Siege of Silence Page 16

“Calderon, I’ll tell you the perfect way you work it out. When you get out of here, take her straight to the airport and fly home with her; meanwhile having given the order for me to be taken from this cesspit and reunited with the other Americans.”

  “I can’t. There’s no planes.”

  Ah! The power of a woman. He’s so unsettled he’s slipped and shown his low pair. “No planes.” So there’s a blockade as I suspected. I’ll bet he wants to chew his tongue into mincemeat. He tries to recover.

  “Peabody, listen to me. I’ll do better than reunite you with the others. Give me one name and within half an hour you’ll be freshly bathed and shaved; wearing your finest clothes and siting at your dining room table eating a sirloin steak from your own kitchen, along with deep-fried onion rings and a mountain of french fries. Think about it, man. One name!”

  I have to force my senses not to take in the sight and aroma of the dish. Coldly I tell him, “When I leave this room it will be to total freedom or to rejoin those Americans who are my responsibility. Do you really believe I would betray my country for a piece of meat?”

  He smiles and shakes his head. “No. But if you thought about my final words last night you would give me the name. You know it’s morally the right thing to do.”

  I shrug negatively. He leans forward and says with great intensity, “It’s morally the right thing! You don’t have to speak. I will list the possible names. When I come to a correct one, just tap your finger. Peabody- just tap your finger!”

  “Calderon, Judas had more imagination . . . and you are the one with the finger-tapping habit.”

  SLOCUM

  Fort Bragg

  Day 14

  The phone rings. I’m in the bath. It always happens. It bugged me enough in the past that I rigged an extension right on the wall next to the taps. Now it’s useless. The technicians came in yesterday and fixed up a little black box. You get a call, you flip a switch and no one understands the conversation except the legit caller and called. But there’s no little box on the goddam extension.

  I heave myself out of the bath, wrap on a towel and drip water through to the study. It’s Komlosy. I tell him severely, “You got me out of the goddam bath.”

  “Tough shit. You switched the gizmo thing on?”

  “Sure.”

  “ ‘Kay. Decision was taken. If the nicotine operation fails, the rescue goes ahead- soonest. You and your brownies have been selected.”

  A surge of relief- and anxiety.

  “When will we know?”

  “It happens within forty-eight hours. We’ll know a day later.”

  “Bastards.”

  “Yeah. When will you be ready?”

  “Three hours ago.”

  “But it’ s only been twelve days. You said you needed three weeks.”

  “I was pessimistic. My brownies got all their badges. They even learned how to light a fire without a zippo.”

  “Zippo? Silas, you’re dating yourself.”

  “Thank God for that. What’s the next move?”

  “Sure you’re ready?”

  “Listen, Mike. You were here five days ago. Since then we’ve hit the compound fifteen times. War is like a football game. You train your guys ‘til they’re perfect. Then you stop, or they go downhill. My vampires made the perfect raid three hours ago.”

  “Okay. When we know, General Simmons will make arrangements to transport you to the ‘Nimitz’.”

  “General Simmons?”

  He laughs. “Yeah, General. There’s been a lot of backstabbing going on. The brass were profoundly displeased that you and your boys were selected. The President felt that Simmons needed a little more astronomy to combat the flak.”

  “How much astronomy?”

  “Three stars.”

  “Jesus Christ in pink!”

  I’m astonished. That promotion is unprecedented. I hear tinny laughter. The little gizmo box does funny things to voices. He asks, “How much dialogue have you had with Simmons?”

  “Very little. I need something, I call him, he delivers.”

  “Silas, the delivery’s been tough. You should know that Simmons has faced every bureaucratic obstacle since Hannibal requisitioned all those elephants. You know about him?”

  “Yeah, he quarter-backed for the Dolphins.”

