The general considered. Rudolfo Suarez was no two-bit terrorist. Hayes figured it was in the man’s nature to keep his family and friends in the dark. “Hold on to her,” he said.
“One more thing,” said O’Boyle. “We have the bastard’s half-brother.”
“Where d’you get that from?”
“Augusto Suave, his name is. Came stumbling out of the Hacienda with his hands in the air. Gave himself up to the first Marine he saw. Said he knew his beloved brother Rudy — half-brother — was planning to waste him soon, so he thought he’d better take his chances with us. He’s eager to spill his guts about anything that’ll make him look good and Rudy look like shit.”
O’Boyle spat into the grass.
“Charming family all round,” he added.
Inside the Hacienda, a few hundred yards away, Suarez was still facing the fact that his plan was unravelling.
“What have we got here, Remo?” he said wistful y.
“A lost cause?”
Taking that as a cue, Remo, to Suarez’s surprise, answered.
“Why so? Come on, Rudy. What have they got on you? You have the right to defend your house from intruders. No? I say we shoot this guy and his hound — dump them both in the hall. Nobody knows about the chopper in the roof. Take it, Rudy. Go.”
Suarez listened carefully, then and nodded.
“Remo, look around you. This is a US military strike force we’re dealing with. Don’t you see the implications of their being here? Right now, I’ll bet there’s at least a thousand troops surrounding us.” He gazed out the giant picture window. “And they are invisible, creeping around out there.”
Remo pointed his weapon at Henry and Shep. “It’s this guy’s word against yours.” He maintained a tone of humility, but the strength of his feelings was clear.
Henry was still slumped against the wall. His leg was throbbing and hot, but he’d managed to get the napkin tied like a bandage around his thigh and stop much of the bleeding. He was trying to col ect his thoughts, to assess the odds. As he slouched yet further, he suddenly felt the hard metal of his gun press into the small of his back. In all the frantic action and now the pain he’d managed to forget it was there.
And no one had bothered to frisk him.
Parked in the crease of his butt was the handgun he’d been given back on the Enterprise.
Then there was the wire the SEALs had put on him before the invasion of the Hacienda. Was it still working? Grimes had said it would take someone a while to detect the tiny transmitter clipped into a seam of his T-shirt. Did Hayes know he was alive? Henry realized that, dire as his situation was, he still had an edge.
His confidence began to grow.
With Suarez and Remo focused on their discussion, now was a good time to act.
But still he hesitated, concentrating on stroking Shep. The dog caught his eye, and for a moment they looked at one another almost man-to-man.
What he heard Suarez say next came as a complete surprise.
“We need this stupid Gibbs man, Remo.”
“The cavalry might just come crashing through that big-assed picture window, Shep,” Henry whispered. He looked around the room and noticed an open door that led to some kind of control room. The bastard’s got his own private Radio Shack outlet, he thought, still trying to joke away the pain.
It was obvious the room was currently in use. Hot coffee steamed next to a table lamp. All the lights were on, and the computers were lit up. Henry could see a black padded chair and a TV screen. He also noticed the door to the little room was quite thick, and seemed to be made of metal.
“But if this guy…” began Remo.
“Enough!” said Suarez. “Silence!”
Then the far door opened and a group of his security goons rushed into the room. Without waiting for his permission to speak, one of them breathlessly announced that the forces gathered outside wanted to speak directly to “the man in charge”. The man stressed his certainty that they weren’t saboteurs or corporate thieves, but legitimate government-backed military: US and Chilean.
“Don’t let anyone in, you fools,” snarled Suarez, putting up a hand to stem the guard’s torrent of words.
“So help me, I’ll kill anyone who lets those masqueraders into the building. I pay you to obey me. Now do it!”
Henry pegged the man who’d spoken out as the person in charge of house security. From the way the man was acting, he was a hired civilian who had never dreamed of the possibility of being involved in a real military shootout.
“Sir,” persisted the guard, “have you seen the television?”
“Get back to defending your master! ” bellowed Remo.
The goons took one look at the giant ex-wrestler’s face and fled the room.
Within a moment a wall panel had slid away to reveal a huge flat-screen TV. Suarez’s remote soon conjured the face of the President of Chile.
He turned up the volume.
“That’s real y great!” squawked Hayes. “Why’d he…?”
At the most sensitive moment in Hayes’s mission, President Frei had decided to speak via the national media to the terrorists inside the HQ of the foreign company called the TransAm Optical Corporation.
“We implore you,” he was saying, “to stand down and to get on the phone to begin further negotiations. This is not a threat.”
The world had been holding its breath. Today was October 1 — the Deep Ice Dreadline, as the Daily News had put it. The clamour of questions from the public and the media was overwhelming every government switchboard and threatening to paralyse communications around the globe.
The general sighed in disbelief as he realized he’d have to have another little chat with President Kerry.
Perhaps years from now.
He didn’t care at the moment. He was working on hour number thirty-eight without sleep. Only a steady flow of coffee was keeping him going.
He peered at the Hacienda through his field glasses, and swore. The shadows were getting long. He hadn’t dreamed of this becoming a night mission.
Lieutenant O’Boyle was down on one knee next to him. “Sharkin’, Mr Hooper?”
Hayes looked at the Marine and laughed. “Jaws,” he said. “Yeah, it’s like that, isn’t it? Suarez, the beast you can’t nail. So what do we do, O’Boyle? Should we stop waiting and go in?”
O’Boyle shrugged his shoulders. “Have a beer and see who walks into the room, I’d say, sir.” He adjusted his eyepatch, then rooted in a pocket and produced a pipe and tobacco pouch.
He deftly filled the pipe, but all the time his single eye was locked upon the Hacienda.
In his inner sanctum, shielded behind bulletproof glass and reinforced concrete, Rudolfo Suarez paced around the room. Henry and Shep just watched him walk back and forth. He wasn’t saying anything, and neither was Remo.
Remo knew he’d said enough for one day.
Finally Suarez walked into the radio room and came out with his laptop.
“Now that you’ve had time to think about it, what are you going to do, Mr Terrorista?” asked Henry.
Suarez’s eyes burned into Henry’s. Then they glazed over and lost their fire.
“I’m not fond of being questioned, Mr Gibbs. I’ve told you that before.”
“That’s right,” said Henry sarcastically. “I forgot. You shoot people who ask for radios.”
Suarez stopped pacing.
“Mr Gibbs, you are so eager to die. Why is that?”
Henry didn’t answer. He didn’t have an answer. He just patted his dog and tried to think about anything but the pain in his leg. At least on the ice, he thought, the cold numbs the pain. By now, he figured, the cavalry had figured out about the heavy ammo. The wire probably had him located. Hayes probably knew he was still alive — and would know if Suarez killed him.