A null reading on the Alpha wave scan had showed no brain activity for the past two hours. Technically the President was still alive — as cognizant as a vegetable perhaps, but still alive. Salazar was prepared to explain that no contact could be made with the vice president because he was out on a tour. The plan was to keep the vice president’s crash under wraps until the Speaker of the House could be located.
Summertime on the Appalachian Trail had served too much of a temptation, and the man who was next in line for the Presidency after Adleman had taken off, with little advance warning, on a hike.
An hour and a half! thought Salazar. Who would ever have thought that things would turn around so fast? Even the special arrangements for bringing sophisticated communications gear along with the Speaker on his yearly vacation had not covered this unanticipated, spur-of-the-moment nature walk.
If they could just keep the press at bay until the Speaker was found.…
The road to the plantation was muddy and difficult to negotiate. Cervante left the jeepney twice to get the truck out of swamps. He stood by the side of the road in front of the truck, yelling and motioning with his arm for Barguyo to rock the truck back and forth.
The canopy of foliage over the road protected them from most of the rainfall. Water pooled on the road, adding to the mud and muck that made the going so difficult. They finally broke into the clearing where the plantation was located. Cervante was convinced that no one would be able to sneak up on them. With the sensors he had planted along with the mire on the road, he could hold off an army. Or at least give him enough time to bolt through the jungle.
Four men appeared in the clearing after Cervante drove in, stepping from their hidden positions in the jungle. They wore ponchos and carried their automatic weapons by the barrel. Cervante waved through the windshield at them, then motioned back at the truck that was just coming into view. The men moved to help the truck back up against the house.
Once satisfied that the high-power microwave weapon was in a position to be rapidly deployed, Cervante waved the men back to their posts.
As the vice president and the girl were taken inside, the men whistled at Yolanda. They nudged each other and talked among themselves, hoping that this time Cervante would offer them the girl.
Cervante quelled the jocularity with a stern look. “Whatever happens, leave the girl alone.” Cervante caught a few words about “having her all for himself,” but he ignored the muttering.
He left it unsaid that Yolanda would serve as additional insurance in case they were detected. The Americans had vowed that they would not negotiate with terrorists. Cervante knew that they stood steadfast on this policy. But he also knew about the power of graphic newscasts: They could sway even the most hardened politician. Certainly, the execution of a beautiful young girl on live television, with the promise that the vice president of the United States would be next, would cause even Solomon to capitulate.
Cervante had decided to demand the immediate evacuation of all the U.S. military bases. The treaty would never be signed.
He scowled at the Huks who were herding Yolanda away to the large master bedroom. A few days earlier he had met with Pompano in that bedroom and finalized the plans concerning the high-power microwave weapon.
“Once the girl is locked up, bring the vice president to the kitchen.”
Adleman was still unconscious. Diffuse light filtered into the room; Cervante still insisted on keeping the electric generators silent. The rain and low clouds made the kitchen appear gloomy, but it was still the best-lit place in the house.
Adleman slumped across a table, his head lolling to one side. Spittle ran from his mouth. Cervante studied the man. Next to him was the briefcase that the black marketeers had left. Although it was locked, it looked important.
The vice president wore a light-colored short-sleeve shirt that was torn in the back and splattered with mud. Black, mud-caked shoes and dress pants made up the remainder of his apparel. He seemed to be the same age as Cervante, but Cervante knew that the vice president was fifteen years older. Lying on the wooden table, Adleman looked the absolute antithesis of a respected world leader — helpless and beaten.
Cervante ran his hands over Adleman’s slacks. There was nothing more in his pockets than what Pompano’s friends had given Cervante. He pulled out Adleman’s driver’s license from his wallet. About half of the Huk contingent had gathered around. Barguyo stood quietly next to him.
Cervante said to the boy, “Get me paper, something to write with.”
When Barguyo brought Cervante the requested pen and paper, Cervante sat at the table next to Adleman and composed a letter, addressed to the President of the United States. He started to write a deadline by which the reply should be made, but he leaned back, thoughts racing through his head.
The Americans would drag their feet, no matter what the stakes, unless they had proof that the vice president was about to be executed. Putting pressure on the American government to respond, would increase their chances of success.
One day. They would have twenty-four hours to respond.
Cervante finished the letter, folded the paper, and presented it to Barguyo. “The commanding officer at Clark will take this. You are to deliver it to one of the guards at their gate.”
Barguyo took the message and flipped it over in his hand. He looked skeptical. “This is it? They will give up their bases because of this letter?”
Cervante smiled. The boy continued to amaze Cervante with his insight, his quick grasping of subtlety. Cervante placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “No. This letter is meaningless without some proof that we will follow through with our threat.” He handed Adleman’s driver’s license to the boy. “This is to validate that we have their vice president. You will give this to the gate guard with the letter. But there is something else you must give them.”
Cervante motioned with his head to one of the Huks standing by the kitchen sink. “Throw some water on the American.”
They rolled the vice president onto his back and splashed a pot full of cold water into his face. Adleman coughed, sputtered as the water roused him.
Cervante moved close to the vice president’s face, smiling down at the man. “Welcome to the Philippine Islands, Mr. vice president. I am afraid that this treaty you seek is not a very good idea. And there is something I must do to ensure your people know that we are quite serious about it.”
Adleman continued to cough. “Who … are … you?”
Cervante nodded to four of the Huks. “Hold him.”
“Hey!” Adleman moved his head from side to side.
The four Huks pinned Adleman to the table, one man on each of his arms and legs. Cervante rummaged through the kitchen drawer and pulled out a strand of fine wire. Wrapping his hand with two potholders, Cervante wound the wire tightly around his fists. “This will hurt more if you struggle, Mr. vice president. And you have to allow us time to stop the bleeding.”
Cervante barked to Barguyo. “Hold his index finger.”
The boy looked puzzled, but moved around to the vice president’s right arm. He pried open Adleman’s fist.
“Oh, God — no! Wait … wait!”
Cervante tuned out Adleman’s voice; the vice president’s body strained against the four Huks. “Pull the finger.”
Barguyo extended the index finger and pulled as hard as he could. Adleman’s knuckle popped. The finger moved away from the joint, leaving a small depression at the knuckle. Cervante quickly wrapped the wire around the finger.
“As I said, the driver’s license will validate our claim that we have the vice president.” Cervante jerked on the wire, pulling it as hard as he could.