Siege of Silence Page 18

  JORGE

  San Carlo

  Night 16

  He looks dubious- even disheartened. Not for a second did I consider his offer. Whatever has happened, or is to come, I, Jorge Calderon, will not run from it.

  There is a tap on the door and I call “Enter.”

  I know it is the Mestizo boy and I know what he brings. I had ordered it in the residence kitchen half an hour ago.

  The boy approaches nervously, puts the tray on the desk between us and then scuttles out. I watch Peabody closely. His eyes are fixed on the tray and its contents. There is a look of disbelief on his face. His brain is refusing to accept the message from his eyes. It is as though he is studying a mirage. Then literally, his nose twitches. His doubts are washed away. No mirage could give off such an aroma.

  On the tray is a large oval plate from the residence. In the centre of it is a juicy sirloin steak, slightly underdone. It is flanked by twin hillocks of french fried potatoes and deep-fried onion rings. Beside the plate is a wine glass, a bottle of vintage Robert Mondavi and a corkscrew with a silver handle.

  He is running his tongue across his lips. He cannot shift his gaze from the plate. I say, “When you finish that you can go to the residence. The water in your bathroom is hot. Your soaps and shampoos are all there.”

  With a visible effort he raises his head, looks at me and nods. Then he reaches for the bottle of wine and the corkscrew.

  I find my own gaze transfixed on the steak. Perversely I realize that it’s a symbol of my failure. It lies there glistening in its juices- a carnivorous mockery of my ineptitude. I feel a rage building in my guts. He is very carefully removing the foil from the bottle. Holding it still so as not to disturb the wine.

  The rage is moving up to my chest as he eases out the cork, unscrews it and raises it to his nose. Satisfied, he places it on the tray, picks up the bottle and half fills the glass. He swirls the wine a little, then lifts it to his nose. I can practically feel the bouquet going all the way down to his toes. My own rage has risen to my head. He takes a sip, nods in satisfaction and then says apologetically, “Jorge, I forget myself. Won’t you join me? Call for another glass.”

  My rage explodes. I hear my voice screaming at him.

  “Fucking hell! You sit there like you’re in some private fucking club in Washington! You can’t wait to bite into that steak but you fart about opening the wine and sniffing it like it’s liquid gold, and preparing yourself to eat like a fastidious cat pawing at a cockroach. Fuck you!”

  I lunge forward and pull the tray across the desk. Some wine spills from the glass. I can still hear my voice- words tumbling out in frustration.

  “Fuck you! I’m the one who’s going to suffer. I don’t get a name- you don’t get a fucking steak!”

  I grab the knife and fork, cut a piece of meat and raise it slowly to my mouth. It’s red rare and dripping juice. He stares at it with awful fascination. At the first bite my rage is washed away, also my self-pity. What have I been reduced to? I chew mechanically, swallow and quietly tell him, “Don’t worry. I indulge myself. That was the last edge to my spleen.”

  I push the tray back.

  He is watching me suspiciously. I gesture reassuringly at the plate. Quickly he picks up the knife and fork, cuts a slice and pops it into his mouth.

  But wait! It is not delicious. I have a bitter aftertaste in my mouth and my gums begin to feel numb. Suddenly I feel the pain- like a white-hot knife being plunged into my guts. I realize in an instant. Poison! The Mestizo boy! He asked me twice in the kitchen,

  “It’s for the Ambassador? The American?”

  And when he put the tray down his hands were shaking. He’s been out of the compound. Someone got to him. Another searing spasm of pain, then I realize that Peabody is chewing. I scream.

  “No! Wait! Don’t eat!”

  He pulls back in his chair, suspicion and consternation in his eyes. He chews rapidly. I hurl myself across the desk scattering the plate and wine, smashing into him with my forearm. He goes over backwards with me on top. I hear and feel the back of his head crack on the concrete. He lies stunned while I push fingers between his teeth, praying that the meat’s still there. It is at the top of his throat. I pull it out and throw it across the room. The wine bottle has rolled to the edge of the desk and is spilling its contents. I grab it. His eyes are open now, looking up at me in shock. I push the neck of the bottle against his lips and hiss at him.

