"All right," Rafael said to the dead Rivas, "now you're a Republican."
The watch on Santiago's wrist read 11.29 when Rafael, the last man to
leave, melted into the crowd around the band. People on the sidewalk
could hear feet pounding heavily through the large empty rooms of the
Embassy. Lights were going on in all the dark windows. Yells. A woman's
scream.
At the head of the parade, a baton twirled. The uniforms started to move
forward. The crowd on the sidelines followed the band.
* * * * *
Later, sitting in Lobo's office, the mass of documents from the shirts
of Santiago and Eduardo and Rafael on the desk before the general, Hall
remembered his outcry when he found the picture of Ansaldo and the Axis
officers giving the fascist salute. My "got it!" got poor Rivas, he
thought. I'm still an amateur at it. Santiago was good; found dynamite,
but he kept his mouth shut. Eduardo was good; cracked the locks and kept
his mouth shut. Rafael was good; finished off the bastard from the
Fourth Floor in seconds, and remembered to use a knife, and kept his
mouth shut until it was all over. Funny the way he stood over what
remained of Rivas and said, "All right, now you're a Republican."
Mocking, yet respectful. It was good; no forgiveness for the dead man's
treachery but respect for his insane courage.
"It was a nice band concert, yes?" Lobo said. "Plenty of bim bam boom in
the drums. Tsing! Tsing! Cymbals. Tarantara, tarantara."
"Sure."
"I'm a one-man band, eh, keed?"
"Colossal."
"What's eating you, Matt? That little slob who killed himself with his
big mouth?"
"It was my fault, Jaime. It was my big mouth."
The General picked up a fistful of the documents which had cost the life
of Fernando Rivas. "What the hell is his life worth compared to the
lives of the hundreds of American seamen who now won't be sent to the
bottom by Nazi torpedoes in the South Atlantic? I'll say it again, Matt,
and if you'd stick around long enough, I could prove it. By tomorrow
morning I'll have at least twenty mucking bastards in the calabozo
thanks to what's in these papers; twenty fascist snakes who are the eyes
and the ears and the oil and the water of the Nazi subs in this part of
the ocean. You did it--and at the cost of only one second-rate life.
Isn't it worth it?"
Hall was going through the documents on the desk. Bombshells, most of
them.
_Mandato # 36: 1940. From: Inspector-General Delegacion
Nacional, del Servicio Exterior, de Falange Espanola
Tradicionalista de las J.O.N.S. To: Jefe Supremo, Falange de
San Hermano._ In Re: A.T.N. Effective immediately you will form
Accion Tradicionalista Nacional, to replace organization of
Falange ordered dissolved by the Jew-Communist betrayer, Tabio.
You will replace Yoke and Arrows with new symbol of Cross and
Sword. Until further orders, you will not enter Spanish Embassy
or consulates. _Camarada_ Portada will arrive with detailed
orders within thirty days. _Saluda a_ Franco! _Arriba_ Espana!
_Mandato # 74: 1941, Servicio Exterior. Confidential_:
Enrique Gamburdo entered Tabio government with permission and
approval of the National Delegation of the Falange. _Camarada_
Gamburdo is to be given the support and unquestioning loyalty
due an Old Shirt. There will be no exceptions to this order.
Signed ...
_Orden # 107: 1941. Confidential_: Our heroic Japanese Allies
have today destroyed the Jew-Protestant-Marxist American fleet
in Honolulu. _Camaradas_ of the Cross and Sword must be
prepared to defend the wise peace policies of _Camarada_
Gamburdo against the Jewish war mongers who will now try to
make the Kahal the government in San Hermano. El Caudillo has
shown how the Motherland can frustrate the war mongers. Do not
falter and delay the glorious hour of our final victory.
_Camarada_ Marcelino Gassau will soon arrive in San Hermano
with instructions on how to help the victory. Signed ...
"Photograph these, will you, Jaime?"
Lobo was sorting out the documents in rough piles. Sabotage. Espionage.
Undersea warfare. Guantanamo. Cuban politics. "The works," he grinned.
"In a week, this haul will have crammed our prisons with fascist rats.
If we didn't have to avoid treading on the toes of your State Department
these documents would be enough to put the Spanish Ambassador in the
calabozo and bring about a break with Franco. But even if it happens,
you won't be around to see it, Matt. You're leaving in exactly four
hours."
"Four hours?"
"Just a minute. That's my private phone. Yes, General Lobo speaking." He
put his hand over the mouthpiece. "Pick up the other phone. It's the
Spanish Ambassador."
"O.K."
