Chapter 17

THE MOMENT HE STEPPED onto the balcony, Bolo immediately clicked into motion, smooth and professional. He trotted down the staircase without so much as breaking into a sweat or wrinkling his formal waiter’s uniform.

Down in the cantina the ill-experienced band had gathered on the stage for another morning of discordant practice. The music squawked like the wild chickens outside; the brass and drums and guitars sounded like a car accident. Luckily, Yaquita was not in sight to snarl at every mistake, nor were there any (conscious) customers to hear.

The chubby manager sat behind the bar doing accounts; both of his buttocks sagged off the sides of a small metal stool. The earplugs he had taken to wearing during the band’s practice sessions worked wonders for his concentration. He bit his lip as he scribbled figures with a stubby pencil. When Yaquita refused to sing, his daily sales suffered significantly.

The musicians didn’t pause as Bolo dodged overturned chairs on the cantina floor. He glided into the back room where the manager took his siestas, picked up the phone and dialed the memorized number. Time to see if Smith was ready to roll with more punches.

Bolo knew he could pull off this entire mission, if everyone cooperated. It all depended on timing. He waited for his duped contact to answer.

* * *

At the CIA office in the U.S. Embassy, O’Halloran sat at his desk meticulously cleaning another Thompson submachine gun, his third of the morning. Cleaning automatic weapons always gave him a sense of calm.

He scratched the white gauze bandage taped diagonally across his forehead, near his right temple. He tried to cover the wound with the long strands of hair that failed to hide his bald spot.

The Marine sergeant who had messed things up the previous day paused in the hall, hiding from yet another upbraiding by the CIA man. He swallowed, uncertain whether to risk passing the open doorway where the chief might see him.

Then O’Halloran’s phone rang. The chief dropped the machine gun, tossed aside his oil rag and picked up the phone. His head hurt, and he was even crankier than usual. “American Embassy, Passport Control Officer O’Halloran speaking. What the hell do you want?”

Seeing the chief distracted, the Marine sergeant tiptoed past the door to the kitchenette, where he snagged a bottle of pineapple soda, then dashed back to his duty station near the front entrance. Carpenters were busily replastering the bullet holes in the wall and fixing the damage caused by the explosion.

As he listened to the voice on the phone, O’Halloran’s eyes sprang wide. “Who?” Then he went into a fury. “You saw him where?”

The CIA man scribbled frantically on a notepad, then leaped to his feet, howling for the Marine sergeant. “Fetch me another car — the armored assault cars this time, the ones with the big guns! And bring weapons, lots of weapons!” O’Halloran grabbed the submachine gun he had just cleaned, attempting to tuck it into his belt.

He yelled across the room at the radio operator who sat with heavy-lidded eyes at his equipment station, listening to ABBA’s Greatest Hits, Volume 7. “You! Sound the alarm! We’ve located Pedrito again.” O’Halloran stormed off down the hall.

Lost in his own world behind his headphones, drumming his fingers in time to the music on his cassette player, the radio man did not react at all.

* * *

Back at the Cantina de Espejos, Bolo hung up the phone with a secretive smile. Then he crept outside to watch the fireworks start. . . .