“I want you to get me a seat on the next flight to Miami. The very next.”
The secretary nodded. “You want me to call Mr. Keats and ask him to have someone meet you?”
“No. Don’t. What I do want you to do is take all my calls and tell them you don’t know where I am or how long I’ll be gone. And that means everyone.”
“Even Mr. Keats?”
“Even him,” Gladys Citron said.
Draper Haere walked down the hotel corridor until he came to the room occupied by Morgan Citron and Velveeta Keats. He knocked at the door. It was opened by a short, chunky black man.
“Who the hell are you?” Haere said.
“I?” the man said. “I am Cecilio. And you?”
Before Haere could reply, Velveeta Keats was at the door. “It's all right, Cecilio. This is Mr. Haere.” To Haere she said, “Morgan's not back yet, but come on in.”
Haere entered the room to find that it was occupied by yet another black man, a tall thin one. “This is Jacques,” she said. “He and Cecilio work for my papa and he sent ‘em down to, I don’t know, baby-sit, I reckon.” She paused. “They’re Haitian and they speak French a whole lot better’n they do English. You speak French?”
“A few words is all,” Haere said.
“Our English grows,” Cecilio said.
“I can see that,” Haere said and turned to Velveeta Keats. “We’ve got a problem.”
“A problem!” Jacques said. “It is why we are present. Let us make the repairs.”
Haere's forehead wrinkled with doubt. Cecilio looked hurt. “I can see by your visage you have much doubt. Is it because our skin is black and our English poor but growing?”
“You haven’t heard the problem yet, friend.”
Jacques nodded thoughtfully. “That is true. Tell us.”
Again, Haere looked skeptically at Velveeta Keats, who said, “Papa swears by ‘em both, Draper.”
“Okay,” Haere said. “Well, the problem is this: Citron got into a shooting scrape this morning. He was taken to the Presidential Palace. He may still be there. Or he may be in jail. I want to find out where he is and get him out.”
“Was he hurt?” Velveeta Keats asked.
“No. At least I don’t think so.”
“Shooting scrape?” Cecilio said, his tone asking for a translation.
“Bang-bang,” Haere said.
“Aaah. Please. Listen.” Cecilio pointed toward the window. The small-arms fire could be heard quite clearly. It sounded even closer. Cecilio smiled. “Much bang-bang.”
“You know what it's all about?” Haere asked.
Cecilio nodded. So did Jacques, who said, “La
contre-revolution”
“Is this indeed the same Monsieur Citron who speaks the fine French?” Cecilio asked.
“He speaks French, Spanish, and I don’t know what else,” Haere said.
“English, clearly,” Jacques said and turned to Cecilio. They conferred in their rapid soft Creole-accented French for almost a minute. Their conference over, they turned back to Haere with supremely confident expressions.
“We have experience considerable in such matters, Cecilio and I,” Jacques said. Cecilio nodded. Jacques continued: “Money is essential.”
“Bribes?”
“But of course.”
Haere looked again at Velveeta Keats. She shrugged. “All I know is Papa swears by ‘em.”
Haere looked first at the fireplug Cecilio and then at the beanpole Jacques. “And you know Citron?”
“He is our dear friend,” Cecilio said.
Haere started unbuttoning his vest and shirt. When open, they revealed a tan nylon money belt. Haere twisted the belt around until he could untie its ends. He took it off, placed it on the writing table, zipped it open, and counted out $1,000 dollars in $50 bills, which he folded and placed in his pants pocket. He handed the money belt to Jacques. “There's nine thousand in there,” Haere said. “See what you can do.”
“We are wise spenders,” Jacques said as he caressed the money belt.
Both men started for the door, but stopped when Haere said, “By the way.”
“Yes?”
“How's your Spanish?”
“Excellent,” Jacques said. “Almost as good as our growing English.”
“Except for a small Cuban accent,” Cecilio said.
“Which we work to correct.”
They went through the door, closing it behind them. Haere turned to Velveeta Keats and noticed the tears running down her cheeks.
“That won’t do any good,” he said, unable to think of anything else to say.
“I can’t help it.”
Haere found a handkerchief and handed it to her. “Here. Blow on that or something.”
She wiped her tears away and blew her nose loudly. “What do we do now?”
“You and me?”
She nodded.
“We go raise hell at the embassy.”
“Will it help Morgan?”
