"In fact," she said as she lifted one of Smith's arms to wrap it around her neck, "the doctor told me to use whatever means possible to keep you in bed.'' She ran her hands over his chest and kissed him again, until Smith groggily responded.
She fell onto the sheets beside him. "And I intend to follow doctor's orders."
Chapter 16
ON THE SECOND FLOOR of the Cantina de Espejos, the late morning air carried the smell of hot cooking oil, bananas and boiled Inca corn from the doorsteps below. Roosters crowed and dogs barked.
Smith stood in the open bathroom dressed only in his skivvies. He rinsed the dangerous straight-edged razor in the sink, then inspected his shaving job in the chipped mirror. Better than yesterday, at least; he'd kept the injuries to a minimum. Satisfied, he patted his face with a damp towel.
The jackhammer pounding in his head was better as well, especially now that Yaquita had stopped throwing things at him. She had dressed in a bright red skirt and frilly white blouse with intricate embroidery, then left him early in the morning. She had promised to bring him fresh roses from the flower market as soon as it opened. He tried to tell her he was allergic to pollen, but she just laughed and trotted out the door with a swirl of her skirt and a flash of her bronze calves.
Refreshed for the first time in days, the redheaded lieutenant sang out loud as he went to the tan suitcase on the footstool. "'What you gonna do with a drunken sailor? What you gonna do with a drunken sailor?'"
Of course, his big question was what was he going to do, now that his vacation was ruined, his passport and luggage stolen, and the Marines at the American Embassy were shooting at him. . . . Stupid Marines . . . you could never trust them. He decided not to worry about that, at least not until he was dressed.
With one hand he fumbled to open the tan suitcase, but the damp towel slipped from his shoulder. He grabbed it, losing his grip on the suitcase so that it tumbled off the footstool, striking the floor.
Unperturbed, Smith lifted the case onto the footstool—but something odd happened. Its back opened, a crack widening from a false panel he had not noticed before. Curious, he bent to inspect the case, wondering if it had been damaged by the same baggage handlers who had mixed up his luggage with this stranger's. He hoped the case could be repaired without too much cost. Its actual owner would likely be upset.
He tried to get the back panel open further; his cheery sailing tune faltered, then stopped altogether as he became distracted with the problem. Smith flopped the suitcase one way, and the secret back compartment opened. He flopped it the other way, and the innocent front opened. "Something suspicious here."
He thought of all the stories he had heard about South American drug smugglers, and he grew suddenly concerned. What if the authorities mistakenly went after him? What if they confused Lieutenant Tom Smith with a bad man, with a . . . lawbreaker!
He removed the contents of the suitcase's hidden compartment one at a time, holding each up to the light and setting it aside on the bed.
A broad, wicked-looking commando knife.
A camouflaged, waterproof jungle suit.
Two alien-looking bolstered weapons on a web belt.
He pulled out one of the pistols, curious. He had never seen such a sleek, high-tech weapon before, like something from a science fiction movie. Laser pistols? He had heard the Navy was developing firearms like those. In fact, he thought he might have signed off on the blueprints himself.
Next, Smith popped open a black case to reveal a suicide kit containing needles and poison capsules (marked as "grape flavored"). From the bottom of the secret compartment, he removed a fancy military digital wristwatch that sported more incomprehensible buttons than even his VCR at home. A military chronograph.
Smith peered at it, reading the maker's label. "Made in Russia? Uh-oh." He snapped his head up with the belated realization. These weren't the possessions of a drug smuggler—this was intelligence stuff! How could he possibly be mixed up with spies?
Then his eyes flared wide in greater astonishment as he saw the date displayed on the fancy watch. "Oh, my God, it's the eleventh." He looked up in horror. "I'm AWOL! They'll send the Marines after me!" All of Naval Intelligence would fall apart without him—who would stamp all their blueprints now that he was missing?
A loud knock on the door startled him. He whipped his head around, then he tossed the damp shaving towel over the scattered weapons and illegal espionage equipment on the bed. What if this was the Colodoran police?
An oddly familiar dark-haired man with exotic Turkish features walked in, dressed as a waiter. Bolo carried a tray that held a breakfast roll and a pot of strong coffee with hot milk. He gave no sign of recognition or friendliness on his calm, bland face. "Breakfast, sir? Compliments of the establishment."