  “The meat was poisoned! Wash your mouth out. Don’t swallow! Wash and spit out.”

  He sucks the wine in. I roll away from him with spasms of pain spreading out from the centre of my body. My knees come up to my chin. I have never known such pain. I realize with cold clarity that it’s the prelude to death. I force a finger down my throat trying to vomit but it’s too late.

  He is beside me, an arm cradling my head; his voice urgent.

  “I’ll call someone. They’ll get you to hospital.”

  I shake my head. “I’m done, Jason. It was meant for you. The Mestizo boy. Your people tried to kill you.”

  I can feel death coming. It marches in time to the spasms. He sees it also. His eyes are wet. I have to tell him.

  “Jason, I lied . . . listen to me. You have to know . . . Amparo loved you. It’s true she didn’t die in ‘59. True she married Gomez . . . true she died two years ago . . . but she loved you, Jason. She would have married you . . . wanted to. Fidel wanted her to . . . and keep passing information . . . he had a hold over her . . . but she was ashamed at already betraying you . . . could not go on . . . so she chose the other way . . . but she loved you . . . it’s the truth, Jason . . . believe me . . . I lied, I had to . . . but please believe me now.”

  Through the agony I feel his other arm come around my shoulders. He holds me tight and says, “I believe you, Jorge.”

  I see his face through the haze and it shows that he does believe me. The pain, like guilt after a confessional, seems to be washed away. I’m aware of my limbs moving but I cannot feel them . . . I can only feel his arms holding me . . .

  PEABODY

  San Carlo

  Night 16

  His body convulses. I draw him closer. His face against my chest, my arms holding him. More convulsions. I put my lips by his ear. I can hardly talk but I force the words out.

  “You are as my son . . . Jorge . . . you are as my son.

  His fingers grip me as a vice. I am sobbing in time with his convulsions. Suddenly, abruptly, he is still.

  I hold him as time passes. I know he is dead. I think about natural justice. Is there ever a jury? What judge pronounces the sentence? What fingers manipulate our lives? Just twice in over sixty years I felt bonded to another human being. Always so brief and then taken away. I run my fingers through his hair, straightening it. Yes, it needs more lemon juice. It is damp. My tears have made it damp.

  There is a noise at the door. I look up to see a face. It disappears. I hear shouting outside. Within a minute Fombona crashes in, sub-machine-gun pointed. Others crowd in behind him.

  “What happened?”

  I resolve, at this moment, not to speak another word. Even if I have to be mute for the rest of my life.

  They have to prise him out of my arms. One of the guards punches me in the face and Fombona hurls him across the room in anger.

  “Don’t mark him! I don’t want a mark on him!”

  They take Jorge away and leave me lying on the floor. Time passes. I hear a distant, single shot. More time and then Fombona comes again. He walks past me and opens the cell door.

  “Get in there!”

  I decide not to move. There is a pause and then I hear him move. I feel his fingers in my hair and I scream at the sudden agony as he drags me across the floor and into the cell. I look up at him standing at the door. His face radiates anticipation.

  “You will scream some more, pig. Tomorrow I get some equipment here and you scream and scream . . . and you will

  The door closes
.

  I will not talk.

  SLOCUM

  Fort Bragg

  Day 17

  I wait beside the Grumman Trader. My brownies plus Newman, Allen and all the equipment left three hours ago, just before I got the call to wait so that Komlosy could brief me personally. I’m coldly excited. I’ve been this way for eight hours since Komlosy’s tinny voice came through the gizmo telling me that the other operation fucked up and we’re going in. The old “hex” worked. I sent vertical mental thanks to the Almighty- and my old grandpappy who is surely up there with Him. I’m excited but also very pissed off with Mother Nature and a lady called Olga. She’s a hurricane which at this time of year has no business lurking around between Venezuela and Haiti. The met. boys just shook their heads in puzzlement and gave me the comforting news that it’s been thirty years since a hurricane was in that area so late. Olga is capricious. For twelve hours she moved north-east out of contention. We all breathed easier. Then she stopped, went around in a little circle and headed north-west. Not good but not catastrophic. She would have hit East Jamaica and then Cuba and serve the bastards right; but after six hours she slowed and is now heading south-east of the “Nimitz”. She keeps that up and Olga’s gonna be a goddam problem. Grant and the brass must be wetting themselves with delight. They know that our Ultras can’t operate if the wind is gusting over forty-five knots. Right now it’s up to thirty over the “Nimitz” and if Olga keeps coming it’s gotta get worse.

