Chapter VI: Part 6

Nearly three lachrymose pages of love frustrated followed these lines. "And so before I close my letter, I must beg you to drop everything if you love me and fly back to Havana, even if only for a day. Oh, my beloved, if you would only come back to Havana for one day, I am sure that I can resolve all the doubts that are in your mind, Mateo. In the name of all that we have shared, of all that is dear and sacred to us, please fly back to my arms, my love, my kisses--and then you will know!" The letter was signed, "Maria."

Hall folded the letter carefully and put it in his wallet. It told him what he wanted to know about Ansaldo. _He treated dear Carlos--he is an abomination in the eyes of my beloved family._ Santiago's style as a writer of love letters might be a little on the turgid side, but he knew how to make himself clear. And nothing could be clearer than his line on Ansaldo. An abomination. A man who marched with the men who put that fascist bullet through the throat of Uncle Carlos. A bastard.

The dock was growing more crowded. Over the near horizon, a ship pointed its high white face at San Hermano. A long throaty whistle came from its front funnel. Then five short blasts, and in a moment the tugs which had been getting up steam in the harbor were heading out toward the growing ship.

"The _Marques de Avillar_," someone at the bar said. A customs man at a near-by table gulped the remainder of his coffee and bolted to the pier. At the bar, a laughing longshoreman pushed a five-centavo coin into the nickeled red juke box, pressed the "_Besame_" button. Johnny Rodrigues _y su_ Whoopee Kids. Two guitars, a cornet, maracas, sticks and a lugubrious baritone. "_Besame, besame mucho_ ..." the raucous blaring of a klaxon at the pier ... "_la ultima vez_" ... again the horn drowned out the words.

Hall looked up at the cabs, ignoring the Whoopee Kids' baritone. A slender young man in a green jacket and cream-colored slacks was standing near the foot of the gangplank. Pepe had taken off his white hat. Hall kept his eyes glued on Pepe until the man in the green jacket turned around, revealing himself as Dr. Marina.

One of the white sedans of the Ministry of Health pulled up at the pier. A doctor and two assistants, the three men wearing the light tan uniform of their service, got out and started to talk to a customs man. He pointed at the white ship being shoved toward the pier by the little tugs.

Hall drank in the tableau, his eyes following Marina's every move, his ears deaf to the next record being played in the juke box.

"_Otro cafe, senor?_"

"_Si, gracias._"

But the fresh pot of hot coffee remained untouched. Hall was still watching Marina, but Marina did nothing except shift from foot to foot while he watched the Spanish liner draw nearer the pier with every turn of the heroic little engines in the two tugs. Hall thought of Jerry. He had missed her again last night, but they had a date for dinner at seven. Doctor had promised her a night off. The messages at the hotel: Jose Fernandez had phoned, wanted Hall to call him back this morning. O.K., Don Jose, as soon as I get a good look at the rats Marina is awaiting. I want to hear more about the Red menace hanging over my head. And Souza had an interesting tab on Androtten. The little Dutchman had stayed out all night. Naughty, naughty, Wilhelm, gadding about with _putas_ the whole night through and God knows where you are sleeping it off but I guess your little dog is watching to see that no one rolls you for your wad. Or wasn't it a debauch that kept you out all night? Anyway, I'll bet you made your rounds in a Renault you rented from the Phoenix Garage.

The _Marques de Avillar_ was being eased into its dock. The cab drivers were waving at the passengers lined up at the rail, and Marina was hopping up and down, shouting and waving a big yellow handkerchief like a banner. The coffee _por favor_ has grown cold and _por favor_ a pot of hot _por favor_ and that's the idea _muchas gracias_ and you could have docked the _Marques_ in my last yawn. Hall drank a steaming cup of hot coffee.

The gangplank was being wheeled to the ship. There was a knot of ship's officers on the lower deck. They shook hands with the customs men and the medicos who trotted up the gangplank, led them inside to the main salon. Men in blue uniforms with official papers under their arms. A press photographer and a bald roly-poly reporter. They'll be out in a minute, and damn it the morning sun is growing too bright for a pair of tired old eyes, and dipping his napkin in the fresh cold water on the table Hall shoved the cold compress against his heavy eyes.

Two cups of coffee later, the first of the passengers from the _Marques de Avillar_ emerged from the salon and walked down the gangplank. Priests--Hall counted twenty--followed by scrawny stewards with their bags. A few of the priests were old, but most of them were young men who carried themselves erect, their shoulders squared well back, their walk the off-duty walk of the officer on leave from the front. Hall wondered how many of the younger men in clerical collars were really priests and how many of them were used to wearing other uniforms. He remembered the day, less than two months earlier, when the C.T.E. liner _Cabo de Hornos_ had docked in Havana and one of General Benitez' men had grown suspicious of two of the Spanish priests on board; a brief discussion of theology had been followed by a thorough search of their luggage, and the young travelers woke up the next morning to find themselves learning theology in the concentration camp on the Isla de Pinas.

Hall was humming "Onward, Christian Soldiers." He watched two young priests get into Pepe's cab and be driven away. The priests, and later four nuns, entered the cabs in pairs. Then, following some customs men, one of the ship's officers came out of the salon with a man in a black suit and a Panama hat. They carried thick portfolios under their arms, and behind them followed a steward with two heavy hand trunks.

There was a blur of green and yellow on the gangplank, and then Marina was on the lower deck, exchanging wild embraces with the ship's officer and the man in the Panama hat. The three men walked down the gangplank, Marina happily bringing up the rear behind the officer. He darted in front of his friends when they reached the pier and signaled one of the cabs. The first cab in line rolled up to the curb and picked them up.

