Siege of Silence Read online

  Is it that which draws me to her? Only the physical? I partly wish it were, for then I would be able to control it, and her. But the other part, the darker part, knows that the difficulty of control attracts and fascinates and draws me to the edge.

  She turns and walks to the bathroom. Her walk is a strut, almost boyish, but the body is outrageously female; its curves a miasma distorting the eye. I told her that once and she asked me what the word meant and laughed when I told her. “A vapour rising from a marsh, corrupting the air or the mind.” But her face appears innocent in its dark beauty. Set on a long neck, she always holds her head proudly high. As a child I saw an old film with the American film star Ava Gardner. I must have remembered her face well because when I first met Inez the similarity was vivid, even down to the sensually cleft chin.

  After a minute she comes out of the bathroom carrying a mirror like a tray. She sits down on the bed and lays the mirror between us. On it is a small bottle, a straw and a razor blade. She unscrews the bottle and tips some white powder on to the tray: cocaine.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Here in the hotel. It’s American owned. Lots of foreigners stayed here. The staff sold them everything from heroin to twelve-year-old girls. I got this from the room-service waiter.”

  Using the razor blade she is carefully sifting the powder and pushing it into two thin lines. I ask,

  “How much?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?!”

  Her lips curve into a conspiratorial smile.

  “Nothing, Jorge. I told him that later, when you are not here, he can come up and for ten minutes do anything to me he likes.”

  “Anything?”

  “Anything . . . for just ten minutes. He became very excited.”

  I swallow. She is watching me, the smile wider now. I know that my face is expressionless. Would she do it? Probably. I cannot analyse my emotions. They are a mixture of impotence and fury. For an instant I want to smash my fist into her angelic face. She wants it also, for then whatever shred of control I have over her is gone. She invites the attack. She has done it before. Once at a party she threw a glass into the face of a drunken girl who had touched me in a suggestive way. Again in my apartment when an old girlfriend rang to ask a favour. I had spoken with affection in my voice. Inez smashed every glass and cup and plate in the place while I listened to Bob Marley at foil volume. She wants to draw me into her own madhouse of jealousy and violence. The moment she does, I am lost.

  She offers me the straw which I refuse with a shake of my head. She shrugs with indifference and leans over the tray. Her breasts hang down, caressing their reflections in the mirror. Her left nipple is inverted into the breast. It only appears when aroused. She calls it her little penis. She quickly vacuums the two white lines into her left nostril. Even in Havana this one found drugs. She could find employment at any airport sniffing them out in smugglers’ luggage; more expert than any hound.

  I met her three months ago during an interrogation. Her husband of two years was a subversive. We had turned him and a month afterwards he was found hanging by his neck from electric cord from his kitchen ceiling. I suspected foul play and Inez was the first I interrogated. She was brought to my office wearing a multi-coloured gypsy skirt and a white frilled blouse. She was barefoot. My first question was whether she knew of any reason why he might have killed himself? Her answer was direct and devastating.

  “Certainly. I left him for his friend. He couldn’t exist without me. He was boring.”

  His friend turned out to be also boring but he did not kill himself when she moved in with me a few weeks later.

  She stretches out on her back at the foot of the bed across my legs. While she waits for the coke to kick I get a vivid mental impression of our situation. She is a dangerous animal in a circus cage . . . a lion or a leopard . . . no, a tiger. I am the trainer, the showman who dares to enter the cage without even a whip or a chair. I have seen it on old films. The audience marvels that with only his personality he controls the beast. That control is balanced on the edge of the sharpest mental blade. One sign of weakness- more- even the slightest odour of fear and the balance is tilted and the showman is slashed. Why does the showman do it? It is surely akin to a sexual experience. The same thing that drives a man single-handed up a rock face; or to jump out of a plane with only a piece of cloth to bring him down.

  She is rubbing herself against my legs. Soon she will move; licking her way up my body.

