by Len Levinson
“How long is the trip to Halvados?”
“Oh, is that where we’re going?” asked one of them, a dark-haired olive-skinned girl.
“You mean you didn’t know?”
“Oh no, we’re never told in advance.”
The Swedish-looking blonde stewardess twinkled her blue eyes. “If we’re going to Halvados it’s about an eight-hour trip.”
Butler closed his eyes. “Good grief-eight hours on a damned plane.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find something to keep you busy.”
Butler looked at the blonde’s melon sized breasts. “I think I’ve already found something.”
“Sir!”
Butler trotted up the steps and entered the main cabin of the plane, which was a lounge with comfortable upholstered chairs and coffee tables in front of them. The executives and secretaries were already seated, going over papers and talking about profit margins and sales forecasts.
“Where’s Mr. Noble?” he asked one of the secretaries.
“Back there.”
Butler walked to the rear of the lounge, opened the door and found himself in an office where Ms. Umansky sat behind a desk. There was a file cabinet beside her and a typewriter on a stand.
“Hello there, Mr. Butler,” she said, with a smile nearly as wide as the plane itself.
“Hello, Ms. Umansky, Where’s the big man?”
She pointed to the door behind her. “Through there.”
Butler opened the door and entered Phillip Noble’s private compartment. There was a desk, a lounge area and a rear door. Noble sat behind his desk looking at some papers.
“What do you think of my little plane?” he asked Butler.
“Very nice. What’s through that door there?”
“Go back and see for yourself.”
Butler opened the rear door and looked around in amazement. It was a huge bedroom with a huge circular bed covered by a black satin spread. Behind the bedroom was a door, slightly ajar, that showed the pink porcelain fixtures of a bathroom.
Butler returned to Noble’s compartment.
“It’s very nice back there,” Butler said.
“It’s incredible what money can do,” Noble said absentmindedly, looking at sales figures from his Atlas Farm Machinery Division.
The voice of the captain came over the loudspeaker system. “We are preparing to take off. Please fasten your seatbelts.”
Noble buckled on the seatbelt attached to his desk chair; Butler tied himself to one of the upholstered chairs. The plane was towed onto the runway, where it paused, awaiting clearance for take-off. The clearance finally came and the plane rumbled down the runway, gathered speed and hurtled into the sky. It climbed to 20,000 feet, leveled off and headed southwest. Noble and Butler unfastened their seatbelts. Noble continued working at his desk and Butler took out his Walther, ejected the ammunition clip, reinserted it, returned the weapon to its holster. It was going to be a long trip and he wondered what to do with himself. Maybe he should try to screw one of those stewardesses in a closet someplace.
As if in answer to his thought, the blonde stewardess opened the door to Phillip Noble’s office. “Are you ready for dinner, Mr. Noble?”
“Yes,” he said, not looking up from his desk.
She looked at Butler. “What would you like, sir?”
“What’ve you got?”
“Steak, lobster, a marvelous bouillabaisse and a stunning stroganoff.”
“I’ll have a rare steak, with French fries and a salad, if you have those things.”
“We have just about anything you’d desire,” she said, a gleam in her eye.
“No kidding.”
“Uh huh.”
She turned and left the cabin. Noble remained behind his desk, grunting over paperwork, and Butler changed chairs so he could look out the window at the endless cloud vistas of the sky. He’d wanted to be a pilot once, had thought about getting a commission in the Air Force after college, but changed his mind after reflecting what it would be like to be shot out of the sky. He finally decided he’d take his chances with a gun on the ground, and wound up in the Green Berets.
After a while the two stewardesses returned with trays of food. They set them down on stands, then opened a closet and rolled out a collapsible table on wheels, which they set up and covered with a tablecloth. They placed the food on the table and brought two chairs so Butler and Noble could face each other. They asked if they could get anything else and Noble told them to get lost for the time being.
Noble and Butler sat at the table. Butler took the chromium warmer off his steak, picked up his knife and fork and proceeded to dine.
“Want some of this?” Noble asked.
Butler looked at Noble’s food. It looked like a stew of some sort in a large bowl.
“What is it?” Butler asked.
