Hall offered one of the cigarettes to the soldier. He sat down in the leather chair near the desk, looked at the inscription on Tabio's photograph. "To my dear Diego, my comrade in prison and in freedom—Anibal."
"The commandant is a close friend of Don Anibal's," the soldier said. "I think I hear him coming now." The soldier stepped out of the room.
A moment later someone rapped gently on the door.
"Come in," Hall shouted.
The door opened. In the doorway, a man in uniform, his hat carried correctly under his left arm, paused, made a soft salute. "Major Diego Segador," he said. "We are honored to have you as our guest." He shook hands with Hall, sat down in the desk chair facing the portrait of Tabio.
"I am grateful to you for—everything," Hall said.
"It was nothing," Segador said. "After Souza spoke to me about you, I was sorry we could not do more."
"What more could you have done?"
The major's lips parted over his long teeth in a mirthless smile. "We could have killed the cabrón who drugged you, compañero."
"You know who did it?"