THE HALL WAS STILL DARK AND DESERTED, except for the dim light at the end, where Enrique had told the Dominican the kitchen and dining room lay.
“They’re taking their time,” Enrique said, using the flame from his lighter to take another look at his watch.
The Dominican didn’t answer. It wasn’t hot, but he was sweating. He hadn’t been in such a state of effervescent expectation, of exacerbated apprehension, since his years in Mexico, when he had to take part in some of the assassinations covered up as accidents under orders from Generalísimo Trujillo. But he was sure that this was much more important than anything he’d ever done to please El Jefe. Fortunately, Enrique was there to guide things. Would it all turn out as he’d hoped? Enrique was immensely ambitious, and he thought that in the resulting vacuum, his dream of becoming president of the republic would become a reality. The Dominican had his doubts, and Mike Laporta did too. But then, nothing was impossible in this life. Was it true that President Castillo Armas had given him that dreadful nickname, the Lug?
“There they are,” he heard Enrique whisper.
To his right, a door had just opened, a spurt of light brightened the garden with its lone acacia, and two people came through, walking toward them slowly. To get to the dining room, they would have to walk in front of the two men, almost grazing them.
“Give me the rifle,” he heard Enrique say.
“I’ll do it,” the Dominican replied immediately, thinking this would better accord with the Generalísimo’s wishes. And he repeated, to encourage himself, “Me.”
“Then take it off safety,” Enrique said, bending toward him to do it himself. “There.”
The couple was now crossing the small garden, and the Dominican heard the woman exclaim, her surprise mixed with indignation, “Why haven’t they turned the lights on? And where are the servants?”
“And my guards?” the man shouted.
They stopped and looked to all sides. The man turned, apparently deciding to run back into the house he had just emerged from. In the darkness, the Dominican took aim and fired. The shot was loud and echoed through the corridor. He fired a second time, and the woman screamed and started crying hysterically. She had fallen to the floor next to the man lying there.
“Come on, quick,” Enrique said, grabbing his companion’s arm and dragging him off. He dropped the rifle on the floor and went along. With quick steps, almost running, they retraced the path they had taken to enter the Casa Presidencial. When Enrique opened the little door hidden in the wall on that corner of Sixth Avenue, they saw the black car there driven by the Cuban Ricardo Bonachea León.
“There’s your ride,” Enrique said. “I’ll give you an hour to get the woman out of here. Not a minute more. An hour, then I’m ordering her arrested.”