  The bedside phone rings. It is an aide to Bermudez. Excitedly he tells me, with much invective, that the Americans have just announced a total sea and air blockade against San Carlo which will come into force at dawn. Any ship crossing a three mile coastal limit will be sunk; any aircraft approaching to within ten miles of San Carlo airspace will be shot down by fighters from the “Nimitz”. There is a plane leaving for Managua in an hour. Do I want seats? I decline and hang up. As I expected, the Americans have reacted swiftly and forcefully. They have the example of Nicaragua behind them. They will not allow a military build-up in San Carlo. I look at my watch; 7.30 p.m. The supply truck leaves for the compound in half an hour. I had meant to leave Peabody languishing for another day, but now I may not have my twenty days. I pull my feet out from under Inez and scramble out of bed and start dressing.

  Petulantly she asks, “Where are you going?”

  “The compound. I’ll have to stay there till morning.”

  “What about me?”

  I gesture at the television. “There’ll be some video films on. Order a meal from room service.” I had forgotten about the waiter.

  She is sitting up on the bed looking hostile. She gives her “I don’t give a shit” shrug and says, “Maybe I’ll go out somewhere to eat.”

  “No. The streets are still dangerous. Eat in the hotel or in the room . . . or go to the airport. There’s a plane to Managua in an hour. If you want I’ll fix you a seat on it. There won’t be any more for some time.”

  She is silent. Is she considering it? Do I want her to go?

  I finish dressing and pick up the canvas bag holding my files. At the door I turn to look at her. She is kneeling now, looking at her face in the mirror.

  I open the door and she says, “Leave me some money.”

  “Why? You can sign for anything.”

  She looks up at me. We are in the cage. Her eyes tell me that a test is coming. Very quietly she says, “I may decide to pay the waiter in cash . . . not kind.”

  She is probing for a weakness. Casually I reply, “Money is short . . . so is ten minutes.”

  I close the door behind me. Five paces down the corridor I hear a splintering crash as something hits the door; presumably the mirror. The animal has clawed and missed- and is still in the cage.

  SLOCUM

  Washington

  Day 3

  I, Silas Slocum, have been in this man’s goddamned army for twenty-eight years and nothing like this ever happened to me, I’m at Anacosta. It’s raining and there’s a fat, black limousine waiting at the foot of the helicopter steps with a smart airforce captain standing alongside getting wet. As I reach the bottom he salutes crisply and opens a rear door. I’m puzzled as all hell, but I’m beginning to feel like one very important cat. Some difference from a few hours ago. I duck into the limo, the door clunks shut and we glide away. There’s a guy sitting next to me . . . a civvy in a dark suit. He holds out a hand and drawls, “Good to see you again, Colonel.”

  It’s quite dark and I can’t make out his face; then we pass under the arc lights at the security gate and I get clobbered by yet another shock. I’m looking at Mike Komlosy, National Security Councillor to the President. But what’s he talking about? He’s never seen my face before. The limo lifts up on the flyover crossing the river.

  “Mr Komlosy, I know who you are. I’ve seen you on TV and in the papers. But I never met you.”

  “Sure you did. April 25th, 1980. Late at night in a bar in Raleigh,
North Carolina.”

  He is watching my face; amused at my puzzlement. With a chuckle he says, “It was the night after the hostage rescue failure in Iran. You were drunk. You talked a lot. I listened. I was a bit drunk myself.”

  I remember hazily. I’d gotten drunk out of frustration. Sure there was a guy sitting at the bar next to me, and sure I’d sounded off. But that guy had a beard.

  “You had a beard?”

  “Yes. I was in Raleigh doing advance work for the election. You’d come out of Fort Bragg hell bent on getting drunk.”

  “I did just that.”

  “Sure, and you talked for about two hours. Talked in a rage. Colonel, a lot of it made sense to me. It stuck in my mind. So did your name. Last year when I became NSC I checked you out. You were still a Major and I couldn’t figure out why; thought it might be the other thing. When I read your record I understood. For a career army officer you kinda speak your mind.”

