"Okay . . . _gracias_." Shit. It was like a pit had opened somewhere
deep in my stomach.
I replaced the handset, feeling grateful that at least the phone still
worked, my last link to sanity. My next call was going to be to the
embassy, but I couldn't risk using up my opening shot with the
graveyard shift. Maybe by 6 A.M. somebody with authority to do
something would be there. Just a few more minutes.
Now what? I felt the aching soreness in my groin again, along with a
wave of nausea. I had to do something, anything, just to keep going, to
beat back an anxiety attack.
That was when I turned and stared at the computers, the little ducks
drifting across the screens.
All right, you know what he's doing; now it's time to try and find out
why. The real why. There must be records of what he's up to stored
there. What else would he have them for?
"Clang, clang, clang." A noise erupted from somewhere outside the
window. In spite of myself, I jumped.
Then I realized it was just the odd call of some forest bird. God, I
wasn't cut out for this. Now my head was hurting, stabs of pain, but I
rubbed at my temples and sat down at the first terminal.
I'm a Mac fan, hate Windows, so I had to start out by experimenting. In
the movies people always know how to do this, but I had to go with
trial and error, error compounding error.
After endless false starts that elicited utility screens I couldn't get
rid of, I finally brought up an index of files, which included a long
list of names.