The sun shone into Hall's face. He washed his eyes with cold water, had another cup of coffee. Thick, the air is growing thick and heavy. Hell with it. Olive oil and garlic, coffee, squids, mussels, saffron, mackerel, heat. "_Besame_" on the juke box again. Don't run off just yet. Look at the watch. Start to get impatient. _Hombre de negocios_ waiting for a colleague to work out a deal. A ton of coffee, three box cars of ore, a round ton of sugar. He's way overdue and you're getting impatient, but you don't leave yet. You don't leave and show the little dog wherever he or his partners are hiding that you had breakfast here this morning just to keep an eye on the _Marques de Avillar_. No, senor, you would not be as careless as the faggot. No, senor, oh no, senor, only the air is getting thicker and somewhere in the kitchen someone is looking at me and laughing I swear it I swear it only I can't help it this is the only face I have.

Soft laughter. Eyes looking in his direction. The now blazing sun. The flags on the mast of the white ship; crimson and gold of Fernando e Isabel, the triangular pennant of the C.T.E., and the mucking five arrows of the Falange floating insolently in the breeze over the heart of a democracy. Don't leave too soon. Look at your watch again and curse the mucking _hombre de negocios_ who's holding up your big deal. And what was the name of the C.T.E. radio officer from the _Ciudad de Sevilla_ whom poor old Fielding had in his report? Jimenez, Eduardo Jimenez, thank God, my memory for names is like a sponge and what would you say if the ship's officer who got that _abrazo de amor_ from the faggot was C.T.E. Radio Officer Jimenez and damn the sun and damn the olive oil on the hot stove chunks of garlic and squid floating in the hot oil and stinking up the thick murky air and it's cooler with the collar open.

Eyes looking at him from the kitchen. Soft laughter. Some joke. Hall is cockeyed on _cafe con leche_ and what's that it's the cup you lug and what's that it's the coffee spilling all over your pants and if those empty-faced bastards in the kitchen don't stop laughing I'll get right up from the floor and put a right cross through their lousy guts. That's just the ticket. Clip them with the old right, like the time in San Sebastian when the gonzo with the feather in his hat made the mistake of getting within range. Watch the old right, keed, watch the old K.O. sockeroo. Watch it, watch it, don't forget to duck. WATCH IT!

* * * * *

The driver of the rickety four-wheeled bus was thumping time with fat brown fingers on the rim of the heavy wheel. He didn't sing, just sat in his bucket seat with the faded flowered cretonne slip cover (bet you a good dinner his wife sewed it for him when he got the job) and thumped time. The kid with the guitar in the front seat was doing the singing. "Ay, Jalisco, Jalisco." He was a nice kid and drunk as a loon, but sweet and happy drunk. Nothing ugly about the kid. "Ay, Jalisco, Jalisco."

"Why is he singing?" Hall asked.

Behind him, someone in the rear seat answered, "He's happy. His favorite baseball team won the San Hermano tournament."

Hall turned with a start, faced an impassive-looking farmer in blue jeans.

"You were fast asleep, senor," the farmer said.

"Ay, Jalisco, Jalisco." A bad dream. Go back to sleep. Or better yet, wake up and put the light on. But the light was on. The dim yellow lights inside the bus. "Ay, Jalisco, Jalisco." Scots wha hae wi' Wallace fled. Scots wha ... God, no! A new song. No more Jalisco. The farmer came into the town his cheeses ripe his mangoes brown he spied a maiden by her stall she ... God, no!

"Ay, Muchachita, Muchachita." The kid was still in the groove. Four-string chord, six-string chord. _Un beso, un beso! Reflecciones de otros tiempos._ More nice chords. The farmer remembers other times, other maidens who pursed their lips and gave him _un beso_ when he begged. What am I to the farmer and what is he to Hecuba?

"For a _borracho_ he sings well."

"Yes, with a skinful he is a virtuoso." The sound of his own words startled Hall. He turned around to the man who had spoken to him. The farmer smiled.

"Pardon me, senor," the farmer smiled, "but tonight you are a little of the virtuoso yourself, no?"

"No." God, no!

"I apologize, senor. You are not well?"

"No. I am well." But where in hell am I? _Ay, muchachita, muchachita._ Cigars in the coat pocket. Broken, all of them. Smashed to shreds. I fell on them. When I fell they were smashed. Cigarettes in the side pocket. Black tobacco, thicker than the cigarettes back home, brown-paper package. _Bock, La Habana._

"Have you a match?" That's a good one. Felipe's been waiting three years for J. Burton Skidmore to say it. "_Tiene usted un fo'foro?_" Very welcome. Yes, they are Cuban. No, I am not Cuban myself. I dropped the _s_ in _fosforo_? I have recently spent some time in Cuba. Yes, Batista is a fine man. Where are you going? Is this your village?

"Good-bye, friend." This from outside, the farmer standing on the dirt road, Hall's gift cigarette glowing in his mouth. A tiny village. Houses, store, the whitewashed village school, a cast-iron statue of San Martin and Bolivar shaking hands, an open-front cafe, the small church.

"Hello, friend." The kid with the guitar waved at Hall. "When did you get on the bus?"

"I don't remember," Hall said.

"Good. Neither do I. What's your favorite song?"

"_No Pasaran._"

"I know it," the kid said. "It is a good song." His fingers flew over the strings, found the right chords. Hall joined him in the words of the Spanish Republic's song of resistance.