“Black Dog Soup,” Noble replied, holding his spoon poised in the air.
“What’s it made of?”
“A black dog.”
“What was that again?”
“A black dog. You mean you’ve never heard of Black Dog Soup?”
“No sir.”
“It’s a rare Chinese delicacy prepared from a certain type of black haired dog bred originally only in the Sinkiang region of China. Now I breed my own at my farm in Westchester County. Black Dog Soup is said to promote longevity and renewed sexual vigor. Sure you don’t want some? There’s plenty here.”
“No thanks.”
“We can all use increased longevity and renewed sexual vigor, you know.”
“I know, but I still respectfully decline to try any of your soup.”
Noble shrugged. “More for me,” he said, bringing a spoon of the stuff to his lips.
At that moment the plane was over Louisville, Kentucky, still on its southwesterly course to South America.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The plane landed at the Juan Malpelo Air Force Base in the suburbs of Halvados City at one o’clock in the morning, local time. Butler went down the stairs first, and waiting on the runway were a group of men, most in military uniform. Noble followed Butler down the stairs; then came the rest of the entourage. When Noble reached the ground the men surged forward to shake his hand and slap him on the back.
“Welcome to Halvados, Señor Noble.”
“Good to have you here, Mr. Noble.”
“We are honored by your visit, Mr. Noble.”
Noble snorted and chortled and said he was glad to be there. A wreath was placed around his neck and photographs were taken. Everybody was smiling and happy, while Butler stood a little to the side, mildly amused by the foolishness.
A man in a civilian suit sidled next to Butler. He had jug ears and a square jaw. “You’re Butler, aren’t you?” the man asked in perfect English.
“Yes I am.”
The man held out his hand. “I’m Putney Wilson, the CIA chief of station here. I heard on the grapevine that you worked for Phillip Noble now. Damn, sometimes I wish I could get up the courage to leave the Agency, but my wife won’t let me. She likes the life. What can I tell you?”
“What’s the situation down here, Putney?”
“I think we’ve got a communist insurrection on our hands.”
“No shit.”
“I wouldn’t lie to you, buddy. Do you see that guy over there, the one with gray hair who looks like there’s a broom handle stuck up his ass?”
“Yes.”
“That’s our ambassador down here. Sherman Snell. Oh boy, what a horse’s ass he is. And you see that fat one with the mustache? That’s Juan Malpelo himself, the president of this so-called country. They’re all scared to death that they’ll be on the wrong side of a firing squad one of these day. It’s where they all belong, actually, but what the hell, who am I to say? I’ll probably wind up against the wall myself, but I can’t get a transfer out of here.”
Noble, his entourage, and the group of men walked across the runway to a flotilla of green
Cadillac limousines. They all piled into the vehicles, with Butler joining Noble, President Malpelo and Ambassador Snell. Putney Wilson found a spot in the second car. Military policemen on motorcycles escorted the long file of cars off the field and over streets lined with barracks and palm trees. The air was sweet with the smell of tropical flowers. Finally they came to a large two-story stucco building that had the flag of Halvados on a flagpole in front, illuminated by a searchlight. The flag showed coconuts, bananas, crossed rifles, and a sailing ship against a green background.
Everyone got out of the cars and entered the stucco building. Butler accompanied Noble, President Malpelo, Ambassador Snell, Putney Wilson and several other men down a brightly lit corridor, while everyone else went in another direction.
President Malpelo opened a door and they all entered a meeting room. A large oval table was in the center of the floor; on the wall behind it was a huge map of Halvados, stuck with pins of various colors. Drapes covered the windows and Butler wondered if the room was bugged.
Noble sat at the table chewing his cigar. “Okay, now what in hell’s the problem down here?” he said.
Butler sat to Noble’s right; everyone else also took a seat at the table. President Malpelo leaned forward, holding out his hands. He wore a white suit that matched his white teeth, and his face was round as a pie.
“Oh, we’re having terrible problems in our Senate, Mr. Noble,” President Malpelo said. “The Opposition Party wants to nationalize all foreign holdings, and they have the support of the people. I think they’ll win enough members of the Loyalist Party to their side to win the vote. As you know, most of the foreign holdings here belong to you; that’s why we notified you personally.”