“Probably not.”
She blew her nose again. “Draper?”
“Yes?”
“They wouldn’t shoot Morgan or anything like that, would they?”
“I really don’t know,” he said.
The prison that the young captain and the even younger lieutenant took Morgan Citron to had been built 206 years before on a cliff facing the sea. It was high-walled and damp and smelled of rotting fish and human waste.
Citron stood in the chief warder's office, his wrists locked behind him in handcuffs. The warder studied the papers on his desk that con
tained the instructions for the disposition of the prisoner. The warder was an army major called Torres. He was fat and overage in grade. A trace of saliva leaked from the left corner of his mouth. He wiped it away with a green silk handkerchief as he studied the papers. After finishing the papers he glanced up at Citron and then leaned back in his chair, his eyes shifting to the young seated captain. Citron thought the warder's eyes spoke of corruption. He hoped he was right.
“The telephones are out,” Major Torres said, keeping his tone casual, almost indifferent.
“When are they not?” the captain said.
“And the firing? It seems to be coming from nearer the city center.”
The captain shrugged. “A small band of drunkards with old M1 s and eight rounds each.”
Major Torres nodded. “And the television?”
“I have not watched the television,” the captain said.
“Nothing but
Gunsmoke
episodes. On the radio there is no news either. Nothing but martial music. Each time I turn it on they are playing ‘The Washington Post March.’“
“It both soothes and inspires,” the captain said.
“And what of the general?”
“He is well and fully in command of the situation. Already he has taken corrective measures.”
Major Torres nodded doubtfully, wiped his mouth again, and pointed at Citron with his chin. “And this one. He is to be shot tomorrow morning. Why not do it now and get it over with?”
“Tomorrow morning,” the captain said firmly. “Everything must be done exactly according to your orders. It is a matter of some delicacy.”
Major Torres grunted. “Executions are never delicate.” He studied Citron. “Is he rich?”
“No,” the captain said.
“Important?”
“He is a convicted spy. That's all you need to know.”
Again, Major Torres grunted. “If he is neither rich nor important, we should shoot him now.”
“You have your orders, Major,” the captain said.
Torres ignored the captain and examined Citron carefully. “Well, spy, what have you got to say?”
“I have no wish to be shot.”
“You speak very good Spanish.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you have money?”
“None.”
“If you had money, you could buy a fine last meal.” “I have no money.”
“Then you will eat what the rest eat.” Major Torres pressed a button on his desk. A guard entered. The young lieutenant rose and unlocked Citron's handcuffs. The guard looked questioningly at Major Torres.
“He is to be shot in the morning,” Torres said. “Find him a nice cell.”
The guard nodded, took Citron by the left arm, and led him away.
The cell was on the ocean side of the prison. There was a barred window high up. The cell was small, no more than five by seven. It was lit by a single bulb and contained a plastic bucket, a clay jug of water, and a low stone bed. A folded blanket was on the bed.
“I can sell you cigarettes and food and even liquor, if you have money,” the guard said.
“I have no money,” Citron said. “It was taken from me.”
The guard shrugged as he closed and locked the cell door. The door was made of iron bars. Citron looked around the cell and sat down on the stone bed. He sat there for nearly an hour, staring down at the floor, his head bowed, his arms on his knees, thinking of past
mistakes, old loves, untaken paths, and the final indignity he would have to brook, which was death. After that, no more surprises ever. He absolved himself of all sins, if sins there were; almost but not quite forgave his enemies; rose, and urinated into the plastic bucket. When he was through urinating, he sat back down on the stone bed and took off his right shoe. He then rolled down his sock and slipped the gold Rolex from his ankle. He put the watch in the plastic bucket. It would be safe there, he knew, at least for a while.
He folded his jacket into a pillow. He lay down on the stone bed, his hands locked behind his head. He stared up at the high stone ceiling. After a while he closed his eyes. After a while he even slept—and dreamed of Africa.
The office was large enough to pace in. It belonged to the charge d’affaires of the United States embassy, who sat behind his teak desk and watched the man in the three-piece blue pinstripe pace up and down as he cajoled, implored, and even threatened.
The charge d’affaires was Neal Rink. He was fifty-nine years old and had risen as high as he would ever rise in the Foreign Service of the United States. Threats, even threats from such smooth articles as Draper Haere, no longer bothered him. Ten years ago, he thought, you might’ve hopped; fifteen years ago you would’ve leaped. Now he smiled, leaned back in his chair, and said, “So it's come to this, has it?”
