For the second time in as many days Carter found himself parked in the plastics company lot gazing through the binoculars at the studio. Arriving workers ignored the couple in the compact, intent only upon checking in.

“The area around back’s deserted,” he was murmuring. “No guard, no dog, nothing.”

“No point in hangin’ around here, then.” Ashwood opened her door and slipped out.

No one challenged them as they strolled casually across the dirt field that separated the two industrial blocks. When they reached the chained gate Carter kept watch while Ashwood did something to the clunky padlock with a small piece of metal. A distinct click was followed by his companion’s grunt of satisfaction.

“Like ridin’ a bike. Once you’ve done it, you never forget how.” She rapped the lock against a metal pole and it obediently popped open.

Carter slipped it free of the chain and eased the gate aside. Once in, he replaced both without closing the lock.

The old film studio was much larger than was needed for the production of a single television show. No doubt it had been chosen for its isolation as much as anything else. The empty buildings offered plenty of cover for the two intruders as they worked their way toward the front of the complex, intending to check out the larger of the two sound stages first.

Sure enough, technicians and performers were arriving at and departing the barn-like structure in a steady stream: actors and wardrobe people, makeup specialists and caterers, gofers and gaffers.

Working their way around back they were gratified to find an unlocked door. There was no reason to secure the sound stage, Carter mused, if you had confidence in your perimeter security. The rear of the cavernous edifice was a sargasso of dusty props and fragments of stagework, unused lights, and half-trimmed lumber. What light there was filtered back from the front of the building where the show was produced.

Carter picked his way carefully forward, Ashwood following close on his heels, until they came across a Victorian couch backed up against a false pub front. It was dark and quiet, a good place to hole up ‘til evening.

They waited there, eating their sandwiches in silence as cast and crew began to arrive to prepare the night’s broadcast. Eventually curiosity and boredom led them to abandon the comfortable couch. They worked their way toward the bustle until Carter found a crack in a painted backdrop through which they could see a little of what was going on.

Pucahuaman, looking comfortable in a gray business suit, stood by one of the big cameras chatting with Apu Tupa and another Contisuyun Carter didn’t recognize. Not far from them the director was blocking moves with two of his performers.

Scottish technicians worked on the cameras and lights. Far from the stage and the intervening twenty rows of empty, raked seats other techs busied themselves within a large, glass-enclosed soundproof control booth.

Another figure appeared on stage to interrupt the director, towering over him and the other two performers. Carter gave a start as he recognized Francesca da Rimini, stunning in an elegant dark blue dress and professional makeup.

“Can you see?” Carter edged aside so Ashwood would have a better view.

“Yeah. The conspiratorial homicidal bitch looks pretty good.”

“Pucahuaman and Apu Tupa are there. No sign of Fewick or the Fernández brothers, but I’ll bet Trang Ho’s around. Patrolling the dressing rooms or something.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Ashwood. “This is gonna come off before they know what hit ’em. By the time anyone reacts it’ll be too late. The Boojums will have done their work.”

Carter nodded agreement as he checked his watch. “Our friends ought to have left the cottage by now.” He glanced through the backdrop. “Think I’ll take a little walk.”

Ashwood frowned at him. “Are you crazy, handsome? What if somebody spots you?”

“I’ll be careful. I think I saw something out there I’d really like to get my hands on.”

“She’ll recognize you before you open your mouth.”

Carter made a face. “Not her. Something just as wordy, but not as loud. If I can get it, it’ll be a big help.” Staying in a crouch, he headed off to his left.

Ashwood was left to wait uneasily until he returned, triumphantly clutching a magazine-sized wad of paper in his right hand.

“Somebody left a shooting script on a chair. I can do more than just improvise now. I can do a little mental rewriting. And you can coach me.”

Ashwood looked doubtful. “I ain’t no script girl.”

“Come on, Marjorie. The fate of European civilization is at stake.”

She shrugged. “Oh well. I guess it beats pickin’ the lint out of the couch.”

