Chapter 45

A BANDAGED O’HALLORAN sat alone at the CIA Communications Centrale console. The rest of the workers still had not come back from their coffee break.

His eye was swollen with what would certainly turn into a spectacular shiner. He gripped the microphone, speaking very respectfully with a quavering voice. “No, sir,” he said. “You can tell the President I don’t know who placed the call. It didn’t come from this secret base. It could have been a prank, sir, or a wrong number.” He drew in a deep breath. “Pedrito Miraflores? That bandit’s not within a thousand miles of here, I guarantee it! But I’ll keep looking.”

* * *

At last back in his hotel room, Smith took a long, hot shower. The pipes rattled and clanked, surrendering their water reluctantly. He emerged with a towel wrapped around himself, shaking droplets of water from his hair.

He picked up the rucksack and spilled out the contents onto his bed, then tried to stuff the stolen attaché case inside, but it was too large and too heavy.

He decided just to remove the colonels’ important secret papers and save himself some room. He opened the attaché case — and stared down, bug-eyed, at the case jammed with rows of gold pieces. He clamped a hand over his mouth to keep himself from shouting about the treasure. He never knew when someone might be listening in, especially in this spy business.

Smith gazed out the balcony door, grinning. “Now I can buy my way home.”

Shaking the attaché case, Smith poured a cascade of gold into his open rucksack. After the last coin dropped inside, Smith ran his fingers along the grooves of the case, making sure he hadn’t missed any gold pieces.

From behind him, a voice said, “Message for you, sir.”

Smith almost broke his neck snapping his head around in surprise. Bolo stood in a bellman’s red uniform. Smith thought he recognized the man, but by now he knew better than to ask.

“A señorita named Yaquita telephoned to remind you that she is waiting for you at the cathedral in Sangredios. I suggest you do not disappoint the lady.”

Still in shock, Smith kept a protective hand on the gold-filled rucksack.

“Yaquita? Oh, yeah, that’s right. Thanks.”

“Just routine service from your friendly hotel staff.” Bolo turned about and went silently through the door. In the hallway he stopped and smiled his secret smile, as usual. From his belt Bolo pulled out a radio, adjusted its frequency, then pressed the transmit button. He liked to keep things interesting.

* * *

In CIA Centrale a bruised O’Halloran cringed as a big metal speaker boomed above his head. The loud words made his skull ache.

Bolo’s voice crackled with static; his whisper transmitted at such a high volume that the windows rattled. “This is a concerned Colodoran citizen. If you watch the Montana Hotel de Lujo in the town, you get surprise — a Pedrito surprise!”

O’Halloran’s bloodshot eyes widened. “Call out all the troops!” he bellowed to the empty communications room, then sank back into his chair, holding his throbbing head.

* * *

Smith came out of the hotel and walked jauntily toward his jeep, dressed again in his German mountain-climbing clothes and Tyrolean hat. None of the locals paid any attention to him, accustomed by now to strange tourists. He carried his gold-heavy backpack, trying to keep it from dragging on the ground or jingling.

Across in the alley, O’Halloran peered out, focusing a pair of opera glasses. He sucked in a quick, astonished breath. “Pedrito Miraflores! He’s fallen right into my hands!” A feral chicken pecked at his ankle, but the CIA man kicked it away, in no mood for fowl harassment.

O’Halloran chuckled, rubbing his hands together. The redhead drove the jeep down the street and turned left at the corner. He was taking the road to Sangredios, and the CIA man knew he could trap his quarry there for sure. On stumpy legs O’Halloran ran toward the round hill with the satellite reflectors.

Before he could get to the door, though, the whole hill blew up in a huge gout of orange flame. The shock front knocked the CIA man backward on his butt. Clods of dirt and sod thumped down in the streets like a meteor shower.

With a creaking, slow-motion groan, the metal satellite dishes collapsed through rising clouds of smoke. The hill, riddled with CIA tunnels, slumped in on itself like an ant mound.

O’Halloran sat in the dust of the street, staring at the collapsing hill. His strip of hair dangled down in front of his eyes. He knew with utter certainty that Pedrito Miraflores had caused the disaster.

He bounced to his feet and grabbed a top-secret radio out of his pocket. “Gimme the Army!” he shouted. “The whole goddamned Army of Colodor.”