"There will be several days of sightseeing in and around Caracas with the President and other officials. There will also be banquets and receptions and private talks with the Venezuelan President. Then, at the conference there will be public talks with the Venezuelan President's administrators. The press will be there, of course. The conference will have a morning and an afternoon session. I wish it were shorter."
Hawk ran a hand through his gray hair and stared at the cup of thick coffee he'd ordered earlier. We were sitting at a small booth by the window. The small restaurant was busy, and there was a buzz of Spanish around us.
"When does the Vice-President make his first public appearance here?" I asked.
Hawk flicked an ash off his cigar and looked out onto the dark, narrow street. "Tomorrow night he's scheduled for a gala reception dinner in his honor at the Palacio de Miraflores. After the dinner there will be dancing."
"I'd like to attend that reception, sir," I said.
"I already have invitations for us," Hawk said, chewing on the cigar. "In fact, we have clearance to attend every function that the Vice-President is scheduled for. I don't think well need to attend all of them, since the threat was to the conference itself and since the Secret Service boys will be on the job around the clock, tied to the Vice-President's coattails. But we ought to be there at the first function, if just to meet the Secret Service fellows personally."
"We'll go separately?"
"Yes. Everybody but security people will think we're members of the ambassadorial staff here in Caracas. The Vice-President knows our cover and will play along with it."
I could see the worry lines around Hawk's piercing eyes. "You know," I said, "it's just possible that the authors of that warning note aren't planning anything more violent than a demonstration in front of the White Palace."
"Or maybe it really is just a big joke, with somebody sitting back and laughing up his sleeve at us."
I shrugged my shoulders. "Maybe." But I didn't believe it for a moment.
"You're trying to comfort me, Nick. I must be getting older than I thought."
I grinned. "I just want you to relax, sir."
Hawk took the cigar out of his mouth again and snubbed it out in a small ashtray. "I just wish I could get rid of the awful feeling that something deadly is going to happen and take us by complete surprise."
He was staring at the table again. I wanted to say something to break the mood, but I couldn't think of anything. The feeling had gotten to me, too.
Early the next morning I took a taxi to the Palacio de Miraflores. It was an enormous building with about a thousand rooms. The conference was to be held in the Grand Reception Room. The reception dinner and party would take place in the Banquet Room and the Grand Ballroom.
I flashed my credentials at the front entrance and had no difficulty getting in. In fact, it was too easy. The Venezuelan police on duty seemed all too eager to please. The palace had been closed to the public because of the conference, but inside it was crowded with people who had special passes or were in some way connected with the conference.
It was quite a place inside. I was impressed. They'd even left tour guides on duty to help official visitors find their way around. A guide came up to me as I stood looking at a large oil canvas by an unknown Latin American artist.
"Perdóneme, señor. Siento molestarle.
"It's all right," I answered in Spanish. "You're not disturbing me."
"I merely wish to point out there is a Picasso farther down the corridor," the man smiled. He wore a gray uniform and cap and reminded me of a Latin version of Hawk.
"Gracias," I said. "'I'll be sure to see it before I leave. Have the police set up headquarters in the palace?"
"Yes," he said. "In the state apartments. Follow this corridor and you will come to it."
I thanked him and made my way to the large room that was being used as security headquarters. The atmosphere was hectic, yet casual, if that's possible. Telephones were ringing, and officials were engaged in serious conversations, but other men were joking and laughing and talking about the festival or the corrida on Sunday. There seemed to be a good deal of confusion. The Vice-President was expected soon, and the security men were trying to round up a party to go to the airport.
I spoke to a couple of CIA men I knew, but they didn't seem to have much interest in the conference. One of them spent five minutes telling me about a dancer he had met the night before. No one really believed the threat. I left the room and walked through the palace, looking at faces. I don't know what I expected so see — maybe the man who'd been watching me at the restaurant, I don't know. But I was also trying to assess the situation, to get a feeling about the palace and its security, as Hawk had. Unfortunately, my impressions weren't any more favorable than his. I felt like I was sitting on a time bomb that was going to go off when everyone least expected it. It was not a pleasant feeling.
On my way out, one of the CIA agents buttonholed me.
"The Venezuelan Security Police have arrested a bunch of radicals, and they'll keep them out of circulation till this is over," he told me. "There's nothing from Washington, no leads on your attackers. Everything looks quiet on all fronts. The scuttlebutt is that the Vice-President isn't taking the note seriously. So why the hell should we?"
I looked at him. "Well, I can think of one reason."
"Yeah?"
"We're professionals," I said pointedly. I turned and walked away from him before he could say another word. The new fuzzy-faced bright boys the CIA was hiring nowadays didn't impress me very much.
The Vice-President arrived later without incident. The streets on the route to the hotel where he and his entourage were staying were teeming with welcomers waving American and Venezuelan flags. I was at the hotel to watch the arrival, and it was a noisy one. The head of the Secret Service had kept his promise about extra men. His agents were everywhere. At least they seemed to be taking their job seriously.
In the evening I put on a dinner jacket and took a taxi back to the Palacio de Miraflores. It was like Academy Awards night in Hollywood. The streets were jammed with people, and the traffic was impossible. I walked the last long block to the palace. This time there were security people jamming the front entrance. Inside, in the high-ceilinged reception hall, the Vice-President stood surrounded by a few select members of the press.
The Vice-President is a tall man, and he towered over most of the people surrounding him. He was a silver-haired, genteel man, soft-spoken and reserved. His voice was audible only to those closest to him as he answered the reporters' questions. His pretty, dark-haired wife stood beside him in a flowing long blue gown. Again I found myself studying faces, but I didn't see anything suspicious. I was beginning to wonder if the NSA chief hadn't been right. Maybe Hawk and I were taking the whole thing too seriously. Maybe the man at the restaurant was just a Venezuelan who just liked to stare at foreigners. And maybe those men back at the training center had.just been trying to scare me with that gun. Maybe.
The banquet was splendid but uneventful. The Venezuelan President appeared in full military costume with a chest full of medals. The Vice-President sat on his right, at the head of the long banquet table. The meal was a superb combination of continental and Venezuelan dishes, and the wine was even better.
A beautiful young girl sat almost directly across from me at the dinner. She was easily the best-looking female at the table, full breasted and slim with long, dark hair and startlingly deep blue eyes. She wore a low-cut black crepe gown that revealed the beginnings of a breathtaking figure. She caught my eye several times during the meal and smiled at me once. Later in the ballroom she came over to me and introduced herself.