Igor stood in the grass next to the delivery van’s open door, his attention flicking back and forth between the rolling, landmarkless countryside and the map he held in both hands. Ancient, identical stone walls divided up the pastures through which the narrow two-lane road ran. A single farmhouse and barn crowned the hill to his right. It did not look anything like the Contisuyuns’ broadcast complex or the plastics manufacturing plant which stood next to it.

He knew that by now they should be at the outskirts of the suburban industrial park where the studio was located, which they manifestly were not. Turning the map sideways gave it more aesthetic appeal but did not in any measure clarify his confusion. It was full of mysterious, crisscrossing black and blue and red lines, cryptic numbers and symbols, and roads whose names changed every other kilometer. Jason Carter had navigated the morass with ease. Certainly he should be able to find his way. Wasn’t he a guide by profession?

He had to admit it was simpler in east Peru, where roads were few, intersections an event, and the selva gravid with familiar signs. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so confident, should have put aside his pride and asked for directions. Now there was no one to ask.

That did not mean, however, that his increasing bewilderment went unnoticed.

Since the Boojums’ comments were projected directly into his mind it was impossible for Igor to ignore them.

“Silly blighter calls himself a guide,” Shorty was thinking. “He finds his way through the jungle but can’t navigate a primitive system of roads!”

“Time is becoming important.” Crease’s thoughts were tinged with understandable impatience. “We must not linger.”

“Look, this is more complicated than it seems.” Igor spoke without turning toward the van, knowing that the Boojums could pick up his thoughts no matter which way he faced. He tapped the map with an accusatory finger. “Everything runs into everything else, there are name changes that make no sense, the numbers shift according to no pattern that I can understand, and the map is several years old anyway. In my country it is much simpler.

“Take this road here. It is called Angus Lane and supposedly runs into something called the A-8, which turns west to become the M-74, where we get off onto the A-12 to go south.” He had the dazed look of a citizen listening to a politician trying to explain the rationale behind a new tax.

“I must have taken the wrong exit out of the Marley Circus on the west side of the city. But it should still have directed us south.” His voice dropped. “I knew that last underpass did not look right, and that the name Dreary Road was not promising.”

“We should be on the M-14, not the M-74,” said Tree firmly.

“Bloody nonsense!” Shorty snapped. “What do you know about it, you who can’t even plot a—”

“Shut up.” Crease redirected his impatience to their driver. “If you are not certain where we are or which way to proceed, old chap, you must seek advice from a local.”

“I am afraid I will have to,” Igor confessed, his quiet macho self-assurance utterly devastated by the otherworldly complexities of the Royal Auto Club map.

Another kilometer’s drive brought them parallel to a field in which an elderly man rode a wagon being pulled by a pair of heavy horses. Igor climbed out of the van and walked over to the stone fence.

“Excuse me, sir! Hello there!” He waved hopefully, trying to attract the farmer’s attention.

The man must have heard because he brought the wagon to a halt, secured the reins, and climbed down. As he approached the fence he kept tugging at the brim of his cap as if fearful it might take advantage of the unexpected interruption in the day’s routine to take flight.

He examined his visitor with obvious interest. “Well, now, laddie, where might you be from?”

“Peru.” With no time to waste, Igor rushed on. “Can you tell me how to get to the M-14?”

“The M-14?” The man drew back in astonishment. “Laddie, you’re nowhere near the M-14.”

“I know, I know. That is why I’m asking you how to get there.” Igor tried to restrain himself.

“Well, now.” The man massaged the granitic stubble of his chin as he looked to his right. “One might continue on the way you’re goin’ until he came to the next intersection. Sad to say, there’s no sign there since a couple o’ the boys knocked it down last year after consumin’ a few too many pints at the Black Dog. You turn to the right. It gets mite bumpy as you go down the hill, where you’ll come to the old railroad bridge. I think your machine will fit beneath. Go under an’ after another two kilometers you’ll come to a bitumen road. No sign there either.”