Smith stared at Bolo, who looked very different from his previous guise as a scruffy taxi driver. "Hey, haven't I seen you someplace before?"
"Oh, no, sir," Bolo said. "I've never been here before."
Smith's thoughts were on other things, particularly being AWOL, and he didn't pursue the matter. He went to the broken window, as if pondering the best escape route.
Smith glanced again at the complex Russian military watch, double-checking the date. He winced, then turned to the waiter, worried. "Excuse me, but can you fetch me a telephone, quick? Telefono? I've got to call the United States."
"Si, senor." The waiter casually set the breakfast tray on top of the towel that covered the scattered weaponry on the bed, not noticing the lumps. He closed the door behind him as he left Smith to ponder what he was going to do next.
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 w
all 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 va secretive smile. Then he crept outside to watch the fireworks start
Chapter 18
STILL IN HIS UNDERPANTS, freshly shaved and showered, Smith paced back and forth in Yaquita's room, crunching on the broken shards of knickknacks she had hurled at him the first night. He remained intent on the date displayed on the complex watch. The last couple of days had been a blur, and his head was still aching. He felt confused. He wondered if his brain was going mushy. What was he going to do now? How was he going to get out of this?
"Where is room service with my telephone?" he grumbled. He had to get to Santa Isabel's airport and take the first flight to the United States. But first he'd have to get a new passport and get his credit cards straightened out, then try to get his plane tickets replaced.
He couldn't believe he had bungled his trip so badly. He had never done anything like this before—he was normally such a responsible person. Everything had been so confusing since he arrived here, though, he had paid no attention to the schedule. This was supposed to be a prize vacation, but now he might well have ruined his Navy career. Old Admiral Turner was probably furious with him for abandoning all those vital blueprints.
He imagined how bad it would sound if he told the truth: "As soon as I got to Colodor I was mugged and tied up in a hotel. When I got out, I went to the embassy and they shot at me, so I went to another hotel, and a beautiful woman beat me up and then made passionate love to me. I got sick for days on end, and everything about my vacation was a blur. I'm sorry I came back late."
The admiral would never buy it. He'd heard similar stories far too many times before. Though he might have a soft spot in his heart for drunken sailors, Turner still demanded that his men be disciplined. Smith could be court-martialed for this!
In stark contrast to his gloom, humming happily to herself, Yaquita danced through the door into the room. She smiled brightly, and her fresh layer of lipstick gleamed in the sunshine. She was gorgeously turned out in a floppy straw hat, white summer frock, high-heeled shoes.
She tossed an armful of shopping bundles on the bed along with a bouquet of fresh roses, and pirouetted, displaying her new clothes. "Well, how do you like it?" Yaquita halted before him, arching her eyebrows.
"Just fine." Smith nodded distractedly, but returned to fiddling with the military watch. He tried to use the watch to figure out the day of the week. If it was the weekend, maybe no one would notice he had been gone for an extra day or so.
"This dress is just like the one Margarita de Sanchez was married in." Yaquita plucked at her frock. "Do you think it'll be suitable in the best church? Only a fine historic cathedral will do for you and me."
Smith didn't know what she meant. His brain felt so mushy after the past few days. "A church? Is it Sunday?" He hoped it was Sunday. If he got back to New York today, maybe no one would notice he'd been AWOL. But then, if it really was Sunday, how would he get his whole ID mess straightened out? The embassy wouldn't be open on Sunday, would it? "Tell you what, I'll buy you some lunch in the airport restaurant," he said hopefully. He noticed he wore only his skivvies. "Oh, I'd better get dressed."
Yaquita was suddenly reminded of her duty for the revolution. "Oh, no, no—you're much too ill to go out. Much too ill. Where are my priorities?" She wrapped her arms around Smith's bare chest. "We'll bring the priest in here. No need for you to put clothes on at all, my darling. Let me take care of everything."
Smith looked at the door, then at the breakfast tray on the bed. He had eaten only half of one of the rolls, and by now the coffee was cold. "Where's that guy with the telephone? I asked room service to bring me a phone an hour ago."
He started for the door, but Yaquita stopped him. "I'll get him. I need to find our priest anyway. Luckily, in Colodor, we don't need a license." She turned happily, then called back over her shoulder. "All right, I suppose you could get some clothes on. It's a matter of formality, and I want to remember this day as just perfect."
