The Annihilators (37 page)

She gave me a level glance. “You know why I’m asking this, don’t you?”

“I can guess,” I said. “Your husband can’t bear to think of those trigger-happy guerillas of his—well, they were his for an afternoon—taking orders from anybody else.”

“Ricardo has offered him a rather high commission in the Army of Costa Verde Liberation.”

“And with that and twenty cents he can make a phone call, except where it costs a quarter.”

Gloria Jean shook her head quickly. “No, you mustn’t make fun of it. It’s very serious for me, Sam. For both of us. Because I can make it go either way. If I ridicule it as you just did, if I kick and scream and say I can’t stand having him do this crazy thing doesn’t he love me any more, he’ll refuse it and forget it, I’m afraid. Well, not forget it, he’ll never forget it, but he’ll resign himself to—”

“Afraid?” I interrupted, looking at her curiously. “You’re
afraid
that he’ll do what you want him to?”

She gave me that straight look of hers again. “Of course. Because he shouldn’t, should he? If it’s what he really wants, really needs, should he give it up because his stupid wife throws a stupid tantrum?” She made a wry face. “I mean, it isn’t as if he’d ever lied to me or deceived me. I knew I was getting a soldier when I married him, didn’t I? We made our… our deal on that basis; and he’d be perfectly justified on booting me to hell out of his life if I started having second thoughts and trying to interfere with his chosen career. And before Vietnam he’d have done it, too. But they took such a lot out of him in that war and afterward, they took such a lot away from him, including the work he was trained for; and I’m afraid that the bitter way he feels now I really could influence him against his better judgment. That’s why I need your advice. If this revolution is a lost cause, should I let him accept that commission anyway? Can I let him go and maybe be killed, when I know I can stop him if I really try?”

I said, “That’s kind of up to you, isn’t it, Gloria Jean? Do you want a safe half man or an unsafe whole one?”

She drew a ragged breath. “I guess that’s about it. It’s been so wonderful seeing him come back to life, so to speak; but is it worth his life to keep him that way?”

I said, “According to Bultman, who should know, Jim had those clumsy, inexperienced revolutionaries behaving like seasoned jungle fighters in a mere couple of hours. Your man is good at what he does.”

“Of course he is,” she said calmly. “But that doesn’t solve my problem, does it?”

“Don’t be too sure,” I said. “Because with Jim in the picture, the picture could change considerably. With Ricardo and his well-known name for the country to rally to, and his crippled body to remind everybody of the brutal oppression they’re fighting; and with Jim whipping those wild-eyed liberators into a disciplined fighting force and handling them expertly, there could be a significant shift in the odds. I’m sticking my neck out saying it—I’m no military expert—but they could make it. Indications are that Rael’s army isn’t very loyal. If they get hit hard once or twice, they may start coming over in droves with all their U.S.-made equipment, flocking to the Jimenez name they remember from the time of his soldier daddy, forgetting that old Hector wasn’t the greatest president they ever had—just as Montano hoped when he got Ricardo sprung out of La Fortaleza. Remembering
El Jefe Mayor
, they may even adopt
El Jefe Menor
as a mascot and carry him on their shoulders right into the Palace of the Governors. It’s a wild scenario, but it could happen
—if
somebody with military brains is handling the fighting end of it. Somebody like Jim Putnam.”

There was a long silence. At last Gloria Jean shook her head minutely. “I’m a bitch. I’m discovering that wasn’t the answer I wanted to hear.”

“I know.”

“But… but you can’t keep a man around for a pet if he’s worth anything, can you? Anyway, I had that, years of that, and it wasn’t so great.”

After a little, I said, “There’s something Jim should know if he takes the job. There are a lot of munitions hidden away in that cave we were all going to see at Copalque, that we never got around to exploring as a party. Montano hid them there. They’re booby-trapped, so anybody who goes in after them had better know what he’s doing, but I can’t imagine Lupe being too fancy with his explosives and detonators.”

