Chapter 25

IN THE HACIENDA’S enormous family dining salon, white linen, crystal goblets and silver flatware decorated a table that stretched as long as a racetrack. High-backed chairs stood barely within shouting distance of each other. Cinnamon-scented candles flickered in ornate candelabra next to vases filled with fresh-cut flowers. Hummingbirds hovered around geraniums in pots that hung in the corners.

Pedrito’s father and mother wore formal evening clothes. The patriarch escorted the fine lady to her seat, then took his own place at the head of the table. Smith hurried in, brushing a hand across his newly oiled hair, tugging down his formal evening jacket. “Sorry I’m late. I thought the dinner bell was some kind of alarm.”

The servants chuckled politely, and one waiter led Smith to his chair next to the old family patriarch.

“I’m very pleased with your reformation these past few days, my son,” the father said as Smith sat down, draping the linen napkin on his lap. “I have sent for my finest bottle of wine from the deepest cellars so that we can toast properly.” He raised his empty wine glass.

Bolo appeared at Smith’s elbow dressed in a servant’s white jacket, cradling a dusty bottle. Smith looked curiously at the too-familiar man, but shook his head. It couldn’t possibly be true. He had seen and done many things in the past few days that made his head spin . . . and much as it surprised him, he found that he had rather liked parts of it.

“Papa, our boy has turned out just as I always hoped he would,” the mother said, blinking her long dark lashes at Smith. “Tell us about the amnesty arrangements. Have you confirmed all the details for our Pedrito?”

Wrestling with the wine cork, but trying to look calm and competent, Bolo became very alert, flicking his eyes from Smith to Don Pedro.

“We have the strategy,” Don Pedro said. “Everyone will be at Saturday night’s grand fiesta at Rancho Ramirez. Bonita’s father will announce the marriage date, and that will be cause for great celebration — proof that our Pedrito intends to settle down! Then, the following Monday we’ll go to Santa Isabel and petition the presidente directly. The man could not possibly turn us down, regardless of what our boy has done in the past. Every young man must be a little rowdy now and then, eh?”

The mother saw the brilliance of the plan. “Not with two leading families to offend if he said no.”

“Precisely,” the father said. “That is why we are so happy about this marriage to Bonita.”

With iron control, Bolo did not react to the news. He finally succeeded in uncorking the bottle and went to the mother’s side, pouring a half glass for her, a half glass for Don Pedro, and a brimming full glass for Smith.

To the lieutenant, all this was going by much too quickly. He looked from one parent to the other, speechless. “We’re going back to Santa Isabel? What will they do to me there?”

“It’s merely the formality of surrender.” Don Pedro waved dismissively with a hand sporting extravagant gold and emerald rings. “They have to keep up appearances, Pedrito. After all, you have burned missions, raided villages, destroyed crops, ravished women and fomented revolution against the lawful government of Colodor. But don’t worry — as I say, this is strictly a formality. I very much doubt they will execute you.”

Smith reached for his water glass, grabbed the wine instead, but didn’t notice until he had taken a large gulp. It was all he could do to keep from spluttering and coughing as the wine burned down his throat.

“Not so much, Pedrito!” the mother scolded mildly. “Savor the taste of the wine — this vintage is a hundred years old.”

The father sipped from his own goblet. “Yes, a toast! I’m reasonably confident the Colodoran authorities will turn you loose just as soon as they’ve taken your fingerprints and established your identity. No hay problema.”

Bolo, cool and professional even with the alarming turn of events, recorked the wine bottle and set it on a serving tray. He turned about smartly and walked toward the exit door.

The mother smiled. “So you see, son, you’re in good hands!”

The massive mahogany door swung shut behind Bolo, causing the cinnamon candles to flicker on the table. Once out of sight, he slipped away, his shoes making no sound on the terra-cotta floor tiles. He ducked behind a thick stand of yellow hibiscus bushes. It was time to continue with Smith’s on-the-job training.

Bolo dug in his waiter’s jacket and brought out a portable radio, yanking the antenna and switching on the transmit button. “Cain-Idiot-Alpha One,” he said, peeping through the dark green hibiscus leaves to make sure no one could hear him. Night moths fluttered around the blossoms. “Emergency! Cain-Idiot-Alpha One, come in!”

* * *

Back in the U.S. Embassy in Santa Isabel, the CIA office displayed racks of ominous guns on the walls the way some museums displayed famous paintings. A huge Central Intelligence Agency emblem dominated one part of the room, painted on black velvet and looking very classy. Beside it, the colorful flag of Colodor — with its sword-crossed banana emblem — hung across the U.S. Stars and Stripes.

A flock of servile newspaper reporters scribbled on their pads as Chief O’Halloran lectured for his news conference. He smiled with an expression that would have made any lounge lizard proud. His thin strands of hair had been neatly combed, and most of the scrapes and bruises from his recent escapade on the highway had vanished.

Hunched in an alcove, another CIA agent with a pirate patch over his eye sat by a small radio set, trying to be nondescript. None of the reporters gave him a second glance as he poked at his earphone and listened to a secret message.

“The whole program of the United States is designed to encourage peace and only peace in South America. Ecuador, Colombia, Colodor and . . . and, uh, whatever those other countries are called,” O’Halloran pompously told the reporters. “Any rumors to the contrary are just malicious slander.”

“But sir, what about reports of American warplanes crashing in the mountains, and CIA gunmen rounding up poor musicians in a local cantina?”

“As to the American warplanes, I haven’t heard any such rumors,” O’Halloran offered ingeniously. “As for the band members, I think anyone who plays disco with maracas and trumpets deserves whatever they get!” He flashed a winning smile, and the news reporters applauded his wit.

The eye-patched radio man scrambled out of the alcove and tugged on his boss’s sleeve. He popped the earphone out of his ear and pushed it up against his boss’s. O’Halloran tried to ignore the distraction, intent on his press conference. “All this talk of CIA interference with sovereign governments such as Colodor’s is utterly —”

Finally, though, O’Halloran registered what the earphone was saying. He whirled savagely to the aide, ignoring the reporters. “Pedrito! Where?”

* * *

Bolo peeked through the leaves, parting the hibiscus branches. Still no one within earshot. “Saturday night at the Rancho Ramirez, thirty kilometers south of Rancho Miraflores. He’ll be there — send in the cavalry.”

Bolo knew that with the CIA-backed Air Force destroyed and the assault vehicles wrecked, the military arsenal was looking pretty dry. If the cavalry got destroyed, O’Halloran might end up having to resort to hunting Smith down with a stick.

In the dining room, Smith and the Miraflores family had already been served bowls of potato soup with cheese and avocado.

Bolo clicked off the transmitter with a sigh of relief and mopped his brow. Tucking the radio back in his waiter’s jacket, he climbed out of the bushes, brushing away a few leaves and cobwebs. Then he returned to his formal duties. The salad course came next.