Night, deep-blue night, the yellow mazdas of the farmers' village way behind them now, and the _gua-gua_ rolling down the highway between plowed fields and fields of sugar and nothing in sight but the broad fields.

"Hey, driver!" That was me. I can talk now. I can stand, too. If I grip the tops of the seats I can walk to the front without taking a pratt fall. "Driver, _gua-guero_ ..."

"Jump, it's not high, senor ..."

Feet on the ground once more. Black blue soft chill night air. There goes the _gua-gua_. Red tail light bouncing around the bend in the road. No ship. No sun. No garlic broiling in olive oil. Nothing. Get off the road. Get up. Off the road. Get to the fence. Get up, get up, here comes the blackout again, here it comes, watch it, men, this is it.

He remembered the kid with the guitar, the rich voice of the driver. _Jump, it's not high._ It was still night. He was lying in a field, about fifteen yards from the highway. The taste of black earth at his lips had awakened him.

He turned his mouth away from the plowed earth. There was no sense in trying to get up. He knew that much. All in. He was all in. Every bone, every muscle ached. He closed his eyes, sank into a deep dreamless sleep.

Thirst wakened him. It was a thirst that started in his throat, spread to his dry cottony mouth, sank deep into his drying insides. They were drying out, drying out fast. He had to have water, or they would dry up completely, and then he would be dead.

I am now an animal, he thought. I must have animal cunning. I must sense water and then I must get to it. Where things grow there must be water. A stream. A well.

He got to his knees, started to crawl deeper into the plowed field, putting another few yards between himself and the road. He crawled into a clump of weeds. The dew on their leaves brushed against his face. "It's water," he said, and he licked the dew from the weeds. The thirst remained.

Fire. Build a fire and attract a watchman, a farmer, another bus rolling along the deserted road. No, don't build a fire. Cane burns like oil. Remember what poor old Fielding said? No fire. You'll be roasted alive. Find water. It's a sugar field. Must be an irrigation ditch around. Find the ditch.

More ground gained by crawling. Then the sleep of exhaustion, no dreams only sleep until the thirst becomes stronger than the exhaustion and then more crawling until ... God! there is a ditch. Hear it, smell it. Must be water, couldn't be this much mulepiss. Now drink your fill and bathe your face and get your head away from the top of the ditch before you fall asleep again and drown in two inches of it. It has a name. It's water.

This time Hall rolled over on his back when he felt that sleep was overtaking him.

There were a million bugs on the mud walls of the ditch. They crawled on Hall's hands, on his face, and one column of intrepid bugs slithered into his mouth and got caught in his throat and he was sick. He moved away from the mess, tried to sit up. He could see a mound of rocks near the road. With all his remaining strength, he started to crawl toward the mound.

It took him two hours to negotiate the twenty yards between the ditch and the rocks. He lost count of the number of times he collapsed to his face and fell asleep on the journey. All he knew was that when he woke up, he had to get to the rocks. He could sit on the rocks and wait for a truck or a bus to pass by. Then he could hail the driver.

But when he reached the fence, he saw that the mound was on the other side of the road. Fall asleep in the middle of the road and the next truck that rolls along crushes you like a roach. _Putas y maricones! Maricones y putas!_ Blood will run in the streets of the city when I get up, the brown blood, the black blood, the blue blood. _Arriba Espana_ in a pig's eye. You mean _Deutschland Erwache_, senor, and come a little closer, you with the yoke and the five arrows on your cap, come a little closer and get your filthy head bashed in. God, when I get up I'll kill them I'll kill them if these chills ever go away I'll kill them I'll kill all the baby killers when these chills go away oh God look at the baby killers marching through Burgos with the holy men shaking holy water on their lousy heads. Whores and faggots! Faggots and whores! I'm getting up!

* * * * *

He was asleep when the army lorry roared by and then stopped down the road, brakes screeching, rubber biting into macadam.

The sergeant's brandy did no good. Neither did the fresh water they poured on his face, the brandy they rubbed into his wrists. All this they had to tell him later.

He remembered nothing about the lorry. The bus he remembered; the driver, the flowered-cretonne slip cover on the driver's seat, the farmer, joining the kid in _No Pasaran_. He remembered jumping from the bus, crawling for water, giving up the ghost when the bugs crawled into his throat. And the rocks. There was that mound of rocks.

Now there was a narrow bed in a small room. A man's room, obviously a man's room. Desk, lounging chair, worn grass rug. For some reason Fernando Souza was sitting in the lounging chair. Another man was standing near the bed, looking down at Hall, his fingers pressed to Hall's pulse.

"Is that you, Souza?" Hall asked, and the night clerk of the Bolivar left the chair and joined the doctor.

"You will be well now," Souza said.

"The pulse is coming back," the doctor said, to Souza. He let go of Hall's wrist. When he went to the desk, Hall could see the military trousers beneath his white coat.

"Can you talk, Don Mateo?" Souza asked.

"I think so. Where am I? What day is it?"

The doctor went to the door. He held a whispered conversation with a soldier who was waiting on the other side of the door. Then he took Souza's chair. "Such cursing," he laughed. "When they brought you in, Senor Hall, you had no pulse, you had the temperature of cold beer, and your heart had just about three beats left. You were biologically more dead than alive. But I swear, before I gave you the first ampule of adrenalin, the curses were pouring out of your lips like the waves of the ocean. How do you feel now?"

"Very tired."

"Are you hungry?"

"I don't know."

"You'll be able to eat soon. I've been feeding you through a needle for seven hours. How would you like a steak?"

