MEXICO CITY – MAY 1965It was the phone ringing again that shook him from his reverie. He was once again back in his hotel suite in Mexico City with the heat, the sweat and the noise from the air conditioning. The memories of the past few months had quickly evaporated.
He knew it wasn"t Marquez again so soon. The man knew not to break protocol, unless he had something to report. The only other person who had his number and who had been in touch constantly over the last few days, was Higgins. He picked up the handset, knowing who it was before he"d even heard the voice.
“It"s me,” said Higgins, down the notoriously bad Mexican telephone line.
“Has it exploded in our face?” asked Ferrera. He could feel the start of a headache, a dull, throbbing pain behind his eye.
“That"s the understatem
