When they were under way, a steward came out onto the deck. “This way, please,” he said politely.
They followed him aft to the well-furnished main salon. Its entire rear wall was sliding glass doors looking out over the fantail, beyond which were the lights of the city they were leaving.
Only the light from the outside provided any illumination. The steward left, closing the door.
“I trust you managed to make it here without attracting undue attention,” someone said from the far corner.
Juan Carlos took a step forward. “Is it you, comrade?” he asked.
“It is I,” the man said, and a soft light came on, revealing the little man seated on a high-backed stool before a wet bar. “But you have not answered my question.”
“No one followed us,” Juan Carlos said. He moved across the room, Teva and Eugenio right behind him.
“Your cell leaders have been alerted?”
“They will be leaving the city this evening, and all of them will be in position within forty-eight hours.”
“Very good, Juan, very well done.” The little man got off his stool and went around behind the bar, where he brought out a bottle of good red wine and a large bottle of carbonated water.
He was an intense-looking little man, with large, penetrating eyes, and a swarthy complexion. In a way the man almost looked Oriental to Juan Carlos, or perhaps even Indian, except that he knew the man was almost certainly a Soviet officer of some sort. He had come with the highest recommendations of Colonel Qaddafi himself, so from the beginning the Montonero leadership had not questioned his presence. Nor had Juan Carlos or the others.
They sat down across the bar from him. He poured them each a tall glass of wine, mixed half and half with carbonated water, then poured himself some of the wine straight.
When they all had their drinks, he raised his in toast. “To the liberation of your people.”
“Libertad,” Juan Carlos said, and Teva and Eugenio repeated the single word. They drank deeply.
Just outside the breakwater the ship rose to meet the larger waves, and the little man came around the bar to a long dining table in the center of the room where a detailed topographic map was spread out. He flicked on an overhead light. Juan Carlos and the others gathered around.
“We will have to be well away with this boat before the operation begins, which is why I am dropping you at Tigre so early,” the little man began.
They had all seen this map before, but Juan Carlos leaned forward so that he could get a better look at it. He didn’t want to miss a detail.
“How far is it from the drop point to the clearing?”
“A little less than ten miles. It will be difficult, but you should be able to manage it by morning.”
“Our provisions are there?”
The little man nodded. “Along with your weapons, and the radio with which you will summon the helicopter. There’s enough food for a week, in case we run into any delay.”
Juan Carlos studied the map thoughtfully. “Another five miles from the clearing to the house. A ten-mile round trip. The most difficult part of the operation.”
“Under cover of darkness and the diversion, you should not have any trouble. You should be able to make it well within the limits.”
Juan Carlos switched his attention from their objective to the river where the other Montonero cell would be waiting with a very old, very large river boat. At the set hour, they would bring the boat up behind the main house and set it on fire. The commotion would, according to the little man, bring most of the house staff on the run down to the river.
“His personal bodyguard may be with him, but between the three of you, there should be no real difficulty.”
“What if we meet with heavier resistance?” Eugenio asked.
Juan Carlos and the little man both looked up at him.
“You will have your radio. Channel A is the helicopter, and B will be monitored by the cell leader aboard the boat. He understands the contingency. If you run into unexpected trouble, he will lead his people up to you.”
“Will we have time to get out of there?” Eugenio asked.
Juan Carlos was frustrated by the questions, because they were valid and well thought out. He, the leader, should have thought of those contingencies first.
“Timing will be critical, of course. We’re assuming that, once the action begins, the authorities will be notified,” the little man said. He turned to Juan Carlos. “If that happens, if you need help from the river, then your fallback code will be ‘Helpmate one,’ which will bring the helicopter directly to the airstrip behind the house.”
“There may be more resistance there.”
“Almost certainly there will be. But by then you will have been joined by the other cell, and the helicopter crew will be armed.”
“There will be no other changes in that event?” Juan Carlos asked.
“None,” the little man said. “You will be set down with your cargo at the interior point where the van will be waiting.” He stabbed a blunt finger at a spot on the map about fifty miles inland and slightly north of Buenos Aires. “You only have to hold them for twenty-four hours, then you can release the ransom message and get out. The second cell will take over from there.”
Juan Carlos nodded. Eugenio looked thoughtful. Teva was flushed.
“Transportation will be provided for you to Tripoli, but there will be absolutely no negotiations from there. The colonel was most clear on that point. All communications will go through Geneva. We have someone in place there at this moment. Once you get to Tripoli, instructions will be waiting for you.”
Juan Carlos studied the map a bit longer, almost overwhelmed by what they were about to pull off. Their action would forever change Argentine history. And the blow to the morale of capitalist pigs the world over would be stunning.
He raised his glass again. “Libertad,” he said fervently. “Libertad!”
8
The weather had turned slightly cool this evening, causing a dense fog to rise up from bayous surrounding New Orleans, across Lake Pontchartrain, along the commercial docks, and among the grain elevators standing like proud, erect ghosts.
Traffic over the causeway toll bridge, and along the interstates and bypasses which cut through the city, moved at no more than 15 miles an hour. There was an eighteen-car pileup on Interstate 10 just west of Lakefront Airport. All flights were grounded, of course, and even the city bus service was running late on every one of its lines.
As one hip disc jockey put it over the air, not long before midnight: “You might just as well stay home, baby, and enjoy the soup, ‘cause ain’t nobody goin’ nowhere nohow tonight.”
Louie Benario, a long-time torch out of Detroit, only lately arrived in New Orleans, shuffled along the railroad tracks behind the International Trade Mart near the Bienville Street Wharf. He was a tiny man who all his life had been called the runt, or peewee, or short stuff, or midget. Terms he resented deeply, because he had always thought of himself as a big man.
In the old days, when someone called him such a name, he would puff up to his full five foot two and take a swing at his adversary, which more often than not landed him flat on his back beside his bar stool. His nose had been broken so many times he had lost count; his arms had been broken, his fingers snapped, his wrist half-crushed, his jaw dislocated, and his skull fractured. His ribs had been battered until they were soft to the touch.
Because of this, he was, at forty, a misshapen old man who walked with a stumbling gait and hardly ever raised his eyes in public. Louie had finally learned his lesson: In public, keep your mouth shut. Blend into the woodwork. Make no waves. Be inconspicuous.