Smith looked for his clothes, shaking his head in confusion. What kind of license was she talking about, and why would Yaquita need a priest to help him get to the airport? Maybe it was just to pray that his AWOL charges would be dropped.
Outside the cantina, two unmarked CIA commando cars skidded to a stop on the slick cobblestones. The second car bumped into the rear fender of the first, jostling the passengers. The windows on both cars rolled down, bristling with guns. The most recent stitching of bullet holes on the cantina's facade looked at least several weeks old, patched with new adobe and whitewash.
O'Halloran leaped from the lead car, but lost his balance in the gutter. He grabbed the car's side mirror to keep from falling on his backside, then attempted to regain his dignity. He pressed a bullhorn to his lips with a sneer. "Pedrito Miraflores! Come out of there, you goddamned Communist spy!"
Inside, Yaquita had skipped halfway down the stairs when she heard the bellowed announcement. Below, the unconscious knife thrower groaned drunkenly, eased to one side and tumbled to the floor. His big blade remained stuck in the table.
"Come out or we blow the place apart!" O'Halloran's voice echoed through the crumbling adobe walls.
Cockroaches fled for cover. In the street, chickens squawked and ran about in a flurry of white feathers.
"I'll give you a countdown, Pedrito! Say your prayers!"
Yaquita raced back up the steps, pressing a hand to her head to keep the straw hat in place on her lush black hair. Time for a change of plans. She had so wanted her wedding day to be memorable—but not with a CIA shootout.
While Smith blinked in confusion, still looking for his socks, Yaquita flew into the bedroom, locked the door and began to tear off her clothes, ripping the delicate fabric of her brand-new white lacy frock. "Hurry," she said. "Hurry!"
"When I'm done with you," O'Halloran went on outside, "we'll hang your corpse ... twice, maybe! This is your last chance, Pedrito!"
Smith scratched his red hair. "Just who is this Pedrito, anyway? He seems to be quite a troublemaker. I wouldn't want to be in his shoes."
Yaquita peeled off her dress and kicked off her pumps. Wearing only her satin bra and panties, she threw the curtain aside from the closet alcove and hauled clothes down from her shelves and hangers. She dragged out an empty plaid suitcase and tossed it open on the bed. Piles of clothes and pairs of shoes sailed into the open luggage.
Smith just stood, staring. He'd never seen anybody pack so fast. "I thought you were just going along with me to the airport. Hey, and I still need to make a phone call. Where is room service?"
"Get dressed!" Yaquita said.
"Five!" O'Halloran bellowed.
"Get packed!" Yaquita said.
"Four!" O'Halloran's voice grew more eager.
"But there's something going on out there." Frowning, Smith stepped toward the broken window, nudging the curtain aside to look down into the narrow alley. "Maybe we should just stay here. It might be dangerous."
"Don't go near the window!" Yaquita screamed.
"Three!" O'Halloran said.
Down below in th
e cantina, the band members, some still holding their instruments, cowered together behind the cover of the raised stage. The drummer separated from them and crawled toward the front door. He squirmed under the shelter of tables, trying to fit his huge sombrero between the tumbled chairs.
The cantina's manager had ducked behind the bar, holding the narrow metal stool over his head, though it offered scant protection.
"Two!" The bullhorn distorted O'Halloran's voice.
The drummer reached the front door and frantically tied a white handkerchief on his drumstick. He yanked the knot a final time to be sure it was tight.
"One!" O'Halloran howled.
The drummer thrust the white flag around the edge of the door, flapping it back and forth.
O'Halloran whirled upon seeing the white flag. He grinned with triumph. "There's the son of a bitch! He's trying to surrender. Fire!"
A resounding storm of bullets tore the white flag to singed scraps that blew away in the smoke of gunpowder.
The rest of the band crouched out of sight by the stage. A string of machine-gun bullets knocked a bass drum and metal music stands off the stage on top of them. When they cried out in terror, for once their voices worked in unison.
In the alleyway, with a flurry of white feathers, the feral chickens expertly dodged the bullets.
At the door, the drummer stared stupidly at the splintered remains of his drumstick. Then with a yelp he scrambled back into the dim shelter of the cantina.
In his room above, Smith hopped about, trying to pull up his safari pants, but the fabric caught around his knees. He tried to fish his left shoe out from under Yaquita's bed. This mysterious unprovoked attack was bad enough, but the fact of being so disorganized unsettled him even more.