"What time is it?"

"Five o'clock," Souza said. "I've been here with you all afternoon, Don Mateo."

"What's this 'Don' business?"

Souza smiled. "I am glad to see that you are making jokes, _companero_."

"Where in hell are we?"

Souza and the doctor took turns in telling the story. The soldiers had picked him up in the road some ninety miles from San Hermano. More dead than alive, they put him in the lorry and rushed him to their garrison. There, while the commandant examined his papers, the doctor, Captain Dorado, moved him into the commandant's room and gave him his first shot of adrenalin.

"Was it a heart attack?" Hall asked.

"No," the doctor said. "You were drugged."

Hall listened to the doctor's technical description of the drug which had felled him. He had heard of it before. It worked like an overdose of insulin. Burned up the sugar, then the energy in the body, and then blew the fuses. Something like that, anyway. Another hour without adrenalin and it would have been curtains. That second pot of coffee and the soft laughter in the kitchen. Damn their eyes, that's where it happened. Then eight hours of lying in the commandant's bed, cursing, sleeping, getting needles of adrenalin, needles of energy, needles of the stuff that makes pulses beat to the right measure.

"Are we tiring you?"

"No, Captain. I'd like something to eat, though."

"I ordered some hot broth."

"Thank you. I'm glad you're here, Fernando."

"The commandant called me," Souza said. "He found your address through Pan American Airways."

"Oh." The letter. It had gone to Pan Am for forwarding. Then it was still safe.

"I will return in a few minutes," the doctor said. "I want to see about your broth."

Souza waited until the doctor was out of the room before he spoke. "Providence was with you," he said. "The commandant here is a Tabio man. He called me at once to find out who you were. Another man might have called your Embassy first."

"Have they called the Embassy yet?"

"Not yet, _companero_."

"What happened to the men the _maricon_ met at the pier?"

"We have them under sharp eyes. They went first to Jorge Davila's home. Then they went to the country. They are in Bocas del Sur at the estate of Gamburdo's brother, the cattle raiser. The _maricon_ left them there. He is now in San Hermano with Ansaldo. They were to be with Don Anibal this afternoon."

"And the girl?"

"With Ansaldo."

"When are you going back to the Bolivar?"

"In an hour."

"Tell her that I telephoned to say that I would be out of the city tonight. I was to see her for dinner. What about the priests from the boat? Are they all really priests?"

"Who knows? Perhaps I shall know more when I return to the city."

"How long will I be on my back?" Hall asked. "Did the doctor say?"

"Not long. You have recovered from the drug, he says. Now you need food and another day's rest."

The doctor returned followed by a soldier who carried a small tray. "Hot soup," he said. "And after the soup, some rich beef stew. But first, some brandy. Three glasses, corporal. We'll drink to the memory of Lazarus." He helped Hall sit up in bed, propped some pillows behind his back. Only when he sat up did Hall notice that a large signed photograph of Anibal Tabio hung over the commandant's desk.

"Let's rather drink to the health of Anibal Tabio," Hall proposed.

Souza and the doctor watched with approval as Hall ate the soup and the stew, and then sipped mate through a silver straw. "He's going to be well in a matter of hours," the doctor said. "Well enough to start cursing again. It is a shame that I do not know English. But your Spanish curses were enough for me."

"What was I cursing?" Hall asked.

"What didn't you curse, senor? Franco, _putas, maricones_, Hitler, Gamburdo, the Cross and Sword ..."

"God! Who heard me?"

The doctor smiled. "Be tranquil," he said. "Just the commandant and myself, and one of the soldiers. But you don't have to worry about the soldier. He is the son of a miner in the north."

"The soldier," Souza said, "is reliable. I have already seen him."

"You are among friends," the doctor said. "Souza has told us about you."

"I owe my life to you," Hall said.

"From what I have learned," the doctor laughed, "you are not an easy man to kill."

"When can I get out of bed?"

"Tomorrow. That is just as well, senor. The garrison tailor is cleaning your suit now. Would you like more mate?"

"Could I have another brandy?"

"Of course. But then you must sleep."

"I'm tired of sleeping."

"I am prepared for that." The doctor called for the corporal, ordered him to prepare a hypodermic syringe. "You must get some sleep, senor," he said.

In the morning, the doctor pronounced Hall well enough to leave the commandant's bed. Hall's clothes, the suit cleaned and freshly pressed, the shirt washed and ironed, the shoes polished to a glow, were laid out on a chair near the bed. "We do things thoroughly in the army," the doctor said.

"I see."

"The commandant would like to join you for breakfast."

"In the officers' mess?"

"No. Here."

"Please tell him that I would be honored."

"Good. Can you dress yourself?"

"I'm all right, thanks to you, Captain. I feel as if I'd had a week's rest on some quiet beach."

"I'll get the commandant, then. The corporal will show you the way to the washroom. I've laid out my razor and shaving things for you."

It was good to stand on steadied legs again, good to walk erect like a man. The razor had a nice edge. It sliced through the stems of the two-day beard without snagging. For some reason, the efficiency of the razor delighted Hall beyond measure. He studied the results of the shave in the wall mirror, then looked for signs of his illness. Two days were lost, he thought, two days of which he could account for but a few hours. The doctor could fill in most of the second day. The first night was something Hall himself could remember. It was like a bad dream one longs to forget, but he could remember the bus, the field, the ditch, the rock pile. He could remember staggering, crawling, getting sick, passing out and crawling and passing out again. But there were at least ten hours that remained a total blank; that portion of the day between the time he blacked out in the cafe near the Spanish line's pier and the moment he became aware of the kid in the bus.

