She is from down there and has outstanding qualities. Called—one moment—oh, these Slavic names—of course, I’ve nothing against the President, ha ha, yes—here it is … Danica Rodríguez. She’s already received her instructions. Understood?”
    “Yes.”
    “Good luck then. You’ll have a difficult but interesting job.”
    “Thank you.”
    “And, Manuel—be careful. They mean it.”
    “Yes.”
    Manuel Ortega put the receiver down slowly. The Ambassador had never used his first name before, nor had he everused that tone of voice with him before. The conversation had been confusing, almost unreal.
    Be careful, Manuel. They mean it.
    Much later he said to his wife: “Where is my revolver?”
    “I’ve already thought about that. I’ve heard it can be dangerous down there. It’s in the bottom drawer of the desk, on the right. Will you get it yourself?”
    “Yes.”
    The revolver lay there (as she had said), wrapped in a soft cloth and neatly tucked in the shoulder holster. He unwound the straps and the cloth and weighed the weapon in his hand. It felt heavy and firm and was well oiled. He took three boxes of cartridges too, and put them all in the top of his suitcase. Then his wife shut the lid and locked it.
    A little before half past two, Manuel Ortega kissed his wife and children and got into the front seat next to the driver. His wife said: “Don’t forget the seat belt.”
    The car drove away. His family stood on the sidewalk and waved. He waved back.
    At twenty-five to four he climbed the steps into the plane. Just as he bent over and stepped inside, smiling at the girl who was standing at the door, fear snatched at his heart.
    It came like a shock, without warning.
    Orestes de Larrinaga had been given three weeks to live. He would not even get that much.
    Two weeks at the latest after his arrival the sentence will be carried out.
    Be careful. They mean it.
    He was sweating, and as he pushed forward between the people in the aisle, he fumbled for something that would give him security. He thought of the revolver and how it had lain in his hand, heavy and cold and comforting.
    The revolver was a g-millimeter Astra-Orbea with a walnut butt, made in 1923 in Eibar. His father had given it to himfor his twenty-first birthday. He had never been without it since then. He had never had cause to point it at any living creature, not even as a joke, but sometimes he used it for target practice on empty bottles and tin cans.

Over southern Scandinavia the clouds seemed about to break up, and when Manuel Ortega leaned against the window he could see the contours of the land quite clearly, as if on a map. Their course was almost directly west, and to the south one could faintly discern a large town, which must be Malmö. Evening began