Victor's voice was m.u.f.fled through the b.l.o.o.d.y handkerchief. He asked, "What do you know about bat guano?"

"Hang on a second," I said. "Since when do Buddhist monks have crates, plural, full of AK-47s?" Strong arms held my wrists between my shoulder blades. I arched my back to ease the pain, nose in the air, head horizontal.

"I'm explaining it to you," he said.

"Because of bat guano?" The words soared to the cavern's ceiling, only to shatter into tiny echoes.

Victor jerked his head. The monks let go of my arms, but kept a grip on my shoulders. I shook my hands to restore the circulation.

"Humor me, Horace."

"What do I know about bat guano?"

"Yes."

"Enough to know it's not a breakfast cereal."

"Anything else?"

"What is this, seventh-grade science cla.s.s?"

"Alright." Victor pressed the handkerchief tighter to his nose. He turned to Kate. "Bring us some chai, will you, my dear? We'll be in the alcove."

Kate's face had gone white. She did not look at me. Come to think of it, she had never seen me violent before. She nodded her head, a nervous twitch. About-faced, and strode off into the shadows.

The monks let go of me. Victor said, "Come," and minced across the cavern to a nook about five feet high. I followed. A lantern lit the alcove.

On the floor, a low table surrounded by bean bags. A chessboard sat ready for battle. Blood dribbled from Victor's broken nose. He beckoned a nearby monk. "A pair of pliers. And some medical tape. Fetch."

The monk's shaved head bowed, disappeared.

I eased myself into a bean bag. "So," I said. "Bat guano."

"You play chess, Horace?" Victor moved his king p.a.w.n forward two s.p.a.ces.

"No," I said. "Can't say I do. And what does bat guano have to do with-"

"The key," he said, "is to know your opponent better than he knows himself."

"Like, duh," I said. Not that I ever bothered to think that far ahead, mind you.

He reached over the board, responded with my queen knight. "To know what he's going to do before he does it. Antic.i.p.ate everything. Plan for everything." He looked at me. "Then it doesn't matter what happens. Every which way you win."

I said, "I suppose you know what I'm going to do now."

He wagged a finger at me. "You're a wild card, Horace. But that also makes you predictable."

"Oh yeah? Did you predict this?" I swept my arm across the board, sending the pieces flying.

He laughed. "Indeed I did. You are predictable in your wildness."

I frowned. "Maybe I am, maybe I'm not. How do you know that about me?"

"Pitt speaks highly of you, Horace. And now you are impatient for me to elaborate on the theme of bat guano. Am I not correct?"

"I still don't see what bat guano has to do with Pitt becoming a born-again whatever-you-are. But go ahead." I sat back in my bean bag. "Talk."

A grin peeked around Victor's hand, his voice nasal. "You are aware," he said, "of how Bolivia lost its coastline?"

"Sure," I said. "There was a war. Back in the 1880s. Over the bat guano. But what's that got to do with me and Pitt?"

"Thousands of years of bat droppings acc.u.mulated in the Atacama Desert. The Europeans and Americans paid big money for the stuff. So Chile declared war on Bolivia and took away her coastline. Some of Peru's, too."

My applause echoed loud in the cavern. "Wonderful history lesson. Get to the point?"

We paused as Kate approached, teapot balanced on a platter. She knelt, put three cups down in front us, poured tea in two. It smelled of cardamom and cloves. I tasted it. Brewed in milk. But it was missing the secret ingredient.

"What," I said. "No pisco?"

She shook her head. Bit her lip.

"We do not permit alcohol here," Victor said.

"Whoa," I said. Touched her elbow. "How do you survive?"

She stood without looking at me. "There are other ways of coping, Horse."

Victor smiled at her. "Thank you, my dear."

Kate marched back into the darkness of the cave.

"No pisco," I said. "That's what I call doing it harsh."

"That is a matter of perspective." Victor sipped his chai. "For instance, losing your coastline is harsh. Becoming a landlocked nation is harsh. How would you feel?"

I shrugged. "Must have p.i.s.sed them off."

"It still does," said Victor. "Know what tomorrow is?"

"Two days after yesterday?"

"Maritime Day. In La Paz. At 4000m above sea level. You believe it? There will be marches, parades, speeches. President Ovejo will fire his pistol in the air, demand Chile return their land. Bolivians will wave their flags, stomp their feet and go home unhappy."

"They want their bat guano back."

Victor chuckled, blew on his tea. "Bat guano is worthless these days. What they want is a road to the sea."