An enlisted man was cleaning up the commandant's room when Hall returned. "The major will be here in five minutes," he told Hall. "And in the meanwhile, he sent you these." He handed Hall a flat tin of American cigarettes.

Hall offered one of the cigarettes to the soldier. He sat down in the leather chair near the desk, looked at the inscription on Tabio's photograph. "To my dear Diego, my comrade in prison and in freedom--Anibal."

"The commandant is a close friend of Don Anibal's," the soldier said. "I think I hear him coming now." The soldier stepped out of the room.

A moment later someone rapped gently on the door.

"Come in," Hall shouted.

The door opened. In the doorway, a man in uniform, his hat carried correctly under his left arm, paused, made a soft salute. "Major Diego Segador," he said. "We are honored to have you as our guest." He shook hands with Hall, sat down in the desk chair facing the portrait of Tabio.

"I am grateful to you for--everything," Hall said.

"It was nothing," Segador said. "After Souza spoke to me about you, I was sorry we could not do more."

"What more could you have done?"

The major's lips parted over his long teeth in a mirthless smile. "We could have killed the _cabron_ who drugged you, _companero_."

"You know who did it?"

"It could have been anyone in that cafe. What's the matter with Delgado? Didn't he know it is owned by a dirty Falangist?" Color rose to the major's dark cheeks. He was a man of Hall's own years, shorter, but with a pair of powerful hands capable of hiding the hands of a man twice his size. The hands were gripping the arms of his chair now, the knuckles white as the major fought to control his rage. Hall knew the feeling, sensed the fires that burned in the major's head. He called me _companero_ a moment ago, he thought, he knows what I'm after.

"Pepe is all right," Hall said.

"He should have more brains." The major opened the locked middle drawer of his desk, pulled out a sealed brown envelope. "Your papers," he said. "Please examine them and see if everything is present."

Hall tore open the envelope, shook the contents to the desk. Passport, wallet, not more than fifty pesos missing, a book of travelers' checks, some sheets of blank paper, a small leather address book, wrist watch, the Bock cigarettes. Except for the fifty pesos, everything else which belonged in the wallet was there, money, pictures, cards, the letter from Havana.

"Nothing is missing," Hall said. He took the letter from its envelope and counted the pages.

"I'm sorry I had to read your love letter," Segador said. "But it was necessary."

"I know," Hall said. "But it is not a love letter."

The massive face of the major reflected his surprise. "Not a love letter?" he asked. "Ah, here's the coffee. Come in, corporal. Set the trays down on the desk."

Hall waited until the corporal left. "It is not a love letter," he repeated. "I would like very much to interpret it for you. I think it might explain why I was drugged."

"Before you start," the major said, "there are two things that you should know. The first is that Souza has given me a fairly good idea of why you came to our country. The second is that for your own sake, and for ours, I had to notify your Embassy that we had picked you up drunk in a village cafe last night."

"Drunk?"

"I'm sorry, _companero_. I mean no disrespect, but your Embassy is not very much in sympathy with many things a man like yourself is willing to die defending. Under the circumstances, you can spare yourself some unnecessary trouble if you say merely that you were drunk. If you stick to this story, you can help yourself and, to be very frank, you can help Don Anibal."

"You are his friend, aren't you?"

The major got to his feet. "His friend?" He undid his tie, then took his shirt off. His torso was a mass of old and, for the main part, improperly sewn scars. Mementoes of bullets, steel whips, knives. "My republicanism is more than skin deep, my friend."

"Then I can tell you everything." Hall dipped into the tin of American cigarettes. "It started in San Juan," he began, "or rather it really started in Geneva, when I met Don Anibal for the first time. But it was in San Juan that I read that Dr. Ansaldo was on his way to San Hermano to treat Don Anibal. And if I may jump to the end of my story first, this love letter seems to confirm what I suspected about Ansaldo. Do you see what it says here about the doctor who treated Carlos?"

For an hour, Hall told Segador of what he had learned and experienced since arriving in the country. The major interrupted with questions frequently, made notes in a small black notebook. "Please," he said, when Hall finished his account, "I am going to repeat the important parts of the story to you. Correct me if I am wrong or if I leave anything out."

He recited the story back to Hall, then consulted his watch. "The Press Secretary of your Embassy is due to call for you in a few minutes," he said. "Please remember your story. You were drunk."

"Was I with a _puta_?" Hall asked.

The major grinned. "No," he said, "that I did not think necessary. Although if it were, I assure you I would tell your Embassy that you were with the mangiest _puta_ in six provinces."

"What do we do now?"

"It is hard to say. In the meanwhile, I think there is something you need." He took a large automatic out of his desk, slipped a clip of bullets into its grip, and handed the gun and a small box of cartridges to Hall. "If we could only prove to Don Anibal before it is too late that Ansaldo ..."

"How?"

"We must find a way. In the meanwhile, stay alive for the next few days. I have friends. They will watch for your safety. Souza, others. They will bring you my messages. And be careful in cafes."

_Chapter nine_

The American Embassy sent a well-dressed young attache to call for Hall in the morning. He arrived in a low-slung yellow sedan, introduced himself as Orville Smith, snubbed everyone in sight, and relaxed only when he and Hall were well out of sight of the camp. "They said that you sure hung one on," he said pleasantly and, Hall realized, with even a touch of admiration.

"Must have been something I ate," Hall answered.

