“Richard who?” Carrie said.
“The first fictional heroic spy of the twentieth century,” said Laframboise, coming out of his doze. “He was the star of several books by John Buchan. The most famous was The Thirty-Nine Steps. Alfred Hitchcock made it into a movie in the nineteen thirties. Buchan was also known as Lord Tweedsmuir, the governor general of Canada.”
“Good Lord,” said Black.
“I had the best paper route in Ottawa,” said Laframboise, sitting up and yawning. “Governor generals to the British high commissioners with half a dozen embassies, the prime minister’s residence and City Hall, all on the same street. Learned a lot of history that way.” He shook his head, smiling as he remembered. “At Christmas the prime minister and the French ambassador used to compete to give me the biggest tip. I made out like a bandit.”
“Cute story,” said Carrie. “Irrelevant but cute.”
“Divide and conquer?” Will Black said.
“Something like that,” said Laframboise.
“I don’t get it,” said Carrie.
“Five or six hours ago we heard a lot of activity—orders being bawled out, soldiers moving around,” said Laframboise. “Then an hour ago three of those fighters out there took off and half an hour later they were back. Somebody’s making a fuss out there and I don’t think anybody’s thinking about us.”
“They have not thought of us since we landed here like flies in a spiderweb,” snorted Arango. “They knew they were going to kill us from the start, or at least el Italiano did.”
“Then why aren’t we dead?” Carrie asked bluntly.
“Poker,” said Lafamboise. “That Turturro guy’s an old soldier. We’re bargaining chips in case it all goes wrong.”
“Mr. Laframboise is probably right.” Black nodded. “Turturro’s a firm proponent of what my late father referred to as the ‘snafu’ principle.”
“Qué?” Arango said.
“Situation Normal, All Fucked Up,” explained Black. “These people aren’t playing at being rebels in the mountains trying to stir up the locals; this is an attack force. Something big is in the works, and if there’s a snafu, Turturro wants something to trade on.”
“Us,” said Carrie.
“Us.” Black nodded.
“So what do we do about it?”
“One way or another, all of us are going to be an embarrassment, whether it’s Turturro’s people or the agency,” said Black. “We’re going to get swept under the rug, so to speak. I say we get out and we get out now. Turturro’s probably off with those soldiers we heard gearing up this afternoon. It’s getting dark. They should be bringing us something to eat pretty soon. It might be our only chance.”
“What chance?” Carrie asked. “We’re going to stab them with plastic forks? These guys have got guns!”
“There is a loose floorboard in the toilet,” said Arango. “Pull it up. There might be nails in it. Rusty ones. A weapon of sorts.”
“I saw a kid in high school throw a cafeteria table at a teacher once. Caught him by surprise.” Laframboise shrugged. “Might work.”
“I’m stuck back at plastic forks,” said Carrie.
“We use the chairs,” said Black. “Carrie and I stand on opposite sides of the door, each with a chair folded up. Arango has the piece of floorboard and both he and Laframboise heave the table at the first guys through the door. If we’re lucky we’ll catch them off guard and manage to disarm at least one of them.”
“And if we don’t?” Carrie said.
“Then we probably die,” said Laframboise.
It was seven sixteen in the evening and the last of the sun was disappearing over the western sea as Sandpiper arrived at the Marina Hemingway. Father Ronan Patrick Sheehan hit the air horn, requesting entrance through the breakwater passage. Receiving approval, Sheehan piloted the Hatteras Express to the harbormaster’s office at the main jetty, where he was boarded by a customs officer and a harbor official.
He offered Des Smith’s papers for inspection, had them stamped and was then given a berth after paying an appropriate “document fee.” At the berth across from some sort of low-rise hotel complex, another set of officials boarded the boat, gave it a cursory inspection and were also handed what they called an “inspection fee.” The whole process took an hour.
Throughout the various official inspections, Sheehan had worn a plastic surgical boot on his right foot and ankle and had limped around using a very solid-looking knobkerrie walking stick. When asked, he told the officials he’d sprained his ankle doing a favor for a friend. Nobody questioned his story and they didn’t examine either the boot or the walking stick.
By the time Sheehan was alone again, it was fully dark. He had a quick, cold dinner of a tinned corned beef sandwich and a bottle of Kalik beer from the galley fridge, then lay down in the comfortable berth in the owner’s stateroom and was asleep almost instantly.
The door to the old hut at the airfield was kicked in with the wet sound of splintering, rotten wood, and as the first man came through the opening Montalvo Hernandez Arango swung the eighteen-inch-long floorboard with a pair of three-inch nails at the end like a major league hitter belting a home run out of the park with a Louisville Slugger.
“Mueren, pedazo de mierda!” Arango screeched.
“Santa puta Madre de Cristo!” Domingo Cabrera raised his machete defensively with Arango’s medieval bat less than an inch from his skull. At the same time Pete Laframboise heaved the table toward the doorway, dipped his shoulder like a hockey player making a body check and heaved himself forward. As Holliday and Eddie stepped into the hut, both Carrie Pilkington and Will Black swung their folded chairs.
The table and Pete Laframboise hit Holliday square-on and Eddie was struck high and low by the chairs. Everyone went down in a heap except for Arango and Domingo, who just stared at each other, dumbfounded.
Pete Laframboise found himself staring into the angry face of a mud-spattered, scar-faced, one-eyed man with an MP5 machine gun pointing at him. Eddie staggered to his feet and Carrie Pilkington stared. “Oh my God!”
“Who the hell are you?” Laframboise asked, sprawled in the broken remains of the card table he’d driven into Holliday.
“I’m the goddamn U.S. cavalry,” answered Holliday. “Now get up.”
“You’re Colonel John Holliday,” said Carrie Pilkington. “And this is your friend Eddie Cabrera. I recognize you from the photographs in your file.”
“We’ve got two dead guards outside and about five minutes before the shit hits the fan,” said Holliday. “So if you’re all finished with the Marx Brothers routine, can we all get the hell out of here?”
25
Lieutenant Colonel Frank J. Turturro returned from his mission to Aserradero still shaken by the slaughter he had seen in that mountain meadow. He was no stranger to death in war, but his conflicts had come in places where men died in ones and twos, not by the hundreds. The fight at the police post a few days before had been one thing, but he knew the wholesale slaughter he’d seen today would give him nightmares worse than he had ever known. A warrior was a man who fought other men and where the better warrior vanquished the lesser; it wasn’t a farmer slaughtering sheep. Blackhawk was paying him a fortune to lead this unit, but no amount of cash was going to help him carry this stone that now rested so heavily in his heart.
When he arrived back at the airfield just after dark, things went from bad to worse as his old friend and master sergeant Anthony Veccione reported the situation regarding the escape of the prisoners.