"Hence the Bolivian navy on Lake t.i.ticaca."

"If you can call it a navy."

I sipped my chai. Without liquor it was undrinkable. I hurled the cup at the wall. The impact splattered Victor with hot tea. I stood, stooping under the alcove's low ceiling. "It's been lovely. Really it has. But either you tell me where Pitt is, and what the h.e.l.l is going on, or I'm walking out of here right now."

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that, Horace."

A bald head descended into the light, a pair of pliers glinting in his outstretched palm. Beside it, a roll of green medical tape. Victor flicked the tape at me.

"What's this for?"

"Broke a finger, didn't you?"

The pinkie on my left hand was mashed. I had forgotten about it. "Oh. Thanks." I unrolled a piece of tape, tore it off with my teeth. The thudding pain of broken bone made delightful background noise to this uninvited conference with Victor. I bound the injured digit to its neighbor.

Victor weighed the pliers in his palm. He said, "Pitt is on Isla del Sol. You'll see him tomorrow. Now sit down."

"What's he doing on Isla del Sol? Hanging out with a bunch of tourists?" I finished the job on my finger.

He shoved the pliers in his mouth. "No, actually. He's negotiating with the CIA. To try to stop the war. Now sit."

The lantern light illuminated half of Victor's face, leaving the other side in darkness. He twisted the pliers. I could hear the roots of the tooth shred as it separated from his flesh. His head jerked back. Clamped between the pliers was a broken tooth. He asked, "What do they produce at that mine?"

"Where Pitt works?"

He waved a hand. "The Anglo-Dutch mine. Yes."

I took off my woolen hat and ran my fingers through my hair. "Lithium."

"Foreigners wanted bat guano, so Bolivia lost its coastline." He spat blood, put the pliers back in his mouth. "Now the foreigners want the lithium."

I shrugged. "So they're going to take it."

"Precisely." He spoke around the pliers. Another jerk, another tooth. "Ovejo's a socialist. Ninety percent of the world's lithium comes from the altiplano. The salt flats." Victor mopped his lips with the crusty handkerchief, fished around in his mouth with an index finger. "The Chilean mine just across the border produces most of the world's lithium at present. There are also small deposits in Tibet, Afghanistan and Australia, but the world's biggest reserves are in Bolivia itself."

I sat down again. "So what?" I said. "Has the entire world gone manic-depressive? Is the demand really that high?"

Victor paused, his cup halfway to his lips. Blood leaked onto his chin. "Do you not read the papers?"

"I've got enough misery in my own life without reading about the rest of the world."

"The oil is running out. You know this." It was not a question.

"Sure."

"What happens then?"

"We all die. And good riddance."

A raised index finger. "Lithium is used to make batteries for electric cars."

I asked, "Why can't the Americans just buy the lithium? Wouldn't that be cheaper?"

"At Ovejo's extortionate prices? Think OPEC, only ten times worse."

I considered that. "What's the pretext? For war, I mean."

Victor shifted sideways in his bean bag until he sat next to me. He lowered his voice. His hairy knuckles caressed my forearm. "A bomb, Horace. They are going to blow up the Bolivian mine. The CIA. Make it look like the Chileans did it."

"Are people going to believe that?"

"The domestic situation in La Paz is tricky. Ovejo will have to respond. Support for his policies is fading. He is a maniac for power. He will have to invade Chile just to save face."

"Then what?"

Victor settled back in his bean bag. "Peru and Bolivia have a secret alliance. Peru will break the alliance. Bolivia invades Chile, Peru invades Bolivia, together the two countries divide the altiplano."

"And once again Bolivia gets screwed."

He poured himself another cup of chai. Every movement in the cave echoed, a chattering of shuffled feet and subdued voices.

"How do you know all this?" I said at last, dreading the answer.

"You know my source already."

I choked on my own saliva. "Pitt."

"Who else?"

Victor held the teapot over the empty third cup. I nodded. It was better than nothing, I supposed. He poured.

I said, "So Pitt finds out about this plot. He comes here? To you? Why?"

"Pitt is a man of conscience."

I made a rude noise.

"If you think that," Victor said, "then you do not know your friend as well as I had hoped. He came here to atone. For his sins."

"Was he successful?"

"Yes. And you can be too."

I looked around me. Water dripped from stalact.i.tes. "By chanting mantras in a freezing cave?"

"He saw what we have here. What we do. That a war would destroy all this."

"All what?"

He shrugged. "Our work. Volunteering. Meditation. Our search for peace."