“Back from where?”
Citron shrugged. “Who knows? A mild madness?” He grinned at Haere. “You don’t mind my being a little crazed, do you?”
“Not at all. What was it — Africa?”
“That — and maybe being the last American cannibal.”
“No shit?” Haere said, trying to decide whether to look surprised or shocked, but managing to look only amused.
“One of the last, anyway,” Citron said, remembering the young Mormon missionary from Provo.
“It still bother you?”
“It never did bother me — not really — because almost right away I came up with the answer — or the rationalization. It was the usual one.”
“What?”
“Simple,” Citron said. “I was hungry.”
He smiled again, and in the smile there was no madness that Haere could detect, only the strange, utter calm that sometimes follows absolute despair.
There was no line at the Tucaereo Airlines check-in counter at Houston, but the clerk on duty still took forever to scrutinize the visas that Carlotta Preciado, the travel agent, had obtained from the Tucamondian consulate in Los Angeles.
The clerk, a Tucamondian himself, was no more than twenty-five and wore on his lip a fierce mustache so carefully waxed and tended it could only have been a hobby. “Are you going on business or pleasure?” he asked Haere.
“Pleasure.”
“There is no pleasure there,” the clerk said, slapping the tickets and passports down on the counter with absolute conviction.
“The flight on time?” Haere asked as he gathered them up.
“Yes, on time. And why not? There will be more crew than passengers. You three and two others will have an entire DC-8 to yourself. You wasted your money buying first-class tickets.”
“He is an innocent in such matters,” Citron told the clerk in a Spanish that had a slight, pleasant French accent.
“Of course,” the clerk said. “You are all innocents. Who else would go to my country but fools, innocents, and missionaries?” He produced a small hand mirror from down behind the counter and examined his mustache. “The flight will be called in forty-five minutes,” he said as he twisted one end of his mustache into needlelike sharpness. “If you miss it, I will understand.”
As the three travelers turned from the counter, the tall man with the big ears and the nearly green eyes swept off his Stetson with a smile, a nod, and almost a wink. “Howdy, folks,” he said and gave Velveeta Keats a small courtly bow. “Miss Keats, isn’t it? And you’re Mr. Haere, I bet, and you must be Mr. Citron. Welcome to Houston.”
“Who the hell are you?” Haere said.
“MacAdoo. Bill MacAdoo, and I’m your hospitality committee of one who’s hoping you’ll join me up in Captains Country for liquid refreshment and, if you’d like, a bite to eat.” He paused to deliver another smile and nod. “I sure hope you folks’ll join me, because I need to pass on some information that you might find of deep interest and mutual benefit.”
“MacAdoo,” Haere said, looking the tall man up and down. “Any kin to the MacAdoo that Al Smith kept from being President?”
MacAdoo beamed. “Distant kin, Mr. Haere, very distant.”
“And since the MacAdoo you’re kin to married Woodrow Wilson’s daughter, Elly,” Haere continued, “that means you’re even more distantly related to Wilson. So despite all that Texas bullshit, you must’ve gone to Princeton, and from Princeton where? It almost has to be Langley.”
The broad MacAdoo smile vanished and with it went the chamber-off-commerce affability. The merry, nearly green eyes narrowed themselves into suspicious slits. The big nose sniffed something bad.The booming voice lost its twang and turned cold and Eastern. “You make a nice intuitive leap, Mr. Haere,” MacAdoo said. “Can we talk?”
Haere turned to Citron. “You want to talk to the CIA?”
“Not much.”
“He’ll buy us a drink.”
Citron shrugged. “Okay, let’s see what he’s got to say.”
They took the escalator up one flight to Captains Country, where all was dark paneling and deep leather chairs and shuffling old white waiters with impeccable manners and claw hammer tailcoats. It was Houston’s version of a gentlemen’s club as seen through a Hollywood prism.
After one of the old retainers took their orders, Velveeta Keats looked guardedly around, lowered her voice, and asked MacAdoo, “You really with the CIA, Mr. MacAdoo?”
“I work for my government, Miss Keats.”
She took this for a yes and said, “Morgan’s mama was sort of a spy with the French Resistance way back in World War Two, wasn’t she, Morgan?” Before he could reply, she smiled at MacAdoo and continued. “I met her just today, Morgan’s mama, and she told me all about it. Well, not really all, but some.”
“Gladys Citron, right?” MacAdoo asked the son.
“Right.”
“She’s still something of a legend, your mother,” MacAdoo said.
“Or a myth,” Citron said.
The old waiter reappeared and served the drinks with identifying murmurs. Beers went to Citron and Haere, another Bloody Mary to Velveeta Keats, and to MacAdoo a Dewar’s and water. MacAdoo had ordered by brand name.
After the waiter went away, Haere said, “Okay, let’s hear it.”
“It’s really quite simple,” MacAdoo said. “It would be better if you didn’t continue your trip to Tucamondo.”
“Better for who?”
“For everyone.”
“Why?”
“What do you know about Tucamondo? I mean, what do you know for a fact?”
Haere looked at Citron. “You’re the writing traveler.”
“Well, it’s larger than El Salvador, smaller than Belize, much poorer than both, and it’s in a mess. But then it’s always been in a mess ever since the Spanish first dropped anchor there in fifteen-something-or-other.”
MacAdoo shook his head. “It’s more than a mess. It’s a virtual anarchy. I mean that. There is no government.”
“There’re the generals,” Haere said.
MacAdoo began shaking his head again. “There are thirty-two generals who rule principalities, fiefdoms, some of them as large as fifty square miles, a few as small as twelve city blocks. There is no law. None. No accepted currency other than American dollars, gold, and drugs. The soldiers have become highwaymen, road agents, whatever you want to call them. The countryside is a deathtrap. Only the capital is relatively safe, and that’s because it’s ruled by a colonel-general called Carrasco-Cortes. He has the money to pay his soldiers.”
“Where’d he get it?” Haere asked.
MacAdoo shrugged. “We estimate that Carrasco-Cortes has enough money to last another three weeks, perhaps only two.”
“Then what?”
MacAdoo only shrugged again. “Chaos.”
“You didn’t answer Haere’s question,” Citron said, “so let me put it another way. Where did this colonel-general, this Carrasco-Cortes, lay his hands on enough money to pay his troops?”
“I have no idea,” MacAdoo said. “None.”
“You know,” Citron said. “You have to know.” He turned to Haere. “And now we know what they don’t want us to know.”
“We’ve got some questions is all, but no answers.”
“Same thing,” Citron said.
“Maybe,” Haere said and turned back to MacAdoo. “What’re you, anyway, the stopper?”
MacAdoo smiled his loose-lipped Texas grin again. He had very white teeth that seemed almost perfect. “I’m just a cautioner, Mr. Haere. I’m only here to suggest that you folks go on back home and forget all about that little bitty country down there that nobody gives two hoots in hell about.”