"Yes, Mr. Ambassador?"
"General! Something terrible has happened."
"Terrible?"
"There's been a murder in the Embassy. Someone broke into the Embassy
and shot one of our attaches. Communists, I think."
"Is he dead? When did this all happen?"
"Five minutes ago."
Hall and Lobo looked at the wall clock. The hands showed ten minutes
after one.
"Five minutes or hours, Mr. Ambassador?"
"Minutes, General. It just happened."
"Where did it happen?"
"On the stairs. The back stairs, between the third and fourth floors. It
is terrible."
"Who is the man?"
"Elicio Portada, General Lobo. Poor Portada!"
"Just a minute." He put his hand over the mouthpiece. "Listen to those
lies, will you? Only one body. Three hours to dispose of the Rivas
carcass and search the files. Did you leave them in much of a mess,
Matt?"
"I don't remember."
"It doesn't matter." The hand came away from the phone. "Hello. Yes,
this is still General Lobo. Mr. Ambassador, I have very serious news for
you. As the representative of a friendly neutral, I am sure we can count
on your co-operation."
"What is it, General?"
"We happen to have incontrovertible evidence that the late Elicio
Portada was connected with a Nazi-Falange ring in direct contact with
German submarine fleets in these waters. My immediate deduction is that
he was killed by members of this ring to keep him from confessing to us.
He was on the verge of making a complete confession."
"What? It is preposterous! I shall protest to the Foreign Minister!"
"Suit yourself, senor. Our evidence is incontrovertible. In the
meanwhile, thanks to your attitude as you now express it. I must remind
you that while the crime was committed on what is legally Spanish
territory, if you move the body one inch out of the Embassy grounds you
will be moving it on to Cuban national territory. Do you understand me?
Not one body is to be moved out of the Embassy without my consent. Not
one body, do you understand?"
"My government shall protest your interference, General Lobo."
"Let them. I'm sending two men over to the Embassy. Tell them what
happened. And make up a list of all of Portada's friends. We'll find the
murderer on that list, I'll warrant." He hung up the telephone with a
slam.
"Let him sleep that off," he laughed. "My super-dooper crime laboratory
will prove that the Ambassador lied about the time of the shooting. My
super-sleuths will find bloodstains on the third-floor landing--and I
hope to Christ Rivas has a different blood type than Portada. My
super-sleuths will keep a straight face when the fascists hand them the
gun of the missing murderer. Then my colossal courtesy-of-the-F.B.I.
crime laboratory will find Rivas's fingerprints on the gun. Mystery:
where is Rivas?"
"Have you got his fingerprints?"
"Teniente," Lobo shouted into the inter-phone, "send those Einsteins of
crime to the home of Fernando Rivas of the Spanish Embassy. Bring back
fingerprints: best place to find them is liquor bottle, razor, hair
brush--and do it fast."
"Good going."
"I'll teach that fascist bastard to tell me nursery tales on the
telephone at one in the morning." Lobo was growing genuinely indignant.
"God, how I wish you didn't have to leave town, Matt. I'm going to be
running a circus for the next two weeks!"
"I'll take a rain check on it, Jaime. Maybe I can come back in time for
the closing day."
"Who knows?" Lobo sent for his aide, ordered microfilm copies of the
documents to be ready in four hours. "And bring me the special belts and
harnesses, Teniente."
"Did you get me a seat on a Panair plane? I thought Figueroa would take
care of that."
"Better than that, my boy." Lobo crossed the room, opened a panel in the
wall. It revealed a closet filled with uniforms. "Get into one that
fits, Mateo. I have a seat for you on a Flying Fortress headed for
Caracas."
"_Yanqui?_"
"_Yanqui._ You're traveling as Major Angel Blanco of my confidential
staff. You are going south for me on a most delicate mission. You speak
very little English, and you stink from pomade. Besides, you wear these
thick glasses and you've been out on such a night of wild Latin
debauchery that you sleep most of the time. In short, you are the
Anglo-Saxon's dream of the stupid, conceited, lecherous Latin officer
who can't hold his liquor."
"_Claro._ I'm repulsive."
"Yes, but you are also a walking microfilm file, only no one knows it.
Your belt, your Sam Browne harness, the lining of your short boots, the
inside of the visor of your cap are filled with identical sets of
microfilms. Your pouch carries a letter from me to a General XYZ in
code--and God preserve the sanity of anyone who attempts to uncode it.
It will add up to precisely three tons of _mierda de caballo_."
Hall found a uniform that fit him. He got into it, smeared the proffered
pomade into his black hair. "Do I carry any baggage?"
