Siege of Silence Page 11

I answered firmly, “There aren’t any.”

  “What?!”

  “Sir, that’s just a smoke-screen.”

  “How can you know?”

  “I’m ninety-nine per cent sure. I’ve trained central and South American forces for years- thousands of ‘em. In Panama and at Fort Bragg. They’re not religious fanatics. You might find one or two nuts in ten thousand to blow themselves up- but not twenty-seven. They don’t believe eternal paradise automatically follows religious suicide. Besides those guys are not stupid. With twenty-seven people wired up, the chances of an accidental explosion are enormous. They know that one explosion would bring an immediate attack from the ‘Nimitz’. Why risk it? Those jackets just contain padding.”

  “But you can’t be positive.”

  “No sir, but anyway the plan, as it stands, gives them around sixty seconds to make up their minds and even if there are no explosives they could shoot our people. The way I’d do it they would only have ten seconds or less. It would be 4.00 a.m. Most of them would be asleep. There would be a few seconds of noise and confusion then we’d have our people and the compound secured. Then the rest of our guys can come in like the cavalry.” -

  Komlosy decided it was time to assert himself. He asked, “How would you get in, Colonel?”

  Without taking my eyes off the President, I replied, “Silently. By Ultralights.”

  The President was puzzled.

  “Ultralights?”

  “Yes sir. Motorized hang gliders. We take off from the ‘Nimitz’ and climb to around eight thousand feet approaching the coast, cut the engines and glide right in.”

  The President was still puzzled. “But those things are made of cloth and metal tubes. I’ve seen ‘em on TV. Hell, they’re just bicycles with wings and sewing-machine engines!”

  “Yes, sir.” I knew I’d got to be real persuasive. “But to put it in perspective, parachutes are just made of cloth- and they figure high in many modern military operations. I’ve been experimenting with Ultralights for the last few months. They’re simple but effective. Not much of’em to go wrong.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “How many men would you take?”

  “Twenty, tops.”

  “But they have over a hundred in the compound.”

  “Sir, each of my guys is worth ten of theirs, or more. In that sense we’d outnumber them two to one. I could do the job with ten. The others are back-up.”

  A long silence, then the President muses, “It all sounds so damn simple . . . twenty guys.”

  “Sir, the opposite of simple is complicated. In military matters complicated should be a dirty word.”

  He glanced at his watch and said to Komlosy, “Mike, I’m gonna sleep on this. We’ll discuss it at the NSC meeting tomorrow. Keep Colonel Slocum on hand . . . and incognito.”

  Komlosy said, “Yes, Mr President. What about the court martial?”

  The President turned to mc. He gave a small smile and said, “That will be postponed . . . on executive order.”

  “Thank you, sir . . . Mr President.”

  So I get sent up to this hotel room with a plan of the compound, a map of San Carlo and some large sheets of white cardboard. I work out my plan in twenty minutes and kick my heels for the next two days. Komlosy told me if I left the room or phoned out, he’d have me on a goddam treason charge. He’s phoned once on each day. I guess to check I’m here. To my questions he just answered, “Wait.”

  That’s one habit I never really mastered.

  I know a girl here in Washington. Knew her real well. Great long legs and curves and a face to swivel heads. Transferred from Fort Bragg to work in the Pentagon as an analyst. A first class, uncomplicated lay. I seriously contemplate giving her a ring. She would sure help pass the time. Better not. If Komlosy found out it would blow all my chances.

  I pick up the Washington Post and read the news for the third time. It’s all front page stuff. UN resolutions; messages of solidarity; silence from Moscow. It’s like one of those goddam TV re-runs. Only the location has changed. Teheran to San Carlo. I drop the paper. I’m trying to decide whether to ring down for a hamburger and fries now or postpone that treasured piece of action for another hour, when there’s a sharp tap on the door. I open it to find Komlosy holding a brown paper bag. “Hi.”