"Glad you turned up intact, old man. Might have led to some amusing complications. If the major had called five minutes later, this would have appeared on the front page of _El Imparcial_ this morning."

He gave Hall a galley proof of a news story. _Missing American Writer Believed Victim of Communists._ Missing since yesterday ... last seen leaving hotel ... On Wednesday, at American Embassy party, Hall had discussed Red threats to his safety, told publisher of _Imparcial_ that giant Red assassin had followed him day before ... Embassy officials described Hall as author of book on experiences on _H.M.S. Revenger_ ... The missing American failed to phone or keep appointment made with publisher of _Imparcial_ in connection with Soviet threats ... Feared abducted and killed.

"What do you make of it?" Hall asked.

"Politics. They take their politics seriously down here. Was it true that you were followed?"

"Yes. But not by the Reds. By the fascists."

"Are there any fascists down here?" This in a tone of detached amusement.

"A few. How well do you know Fernandez?"

"Quite well. He's one of the few gentlemen in San Hermano. Comes from an old Spanish aristocratic family. Did you really have an appointment with him?"

"It wasn't definite. He told me he had heard of some Red plot to bump me off. I just kidded him along."

"Mr. Fernandez is really very well informed," Smith said. "He has a crack staff of reporters, and the information that they pick up shouldn't be ignored."

"Yeah," Hall said. "I hear he's good. Matter of fact, I heard _Imparcial_ is getting the Cabot Prize this year."

It was like a shaft driven into Smith's armor. "No!" he exclaimed. "Who told you?"

"Some _puta_," Hall said, dryly. "In bed." He watched the blood rushing to Orville Smith's head. "You'd be surprised at what a gal who sleeps around can pick up."

"She was pulling your leg, Hall."

Hall grinned. "Please, Mr. Smith," he said. "Gentlemen don't discuss such things." Smith grew redder.

"Not to change the subject," Hall said, "but what's cooking in town? In politics, for example. Doesn't the Congress open today?"

"Not really. They have the ceremonial opening this afternoon. According to tradition, the President speaks to the entire Congress. Then they settle down to a week of reviewing last year's business. The first working session really starts in about ten days."

"And today I guess Gamburdo is speaking instead of Tabio."

"Oh, beyond a doubt. Tabio is really on his last legs, old man. I suppose I should feel sorry about the old coot, but then you learn things in my game."

"About Tabio?"

"Oh, yes. We had information that in his address to the Congress, Tabio was planning to call for the nationalization of all the mines in the country."

"But why?"

"Oh," Smith said, "because he was being forced into it, I guess. I've met Tabio and he's not as bad as his enemies make him out to be. But what are you going to do when you are elected by a Popular Front majority? The Communist Senators and Deputies are all from the mining provinces up north. They've been hollering for the nationalization of the mines for twenty years. Now they're strong enough to put the squeeze on Tabio."

"But isn't Gamburdo in the Popular Front?"

"Gamburdo is different," Smith said. "He has different ideas, and he can't be pressured by the bolos."

"I'm doing a story on Gamburdo for a magazine back in the States. You get around. Tell me more about Gamburdo. I've got him down as the coming man on the continent. Am I half cocked, or is he really hot?"

Orville Smith discussed Gamburdo, Tabio, the political scene. He talked about the politicos, about their ideas, about the gossip which followed them in their careers. Carefully prodded by Hall, he spoke fluently for nearly two hours. It was a very revealing monologue. It told Hall how Orville Smith had spent his three years in San Hermano. Week-end parties at the estates of wealthy Spanish planters. Dinners, cocktails, high masses, weddings, fishing trips with the Vardienos and the Fernandezes and the Gamburdos. Info straight from the horse's mouth.

Tabio the tool and or agent of bolshevism. The better element. How social legislation would push taxes up and cut down returns on American investments. Vardieno gives lovely parties on his island. No, not many lately. No oil for the boats, hard enough to get it for his narrow-gauge Diesel locomotives. Fine lad, young Quinones; made the golf team at Princeton. The Vardieno girl in the Press Bureau? That would be the one who went to finishing school in the States. She just started in at the Bureau for some experience. Cross and Sword? Oh, I know the pinkos back home would call it fascist. It's not, really. Conservative, for free enterprise and private ownership. All the better-element folks belong or support it. Do I know any labor leaders? No, never met one. Did I ever spend a week-end in a small village hotel? No, thank you, the roaches are bigger than sparrows in the sticks.

Hall thought about the art of diplomacy. You take a kid from the FFV's and at an early age you wrap him in cellophane and send him off to some nice, prophylactic boarding school, well-heeled white Gentiles only, thank you, High Episcopalians preferred, and only nice clean thoughts, none of them less than a century old, are gently swished against the cellophane until some of them seep through by osmosis. He meets only the sons of the better element and outside of an adolescent clap he picks up on one wild week-end with some of the boys in New York he has no real problem until he's eased out of prep and then he has an idea he wants to go to Harvard but the family prevails and he does time at Princeton, nearly makes varsity football but a high tackle in a practice scrimmage changes his mind, and then he is ready for his place on the board of the mill but someone--a nice girl of fine breeding, no doubt--puts another idea in his head. So he goes to Georgetown, fills out a lot of nasty forms, and then, _voila!_, the young monsieur arrives in Paris as Third Secretary and dreamily sends that first letter home to the folks: Hello Folks, here I am in Gay Paree learning how to be an Ambassador.