Haere stopped pacing and looked at Rink. “To what?”
“To threats.”
“I’m not threatening you, Mr. Rink. All I’m—”
Rink, still smiling, interrupted. “You
are
threatening me, Mr. Haere. You’re threatening me with assorted members of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, with a gaggle of congressmen you seem to have in your hip pocket, with crucifixion in both the
New York Times
and the
Washington Post
, and with disgrace, dishonor, and possible bankruptcy.”
Rink reached down into his bottom drawer and came up with a bottle of J&B Scotch whisky. “I suppose I should tell you that I’ve got a rich wife and that I’m retiring from the fudge factory in exactly two months and nine days. With that in mind, maybe you’d be willing to drop the act and join me in a glass of whisky. I’m sure Miss Keats would also like one.”
Velveeta Keats nodded. “Yes, sir, I would.” She looked up at Haere from her chair in front of Rink's desk. “You sounded awful mad there, Draper.”
Haere grinned. “I was selling. I always sound mad when I’m selling.”
“You’re really quite good,” Rink said as he poured the Scotch and added water from his desk carafe. “I assume it's quite effective when dealing with candidates for public office.”
“It's one of the first things I learned,” Haere said as he accepted his drink. “If you sound angry, you also sound convinced. People like conviction. Especially in politics, where it's a reasonably rare commodity.” Haere took a long swallow of his drink, sat down in the chair next to Velveeta Keats, and looked at Rink. “Okay. Let's hear it. What can you do about Citron?”
Rink had some of his Scotch. He seemed to like its taste. Then he sighed and said, “Nothing.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Nothing until Merry finds out what they’ve done with him. We need to know where the body is.” He smiled at Velveeta Keats. “I didn’t mean that literally, of course.”
“No, sir. I didn’t think you did.”
“There's also another problem.” Rink tilted his head toward the window. “Hear it?”
Both Haere and Velveeta Keats nodded. The gunfire, although still distant, seemed to be increasing in intensity. “That's the sound of counterrevolution,” Rink said. “One that has at least a six-to-five chance of succeeding. For Mr. Citron's sake, you’d best hope that it does.”
Before they could ask why, there was a knock at Rink's door. Rink told the knocker to come in. The door opened and Don Merry entered. His hair was mussed, his tie loosened; he looked haggard. There was no smile.
“Well?” Rink said.
“I’ve just come from the palace.”
“Were you able to see the general?”
“No, sir. It was impossible. There's suddenly a siege mentality over there. But I did see Colonel Velasco.”
Rink looked at Haere. “Velasco is the general's chief aide.” He turned back to Merry. “Well, come on, Don, let's have it.”
“They tried Citron this morning. They tried him, convicted him, and sentenced him.”
“How long did he get?” Rink asked.
“Until tomorrow morning. He's to be shot at six tomorrow morning.”
“Dear God,” Rink said.
CHAPTER 33
The first thing the two Haitians did with Draper Haere's $9,000 was to suborn the assistant manager of an Avis franchise. The Haitians wished to rent a Dodge van. The assistant manager was reluctant. He was convinced the counterrevolution would succeed and that the Avis cars and vans would be expropriated by the new regime. Clearly, he would be without work, because his politics, unfortunately, were not of the left. He must now think of his future. Cecilio asked the assistant manager if $500 would enhance his prospects. The assistant manager said that, by strange coincidence, it was the precise amount he had in mind. He could now rent them the van with a clear conscience.
In the rear storeroom of a small shop that usually sold leather sandals, the two Haitians bought two cases of blackmarket Ballantine Scotch whisky and ten cartons of Marlboros. The whisky cost them $75 a bottle; the cigarettes went for $100 a carton. With the whisky and cigarettes in the rear of the van, their next stop was the Presidential Palace.
At least three companies of infantry in full battle gear now surrounded the palace. The van was stopped a block away from the palace gates by a young private soldier armed with an M-16. “Do you smoke, brave young soldier?” Jacques asked. The brave young soldier replied that he did indeed. Jacques handed him a carton of Marlboros
and inquired as to the whereabouts of his commanding officer. The soldier said that Captain Vadillo at the moment was taking his ease in the park on a bench.