“I will go back and tell the others.”
“Mr. Hassam, you do that. I was going to ask you to do that. You tell them to be prepared.”
“I will contact you later, Brother.”
“Yes, you do that. Contact me, but not here. I am going to be at my home in Palm Beach.”
After changing his airline reservations to a later flight, Mr. Hassam re-crossed the border to the capitol, and drove his own car, a light blue Jaguar, from the Olivos airport into town. He went directly to Doctor Englaster’s neurological clinic.
Doctor Englaster stood up and they shook hands. Englaster was a tall man, hawklike, with a personality which Mr. Hassam did not care for. Doctor Englaster was a very arrogant man when things were going well. At such times he gave the impression of regarding everything and everyone around him as so much dirt. Not that he expressed the feeling with words. It was his air.
“Buy you a drink, Doctor?” They had long ago decided there was a chance Doctor Englaster’s office was bugged, and this was to let him know the news was private and dangerous.
They went to a bar named Las Violetas which had once been third-rate but which had done well on nothing more than the strength of the fact that, in the days when he was only an army man, El Presidente had often stopped there. That was before El Presidente had a half dozen palaces, twenty sports cars, and a seraglio of teenage girls.
Doctor Englaster ordered vermouth for them both without consulting his companion. Mr. Hassam detested vermouth straight, although he did not mind it in a Manhattan. The way Doctor Englaster ordered vermouth was a small sample of his little arrogant mannerisms.
“Well, Mr. Hassam?”
“What do you think of this thing he is going to pull off today, Doc? Offering to resign?”
Doctor Englaster was not as surprised at the news as Mr. Hassam had been. Mr. Hassam abruptly realized, rather sheepishly, that the speech must have been made, and the resignation threat was old news. Doctor Englaster shrugged. “Well, it will work, of course. The cheers were terrific. The descamisada have turned against the church officials.”
“Temporarily, don’t you mean?”
“Oh, yes, that is how it will work.”
“How temporarily?”
“Not for long. He can never take God’s place with them. He may think he can. He may be that colossal a fool. But he will not do it.”
Mr. Hassam decided not to touch his vermouth. “Here is what I really wanted to talk to you about...Brother says he has found exactly the man he has been seeking for these five years.”
Doctor Englaster looked about nervously, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “The hell you say! Is that right? I mean, where did you see Brother? The fool, is he here, with times as they are?”
“Oh, no. He is in a province called Missouri, in the U.S.A. I talked to him by telephone.” Mr. Hassam outlined what Brother had told him concerning Harsh.
Doctor Englaster recovered his composure and again assumed his superior air. “I believe we all should have a look at this fellow Brother has found.”
“I think so, too.” Mr. Hassam pushed the glass of vermouth aside. “Do you have a good excuse for taking a quick trip to Miami?”
Doctor Englaster shrugged. “I had announced a planned vacation in Panama. I can easily disappear on a jungle hunting trip from there for a few days.”
“How about Miss Muirz?”
“She comes and goes at will, doesn’t she?” Doctor Englaster looked at Mr. Hassam meaningfully and rubbed a thumb and forefinger together as if counting money. “How much are you taking out to add to Our Lady of Hope Memorial Fund this time?”
“In United States money, one million three hundred and ninety-four thousand dollars.”
Doctor Englaster’s eyes glistened. “The take is dropping off.”
“Yes.” Mr. Hassam shrugged. “Hardly worth getting hung for.”
“That is not a very good joke.” Doctor Englaster spoke soberly. “We must be careful. Brother is periodically a paranoiac, not a dependable sort. But he is no idiot. He may indeed have found a double for El Presidente. Shall we drink to the possibility?”
Mr. Hassam ignored the vermouth and picked up his glass of water for the toast.
EIGHT
Instead of airliner-style seats, the plane boasted four private staterooms and a lounge furnished with deep chairs, a cocktail bar, and an office equipped with desk and dictating machines and chairs for conferences in midair. The pilot and co-pilot/steward wore puce-colored twill uniforms with every crease an edge and every button fastened, each cap peak set at an acute angle. The two crewmen looked efficient and close-mouthed. The color motif inside the airplane was all in tans and puce. There was a strip of the brown along the outside of the airplane and the interior upholstery was out of the same pot, custom stuff. The puce and tan was touched here and there with gold, a gold edging around the television screen, a gold filigree on the door latches.
The two crewmen helped Walter Harsh up the steps into the plane. He was very weak, but he could walk. Moving about had made him feel better, or at least feel more like he was going to live. He noticed the wrist watch the pilot was wearing had a tan dial with puce hands and gold figures. Jesus, he thought. They lowered him into a comfortable chair and buckled the safety belt about his middle. From the windows he could see the wingtips and parts of the engines. The engines puzzled him, because he saw no propellers. Jet? he wondered. The airplane was some buggy.
Brother came in and sat in an upholstered seat near him and fastened the safety belt. He then waited for the plane to take off, sitting there with his mouth open slightly, tips of teeth showing, waiting almost visibly. Harsh decided the man was uneasy about flying.
A taxicab arrived outside. The co-pilot/steward left the plane and soon returned with a large tan canvas bag from the taxi. Harsh eyed the bag. “That’s mine. Is my camera and clothes and stuff in there?”
“Yes, Mr. Harsh.”
Harsh leaned back, trying to relax. This was one hell of a thing, he thought, the whole thing from beginning to end. They had sold his car for nineteen hundred dollars, which was a roast, because Harsh had paid four hundred for the iron a year ago and gotten a skinning at that. He was amazed when he signed the assignment form on the back of the certificate of title of the car, and Brother counted nineteen hundred dollars into his hand. He knew nobody had been fool enough to pay nineteen for the old iron, so they were just keeping him happy. He could feel a bulb of sweat move down his spinal column under his shirt, and he knew what was making him sweat. Money. The way money was coming at him, he thought, it would make an iceberg sweat. He looked down at his right arm, realizing he had suddenly formed the habit of keeping it across his chest, the hand pressed where the middle vest button would be, if he wore a vest. Like Napoleon. He tried to recall whether Napoleon kept his right or his left hand tucked in his waistcoat front. He wondered if Napoleon carried fifty thousand dollars taped to the skin of his belly under the hand.