Gloria Jean frowned. “I’ll tell Jim, of course; but isn’t it likely that Ricardo already knows—”

“That’s not my point,” I said. “The point is, if he takes charge, Jim should make a special effort to get that stuff out of there immediately. The cave is sacred to the local people, they employ it for… certain ceremonies, and they’re not going to be fond of anybody who blasphemes against the old gods by using it as an arsenal. Tell Jim to look up a gent called Cortez, rather an impressive old character, you may have seen him around when we were there. He’s the local high priest. Tell Jim to apologize in the name of the liberation movement for the acts of Montano, defunct; tell him to ask Cortez how he can best atone for the desecration committed by Lupe; tell him to inform Cortez he will cooperate to the best of his ability in any purification ceremonies required. Ricardo will probably understand; but be sure Jim makes him understand.”

Gloria Jean looked at me searchingly. “Of course I’ll do what you ask, but… do you really feel it’s that important, Sam?”

I said, “Let’s put it this way: If I were running a revolution based in old Cortez’s jungle, I’d make damned sure he was on my side and not the other. I’d want all the help I could get, and I’d much rather have his ancient gods fighting with me instead of against me. You never know about those old gods. Me, I’m not about to make them mad if I can help it.” I laughed, a little embarrassed; I hadn’t meant to say quite so much. “And hell, if all Jim gets out of it is a few local recruits, he’s still ahead of the game. Ricardo himself told me they’re the best jungle scouts in the business.”

She smiled, and drained the last of her big daiquiri. “I’ll pass the word, Sam. And thank you. For everything.”

“
De nada.
Good luck, Gloria Jean.”

I watched her move away, a brave and very bright young woman; and I reflected that Jim Putnam was a lucky man. I finished my drink and headed for the stairs, since my room was only one floor up and the single small elevator was an exercise in slow motion. Halfway up, I met Frances Dillman and her husband descending.

She was in a simple white dress, presumably purchased locally, since we’d never got back our luggage (or my cameras). For the wicked bandits to return our belongings politely after our dramatic escape from their clutches might have aroused a certain amount of suspicion. Dillman was wearing slacks and a bright sports shirt. I noticed that his hair was long enough to cover his damaged ear, carefully combed as he had it now. They made a handsome couple, but I couldn’t help thinking that he wasn’t really quite tall enough for her and I knew somebody who was.

“I think we’re gaining on it,” Frances said, pausing. “I’ve talked to the embassy and the Minister of Tourism. They should be letting us go home pretty soon.”

I said, politely, “I really regret the part of the tour we missed. Even though I wasn’t exactly along for sightseeing—I’ll apologize once more for my duplicity—I was enjoying it very much.”

She smiled, also politely. “It’s very nice of you to say so, Mr…. Helm.”

Her husband was only mildly interested in me, so I knew she hadn’t got around to telling him everything yet. I hoped for her own sake she would continue to keep her mouth shut. Dr. Archibald Dillman didn’t look like a very understanding or forgiving husband to me.

My room was in a corner of the building over one of the busiest intersections in the city of Santa Rosalia, subjected to the constant racketing sound of cars and trucks and buses stopping for the traffic light right under my window and starting up again. I drew the heavy curtains to diminish the decibels slightly. The phone started ringing. I picked it up.

“Bultman here,” said a voice in my ear. “We have an appointment with His Presidential Excellency at three o’clock three days from now, Thursday, the earliest I could arrange. I will pick you up in a taxi. Echeverria will be there. Bultman pays his debts,
nicht whar
?”

They used to design their mansions and palaces on the railroad-car principle down here, long and narrow—actually just one room wide with each room leading into the next. This guaranteed cross-ventilation in that tropical climate but left something to be desired as far as privacy was concerned. However, the great houses were generally built to encircle a central patio onto which the large, luxurious rooms opened, so you could avoid marching through an occupied chamber by taking a trip outdoors to reach the one beyond.

Air-conditioning has, of course, rendered this arrangement obsolete. A room with two exposures has no advantages, quite the contrary, when all windows are tightly sealed against the outside heat. We’d had this pointed out to us when our group had visited
El Palacio de los Gobernadores
during our previous stay in the city; also the fact that the building was an anachronism in another respect. It still retained the name given to it in the bad old days when this area had been ruled by Spanish governors, not always the nicest fellows imaginable. It was surprising that this reminder of European domination had been allowed to survive, but apparently nostalgia had prevailed over nationalism. It had always been the Palace of the Governors; and the Palace of the Governors it remained.