  I’m putting a “hex” on Olga but it’s not easy to make a goddam hurricane grow hair. I’m working hard on it when I hear the chopper. It lands about a hundred yards away. Komlosy and Al Simmons step down. Simmons is holding on to his newly braided cap. Komlosy’s holding on to his hair. As the chopper’s rotor stops I walk over to meet them. I shake Komlosy’s hand and grin at Simmons. He’s got his stars up and is a bit self-conscious. I ask, “Do I have to kiss your ass now, Al?”

  He grins. “Hear this, you black mother- you ever come near my ass an’ I’ll post you to Alaska with nothin’ more than a jock strap!”

  Komlosy’s very uptight. “What about this goddam hurricane, Silas?”

  I try to be reassuring. “The met. boys say it’s gotta start moving soon, probably north-west which would be just about okay. If she heads towards the ‘Nimitz’ we could have a three to four day non-operational period.”

  “Damn!”

  I point out, “Sir, for a lot of that time under such conditions not even choppers could operate. I’m sure Grant has gone into an ‘I told you so’ mode, but hell, under his plans they wouldn’t even be ready for another couple of weeks. You should point that out.”

  He smiles. “I didn’t have to. The President did just that. I guess I’m on edge because it’s all so imminent. Anyway three or four days is not that vital any more. By the way Al has a personal message for you.”

  Simmons is a tall gangly cat approaching sixty. He has straw-coloured hair and a face that looks as if he’s always about to tell a joke. At this moment he’s very serious. So is his voice.

  “Colonel, the Commander-in-Chief asked me to convey his entire confidence in you and your men. He is sure that as a result of your forthcoming action our citizens will be safely returned and our country’s honour upheld. He is looking forward to welcoming you and your team at the White House.”

  I’ve got a goddam lump in my throat! I’m trying to think of a suitable solemn reply when a jeep pulls up. Simmons says, “I’m going to pick up my kit. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  He climbs into the jeep and as it pulls away I ask Komlosy, “What happened to the other operation?”

  He grins. “Apparently they poisoned the wrong guy. Our agents report that the Cuban was delivered to the morgue . . . stiff.”

  “And what about our agent in the compound?”

  He loses his grin. “Silas, we have to assume he’s dead. He was a young Mestizo who worked in the kitchen.”

  I’m puzzled. “But why would he take that risk? He must have known what would happen.”

  Komlosy nods solemnly. “He knew. He was one of twelve children. Very poor family. We guaranteed to get his entire family out of the city and into the countryside . . . and then to a new life in the States . . . he sacrificed himself.”

  This news gives me pause for thought. Komlosy reads the thought and says, “You’re thinking about those explosive jackets. If that kid died for his family then maybe Bermudez did find twenty-seven fanatics who would die for his revolution.”

  I speak emphatically, partly to reassure myself. “No way, Mike. Those jackets are dummies. Anyway whether they are or not doesn’t change the plan. We go in assuming they’re real. We neutralize the fanatics first.”

  He nods thoughtfully and then muses, “Silas, you pull this one off an’ there’s no limit to how far you can go. You know that.”

  I voice some thoughts that have been in my mind for the past few days.

  “We’ll pull it off, Mike. You can call it ego but this is the first operation that I’ve conceived totally myself and that I’m going to lead myself. But after it’s over I’m thinking of taking early retirement.”

  His face shows his surprise.

  “Why would you do that? Hell, you’re only forty-six. You don’t want to be a General?”