"We'll pack you a bag. Two extra uniforms, pictures of your wife, your
mistress, and your mother, a pound of pomade, a few copies of the
_Infantry Journal_--it will be all right."
"I can imagine. But before I go, Jaime, there's something I don't quite
get. Why did the Spanish Embassy crowd have to hide Rivas's body? Why
couldn't they admit that he did it?"
Lobo adjusted Hall's tunic. "Elementary, my dear Watson," he said. "The
Portada blighter was sleeping with the Rivas bloke's wife. It's the
Ambassador's job to avoid scandals within the happy family. Admitting
Rivas killed Portada over a rag, a bone, and a hank o' hair would be a
confession the Ambassador couldn't run his own show. Elementary?"
"No. You're improvising, and the notes sound all wrong. Let me know
about it when you really find out, Sherlock."
"Come back in two weeks." General Lobo yawned, stretched his long frame.
"I'll take you to the American air base myself," he said. "I'll
introduce you and act as your interpreter. And after you take off,
you'll be on your own. Who's meeting you in Caracas, by the way?"
"Major Diego Segador. Know him?"
Lobo smiled. "You'll get through," he said. "Segador has nine lives,
each of them tougher than the side of a battleship. Ask him to tell you
what we did to those three Nazi heavyweights in San Souci in '39. _Madre
de Dios_, Mateo, it was carnage!"
Twenty steps down the corridor, a Negro technician was focusing a sharp
lens on page three of _Arriba_ for April 27, 1938. The picture which
spread across four columns of the top of the page was remarkably like
the picture Hall had carried in his mind since that day with Jerry in
San Hermano. The fans in the negative dryer were whirring over
twenty-odd other negatives. Lobo was right, Hall realized. They were
worth the life of one Rivas, they might yet take the life of a Hall. The
stakes were worth the risk. Kill the beast in San Hermano, drive a knife
into its arteries, keep it from crawling north and its foul breath
beginning to stink up the clean air. Kill, so you can live again, kill,
so you can go back to Ohio when the beast was dead, and have children
and not worry that some day they'd have to kill or be killed too. Kill
for the same reasons the Rafaels and the Santiagos and the Lobos kill
and you'll never have to lose a night's sleep.
"What are you thinking, Mateo?"
"I'm thinking of the girl I'm going to marry in two weeks."
"_Hijo de la gran puta!_ He's in love, too! Let's go to the laboratory.
We've got a lot to do before you go."
_Chapter seventeen_
The American Army plane banked sharply over the blacked-out Caracas
field. Three times the four-motored ship circled the airport, breaking
its speed, rousing the men who controlled the lights along the correct
runways. During the second time around, Hall thought he saw a Douglas
with the bright green-and-white flag on its wings. He was not so sure
the third time.
The pilot brought his ship in gently. It rolled down the new concrete
strip, a silver juggernaut in a cloud of red dust. Hall climbed out,
gave the captain a silver cigarette case as a souvenir of the trip. The
plane was not through for the night; it was to take on more fuel and
proceed to a base farther south.
Hall went to the small operations building. He showed his papers to a
sleepy official, had his passport stamped. "That Douglas on the other
end of the field," he said to the official, "is that the plane from San
Hermano?"
The official didn't know. He offered to find out. "It is not of
importance," Hall said. He left his bag with the official. "I will be
ready to go to the city as soon as the American plane takes off. Is that
car for me?"
He went out to the field, stood chatting with the American flying
officers as they stretched their legs and smoked while their plane was
readied for the next leg of their flight. The boys were an agreeable
surprise, or they had a C. O. with brains; each of them spoke some
degree of Spanish, and to a man they were polite to the "Cuban officer"
who had made the trip with them. It was a decent, non-condescending
politeness.
"I am going to ask General Lobo to thank you all for your kindness," he
said. "You are, as they say in English, _damn regular guys_!"
The young captain, who had given Hall his life history and his Seattle
home address, was touched. "Aw," he said, "we're just ordinary Yanks,
Major Blanco. Don't forget to look me up if you ever get to Seattle
after the war. Then I'll show you some real hospitality. _Entiende?_"
"Oh, I understand perfectly, Captain. And you must visit me, too. You
can always reach me through General Lobo." Hall, who had calmly
appropriated the story of Lobo's boyhood and palmed it off on the
captain as his own during the flight, began to laugh. "Oh, yes,
Captain," he said, "we will have the most amazing reunion after the
war."
"Well," the American pilot said, "we're shoving off now."
