Doubling as umpire, Ford moved the game along as quickly as he could, giving Rivera every close call. But he still found pleasure in being behind the plate, calling pitches, blocking low stuff, talking to the hitters. The knuckleball was hard to handle, especially on third strikes, and his concentration drew him deeper into the game, like a kid again, for Tomlinson was right in a way: a world seen through the bars of a catcher's mask is timeless, unchanging, and for those few innings Ford became a creature whose life had been interrupted by nothing more than twenty-five years of passed balls and stolen bases. Better yet, he hit two singles and a double, driving in three runs.
Going into the top of the seventh, Rivera had walked four but had a no-hitter going, and Tomlinson came up with two out.
"It's rally time," Tomlinson was saying, swinging three bats like he meant business. "No more Mister nice guy. Rivera has a ten-run lead and one little hit can't hurt."
Ford said in a low voice, "He'd be happier with a no-hitter. Let's try and keep the general happy."
"Doc, I got my own integrity to consider. I really think I can tee off on this guy."
Ford thought for a moment, then said, "Okay. Maybe you're right. Hit away."
Tomlinson did, too; caught a tailing fastball fat and drove it deep, but not deep enough. The centerfielder tracked it to the camouflage netting, which had now become the outfield fence, leaped and made a nice catch, stopping the home run and saving the no-hitter. Rivera seemed to love the moment of suspense more than anyone; got Tomlinson in one of his affectionate bear hugs, leading him back to Ford at homeplate, saying "It took the great DiMaggio to solve the mystery of my fastball, but even he did not solve it entirely!" delighted with the last out of his no-hitter. Ford told the general he had pitched a superb game and that he was anxious to communicate the information to his friend with the Pittsburgh Pirates, but first he had important business in Masagua. And Rivera, who was speaking English to Tomlinson, talking baseball, said to Ford in Spanish, "If there is any way I can hasten the completion of your assignment, you need only ask. You did not tell me this hippie friend of yours is not only a great baseball player but also a student of the game. He knows almost every statistic for all of those who have pitched for the Red Sox of Boston!"
Four hours later, after Ford had bathed and eaten and slept, he walked out of his tent to see Rivera and Tomlinson—both of them in uniform now—still talking baseball, sitting beneath a tree while howler monkeys rattled the limbs above.
Rivera said Ford's plan to rescue the kidnapped child might work, but it was also very dangerous. "You do not know this man Julio Zacul. You do not understand him. If he does not believe your story he will have you killed. You will get no second chance. I am not a selfish man but, if you are killed"—Rivera made an empty, open-handed gesture—"who will tell the third-base coach with the Pirates of Pittsburgh about the great no-hitter pitched by me?" Smiling, but not kidding; actually concerned about Ford's scouting report.
They were sitting at a table outside Rivera's tent. The sun was behind the mountain and they talked in the fresh wind of the coming daily rainstorm, speaking in English for Tomlinson's benefit while orderlies took the dinner dishes away. The camouflage netting had been rolled from the clearing and several hundred of Rivera's men performed marching drills, their foot cadence echoing through the trees. Rivera watched his men as he talked, taking pleasure from their discipline, taking pleasure in the cigar he had just lighted.
He said, "Julio Zacul could have been one of my most gifted lieutenants—not most trusted, mind you. Most gifted. He came to me straight from the University of San Cristobal in Peru, an outstanding engineering student who said he was prepared to give his life to the revolution. This was six, perhaps seven years ago. Yes, this is the way he looked in those days." Rivera picked up the photograph Herrera had provided Ford, studied it for a moment, then spun it back onto the table. The Julio Zacul of college days looked neither like a guerrilla leader nor a killer. He had a lean, aesthetic face that was slightly feminine with long lashes, high soft cheeks, and dark eyes that looked neither fierce nor menacing, just bored, as if he wanted the photographer to hurry up and finish. It was one of those gaunt, good-looking faces out of an Arrow Shirt ad; a young man already in control who was anxious to get started; anxious for more.
Rivera said, "He has changed since then, of course. He is heavier by seven or eight kilos. His hair is longer, almost to his shoulders, but still very black. He has a scar here." Rivera touched his cheek, making a crooked line. "But he still has that soft look, like a child or a girl nearing her readiness. Though I am a man of the world, it is a thing that always bothered me, that softness in his face, like a young woman. He came to my camp with a half-dozen of his friends from the university, all enthusiastic about the revolution. He was so obviously the leader that I immediately trained him as an officer. Within six months he commanded his own company with these six friends as his subordinates. They lived together, Zacul and these men. That they were more than friends soon became evident, but, as I said, I am a man of the world and such relationships trouble only small minds. Zacul led his company brilliantly, though neither he nor his subordinates were courageous fighters. They preferred the techniques of terrorism, the coward's way. I would have banished him from my camp when I first realized this, but I had no choice. I needed men." Rivera looked at Ford. "You may remember that six years ago was a time of much fighting, much ugliness in this country."
Ford said, "Yes. I was in South America at the time, but I remember."
Rivera nodded as if he could hold Ford responsible, but chose not to. "It was during that fighting that I began to hear stories about Zacul and his men. War is not a pretty thing and all of us involved in war have done things we would rather not discuss. Someone once said that an immoral act is anything we feel bad about afterward. That is not true. I have often felt bad after doing things that needed to be done. In my mind, an immoral act is anything that makes us feel shame. I have never been ashamed of the things war demanded I do. I have felt bad about them, but I have never felt shame. But there were things that Zacul and his men did that made me feel ashamed. Many things—in the way he tortured prisoners, in the way he dealt with the women of the enemy, in the way he dealt with the enemy's children. When I finally confronted him with these stories, he laughed at me. He called me a weak old man. He called me this in front of many of my people." Rivera signaled to the orderly, handed him his empty coffee cup, and asked for beer.
Ford was trying not to smile. "What happened after you hit him?"
Rivera shrugged. "You are right. I did hit him. He has the look of a woman and he is a coward, but his men were watching.