  “No, Mike. I’ve been in this army since I was eighteen. There’s bin good times an’ bad. I don’t regret any of it. I came from nothin’ and the army gave me a good life, but this operation is my swan song. I want to do somethin’ else.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t laugh, but I’m gonna be a rancher. Never spent much money- saved most of it. Coupla years back I bought a small spread in Wyoming. Not big, but enough for me. It’s tucked in right under the Rockies. It’s got a pineboard cabin on it- not much but comfortable. I’ll get a couple of bird dogs an’ walk behind them of an evenin’.”

  He’s got a smile on his face.

  “What’s so goddam funny?”

  It widens to a grin. “I’m picturing you as a cowboy. Where are you gonna find a horse big enough to lump you around?”

  I’m stuck for a quick retort and he turns serious again. “Silas, you’re an enigma. Have you got any real close friends?”

  “What would you call a friend?”

  Thought lines appear across his forehead and I sense I’m going to get a deep answer. He starts slowly.

  “Silas . . . I guess a friend is, well . . . the rare person who can listen to your problems without getting even the slightest satisfaction from knowing they’re happening to you and not to him. Someone who’s comfortable with you in a silence . . . I guess a real friend never competes with you . . . someone who knows how and when to take . . . not just to give.”

  “That’s real poetic, Mike.”

  “Yeah. Do you have any friends like that?”

  “Nope.”

  “Not ever? I would have thought that army life generated those kind of friendships.”

  I feel the incongruity of the situation. I’m about to step into an aircraft and go off and risk my life and he’s waxing philosophical. I like the guy but he makes me a little uncomfortable.

  “Mike, army life does just that for most people, but I guess I’m a loner.”

  He’s looking puzzled, almost hurt.

  “But not one friend? It’s not natural.”

  I sigh. “There was a guy once. We got kinda close . . . real close. I guess he was a bit like a younger brother.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was in ‘Nam. He got taken out by one of our own air strikes. A pilot fucked up and got his co-ordinates wrong.”

  “Were you very cut up?”

  “Sure. I was the guy who called in the air strike,”

  He looks thoughtfully out across the airfield. A pair of F16s are taking off in tandem; there’s a red glow from their afterburners. I recall other times when people got philosophical when they were seeing someone off into action. Someone who m
ight not come back. They get a strange urge to bond themselves; to associate with the fear or the danger . . . or the thrill. The F16s leave behind a growing quietness; and a kind of vacuum around us. Softly he asks, “Black or white?”

  “What?”

  “That solitary friend.”

  “Black.”

  Again silence, then, “You think real friendship can ever bridge that barrier?”

  My answer comes easy. It’s the product of a lifetime’s cogitation.

  “Nope.”

  He smiles but there’s no humour in it. “Silas, that’s cynical. You’re not telling me there are no close friendships between people of different colours.”

  “There are exceptions that prove the rule.”

  “But why should there be rules?”

  Again I’m feeling uneasy, wanting Simmons to return and end this dialogue. But Komlosy’s expression is earnest. I try to make him understand.

  “Why should there be colour? Why should I be black and you white? It’s God or nature . . . or whatever. Maybe over a few million years- or sooner, if the goddam geneticists get their way- it will change and we’ll all be a pale mud colour- or somethin’. Meanwhile because we’re different, we think different. Not better or worse . . . just different. The kind of thing you were talking about . . . that kind of a bond. People look for that among their own kind. It’s natural.”

  He shrugs resignedly and I sense an air of disappointment.

  “But Mike, like I said, there are exceptions.”

  He smiles wryly. “Sure.”

  With relief I hear the jeep coming. It swings around in front of us and Simmons climbs out. The driver quickly runs round to get his kit bag but Simmons waves him away and lifts it out himself. Three stars are not about to change that cat. He walks to the Trader, hefts his bag inside and then comes over.

  “You ready, Silas?”

  “Yessir, General.”

  He gives me a look that says, ‘Don’t sass me just because I’ve got some stars up’. I’m gonna enjoy teasing this cat. He shakes Komlosy’s hand warmly.