Major Torres grunted. “Executions are never delicate.” He studied Citron. “Is he rich?”
“No,” the captain said.
“Important?”
“He is a convicted spy. That’s all you need to know.”
Again, Major Torres grunted. “If he is neither rich nor important, we should shoot him now.”
“You have your orders, Major,” the captain said.
Torres ignored the captain and examined Citron carefully. “Well, spy, what have you got to say?”
“I have no wish to be shot.”
“You speak very good Spanish.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you have money?”
“None.”
“If you had money, you could buy a fine last meal.”
“I have no money.”
“Then you will eat what the rest eat.” Major Torres pressed a button on his desk. A guard entered. The young lieutenant rose and unlocked Citron’s handcuffs. The guard looked questioningly at Major Torres.
“He is to be shot in the morning,” Torres said. “Find him a nice cell.”
The guard nodded, took Citron by the left arm, and led him away.
The cell was on the ocean side of the prison. There was a barred window high up. The cell was small, no more than five by seven. It was lit by a single bulb and contained a plastic bucket, a clay jug of water, and a low stone bed. A folded blanket was on the bed.
“I can sell you cigarettes and food and even liquor, if you have money,” the guard said.
“I have no money,” Citron said. “It was taken from me.”
The guard shrugged as he closed and locked the cell door. The door was made of iron bars. Citron looked around the cell and sat down on the stone bed. He sat there for nearly an hour, staring down at the floor, his head bowed, his arms on his knees, thinking of pastmistakes, old loves, untaken paths, and the final indignity he would have to brook, which was death. After that, no more surprises ever. He absolved himself of all sins, if sins there were; almost but not quite forgave his enemies; rose, and urinated into the plastic bucket. When he was through urinating, he sat back down on the stone bed and took off his right shoe. He then rolled down his sock and slipped the gold Rolex from his ankle. He put the watch in the plastic bucket. It would be safe there, he knew, at least for a while.
He folded his jacket into a pillow. He lay down on the stone bed, his hands locked behind his head. He stared up at the high stone ceiling. After a while he closed his eyes. After a while he even slept — and dreamed of Africa.
The office was large enough to pace in. It belonged to the charge d’affaires of the United States embassy, who sat behind his teak desk and watched the man in the three-piece blue pinstripe pace up and down as he cajoled, implored, and even threatened.
The charge d’affaires was Neal Rink. He was fifty-nine years old and had risen as high as he would ever rise in the Foreign Service of the United States. Threats, even threats from such smooth articles as Draper Haere, no longer bothered him. Ten years ago, he thought, you might’ve hopped; fifteen years ago you would’ve leaped. Now he smiled, leaned back in his chair, and said, “So it’s come to this, has it?”
Haere stopped pacing and looked at Rink. “To what?”
“To threats.”
“I’m not threatening you, Mr. Rink. All I’m—”
Rink, still smiling, interrupted. “You are threatening me, Mr. Haere. You’re threatening me with assorted members of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, with a gaggle of congressmen you seem to have in your hip pocket, with crucifixion in both the New York Times and the Washington Post, and with disgrace, dishonor, and possible bankruptcy.”
Rink reached down into his bottom drawer and came up with a bottle of J&B Scotch whisky. “I suppose I should tell you that I’ve got a rich wife and that I’m retiring from the fudge factory in exactly two months and nine days. With that in mind, maybe you’d be willing to drop the act and join me in a glass of whisky. I’m sure Miss Keats would also like one.”
Velveeta Keats nodded. “Yes, sir, I would.” She looked up at Haere from her chair in front of Rink’s desk. “You sounded awful mad there, Draper.”
Haere grinned. “I was selling. I always sound mad when I’m selling.”
“You’re really quite good,” Rink said as he poured the Scotch and added water from his desk carafe. “I assume it’s quite effective when dealing with candidates for public office.”
“It’s one of the first things I learned,” Haere said as he accepted his drink. “If you sound angry, you also sound convinced. People like conviction. Especially in politics, where it’s a reasonably rare commodity.” Haere took a long swallow of his drink, sat down in the chair next to Velveeta Keats, and looked at Rink. “Okay. Let’s hear it. What can you do about Citron?”
Rink had some of his Scotch. He seemed to like its taste. Then he sighed and said, “Nothing.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Nothing until Merry finds out what they’ve done with him. We need to know where the body is.” He smiled at Velveeta Keats. “I didn’t mean that literally, of course.”
“No, sir. I didn’t think you did.”
“There’s also another problem.” Rink tilted his head toward the window. “Hear it?”
Both Haere and Velveeta Keats nodded. The gunfire, although still distant, seemed to be increasing in intensity. “That’s the sound of counterrevolution,” Rink said. “One that has at least a six-to-five chance of succeeding. For Mr. Citron’s sake, you’d best hope that it does.”
Before they could ask why, there was a knock at Rink’s door. Rink told the knocker to come in. The door opened and Don Merry entered. His hair was mussed, his tie loosened; he looked haggard. There was no smile.
“Well?” Rink said.
“I’ve just come from the palace.”
“Were you able to see the general?”
“No, sir. It was impossible. There’s suddenly a siege mentality over there. But I did see Colonel Velasco.”
Rink looked at Haere. “Velasco is the general’s chief aide.” He turned back to Merry. “Well, come on, Don, let’s have it.”
“They tried Citron this morning. They tried him, convicted him, and sentenced him.”
“How long did he get?” Rink asked.
“Until tomorrow morning. He’s to be shot at six tomorrow morning.”
“Dear God,” Rink said.
Chapter 33
The first thing the two Haitians did with Draper Haere’s $9,000 was to suborn the assistant manager of an Avis franchise. The Haitians wished to rent a Dodge van. The assistant manager was reluctant. He was convinced the counterrevolution would succeed and that the Avis cars and vans would be expropriated by the new regime. Clearly, he would be without work, because his politics, unfortunately, were not of the left. He must now think of his future. Cecilio asked the assistant manager if $500 would enhance his prospects. The assistant manager said that, by strange coincidence, it was the precise amount he had in mind. He could now rent them the van with a clear conscience.
In the rear storeroom of a small shop that usually sold leather sandals, the two Haitians bought two cases of blackmarket Ballantine Scotch whisky and ten cartons of Marlboros. The whisky cost them $75 a bottle; the cigarettes went for $100 a carton. With the whisky and cigarettes in the rear of the van, their next stop was the Presidential Palace.
At least three companies of infantry in full battle gear now surrounded the palace. The van was stopped a block away from the palace gates by a young private soldier armed with an M-16. “Do you smoke, brave young soldier?” Jacques asked. The brave young soldier replied that he did indeed. Jacques handed him a carton of Marlborosand inquired as to the whereabouts of his commanding officer. The soldier said that Captain Vadillo at the moment was taking his ease in the park on a bench.