Hall exchanged salutes and handshakes with the Fortress crew. "_Hasta
pronto_," he shouted, as the last man climbed aboard. He remained where
he stood, waving at the Americans, when he saw the outlines of Segador's
thick shoulders emerging from the lighted doorway of the administration
building. Segador was walking toward the Douglas.
He approached Hall, glanced at the Cuban uniform for a second, and
continued on his way to the parked plane. There was no hint of
recognition.
"Pardon me," Hall said to Segador, "have you a match, please?"
"Of course."
"Ah, Major, I see the stamp of the government match monopoly. Would you
be from San Hermano, by any chance?"
In the darkness, Segador's hand crept toward the huge pistol in his
holster. Hall held the unlighted match in his fingers. It was
unbelievable; he was still unrecognized. He had been speaking to Segador
in a disguised voice. "It is a very black night," he said in his normal
voice.
"Yes--Colonel."
"Thank you, but it's major. Major Angel Blanco of the Cuban Army,
senor." Then he struck the match, held it close to the cigar in his
mouth.
"_Madre de Dios!_ It's you!"
"Who the hell did you think it was, Diego? Wilhelm Androtten?"
"I am a fool. But the uniform, the glasses--this confounded
blackness...."
"Is that the plane?"
"Yes. We can't take off until morning. I can't trust the night flying
instruments. Was it worth the trip?"
"_In spades_," he said, in English.
"It was successful?"
"Very much, Diego. I found the picture. I found other things." He told
him about the documents on San Hermano which Santiago had taken from the
steel boxes. "If we stand behind the plane can we be seen by anyone?"
"No. Only by my men in the cabin."
"Good." They walked farther into the blackness, put the plane between
themselves and any eyes that might be watching them from the field
buildings. "Quick," Hall said, "give me your belt and take mine. It is
loaded with a complete set of negatives."
The exchange was completed in seconds. "I've got three duplicate sets
hidden on my person," Hall said. "Now they'll have to kill both of us to
stop the truth from reaching San Hermano."
"I'm sleeping in the plane," Segador said. "You had better sleep in
town. Did you arrange for a hotel, Mateo?"
"Lobo arranged a room for me through the Cuban Legation. There's a
diplomatic car at the gate now, waiting to take me to town. What time do
we start out?"
"A minute after sunrise."
"I'll be here. Can I bring anything from the hotel? Hot coffee? Beer?"
"No. We have everything. Even," he looked up at the plane and smiled,
"even machine-gun belts."
Hall followed his eyes. He found himself facing the twin barrels of the
machine guns in the side panel of the Douglas. There was a young soldier
at the firing end of the guns.
"You do well, Sergeant," Segador said. "At ease."
"Can he use them, Diego?"
"He is a fantastic shot, that boy. He was in Spain. But you will meet
him tomorrow."
"All right. But tell me one thing, if you can. It's been bothering me
for days. How did Ansaldo...?"
"Don't. I hate to think of it, Mateo. The fascists put us all in a
bottle. _El Imparcial_ ran a big story on the front page--they charged
that Don Anibal's only chance for life lay in an operation by Ansaldo.
They also hinted that selfish politicians were tying Ansaldo's hands.
The Cabinet had to capitulate."
"And Lavandero?"
"He didn't vote."
"Poor Anibal! What was it that finally killed him?"
Segador savagely bit the end off a cigar. "His faith in scoundrels!" he
said, vehemently. "Enough, Mateo. Shut up before I--I ..."
* * * * *
Hall rode into town, had dinner sent up to his room. For an hour or so,
he read the local papers. Then he turned out the lights, took off his
tunic, opened his shirt collar, and put the Sam Browne belt with the
hidden pockets on the bed beside him. It was to be a night of rest
without sleep, a night of relaxing on the unmade bed with a hand never
farther than six inches from one of his two guns. Twice during the long
night he took benzedrine pills to keep awake. There could be no sleep
until the plane was well under way.
* * * * *
The two-motored Douglas was warming her engines when the Cuban
diplomatic car delivered Hall to the airport. "Drive right over to that
bomber," he ordered. "Fast."
"Hey," he shouted before the car could skid to a stop, "taking off
without me?"
Segador, freshly shaven, stepped to the doorway of the plane. "No. Get
on board. We were waiting. Toss me your grip."
Hall tipped the driver of the car with a five-dollar note. "Give me a
hand, Diego. I'm not an antelope." Segador and the young sergeant pulled
him into the cabin.