  “Yeah. Always did. Figured I’d end my days as a Major- or a DD.” “DD?”

  “Dishonourable discharge. I still might.”

  He nods in agreement but there’s a bitty smile on his face.

  “Did you have to hit him?”

  “I did . . . an’ would again.”

  He shrugs as we turn into Independence Avenue and says, “Anyway last year I pulled some strings and had you made Colonel.”

  “Thanks, pal. That explains it- one of the less unhappy surprises of my life. Why?”

  Komlosy is looking out of the window. A girl is hurrying down the windy sidewalk. One arm aloft holding an umbrella, the other vainly clutching her skirt. Great legs. We pass and he turns back and says, “I’d like to think that I anticipated this day, but I didn’t. I just thought your ideas might get a better hearing if delivered from a higher rank. Also maybe I got a kick out of using my new influence. It’s kinda fun at first. Anyway, I immediately forgot all about you . . . until around midnight last night.”

  “How so?”

  “San Carlo.”

  Ding dong! The bells ring.

  “You’re gonna get ‘em out?”

  He sighs. “It’s a major option. But there are problems that would freeze a polar bear’s balls.”

  “Sure, there’s gotta be. Those boys are cute. They got it sewn up tight” I’m feeling real excitement. For six days and nights sitting in my quarters waiting for the axe to fall, I’d followed the news about San Carlo; imagined our great military machine swinging into action. Just before I left Fort Bragg I’d heard the news of the executive order proclaiming the total blockade. It was a good move. The right move. Trying to keep excitement from my voice, I ask, “You want me to be in on that?”

  He shakes his head. “No, Colonel. Since Teheran, special units have been set up. You know about that of course.”

  “Sure. The Joint Special Operations Agency. So what am I doing here?”

  He reaches into his pocket for a packet of cigarettes and offers me one. I shake my head. He lights up and blows smoke at the back of the driver’s head. It swirls up against the glass partition. He sighs as if disappointed.

  “Colonel, last night the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff briefed the President and the NSC on a possible plan to rescue the hostages. As I listened, I kept thinking about you and your drunken words all those years ago. I’m a lawyer by training, and not really competent to comment on the plan. I’m telling you that but no one else. The plan seemed ingenious, but a little complicated.”

  I can’t help it. I laugh. “I’ll bet. If the JSOA planned it then the Normandy landings were a beach picnic by comparison. But what am I here for?”

  Komlosy blows more smoke, then impatiently mashes the cigarette out.

  “Colonel, I’m close to the President right now. Who knows for how long? After the briefing he asked his military aides what they thought. They were all enthusiastic.”

  “Sure they were! They’re not about to criticize the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.”

  “Exactly. Well I persuaded the President that we should have another opinion . . . a maverick opinion.”

  “Aha . . . Enter Slocum.”

  “Exactly. And in your present position you’ve got nothing to lose by offending General Grant.”

  The idea warms me.

  “Do I get to meet the President?”

  “I doubt it. The briefing was taped and recorded. You’ll watch it. Think about it and then make your comments to me.”

  I’m disappointed and maybe it shows in my voice.

  “Then I go back to Fort Bragg and the chopping block.”

  “We’ll see.”

  We are turning into the White House. I’m excited. Me, ol’ Slocum, at the White House.

  The gate is heavily guarded by what look like ordinary cops, but I guess they’re Secret Service men. One of them peers through the window at Komlosy, nods respectfully and waves the driver on. We move slowly to an entrance that’s covered by a canopy like a door to a fancy restaurant. Inside there’s another Secret Service guy sitting at a desk. He throws a semi-military salute and says crisply, “Good evening, sir.”

  Komlosy nods vaguely and walks on. I follow, surprised by the lack of formality. He stops at a door on the right side of the corridor. It’s got a cypher-lock on it. Komlosy twists the dial one way, then the other. There’s a click and he pushes it open. I follow into what looks like the general office of a small corporation. A couple of secretaries at typewriters, a guy talking on a phone with another cradled against his shoulder. They look at me without interest. We pass through another door- another office, this one equipped with word processors and a girl working a Xerox machine. Komlosy says to her, “Hi, Gail. Ask Rogers to come into the Sit. Room.”

