The Russians were pulling out all the stops. The melon face had a big white-toothed wedge of a smile from ear to ear. Corazon would have sung the Russian national anthem if he had known it.
He saw heads peer out windows in the Astarse. He saw the same heads disappear. He saw men jump out windows. Run out through the alley limping. The Astarse was clearing like a sink of roaches when the light was suddenly turned on. Some men left their weapons.
The Russians began to chant, smelling their triumph. A bold move. A strong move. Corazon knew that when you dealt with Russians, you dealt with action. But nothing like this had he expected.
One little old man in a gown stood at a window in the Astarse. He was in the second floor. He had wisps of white hair, Corazon noticed, as he looked more closely. His arms were folded over themselves. And Corazon saw it was not a robe he wore but a light blue garment from the Orient. He had seen them before.
Corazon made out the features in the fast-failing light. The old man was an Oriental. He looked up the
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street and smiled, and then down the street and smiled.
He was smiling at the Russians. And it was the smile of a man who had just been offered an interesting dessert.
And then with horror Corazon realized the full meaning of that smile. The Oriental thought of Russia's major attacking forces as mere amusement. The calm look was not the ignorance of an old man but contentment, the confidence of a melon chopper who had chopped melon all day and was not about to be excited by a few more.
The Oriental looked up, across the street into the presidential palace, and caught Corazon's eyes. And very quietly, he smiled again.
Corazon ducked behind the Venetian blinds. In his own palace, in his own country, he was afraid to look out of his own window. He knew what would happen.
"Juanita," he muttered to the soul of the dead. "If you are around, I acknowledge your Tightness."
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CHAPTER FIVE
Major Manuel Estrada broke relations with America as well as he could. But first he had to get rid of the Englishman's body, then get one of the cleaning people to clean up the blood in the Generalissimo's receiving room, then find some people to bury the body, and, of course, to share the knowledge of these heavy burdens with his friends at the cantina.
Somehow the cantina got into the work mix before some of the other duties, and when he left the cantina, it was dark and someone was lying drunk in the middle of Route 1. Estrada kicked the man.
"Get up, drunken man," said Estrada. "You foolish drunken thing. Do you not have things to do? Foolish drunken man."
Estrada tripped over him from a standing position. Then he felt the man's face. It was cold. The man of course was dead."Estrada apologized to the man for calling him a drunkard. Then Estrada noticed the
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blue blazer and the head wound. It was Dr. Jameson, the Englishman.
Estrada pushed his hands at air. While others might not understand what this meant, Estrada did. He was abandoning this job for now. He had more important things to do.
Let the dead bury the dead, someone had once said. He knew that man who said that was a pretty smart man. It was Jesus in the Bible. And Jesus was God. Therefore, it would be a sin for Major Manuel Estrada, the living, to bury the dead. It would be a sin against Jesus. And it was not good to be a sinful man.
So let Dr. Jameson lie.
The American Embassy was a modern sprawling aluminum and concrete structure that someone once told Major Estrada represented an Indian prayer in tangible form. It was to show America's and Baqia's common Indian heritage. Two peoples, one future.
Now Manuel Estrada might not be the smartest man on the island. But he knew that when someone told you that you and he had something in common, he wanted something.
Estrada was always waiting for the Americans to ask for something. He did not trust their generosity. Never had. They never asked for anything, so he resented them. That resentment was going to make the evening's job easier.
He careened to the front door of the embassy and banged on it. A well-dressed American marine in formal blue pants and khaki shirt festooned with medals opened the door.
Estrada demanded to see the ambassador. He had a message from El Presidente, Generalissimo Sacristo
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Corazon himself, for the ambassador himself. The ambassador rushed to the door.
The ambassador, no slouch at island politics, had monitored the Russian buildup. He knew they had made some sort of deal with Corazon.
"You," said Estrada.
"Yes?" said the ambassador. He was in his bathrobe and slippers.
"Get out this country now. Get out here. Go. We no like you. This breaks the sex."
"What?" asked the ambassador. "Oh, you mean break relations."
"Yeah. That's the thing. Do it and go. Now. Good. Thank you. Very much thank you," said Estrada. "That's the word. Break relations. Broken. Broke. Done. Forever. We don't want see you round here forever. But don't worry, American. These things never last. Hasta luego. Let us drink to our separation. You leave the embassy liquor. We watch it for you."
In America, the news was received solemnly. There could be little doubt any longer that the Russians had gotten hold of the secret machine that could make a major war an easy victory.
The national commentator who had earlier seen Baqia's wavering as a sign of an absence of moral leadership by America now said this was further evidence "that if we're going to rely on ships and guns we're not going to make it."
The commentator appeared on national television several nights a week and did not know what an army was, did not know how things got done, and still believed America had kept a foreign country out of a war by slipping one of the leaders a million dollars.
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Which was like stopping a Mafia hit by offering the button man a gift of milk and cookies. In any other country at any other time, the commentator would have been politely humored. In America he was heard by multimillions.
The President listened to him. He did not, like anyone else who knew what was going on in the world, respect the man. But he did know that the commentator, while never being a good newsman, was an excellent propagandist.
Something had gone wrong in Baqia. The President waited for the proper time and was at his room with the special red telephone to CURE.
"What is going on in Baqia?" the President asked.
"I don't know, sir," came back the acid voice of Dr. Harold W. Smith.
"We're getting our heads handed to us. Those boys are supposed to be good. And they haven't done anything. Call 'em off."
"You assigned them, sir," Smith reminded him.
"I don't need an I-told-you-so at this point."
"I was not being sarcastic, sir. You have made an arrangement with Sinanju, sir. They are not like civil servants. Before Rome existed as a city, sir, Sinanju already had an elaborate procedure for ending service to an emperor."
"What is it?"
"I am not exactly sure," said Smith.
"You mean you took it upon yourself to hire a killer and can't get rid of? Because you don't know the correct procedure?"
"No, sir, we did not. Emphatically we did not. Sinanju was entered into contract to train one of our men. We never agreed to unleash the Master of
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Sinanju. We have never done it. You did it. For the first time."
"Well, what happens now?"
"I would advise you to let that person work out what he is going to work out. Surprisingly, in international politics not much has changed since the Ming dynasty. It may go wrong. But I would bet that it will probably go right down there."
"I don't bet. Give me guarantees."