“It’s the military training for you.”
“Maybe, Captain, you’re forgetting your rank.” She smiled as she brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes.
Jason put the two polo shirts in a bureau drawer. “My operation, my command. You’re the one who wanted to come.”
She sat down on the bed. “Truth is, I’d have invited myself along if you’d been going to the North Pole. Time for a break in the routine.”
“I thought you liked the travel, the lack of hassle.”
“The travel’s OK as long as you like Air Force bases. But it’s not thrilling, either. Then, along you come with your good looks, mysterious past, just reeking of excitement and adventure. No chance I was going to let all that slip away without a try.”
Jason turned from the bureau. “Candor is among your more endearing traits.”
“Candor gets what I want; feminine shyness doesn’t. Look, I’m an MD, not some bimbo who flirts with every man she sees. I’m not getting any younger and I don’t see much future with the career military types who, up until you came along, were pretty much all the men I met. I’m not looking to get married again anytime soon; I’m not even looking for a ‘committed relationship,’ whatever the hell that is. I didn’t invite myself along to be Robin to your Batman or Wonder Woman on my own. All I want, when it’s time to cash in my chips, when it’s time to retire someplace, is to have done something besides treat the common cold.”
“And VD.”
“And VD,” she echoed. “So much for what I want. What about you?”
“I want to accomplish what I came here to do, and for both of us to leave in at least as good a shape as when we arrived.”
She shook her head. “There must be something in your life besides whatever mission you’re on. What happens when it’s over? Where do you go, what do you want?”
For the first time, Jason asked himself just that: Where would he go? Not back to Ischia, where Moustaph’s men had found him. And what did he want, just to be left alone to paint? Obviously not, since he had accepted this job. And what about Maria? He realized he had intentionally, if unconsciously, postponed making some very hard decisions.
“What do I want? I haven’t planned that far ahead. There’ll be time for that when we’re finished here.”
Judith took a step back to allow Jason to toss the polo shirts into another open drawer. “And if it does not rain?”
It took a second for Jason to understand that she had switched back to the original conversation. “I guess we get a rain check.”
She turned toward him, holding a pair of bras. “Suppose it doesn’t?”
Jason finished putting away the last of his clothes. “I’d say we change hotels and wait for the next rainy night.”
“Why is the rain so important?”
“Those people on the roofs of adjoining houses. What I have in mind doesn’t play well before an audience.”
“And exactly what is it you have in mind, blowing up the house? That’s the sort of thing Delta Force does, isn’t it?”
“No. We aren’t going to get rid of this bunch by destroying bricks and mortar. Or, for that matter, the people in it. What will put a finish to them is exposure. But we will use a bomb of a sort, though.”
He explained.
“And you want me to …?”
He explained that, too.
“I’ll need incentive,” she said, unbuttoning her blouse.
An hour later, incentive provided, they were in a garden store. Jason was mesmerized by the varieties and colors of tropical flowers. Frangipani, hibiscus, and bougainvillea were among the few he recognized. Potted citrus, avocado, and mango waited to grace someone’s yard and dining table. He wished he had both his art supplies and the time to use them. This garden of tropical delights would be beautiful in acrylic.
“We came for the fertilizer and some pots,” Judith reminded him.
“Er, yeah.” He was examining the lists of contents on several bags while a bemused salesman watched. “Potassium nitrate is what I need.”
“We have a number of products that contain varying amounts,” the salesman offered.
Jason shook his head. “Won’t do. I mix my own fertilizer. Surely you have pure saltpeter.”
A smile cracked the man’s face, showing dazzling teeth. “Ah! Saltpeter! You should have said so. Yes, we have it. How much do you need?”
“A couple of pounds.”
The man’s face fell. “But it only comes in fifty-pound bags.”
“I’ll take one.”
Back at the hotel, Judith watched Jason fill a dented frying pan with a combination of sugar and saltpeter. “It matters how they are mixed?”
Jason nodded as he added just enough water to give the blend a claylike substance before turning on the stove’s eye. “About five parts to three.” He stirred with a wooden spoon. “We want to caramelize the sugar, not melt it.”
Fifteen minutes later, he was putting the frying pan into the small oven.
Judith watched skeptically. “It won’t ignite from the heat?”
Jason shook his head. “It will ignite only from direct contact with fire. The oven will only dry it out.”
“Now what do we do?”
“We go shopping for the rest of what we’ll need. By that time, the stuff in the oven should be ready.”
“Incentivize me again.”
Jason rolled his eyes. “I’m beginning to think it wasn’t the chance of excitement that made you want to come along.”
“Depends on how you define ‘excitement.’”
On their backs an hour later, both stared at the featureless ceiling.
“And now?” she asked.
“We make fuses.”
49
It rained.
The anticipated downpour beat against shutters of the old buildings like a demon seeking entrance and sent torrents of water boiling down the streets’ open gutters. Even the coquí were silenced by the intensity of the deluge Jason knew would last half an hour at best.
Covered by a recently purchased poncho, Jason reached the point where the old city’s fortifications began a steep rise above the street. He was thankful to note that the cuts in the razor wire from the previous night had not been detected. He stopped in shadows to reach under his rain gear to make sure the three pots from the garden store were dry. Then he looked through the curtain of rain at the row of rooftops. The deluge had chased their nocturnal occupants inside, at least for the moment.
But they would be back shortly after the rain stopped.
On the street below, a blond in a black dress entered the bodega across from Calle Luna 23. Used to a familiar clientele, the chubby, white-haired proprietor, owner, sole waiter, and, most importantly, cashier was surprised to see her. Surprised and delighted. She was by far the most attractive customer he had enjoyed for some time. In fact, he thought she might have been with a tour group that had briefly visited his establishment yesterday. It was unlikely he would forget the blond hair, the full figure. And the eyes, pools of green that reminded him of the water just off the island’s coast before the sandy bottom fell away. It was enough to make a man weep that he was not twenty years younger.
He wiped his hands on an apron, smiled, and indicated one of the two tables that had hastily been moved in from the street and now crowded the bistro’s already-small space, which included a tiny kitchen visible in the rear. She had seemed interested by some feature of the house across the street, but she turned, sat, unslung her purse from her shoulder, and ordered a Caribe, sipping the local beer as she studied the menu.
Was she dining alone, the owner asked?
As a matter of fact, she was.