  He brushes past, casts a look round the room and then goes into the bathroom. He comes out with two glasses, puts them on the bedside table, sits on the bed, points a finger at the sole chair and, from the bag, produces a fifth of Johnnie Walker Black Label.

  I sit down and watch as he pours two healthy slugs. He passes me a glass and raises his own.

  “Cheers, Colonel. Here’s to us.”

  “Cheers.”

  I drink and trying to be casual, ask, “We got it?”

  He grimaces at the taste of the neat Scotch. “Not exactly. Not yet. The two plans are to go forward in tandem. At a later stage the President will take a decision on which one to use.”

  “Uh uh. What now?”

  He pours himself another and offers the bottle. I shake my head. He drinks and says, “You go back to Fort Bragg tonight. Assemble your team and start training. You’re to report to Brigadier Al Simmons. Okay?”

  I feel a flush of relief.

  “Right on! Ol’ ‘no shit’ Simmons. We get on just fine.”

  He smiles. “So I understand. He’ll keep the flak off you and also provide back-up engineering to build a mock-up of the compound. There’s one problem. You can’t use anyone from Delta Force.”

  “Hell! I know some good guys there.”

  He says firmly, “Forget it. They’re out of bounds. All involved with the other plan. The decision as to which one to use might come late. You’d have no chance to retrain them in yours. Is it a problem?”

  I think for a moment, then shake my head.

  “No. I don’t need many and I know where to find ‘em.”

  “You got your basic plan ready?”

  “Sure, stand up.”

  “What?”

  “Stand up, sir.”

  He pushes himself off the bed and I lift the mattress, pull out a sheet of cardboard and lay it on the bed. It shows a plan of the compound and several crosses and arrows. He studies it.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.” “Shit!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  He shakes his head in awe.

  “Six crosses? Six arrows?!”

  “What do you want? A computer print-out? That’s it, unless the Intelligence situation changes. What’s happening on that?”

  He pours more Scotch. “We could have got lucky, Colonel. We’ll know in a day or two but maybe we got an agent on site.”

  “In the compound?”

  He nods and I whistle in admiration. .

  “But we’re not sure yet. I’ll be coming to review your progress in a few days. I’ll tell you more then. How soon can you be ready?”

  I’ve been waiting for the question. “I’d like three weeks.”

  “Okay. Good. The other plan calls for five to six weeks minimum.”

  “I’ll bet. You really think this is gonna be on?”

  He looks up at the ceiling despairingly. “Who the hell knows? There are complications I don’t even want to think about.”

  “Should I know about them?”

  “No, Colonel. They’re not military. But I can tell you it’s a real bag of worms right now. Everyone’s got their concerns. State, CIA, Defence. By the way, Grant’s like a bear with a sore ass.”

  “Yeah?”

  He grins happily and pours more Scotch.

  “Slocum, the President’s going to be pulled in all kinds of directions in the coming days. All kinds.”

  I ask anxiously, “You think the Generals will get to him?”

  He takes a giant sip and says, “Maybe. But don’t be misled by the President’s laid-back manner. When he makes a decision he generally sticks to it. He can be tough as nails.”

 
; He drains his glass, looks at his watch and stands up. “I gotta get back to the madhouse. I don’t have to tell you to keep that mouth of yours shut and stay out of trouble, but I just did. A car will pick you up at six and take you to Andrews. Transport to Bragg’s been laid on.” He hands me an embossed card. “Simmons has been given special authority. He should be able to handle anything that comes up. Any problems that he can’t, then phone that number. I’ll see you in a few days.”

  “Okay, sir. There’s just one more thing.” I show him a report in the paper which tells how the “Nimitz” is sitting on the horizon as a dire reminder of America’s awesome power. “Mr Komlosy, it’s also a reminder to those guards to keep on their toes. That plus all the overflights. It’s counterproductive. They should be kept to a minimum.”

  He thinks for a moment, then, says, “I agree. I’ll try to make the President see that.”

  I show him to the door and watch him stride down the corridor. At the elevator he turns and throws me a kind of salute. I grin and return it. That cat would just love to be a five star General.

