Now he turned on the tight-focus lamp on the bedside table and spoke softly into the phone, trying not to awaken the sleeping girl beside him.
“Shayne.”
Caldwell’s voice was tight. “Well, he’s been busted, Mike, and needless to say, not for anything minor. Alvares and a couple of others have been assassinated, including an American, a UPI man. Tim had something to do with planting the bomb.”
Shayne swung out of bed. “Read it to me.”
“That’s the flash. The follow-up’s just beginning to come in.”
Shayne shook out another cigarette and lit it from the stub of the one he had been smoking.
“Larry Howe,” Caldwell said, “interviewing the ex-president in La Vega prison. Bomb exploded. Terrific force. Center of prison torn apart, killing Alvares, Howe, and a government official named Menendez. Calderistas demonstrating in downtown Caracas. Army mobilized. Students have taken over university. New junta seen endangered.”
The girl sat up in bed, pushing back her hair. “What is it, Mike?”
He shrugged and waited.
Caldwell continued. “General round-up of left-wing opposition. Yeah, here it comes. American reporter Timothy Rourke accused of smuggling bomb into prison inside cigarette carton. Slugged a cop, attempted to escape. Recaptured after automobile chase through downtown Caracas. That’s our Tim.”
“Is the News plane available?”
“As far as I know. I’ll find out.”
“If the paper wants to retain me to go down there and see what happened I can leave right away. It would help to represent somebody.”
“I know we’ll go along with that, Mike, but it may take a while to make it official. I’ll have to wake up a few people. The front office hasn’t been too enthused about Tim lately, but what choice do they have? He’s on our payroll, after all. ‘Listen carefully.’ I wish he’d finished that sentence. What do you think, Mike? Do you think he really had anything to do with this bomb thing?”
“Hell, no. He has romantic ideas about guerrilla movements, but not to the extent of helping them blow up people. He had to be conned, which means there’s a girl involved. See how much cash you can scrape up. I’ll need to buy some help after I get there.”
“How well do you know Caracas?”
“Not at all. I’ve never been there. And I don’t speak Spanish. So I want to be carrying plenty of cash.”
He dressed quickly. The girl was sitting up watching him, but the look on his face kept her from asking questions. He packed a small bag, including a fifth of cognac, a. 38 revolver and a box of ammunition. After some hunting, he located his passport.
“You’ll need somebody who can translate for you,” she said finally. “Why not take me?”
Without replying, Shayne dialed the Washington, D.C., area code, and followed it with the unlisted phone number of one of the two Florida Senators, who had won re-election partly as a result of some last-minute help from Shayne.
The Senator’s wife answered.
“This is Michael Shayne. I’m sorry about the hour, but I need to talk to him.”
“Mike, damn it, he had trouble getting to sleep, and if you could wait till morning-”
The Senator took the phone. “At two-thirty I know it’s got to be important, Mike. What can I do?”
Shayne gave him a quick summary of the news from Caracas.
“Tim Rourke!” the Senator exclaimed. “Mixed up in an assassination? They must have the wrong man.”
“This was just the bulletin-there probably won’t be any more hard news till morning. If he’s in jail, here’s the problem. He doesn’t believe in telling cops anything but his name and address and sometimes not even that. But I know him well enough so that if I can get in to see him he may be able to pass on something. And then what do I do with it? All I can say in the Spanish language is ‘thanks’ and ‘how are you?’ Are you with me this far, Senator?”
“I think so. I’d say you have your work cut out for you.”
“But everybody will figure he told me something important, whether he actually did or not. That’s going to open up possibilities. What I want to get from you is the name of somebody in the Embassy who can give me some background without making a big official thing out of it.”
“I see,” the Senator said slowly. “Who can find out what the police are thinking, and can put you onto angles he can’t do anything about himself-”
“That’s it. Tim’s an American citizen, but they’ll want to know whether he’s innocent or guilty before they stick their necks out for him. I’m hoping to use the News plane. I can call you from the airport. If you can ask somebody in the State Department-”
“I can give you a name right now. It’s Felix Frost. I’ve read reports by him, and the man seems to be absolutely first class. He’s on the Embassy payroll, but I’m assuming he represents the intelligence community, in one way or another. Be discreet about that aspect, of course. He has good pipelines into all the various political groups and his connections with the new junta seem to be very good.”
“Will he cooperate?”
“I’ll suggest it to him, and inasmuch as I’m a member of the Armed Services Committee, I believe he’ll cooperate with enthusiasm. I’m not saying you can trust him fully. These fellows seem to get more devious year by year. But I know I don’t have to give you that warning.”
Shayne thanked him, and the Senator offered to do anything else he could to help.
“I like Tim, but don’t take too many chances, Mike. You know it’s no longer possible to send the Marines down after you. Those days are past, and on the whole I think it’s a good thing. Well, back to sleep, perhaps.”
Shayne hung up and told the girl, “Make a call for me. The man’s name is Felix Frost, in Caracas, and it may take a little time to get his home phone. Mention the Senator and ask him to have somebody meet me at the airport.”
“Mike, I really can speak Spanish. I could sit in a hotel room and take your phone calls.”
Leaning down, he kissed her forehead. “I’ll call you when I get back.”
“Get back in one piece, Mike, please?”
FOUR
The loading steps were wheeled into place. As Shayne came out of the plane, the hot rim of the sun was beginning to rise out of the Caribbean. A short, cheerful Venezuelan waited at the bottom of the steps.
His teeth flashed. “You are Mr. Michael Shayne,” he informed Shayne. “I am Andres Rubino, sent to meet you by Mr. Felix Frost, who regrets enormously that he cannot be here in person! Welcome to Venezuela!”
“Thanks,” Shayne said, taking his outstretched hand.
Rubino gave a little skip of pleasure. He wanted to carry Shayne’s bag, but Shayne shook him off.
“I think all is arranged with Immigration and Customs,” Rubino said, walking sideward. “One cannot be certain because of the change in regime. You bribe them one minute, the next minute they forget they ever saw you, but this time I trust that won’t be the case. I know all about you, sir! I admire you! We have great respect for honesty among detectives because there is so little of it among us here. Through this door, please.”
They were waved through the barrier, and Rubino took Shayne out through the deserted, echoing concourse. Weapons-carriers bristling with. 50-caliber machine guns were lined up in front of the terminal. A Jaguar convertible, top down, was parked in a forbidden zone. Two armed soldiers, who had been looking into the car, backed away guiltily. Rubino released a flood of angry Spanish, and they moved away even further.
“A jewel of a car,” the Venezuelan said. “And because of diplomatic stickers one can drive like the wind and park where one pleases. Mr. Frost knows my weakness. I am willing to work for him for next to nothing, to have the privilege of driving about in such a car.” Having slid behind the wheel and snapped on the ignition, he said, “Mr. Shayne, may I speak a serious word if you please before we commence?”