Bultman’s taxi dropped us off in front of the iron gates facing the city’s tree-shaded central plaza. Not knowing what languages the driver understood, or whom he might be working for besides us, we hadn’t spoken beyond the normal greetings. I followed Bultman out of the battered vehicle. He stopped to smooth down his white linen suit and settle his necktie. He was looking very sharp today, the true tropical gentleman, very different from the stained and sweaty character I’d dealt with in the jungle. As for me, I’d managed to pick up a navy blue suit of a tropical material resembling light sailcloth that fit after a fashion, and shoes, socks, shirt, and tie to go with it; so I wasn’t too much of a disgrace to my country or my sinister profession.

The sentries at the gate were armed with the familiar Ml6s. They let us pass unchallenged, since part of the palace was open to the public. We marched side by side across the wide flagstone space between the gate and the arched doorway. I noted that Bultman managed his artificial foot very well.

“What do I call Rael?” I asked.

“Excelentisimo Senor Presidente,”
he said. “Or Honorable Presidente, or
Su Excelencia
, or Your Excellency.”

“And Echeverria?”

“As director of the SSN, he is called Honorable Director, or Señor Director, or Señor Honorable Director. You are aware that he is actually a military man, currently holding the rank of colonel? As a matter of fact he was the military brain behind Rael’s coup d’etat.”

“Yes, I’d heard that.”

“Nowadays there seems to be some friction between him and the army generals who outrank him. He could probably persuade his president to elevate him a few grades in rank, but he has chosen instead to make a point of dressing as a civilian and emphasizing that his service is a civilian organization wholly outside military control… There he is now. A great honor, for him to meet us so, Herr Helm.”

“He probably wants to give himself plenty of time to make sure we’re not armed before he admits us to the august presence, Herr Bultman; two dangerous characters like us.”

The dapper figure of Señor Honorable Director Enrique Echeverria awaited us in the archway ahead, beyond which I could see the interior courtyard of the palace, rather attractive with colorful, well-tended flowerbeds. Echeverria was wearing a dark suit, the snowy white shirt, required of any Latin-American gentleman appearing in public during business hours, and a dark tie. The reflections off his highly polished shoes were blinding. His neatly trimmed red beard looked quite devilish—using the word in its sinister, not its jaunty, meaning. His cold brown eyes made a cursory inspection of Bultman, whom he knew; then for a moment they gave their full attention to me, whom he didn’t.

Then there were the obligatory fulsome greetings between him and Bultman, with Bultman indicating his Germanic respect for the other’s high official rank without going as far as actual subservience; after all, he was a professional man of some standing, also. At last he indicated me with a flourish.

“Herr Director, this is the man calling himself Samuel Felton, of whom I have told you. Matthew Helm.”

Echeverria bowed coolly. “Señor Helm. We do not usually approve of visitors who enter our country with false passports.”

“Señor Director,” I said, also bowing. “Is a passport really false when it is prepared by a legitimate agency of my government for purposes of which I am sure you will approve?”

“I will be very interested to learn about those purposes, and so, I am sure, will His Excellency, President Rael. Come. This way.”

He indicated the door to our right, marked NO ENTRADA—the wing to the left was the part of the palace open to tourists, which our group had visited a few weeks earlier. A sentry stepped forward smartly to open the door for us. As we entered the cool dusk of the small room beyond, I was aware that a gent back in a dark corner was monitoring an instrument of some kind; and I knew that we’d just been screened by a metal detector. No sweat. I’d disposed of my revolver back in the jungle with some regrets—it wasn’t a bad little gun, but with the publicity that would undoubtedly be generated by our kidnaping and rescue, and the official attention that would result, I’d figured I’d be better off without an illegal firearm.

Today I’d even left the trick belt behind. Even though it was unlikely to be discovered, I preferred not to bring any weapon into the presence of an undoubtedly paranoid dictator-type politician. They’re all very assassination-conscious, with some justification. After all, Ricardo had already taken a crack at this one. Anyway, I had no designs upon the life of Armando Rael, and he was, after all, Washington’s fair-haired boy in these parts—a condition I did hope to be able to do something about eventually…