a Clínica de Salud Pública was actually a convertedelementary school and didn't much resemble a hospital at all.It was a long, one-story brick building with huge windows and arusted swing set out back. Becker headed up the crumblingsteps.

Inside, it was dark and noisy. The waiting room was a line offolding metal chairs that ran the entire length of a long narrowcorridor. A cardboard sign on a sawhorse read oficina with an arrowpointing down the hall.

Becker walked the dimly lit corridor. It was like some sort ofeerie set conjured up for a Hollywood horror flick. The air smelledof urine. The lights at the far end were blown out, and the lastforty or fifty feet revealed nothing but muted silhouettes. Ableeding woman… a young couple crying… a little girlpraying… Becker reached the end of the darkened hall. The doorto his left was slightly ajar, and he pushed it open. It wasentirely empty except for an old, withered woman naked on a cotstruggling with her bedpan.

Lovely. Becker groaned. He closed the door. Where thehell is the office?

Around a small dog-leg in the hall, Becker heard voices. Hefollowed the sound and arrived at a translucent glass door thatsounded as if a brawl were going on behind it. Reluctantly, Beckerpushed the door open. The office. Mayhem. Just as he'dfeared.

The line was about ten people deep, everyone pushing andshouting. Spain was not known for its efficiency, and Becker knewhe could be there all night waiting for discharge info on theCanadian. There was only one secretary behind the desk, and she wasfending off disgruntled patients. Becker stood in the doorway amoment and pondered his options. There was a better way.

"Con permiso!" an orderly shouted. A fast-rollinggurney sailed by.

Becker spun out of the way and called after the orderly"¿Dónde está el teléfono?"

Without breaking stride, the man pointed to a set of doubledoors and disappeared around the corner. Becker walked over to thedoors and pushed his way through.

The room before him was enormous—an old gymnasium. Thefloor was a pale green and seemed to swim in and out of focus underthe hum of the fluorescent lights. On the wall, a basketball hoophung limply from its backboard. Scattered across the floor were afew dozen patients on low cots. In the far corner, just beneath aburned-out scoreboard, was an old pay phone. Becker hoped itworked.

As he strode across the floor, he fumbled in his pocket for acoin. He found 75 pesetas in cinco-duros coins, change from thetaxi—just enough for two local calls. He smiled politely to anexiting nurse and made his way to the phone. Scooping up thereceiver, Becker dialed Directory Assistance. Thirty seconds laterhe had the number for the clinic's main office.

Regardless of the country, it seemed there was one universaltruth when it came to offices: Nobody could stand the sound of anunanswered phone. It didn't matter how many customers werewaiting to be helped, the secretary would always drop what she wasdoing to pick up the phone.

Becker punched the six-digit exchange. In a moment he'dhave the clinic's office. There would undoubtedly be only oneCanadian admitted today with a broken wrist and a concussion; hisfile would be easy to find. Becker knew the office would behesitant to give out the man's name and discharge address to atotal stranger, but he had a plan.

The phone began to ring. Becker guessed five rings was all itwould take. It took nineteen.

"Clínica de Salud Pública," barked thefrantic secretary.

Becker spoke in Spanish with a thick Franco-American accent."This is David Becker. I'm with the Canadian Embassy. Oneof our citizens was treated by you today. I'd like hisinformation such that the embassy can arrange to pay hisfees."

"Fine," the woman said. "I'll send it to theembassy on Monday."

"Actually," Becker pressed, "it's importantI get it immediately."

"Impossible," the woman snapped. "We're verybusy."

Becker sounded as official as possible. "It is an urgentmatter. The man had a broken wrist and a head injury. He wastreated sometime this morning. His file should be right ontop."

Becker thickened the accent in his Spanish—just clearenough to convey his needs, just confusing enough to beexasperating. People had a way of bending the rules when they wereexasperated.

Instead of bending the rules, however, the woman cursedself-important North Americans and slammed down the phone.

Becker frowned and hung up. Strikeout. The thought of waitinghours in line didn't thrill him; the clock wasticking—the old Canadian could be anywhere by now. Maybe hehad decided to go back to Canada. Maybe he would sell the ring.Becker didn't have hours to wait in line. With reneweddetermination, Becker snatched up the receiver and redialed. Hepressed the phone to his ear and leaned back against the wall. Itbegan to ring. Becker gazed out into the room. One ring… tworings… three—

A sudden surge of adrenaline coursed through his body.

Becker wheeled and slammed the receiver back down into itscradle. Then he turned and stared back into the room in stunnedsilence. There on a cot, directly in front of him, propped up on apile of old pillows, lay an elderly man with a clean white cast onhis right wrist.