  Back in the room I check my watch. An hour to kill before the car picks me up. I walk to the window. The rain is easing up. Below me, down-town Washington looks wet and forlorn. I start going through names in my head. I’ll need four squad leaders. The names pop up quickly. I’ll talk to them before I select the rest of the team. I try to picture the situation right now in the compound. It’s been a week since the takeover. If things follow the usual pattern, the guards will be getting sloppy now. Within three weeks they’ll be bored out of their tiny skulls.

  I wonder if I’m being too casual about this? Making a god of simplicity.

  I try to imagine the feelings of the hostages. Twenty men, seven women. They’ll be of two minds. One, just dying to get out of that place. The other, terrified of dying if we try a rescue.

  I sure hope I’m right about those jackets being nothing but dummies.

  JORGE

  San Carlo

  Day 6

  I play the tape again. It has the same effect. I’m listening to a different man. It throws me. Was I blind? Which man is which? It’s three days since I saw Peabody and I try to match his personality to what I’ve just heard. It escapes me. I check the time. The delivery truck will leave in an hour. Inez is still sleeping despite the voices on the tape. She will sleep through anything and for endless hours. It’s fortunate; it helps her pass the time. I stand up and cross to the bed. She is lying with her head cradled on one arm. Asleep her face is even more angelic than awake. She could have sat or slept for Botticelli. I sit on the bed and brush hair away from her forehead. I feel tenderness- or is it love? I’ve got a great mind but can’t tell the difference between love and tenderness.

  She stirs and opens one eye.

  “Inez, I’m leaving soon.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Tonight.”

  The eye closes. I bend down and kiss it. She murmurs unintelligibly.

  Something bad happened. Last night I was jealous. It was the first time in my life and the experience was terrifying. At the dinner, Bermudez paid her much attention. She seemed to react in her usual fashion, interested in him one minute, apparently bored the next. But after dinner, as he showed us around the floodlit gardens of Vargas’s decadent palace, it was different. She stayed always close to him, occasionally touching his arm with the back of her hand. I was jealous. At first confused by the emotion and then alarmed. My hold on women- and sometimes men- stems partly from a natural ability to be above envy or jealousy, so it could never be used as a weapon against me. If I am jealous now maybe it means that affection and fascination have coalesced into love. The thought is catastrophic. If true, it must be possible to love someone whom you know is capable of causing you great suffering. I’m aware that this is naïve but I never before experienced jealousy or its consequences.

  Vargas even had a small private zoo in the grounds. Bermudez showed us round with a proprietary air. I began to wonder about that man. He’s beginning to show disturbing symptoms. He’s already moved into the palace with his inner circle and there have been subtle changes in his appearance and manner. His uniform is smarter, better pressed, his speech a little more arrogant. His people still look at him with the eyes of adoring spaniels, and maybe he’s just flexing his charisma but like many before him he could be falling prey to the narcotic of power. He is also stubborn in the infallibility of his beliefs.

  At dinner he had outlined some of his programmes. I reminded him of the many mistakes we had made in the early years of the revolution and how Fidel was always the first to admit it when we blundered. He had listened politely but not with great interest. He has also started the first executions. The People’s Courts are sitting in constant sessions. He explained that the people demand them. Vengeance belongs to them. I reminded him that Fidel later regretted the relatively few executions that followed his victory. He replied equably that the situation was different. San Carlo is bordered by hostile regimes. We had the sea as a cushion. He must root out all radical elements.

  He is surprisingly sublime about the USA. The “Nimitz” has pulled back over the horizon. Incursions into San Carlo airspace have decreased. I told him bluntly that he was indulging himself. Those moves were probably designed to lull him into a false sense of security. If the Americans were planning something, they wouldn’t want the defences super-vigilant. I told him of the slackening of awareness in the compound. He was sanguine, merely saying that he would send word to Fombona. He is convinced that the Americans will soon negotiate. Already both the Red Cross and the Swedish Ambassador have put out feelers. I remarked that such moves were to be expected. I sensed his irritation at my words, but he was polite. He had to be. He needs us.