  He gurgles. He sure is high. “Silas, when Simmons met a block he’d call me. I had to call the brass and they pissed me about. Two days ago I blew up in front of the President. He issued an order that in future Simmons call him. Simmons does. The President likes him. They both collect Remington sculptures. This morning Simmons called in after a certain two star General had trial to fuck him up. I was in the Oval Office. It was historic. I’ve never seen the President do it. He got so mad he went black in the face. Silas, you’d have been jealous. Then he picks up the phone and calls Grant. Very brief conversation- one way. Quote: ‘Brigadier Al Simmons is promoted to three stars. You better start looking over your shoulder.’ End quote.”

  “It’s beautiful. What about the Tessler factor?”

  Even with the distortion I can hear the relish in his voice. “Ah Tessler! The word is that the Pres told him, ‘You had your pound of flesh. The whole carcass you don’t get’!”

  Cautiously I ask, “There’s no chance this nicotine thing can be called off?”

  His voice sobers. “No. The Pres is being macho but he’s still playing the odds. Anyway, get ready to move. And, Silas, if you go in, it has to work, or Simmons will be busted to something lower than PFC and you’ll be cleaning latrines.”

  “What will you be doing, Mike?”

  “Being cleaned by you . . . Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  The phone goes dead. I hang up, flip off the gizmo and pad back to the bathroom. The water’s cooled. I run the hot tap and climb back in. I always think better in the bath. Once, between shampooing my hair and washing my crotch I worked out an entire campaign to subdue the Warsaw Pact.

  I bring myself back to reality. If they kill Peabody, the chance is off. I will the guy not to be killed. I do more. I lie there with water up to my chin surveying the twin islands of my knees and I put the “hex” on the bastards trying to kill him. The “hex” is a mental spell. It makes things go wrong. Eve put the “hex” on the apple. I learned it from my grandpapa and he used to kid me that his grandpapa brought it all the way from the Gold Coast. My grandpapa once sold a Chevy to a guy who found a legal way not to pay him the full amount. He “hexed” that Chevy. Inside of a month the fuel pump packed up, the clutch seized up, the cylinder heads screwed up and a door fell off. The guy sold it for junk. When it was being junked the hydraulic press blew a leak and didn’t work for a month. To “hex” a Chevy is difficult, but to “hex” a guy is easy.

  You put a picture of him in your mind and then you make him grow hair. All over. Stiff straight hair like a lot of little spikes. Even his toes have to grow hair. After a while he’s a hairy ball. He looks like a porcupine at the wrong end of the evolution cycle. A guy with that appearance can do nothin’ right. I’ve seen newspaper pictures of Douglas Baker, director of the CIA. I conjure him up. He’s got a big nose and ears that stick out. I start him into growing hair. It takes a while. Meantime I think about the job. I want it real bad. I go back through my life. It’s like walking along a sandy beach at high tide. Every time you turn around, your footprints have been washed away- you were never there.

  The CIA director’s sprouted a mass of hair. All that’s showing are the tips of ears and his nose. The hair is ginger coloured. He looks grotesque. Any guy looking like that has got to screw up.

  I’ve also seen photos of Peabody. I conjure him up: a tall elegant cat. Don’t worry, Peabody baby, that hairy prick Baker will fuck up for sure.

  JORGE

  San Carlo

  Day 15

  I study the photograph trying to imagine how it was. How she was. It is not difficult. Once again I go o
ver my strategy. It must be exact. He is ready and, in normal circumstances, I would be fully confident of success. But nothing now is normal. I am in a strange delirium. It is necessary that I hurt him. Hurt him so deeply that he will reach out to me for comfort. But I have no passion for it. Also in this strategy I have to lie just a little. This should not be a problem but it is. In past sessions, when I told him the truth he believed me. I sensed it for a certainty. Is the opposite true? It is a frightening possibility. I must, in my voice and demeanour, be brilliant, at my very best. I must be better than when I broke Cubelas. But I hated Cubelas. The hatred was the adrenalin for my effort. Peabody casts over my energy only a soporific.

  I hear the key in the door and slide the photograph back into the file. She comes in with the face of a child entering an unguarded chocolate factory. A face redolent with physical satisfaction and seeking its mental counterpart. She leans over and kisses me on the corner of my mouth. The witch has not even bothered to bathe. I smell his cologne.

