For security reasons, Dan Warner had been uneasy at Zarra being totally out in the open without a convenient exit, so, after his objections, the new podium had been located on the side of the arena where the band normally was located. The band were now playing from some seats normally occupied by spectators.
The slight change from their normal location had not dampened their ardor. Assisted by loudspeakers, music blasted out over the arena.
There was silence, then a single trumpet call followed by a huge shout from the crowd.
The bandstand, empty up to now, began to fill up with Zarra's inner group. Then came his immediate advisors, including Warner.
Six bodyguards followed, surrounding Zarra himself.
The party moved to the front of the bandstand and then the bodyguards moved to the sides, leaving Zarra, dressed in a white suit and shirt, in front of a bank of microphones in the center.
He was wearing a tie, but it had been loosened and his top shirt button was undone. Zarra was correctly dressed as befitted his status as a professor, but he was also informal and approachable – a man of the people.
Zarra raised his arms above his head in a salute to the crowd.
People rose to their feet as one and the air was filled with the rhythmic chants of “VIVA ZARRA! VIVA ZARRA!”
Zarra put his arms down and was about to speak. Suddenly he roared with laughter, and then, still shaking with mirth, pointed down at the bullring below.
The cameras followed the direction he was indicating.
Down below in the ring itself, seated on more comfortable chairs than the hard benches of the spectators, a group of officials and leading dignitaries from the town and surrounding countryside had been assembled to hear Zarra from this privileged location. All were dressed in their best clothes, and officials wore sashes of office.
They were running in every direction, tripping over fallen chairs and diving headfirst over the wooden barriers at the ringside.
A clown's bull had been let loose in the ring. His horns were padded and he was festooned with streamers, but he was no joke to the people actually in his way. He could not kill or seriously wound, but he could butt and create chaos, and that he was certainly doing.
Zarra's laughter was joined by that of the crowd, and the cameras picked up little vignettes of slapstick comedy a landowner had his pants ripped off and only just made it to cover, while the bull turned and chased an unpopular mayor.
It was the best day of the campaign so far, in Dan Warner's opinion.
18
"Shadow Four," continued Fitzduane, "is a mainly British SAS team with Oga for seasoning, Bob ‘Brick’ Stephens and a guy called Hayden.
"In principle, I like to mix up the nationalities and make the unit rather than nationality the focus, but with the professionals on this mission, it really has not proved necessary. Also, Stephens and Hayden have worked together so long and so well, it would be a waste. They don't have to speak to each other. A gesture, a look, and they all seem to understand. They love the Guntrack. It's right in the SAS tradition. They say changing a clutch in a Guntrack compared to the Land Rover is sheer pleasure. Minutes as opposed to hours."
"Do they know your father was a founding member of the SAS in North Africa?" said Kilmara.
"Sure," said Fitzduane with a smile, "and it doesn't hurt. On the other hand, trying to explain to the British why the Irish, while willing to fight with the British, prefer an independent country has been hard work."
"Which leaves Shadow Five," said Kilmara.
"One of our lads from the Rangers," said Fitzduane, "plus two Delta. Harty, Ernesto Robles, and Ross Gallini."
"Tell me more about Calvin Welbourne?" said Kilmara.
"Calvin flies," said Fitzduane, "in the kind of aircraft that you might expect to fall out of a Christmas cracker. It's a frightening little machine, but it works. They drag it around in a tube behind their Guntrack. I do not recommend it unless you are a masochist."
There was a pounding on the door. Fitzduane looked up at the security monitor. It was Lee Cochrane looking very agitated. He let him in.
Cochrane had been running. He was breathing more heavily than normal, but he was very fit. There was only a slight sweat.
"You alone?" he said to Fitzduane.
Fitzduane ushered him in. "Shane is here. No one else. You can speak."
Cochrane sank into a chair. Fitzduane handed him a glass of water, which he drank greedily.
"It's not secret," he said. "The whole fucking world knows. The did it on television. You could see them killing him. They put a bull in the ring as a distraction, and when people were looking the other way, two of his bodyguards drew their guns and killed him. The camera came back on him as they were still firing.
"You could see the blood spewing out over that white suit. And then one of them blew off the side of his head to make sure. You could see his skull coming to pieces."
"Who was killed?" said Fitzduane, who already had a suspicion.
"Dan Warner and Zarra," said Cochrane. "Valiente Zarra."
He suddenly looked defeated and aged. "Dan tried to intervene. He was close and he made a grab for one of them. The Mexicans would not let him carry a piece. Dan got one of the killers' guns, but the other just stepped forward and let him have it in the back of the neck. They butchered him like some animal."
Cochrane put his head in his hands. "Oh, Jesus! We're up against some bad, bad people."
Kilmara took Fitzduane to one side. "Zarra was your reserve," he said. "If things had gone wrong in Tecuno, he could perhaps have helped you. Now you're on your own. The PRI will do nothing. Quintana has too much of a lock on them." There was a question in the statement.
"We go anyway," said Fitzduane. "But there'll be one change. We'll cut the NationalTrainingCenter sessions in half and move the assault date up."
"Why?" said Kilmara.
"Quintana has killed Zarra. He'll be feeling cocky and invulnerable, and so will his people. I want to hit them while they still feel like that. Cocky makes you careless."
Kilmara shook his head. "People gravitate towards success," he said. "Quintana will now pick up support. He may even get the Mexican Army on his side. After this, he stands a good chance of making president if he wants to. Either way, he will be stronger."
"We're going to spend three days in the Mojave at the NTC," said Fitzduane, "and two days doing a final check. Then we'll go."
"You'll be on your own," said Kilmara. "You fuck up and there will be nobody to help. You'll be in the middle of nowhere in bad company. They'll cut your balls off and your skin off in strips. These are evil fucks."
"Faith and firepower are great equalizers," said Fitzduane, "and good people help, too. Believe me." He smiled grimly. "Besides, you may recall a promise. I'm getting Kathleen back. No matter what. No matter what! "
He walked across to Lee Cochrane. "Do you think it can be done, Lee?"
"I don't know," said Cochrane, his voice tired. "I don't know anything anymore. But we've got to try. Damn it, we've got to do something, or else they win. We can't just make speeches."
Fitzduane studied the chief of staff. "I would be honored, Lee, if you would come with us."
Cochrane looked up and his face was transformed from fatigue and sadness into a resolution that damn near glowed. "Are you sure, Hugo?"
Fitzduane smiled. "Positively," he said.
There was a difference in the sound of Rheiman's footsteps, thought Kathleen.
Something as simple as different shoes? She considered this carefully. No, this was more an eagerness as if he had news to impart. Good news? In his terms, probably yes. She would find out soon enough.