  Back at the hotel, after we had made love, Inez lay on her back gazing at the ceiling. Then she said reflectively, “He has the power of death.”

  “What?”

  “Bermudez. They bring him the decisions of the courts. He can veto them or sign them. He has signed more than a hundred. There will be hundreds more; maybe thousands.”

  She turned to look at me and I could see the awe in her eyes.

  Studying her face now, a picture of purity and innocence, I know that she will find that power fascinating. In a disturbed mood, I stand up and pack the little cassette recorder into my bag and go out. The two bodyguards are both sitting on stools opposite. Both with their heads against the wall. Both asleep. They had been assigned to me two days ago. There is much talk in the city of American spies and agents. Should they know of my existence, Bermudez thinks they might try to kill me. Fidel would be angry. These two offer brilliant protection. Not at all gently I kick them both awake and walk down the corridor. They stumble after me apologizing and, at the elevator, beg me not to tell Bermudez. I say nothing and at the truck tell them to wait for me at the same spot and not to leave. I am angry. If the Americans know what I’m trying to do they might well try to kill me.

  There is another passenger sitting on sacks of beans: the young Mestizo boy who works in the kitchens. He nods at me nervously. As we pull away I ask, “They let you out?”

  “Yes, sir . . . my mother . . . she is sick.”

  We bump along the road. He is small and slight. It’s hard to judge his age but I think less than twenty. He has long, lank, black hair cut jaggedly. It falls down like petals. He looks like a dark chrysanthemum. He avoids looking at me.

  “You don’t like working there?”

  His eyes flicker towards me and away.

  “Why didn’t you run away?”

  He moistens his lips. “My family, sir.”

  “Ah. So you also are a hostage.”

  He nods tentatively and asks, “Will it be long, sir?”

  “I don’t know. I think not.”

  The truck comes to a halt and the doors open. He tries to pick up my bag but I shake my head.

  In the guardhouse I leave my files in the bag but ta
ke out the cassette recorder and place it in the centre of the desk. Then I unlock the cell door, open it, and without looking inside go to my chair and sit down.

  He appears at the doorway. His beard is visibly longer.

  “Good morning, Excellency.”

  He is looking at the recorder.

  “Calderon, I don’t often swear, but if you switch that thing on all you’ll hear from my lips are obscenities.”

  PEABODY

  San Carlo

  Day 6

  He waves at the chair. “I don’t want to record. I want you to listen to something.”

  As I walk painfully to the chair he says, “You have a very comfortable bed.”

  “You’re staying in the residence? Does your impertinence have no limits?”

  He smiles. “It was only one night.”

  “Then did you locate my pills? I’m having a bad attack of gout.”

  He shakes his head regretfully. “The guards must have taken them. Now Peabody, ex-President for life Fernando Vargas borrowed a trick from your President Nixon. He had his palace wired up and he taped everything. The revolutionaries found the tape library intact. They’re working through it now. Believe me, there’s some very interesting material. Yesterday they gave me this tape. We’re going to listen to it and then talk about it.”

  He leans forward and presses a button. There’s a pause and then from the small speaker comes the single harsh word, “Sebagos.”

  In an instant I’m taken back sixteen days. Can it truly be only a little more than two weeks? Since then I have passed through an eternity. It was my second day in San Carlo. I had requested a private audience with Vargas. As I hear my own voice the memory is vivid.

  I was shown into a vast room by an aide-de-camp. He indicated a chair in front of an inlaid walnut desk and left. I studied the chair and sat down. It was genuine Louis Quatorze. It, and the others scattered around the room, must have cost enough money to feed an entire Mestizo village for five years, or equip a battalion of guardsmen with M16s.

  I was kept waiting for five minutes, then he came in through a side door. I stood up and he said triumphantly, “Sebagos.”