And then in Paris, Hall thought, listening to Orville Smith, your young Third Secretary naturally gravitates to his French equivalents, the young bluebloods who were reared in French cellophane and got the same ideas, only in French, in their own versions of Princeton and Groton. The better element meets the better element, and he makes factual, intelligent reports. The Popular Front falling into hands of the bolos. This he learns at a week-end party on Flandin's yacht. The Croix de Feu and the Cagoulards are fine, conservative forces. Only the pinkos call them fascists, but Bertrand de Juvenal, the fledgling ambassador's pal, knows otherwise. Sit-down strikes, forty-hour week, vacations with pay--he puts them all down in his reports; communist, of course. Got the lowdown on the beach at Cannes just the other day. Daladier is the man to watch. Yes, he is in the Popular Front. But Daladier's different. He's like Monsieur Laval, the French Calvin Coolidge. Fine force for sensible government. There will be no war, Munich has settled that. Got the lowdown from Flandin himself. Germany will be defeated. Spent a most fascinating week-end with General Weygand. Marechal Petain is man of the hour. Marechal Petain will make France another Verdun. Vichy wants to be friends with Washington. The Marechal indignantly denies, in private, that that was a Nazi salute you saw in the newsreels, sir, he says he was just waving at the cameramen. But Bertrand de Juvenal does not deny, and Laval does not deny, and Daladier weeps in his collapsed house of cards. And then comes the transfer to San Hermano at a better rating.

Smith pointed to the suburbs of San Hermano ahead of them. "We made good time," he said. "We'll be in the Embassy in ten minutes."

"Good going. You can drop me at the Bolivar, if you don't mind."

"Not at all, old man. But say, why don't you drop by for a spot of lunch with the old man and the boys at the Embassy? We'd love to have you with us and, besides, the old man will probably want to see for himself that you're in one piece."

Hall looked at his watch. "What time do you have lunch?"

"About one."

"Good. I'd like to join you. But I'll still have time to stop off at the Bolivar to change and pick up my mail. I'm expecting a letter from my sweetheart."

* * * * *

Pepe was waiting in his cab in front of the Bolivar. He was contrite and subdued. "I nearly killed you with my stupidity, Mateo," he said. "I should have known that cafe was owned by Falangistas."

"It's nothing, Pepe. I had it coming to me. I'm all over it now, anyway. What's new?"

"I have the complete list of where the passengers from the _Marques de Avillar_ are staying. Their names, too. Except the names of the two men who are at the Gamburdo ranch. But they are still there."

"Did you recognize any of the names?"

"My friends are examining the lists now. I'll have them back for you in the evening."

"Have you seen Duarte?"

"I told him about you. He wants you to call him at the Mexican Embassy."

"I will, later. I have to go to my room for a minute, and then I want you to take me to the American Embassy. I'm having lunch there." He entered the hotel and asked for his mail at the desk. There was a message from Jerry, a short gossipy note from his publisher, and another love letter from Havana.

The note from Jerry was very short. "I missed you, you dog," it said. "Phone me when you return to town. Jerry."

The letter from Havana, mailed the day after the first letter, was almost a duplicate of the first. Again it protested its love, but this time it said, "How many times must I tell you that the man you think is your rival is unworthy of all human decencies? Far from being a rival in my eyes, I look upon him as a creature worse than an assassin. You must believe me; I detest the man." Hall put the letter in his wallet.

He examined his room carefully. It had not been searched, the stethoscope was still in its hiding place, his clothes were just as he had left them. Everything was as it had been. Hall took out his portable typewriter, copied the _El Imparcial_ story which had been killed, and sealed the copy in an envelope. He went downstairs, got into the cab, and slipped the envelope into Pepe's pocket.

"Give the envelope to Dr. Gonzales," he said. "And tell him to get the information to Major Segador right away."

"I'll drive right out to the doctor as soon as I leave you. Shall I wait for you outside of the American Embassy after I see the doctor?"

"I think you'd better."

Ambassador Skidmore seemed pleased to see Hall. "You gave us quite a scare, young fellow," he said, his ruddy face beaming, white hair bobbing as Skidmore shook his head from side to side in mock anxiety. "Ah, you newspaper boys," he laughed. "Always going off on a tear when you are least expected to! And here poor Joe Fernandez was so sure that the Reds had made hamburger out of you, Hall."

"I'm sorry I spoiled a good story," Hall said. "I'd better call Fernandez on the phone before he sends out another alarm."

"No need to, my boy," the Ambassador said. "Joe Fernandez is joining us at lunch."

Fernandez showed up with a former Senator, a dignified old dandy named Rios, who sported a silver-headed cane, a waxed, dyed mustache, and a Cross and Sword emblem in his lapel. They shared the table in the Ambassador's small private dining room with Hall, Orville Smith and the Ambassador.

The publisher fawned over Hall like a long-lost brother. "You are safe," he exclaimed. "Thanks be to the Virgin Mother! What happened? Was it very bad?"

"I got drunk," Hall said. "That's all that happened."

"Ridiculous, Senor Hall! You are a man who can take his drink. You were drugged. Mark my words, senor, you were drugged. You don't know these Reds."

Orville Smith winked broadly at Hall. "The main thing is," he said to Fernandez, "that Hall is safe now. I'm sure he appreciates your concern, Don Jose." In deference to the Ambassador's three-word Spanish vocabulary, Smith and the others spoke English. Rios, who spoke only Spanish, sat between Skidmore and Smith, who acted as their interpreter.

"What province did you represent in the Senate?" Hall asked the former Senator.

"San Martin, in the north."