"Meet my crew. Major Blanco--First Pilot Captain Millares, Co-Pilot
Navigator Lieutenant Cuesta, Sergeant Mechanic Ruiz. They are a picked
crew, and they know what is at stake in this flight."
The flying officers were at the controls. They saluted Hall, bade him
welcome. "Snub Nose says we can take off," the captain told Segador.
"Then let's take off. Snub Nose, give Blanco a hand with his safety
belt. His hands are stiff."
The wiry little sergeant fastened Hall's belt. "A lot of good it will do
you if we ground-loop, Major," he grinned.
This one was a Spaniard. Hall knew it at once. Young, no more than
twenty-five, but very dry behind the ears. "_Chico_," he said, "if we
crash and I get hurt I'll murder you."
"You terrify me." Snub Nose was laughing with the animal glee of sheer
happiness in being alive. "But I like you. I brought a bucket along just
for you when you get air-sick."
"That's enough out of you, General Cisneros!" the first pilot yelled
into the microphone in his fist. "Come on up to the office and stop
bothering your betters."
"Call me when you feel sick," the boy roared at Hall, his strong-timbred
voice rising above the blasts of the engines. He went up forward, stood
behind the pilots as the big plane taxied into position and took off.
"I examined the negatives last night," Segador said. "They are worth all
they have cost. Were they very hard to get, Mateo?"
"Two lives. But one was a doomed life. It was not hard."
"Feel like sleeping?" Segador pointed to an inflated rubber pallet in
the bomb bay.
"I could use a few hours of sleep," Hall admitted. He made his way to
the pallet, covered himself with an army greatcoat.
He slept heavily, waking only to eat, to stretch his legs once when they
landed to refuel and show their papers to a new set of officials, and,
finally, when Segador shook him and told him to put on his parachute.
"We're near the border," Segador said. He had a map and a heavy black
pencil in his left hand. "Can you put it on?"
Hall had worn similar chutes while flying with the R.A.F. over France.
He waved Snub Nose away with a derisive gesture. "Back to your nursery,
_chico_," he said to the sergeant. "I was wearing chutes when you were
in diapers."
"I'm sorry," Snub Nose said, deliberately misunderstanding, "we can't
give you a diaper, senor. Just make believe you're wearing a diaper if
you have to jump."
Hall looked out of the window. The late afternoon sun was beginning to
wane.
"Look," Segador said, making a mark on the map. "We are here now. I'd
planned on crossing our own borders just after dark. But we had a strong
tail wind all the way. We're ahead of time."
"Good."
"It's not so good, Mateo. Most of the army is loyal, but for the last
two months Gamburdo has been bringing the Germans back into the army."
"Germans?"
"We call them the Germans. I mean the sons of the _estancieros_ and the
_senoritos_ who became officers under Segura while he had his Reichswehr
experts running the army. Tabio kicked them out, but he neglected to
shoot them. The bastards are everywhere now. We have to assume that they
know I left the country in a Douglas bomber. You might have been
recognized in Havana or in Caracas by Falangist agents. The Germans are
also able to put two and two together."
"I was very careful."
"But it cost two lives." Segador flipped a switch on the panel in front
of his seat. "Attention, everyone," he said into his microphone.
"Lieutenant, how soon before we reach the national border?"
"If we maintain our air speed, Major, we are due to cross the border in
less than forty minutes."
"Good. Come back here, please." Then, while the co-pilot left his seat
up front and started back to the seats near the bomb bay, Segador
continued talking. "Captain, you know what we must expect. The fliers
are all loyal; I don't think they would shoot down one of our own planes
without permission of their chief. But there are too many Germans in the
A-A arm. We may have trouble from the ground."
"I can fly higher, sir. We are now at seven thousand."
"Take her up to nine." He turned to the navigator. "How much will that
put between our belly and the mountain tops at the border?"
"Three thousand, Major."
"Not enough."
"We can climb higher and fly on oxygen," the captain suggested.
"No. We've got to take this chance," Segador said. There was not enough
oxygen on board, and only the major knew that this was because the chief
of the air arm feared the new officers who handled the oxygen depot.
"Navigator, take a look at my map." The pencil traced a straight line
extending two hundred miles across the border. "Is this our course?"
"Yes, Major. We are flying on course now."
"Thanks." Segador looked at his watch, extended the pencil line another
hundred miles into the country. "Snub Nose--how much flying time is left
in our fuel tanks?"
"Three hours."
The point of the pencil came to rest at the end of the line Segador had
drawn on the map. "Can we make this point on our gas and still have
enough left to fly back to San Martin Airport _from the north_? It would
mean flying a wide circle."