  “You should have come, Jorge. It’s a beautiful finca. The furniture is from Spain . . . antique. Even the handles for the doors.”

  It comes out even before I can think. “And I suppose the bed was a Castilian four-poster.”

  She smiles. Pretty white teeth, perfectly shaped, lips curving into an arc of derision.

  “You are so clever, Jorge. Eighteenth century. It is said that Queen Isabella slept in it.”

  Yet again the jealousy makes me nauseous. I must not show it. She is trying to prise it out and expose it for my humiliation.

  When I returned from the compound yesterday she was pretending to be asleep but her eyelids were fluttering like butterfly’s wings. I adopted a nonchalant attitude. I raged inside but I said nothing of my forced containment in the compound. It confused her. She was so sure that finally I would lose control. I contained it with great difficulty. I must continue to do so or I am lost.

  “Five thousand hectares, Jorge. All coffee. It covers hills and valleys.”

  Keeping my voice neutral, I remark, “And doubtless Bermudez will now turn it into a commune for the benefit of the poor workers who slaved on it for years.”

  Her black hair swirls as she shakes her head. “Roberto has decided that the finca will become a state guest house.”

  I laugh bitterly. “Presumably for the sole benefit of the heroic leaders of the revolution.”

  She flounces away to the window and over her shoulder says, “Don’t they deserve something? Roberto fought for years. Endured great suffering. You think the people will begrudge him one finca out of thousands? He has given them freedom.”

  I desperately want her to understand. In the understanding maybe she will turn away from him. I know it is not irrevocable. She came back today. She is using me against him, just as she does the opposite.

  I tell her, “Inez, freedom is equality. There cannot be oppression if there is equality. This country has had a history of oppression just as ours did. Bermudez overthrew that, but I tell you he will recreate it under a different name. It has happened so often before. The heroes become the new dictators. I have been in Russia. They have two peoples. Those who are inside the power system and those outside. There is no equality. Those inside have cars, colour TVs, coupons to special shops. They are proud of it- this corruption. Those outside spend half their lives queueing for a piece of meat. Bermudez will run down that road. I smell it on him already. Ask yourself this: a quarter of a century ago Fidel made his revolution. Does he live in a palace? No, he lives in a small apartment. He owns no great estates . . . no Fincas with antique furniture. After all these years, he works every day, sometimes sixteen hours . . . for the revolution . . . for Cuba. Now, Bermudez, in less than twenty days, is casting his eye over the country like a vulture. He wants a billion dollars from the Americans. How much will the people see of it?”

  She turns and climbs on to the bed and sits cross-legged. There is malevolence in her eyes.

  “You are jealous of him. You think you are so clever but he is cleverer. You are the same age, but he has already conquered a country, is already the leader of his people. He is clever, Jorge. Did you know that he sent General Lacay chasing after Cruz and his brigade? But he sent him as the nominal head of a Chamarrista column. And he promised that on his return he will be nominated as President for the coming elections. The old fool believed him. Here in the city he promoted close sympathizers to the second rank of the old National Guard. Soon the old officers will have lost control. Lacay will have an unfortunate accident and Roberto will oversee everything.”

  “He told you this?”

  “Of course.”

  “He is a fool.”

  Her eyes flash in anger. “A fool! And what are you? You talk of what he has done in less than twenty days. What have you done? Has your American talked? No! Have you got one name? No! Roberto says that if after twenty days you have failed, then he will do it. He owes it to Fidel.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  She sees my fury and leans forward, feeding off it.

  “Just that. Roberto thinks you are soft. Why spend twenty days?”

  “You told him? About the twenty days?”

  “Of course. Why not? Should it be a secret from him? He wants what you want. He knows exactly what you are doing. He gets reports.”

  “And he said that? After twenty days he will do it? How?”

  She looks down at her vermilion finger nails, relishing her knowledge.

  “How?!”