"Don Joaquin is a great statesman," Fernandez interrupted. "But when El Tovarich prepared his gangsters for the elections two years ago, he armed the Red miners and they held their guns in the ribs of Don Joaquin's majority."

Hall listened to Smith translate this account of Rios' defeat at the polls before he spoke. "And do you plan to run again, Senor Rios?" he asked.

Fernandez answered for the dandy. "He will run again," he shouted, "and he will be elected. Fire can fight fire. Guns can fight guns."

"I have _pantalones_," Rios said. "I am a man of honor."

"Don Joaquin's constituents demand that he runs again," Fernandez said. He turned to the Ambassador, became his own translator. The ex-Senator nodded happily at every word Fernandez addressed to the Ambassador, as if by nodding he could bolster the words whose meaning he had to guess.

"How do you think things will go in Congress today?" Hall asked Fernandez.

"The same as every year, Senor Hall. Ceremonials, the speech, and then--_quien sabe_?"

Rumors rose from the table. Everyone had a choice rumor to air. Rios had it on good authority that Tabio's illness was merely a pretext; the President was afraid to face the Congress lest they force him to justify his wild socialistic measures which had put the national budget in such dire peril. Orville Smith informed the men at the table that Tabio's illness had taken a more serious turn. "In fact, I understand that Dr. Ansaldo has informed the government that he will refuse to operate on Tabio without the written permission of the Cabinet." Fernandez spoke of Ansaldo's skill as a surgeon.

"How about Gamburdo's speech, Joe?" the Ambassador said. "You promised to bring me an advance copy."

"I told my secretary to bring it to you as soon as it arrived," Fernandez answered. "It is very late in arriving today."

"Have you any idea of what he is going to say, Joe?"

"He is a very sound man," Fernandez said. "I am sure that the speech will be satisfactory."

"It won't call for the nationalization of the mines, at any rate," Smith added.

He made the mistake of translating his remark for Joaquin Rios. He might just as well have dropped a match into a keg of gunpowder. The wax mustaches under the purpling nose of ex-Senator Rios began quivering even before he unleashed an avalanche of ringing livid paragraphs on the subject. His eyes blind to the cold stares of Jose Fernandez, he unlimbered his heaviest verbal artillery, pounded the table until the glasses rattled, pointed accusing fingers at every corner of the room, and otherwise managed rather effectively to end the luncheon. Fernandez fairly had to drag him out of the Embassy to cool him down.

"Fine fellows," Skidmore said to Hall when they were gone. "Best of the lot down here."

"Sure," Hall said. "I've known all about Fernandez for years."

"He's a great guy, Hall. Publishes one of the best newspapers on the continent. As a matter of cold fact, old man, I wouldn't be at all surprised if he won the--well, he might be in for a rather high honor."

"I know. The Cabot Prize."

"Who told you?"

Hall looked at Smith, who was growing uncomfortable. "I can't remember," he said. "But it's hard to keep such a secret in San Hermano."

"Well, I'll be damned," the Ambassador laughed. "It was nice to see you again, old man. Drop in any time when you have a problem."

"Problems in San Hermano? Things seem to be pretty much under control, I'd say."

"Yes," the Ambassador admitted. "Things are pretty quiet."

"Will it be as quiet when Tabio dies? I heard talk that the Gamburdo crowd is pretty close to the fascists."

"Gamburdo?" Skidmore grew both amused and indignant. "What kind of communistic nonsense have you been hearing? I know Eduardo Gamburdo intimately. I've entertained him at the Embassy, and I've week-ended at his estate. He's a fine conservative influence on this government and, damn it all, young man, Gamburdo is a thorough gentleman."

"Yeah," Hall said. "Thorough." For a few seconds, during the luncheon, he had toyed with the idea of telling the Ambassador all that he knew about Gamburdo and Ansaldo and the role of the Falange. Now he cursed himself for a fool. Skidmore, he saw, was Orville Smith at sixty, but with the power to make trouble for any visiting American who rubbed against his deep-set prejudices. "Well, thanks for everything," he said. "I guess you're pretty busy today."

Hall rushed out of the Embassy, his face twitching crazily as he charged down the marble walk to the curb. He had broken into a heavy sweat which drenched him from head to toe. "Get me out of here," he roared at Pepe. "Get going before I kill someone."

"What happened?" Pepe asked.

"Nothing. Where are we going?"

"Nowhere. What's the matter with your face?"

"Nothing." He put his hand against his right cheek. "Nothing. Did you see Gonzales?"

"I gave him the letter. He said you should go to the opening of Congress today. He says you might be surprised."

"Thanks. I had my surprise for the day already."

"Gonzales was serious. He says you should go. It starts at four o'clock."

"All right. I'll go. Better take me to Gobernacion. I'll need a pass from the Press Bureau. No, wait, let's go to Duarte's place. He takes his siesta at this time. I'll call that Vardieno bitch from his place."

Hall opened his tie. "Have we time to stop for a beer?" he asked. "I'm dying for a drink."

"No. We might miss Duarte. He'll have beer for you."

Pepe was right. Duarte did have beer, and had they stopped on the way, they would have missed him. He was about to leave the house when they arrived. Duarte was wearing the green dress uniform of a Mexican lieutenant-colonel, to which he had pinned his Spanish medals and insignia.

"Going to war?" Hall asked.

"No. To the opening of Congress."

"You've got time."

"Hall is dying," Pepe said. "He needs cold beer."

The Mexican brought out five bottles of beer. "I've got more in the ice box," he said. "What's the matter?"

"He wants to kill someone," Pepe said.

"Me too. What of it?"