  Then we go through another door and are inside. I’m disappointed. This is the nerve centre of the White House; the whole damned country! It’s small, cramped and wood-panelled. With a couple of dozen people it would be crowded. There’s a polished wooden table with a dozen chairs around it. One wall is covered by large television screens. There are several telephone consoles and map tripods scattered around. On another wall is a map of the world. It looks scruffy. The air is slightly perfumed.

  I tell Komlosy, “It smells like a barber’s shop.”

  He smiles. “Yeah, I think the admin, guy is gay.”

  There’s a knock on the door and a small man comes in. He wears thick frameless glasses and a rumpled suit. The knot of his tie is pulled down. He looks tired and mighty intelligent. Komlosy waves a hand at him.

  “Ken Rogers. One of my staffers. He’ll work the equipment. Ken, this is Colonel Slocum.”

  We shake hands. His is damp and soft. He winces slightly as I squeeze it.

  Komlosy looks at his watch and says, “The briefing lasts about forty minutes, after that I’ll see you in my office.”

  He goes out. Rogers indicates a chair at the head of the table. There’s a pad of lined yellow paper and some ballpoints in a silver mug. Also a flask and a glass. I sit down as he walks to the television console and pushes a button.

  General Mathew Grant appears on a screen. Behind him, to the left, is a diagram “Embassy Compound”. To his right a large-scale map of San Carlo. He is one handsome cat. Square face; greying, tailored hair; great teeth; thrusting jaw. His uniform is moulded; his voice a blend of honey and cut glass. For ten minutes I’m mesmerized by it. Then, as the individual words penetrate, my toes begin to curl. Rogers is sitting on my left gazing at the screen as though he’s listening to the Sermon on the Mount. After thirty minutes I have a pain in my guts. After forty minutes I’ve a pain in the brain. The briefing ends and I ask Rogers to get me six aspirins and leave me alone for twenty minutes.

  He brings the aspirins. I pour water and swallow them. He watches in fascination, then says primly, “Six is too many.”

  “How many would you take?”

  “Three max.”

  “How much do you weigh?”

  “One fifty-five.”

>   “Drugs are prescribed by body weight. I’m close to three hundred so go away.”

  He leaves and I gaze down at the yellow pad. I haven’t taken a single note. I look up at the blank screens and imagine the President and his advisors sitting at this table listening to what I’ve just heard. The pain is going. I stand up and start to pace. I try to wipe from my brain everything that I’ve just heard and seen. I glance at the map on the wall. San Carlo is so small they had to print the name out into the Caribbean.

  It comes to me. Not in a logical, orderly way. It just appears in my head and washes away the last of the pain. But who’s going to buy it? Sure as hell not Grant and his generals. Maybe Komlosy, but he’s ignorant of the military. The President must know that. He’s got to listen to his generals . . . unless . ..

  Rogers opens the door and silently taps his watch. I follow him through into Komlosy’s office. He is slouched back in his chair, feet up on a vast desk, a telephone in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He waves at a chair and says into the phone,

  “Yeah, sure, Hal, but don’t forget the goddam Tessler factor . . . Sure it’s never off his mind . . . ‘kay, but keep it up front . . . “

  The door closes behind me. Komlosy swings his feet to the floor, cradles the phone and grinds his cigarette out into a stub-filled ashtray.

  “Coffee?”

  “No thanks.”

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s a crock of shit!”

  He runs a hand through his hair. He looks close to exhaustion.

  “Why?”

  “That’s immaterial.”

  His head snaps up.

  “What!?”

  “You heard me. Now I guess since the Embassy takeover you’ve had little sleep. You’re a smart guy with a logical mind. Why waste time listening to words that have no way of affecting the outcome? Get some sleep instead. It’ll be more productive.”