  “He is clever. He expects the American allies will soon offer the aid package; there is much talk already the crisis will be over. If he tortures Peabody then there will be a worse crisis. They will invade. But he knows this information will only come from torture. So he will do it . . . Fombona will do it. Without leaving marks. Then they will give Peabody an injection. He will die. They have the drug. Vargas used it. Maybe the Americans gave it to him. It will seem like a heart attack. Even the best doctors cannot tell. They will be very sorry. Express much regret. Deliver the body with full honours. Roberto knows that Fidel will be grateful.”

  The scenario rips through my mind. I consider the angles. What would Fidel’s reaction be? He would go with the odds. He is truly desperate for that name. The Americans have tried to kill him a dozen times. He would find no compassion. He would balance the danger. After all, the Chamarristas would do it, not him. For him it’s a windfall. I could persuade him otherwise but I’m impotent. There is my radio contact from here but even if Bermudez would allow me a transmitter everything would definitely be decoded by the NSA computers. There is no friendly Embassy yet established with secure communication. I’m on my own. So is Peabody. He must talk within four days. I believe her. Bermudez would do it. He is drugged by his triumph. He walks above the ground. He even fucks this woman of mine. Everything falls at his feet. I know the experience. I admire and loathe him. His confidence will kill him. I tell her,

  “Peabody will not talk under torture.”

  “Fombona tells him different.”

  “Fombona is a fool. So is Bermudez.”

  “He gets what he wants!”

  She is wearing a thin cotton blouse. One nipple indents the cloth. She sees my eyes on it. She raises her right hand and circulates a finger at the centre of her other breast. The other nipple thrusts out.

  “He can just look at me and bring out my little penis. You could never do that. He’s a wonderful lover . . . superior to you.”

  I’m in the cage with nothing. She smells the odour. I grasp for control.

  “So why are you here?”

  She swings her feet to the ground- struts over and stands close to me.

  “Jorge Calderon, you are finished . . . a failure. I like strength. I move from weakness to strength. Something went wrong with you. Just in the last few days. I don’t know what. Maybe with the American. Roberto says the American is stronger than you. I came to get my clothes. A car waits. Jorge, you are . . .
boring.”

  She spits in my face.

  Control is gone. Some seconds pass. I hardly hear her screams. I don’t hear the door opening. I only feel the throat under my thumbs. I don’t hear their shouts or feel their hands pulling at me. I only see her eyes blazing triumphant in her reddening face. I pull away a hand and smash at it and feel a bone crunch. Then I am stunned with a blow to my head and she pulls away. I am lying on the carpet- my cheek is on it. She is laughing. My bodyguards help me to my feet.

  They are mumbling apologies, explaining that they could not let me kill her. She is sitting on the floor, her back to the foot of the bed. She is no longer beautiful. Her nose is twisted. Blood drips from it, unchecked, down her chin and on to her blouse. She is sobbing in triumph. I have a terrible pain in my head. I stumble as I walk to the table and pick up my files. An eternity passes while I fumble them into the bag. A bodyguard tries to help and I strike at him. They both stand clear as I walk carefully to the door. I don’t look at her, but as I leave, her laughter sears my ear drums.

  The Mestizo is again in the truck. He looks once at my face and turns away. My hands are still shaking- and my brain. I feel the lead of shame in my belly. I have grown so weak that I can no longer control myself. Peabody will look at me and guess; will know that I’ve been beaten by that woman. He will not be impressed by me. Not after that. How can I make him believe even a small lie, now that my “essence” has gone?

  By the time we reach the compound I’m more composed, but not enough to face him. I go straight to the residence; to his private suite. First I take a shower and reflect on the irony. He threw shit on me and I kept control. She threw words at me and I cracked.

  After the shower, I go into his sitting room. There’s a cocktail cabinet against the wall. I find a bottle of Royal Salute. Typical of him. He drinks little, but when he does it must be the best. I taste the whisky and for a moment consider getting drunk. No . . . no more weakness. I have to get my “essence” back. The only way is through Peabody. He must give me a name. Bermudez will be waiting. The witch will be waiting. Of course Fidel will be waiting. If I fail and Bermudez succeeds than I am finished in all their eyes- and my own.