“Well it’s a damned good thing you did,” Noble growled. “Now let me get this situation straight. How many men do they have under arms?”
President Malpelo blinked and seemed confused. “Do you mean the Opposition Party?”
“Who the hell else would I mean?”
“But they’re just a political party. They don’t have anybody under arms.”
“You have guerrillas in the mountains, don’t you?”
“Of course. Every South American country has guerrillas in the mountains.”
“The guerrillas back the Opposition Party, don’t they?”
“No. They’ve both rejected each other. The Opposition Party believes the guerrillas want too much, and the guerrillas think the Opposition Party is too conservative.”
“That’s horseshit!” Noble said. “How can you believe that palpable lie when you know they’re all communists in cahoots with each other and they all want to take what’s miner
“Oh no, sir,” said President Malpelo. “The Opposition Party contains businessmen, doctors, lawyers and professors. They’re not communists at all.”
“That’s more horseshit! Anybody who tries to take what’s mine is a goddamned communist and I don’t give a rat’s ass who he is!”
Putney Wilson timidly raised his hand. “May I say something?”
“Who in the fuck are you?” demanded Noble.
“I’m Putney Wilson, the chief of the local CIA station, sir. Perhaps you should know that three-quarters of the population have an annual income of about forty dollars per person; that’s why they want to nationalize the oil industry. They want to raise the standard of living for those people.”
“So why the hell are you telling me?”
“I thought you’d want to know why this problem is happening, sir.”
“You’re wrong, Wilson.” Noble pointed his finger at him. “This problem is happening because of communists, and we’re going to get rid of them once and for all so that we can make Halvados safe for democracy.” He looked at President Malpelo. “How soon can you arrest every member of the Opposition Party?”
President Malpelo blanched. “Arrest every member of the party?”
“That’s what I said.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why can’t you?”
“It’s against the law.”
“Fuck the law. This is a national emergency. You’ve got to take extreme measures to save your country and my oil fields.”
“But Mr. Noble...”
Noble interrupted him. “Who’s the top-ranking military officer here?”
“I am,” said a broad-shouldered man with a mustache and bushy eyebrows, wearing a modified SS hat in green.
“What’s your name?”
“Field Marshal Santiago del Pisco.”
“How do you feel about arresting every member of the Opposition Party?”
“I theenk eet’s a good idea,” replied Pisco, whose English wasn’t perfect by any means. “They’re all a bunch of lazy good-for-nothing bump anyway. And I don’t care what President Malpelo says—the Opposition Party are all communists, just like you say, Meestair Noble.”
Noble smiled as he stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray. “I like the cut of your jib, man. What’s your name again?”
“Field Marshal Santiago del Pisco.”
“How’d you like to become president of Halvados, Pisco?”
“I’d like it fine.”
“Good. Why don’t you throw this asshole Malpelo in jail and declare martial law?”
Pisco nodded as he took out his pistol and aimed it at the head of President Malpelo. “You’re under arrest, you motherfucker.”
Malpelo’s jaw dropped open. “Are you crazy, Pisco? Don’t you know that this is treason?”
“You are the one who is guilty of treason because you are soft on communism.”
“I am not soft on communism!” Malpelo declared. “Why, no one has ever persecuted communists more vigorously than I!”
“That’s not saying much, I’m afraid. On your feet, you.”
“Now just a minute!”
“I said move!”
Trembling, Malpelo got to his feet and held his hands in the air. Pisco walked him out of the room and returned alone a few minutes later, with his be-medaled chest puffed out and a big smile on his face. “My adjutants are taking him to the stockade. Maybe we’ll send him into exile or maybe we’ll shoot him; I don’t know yet.” Pisco returned to his seat at the table. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” he confessed.
“Let’s get back to business,” Noble said. “Do you think you can round up all the members of the Opposition Party by twelve noon?”
“Easy,” Pisco said.
“Aren’t there any other leftish pinko parties down here?”
“Oh sure. In fact, most of them are worse than the Opposition Party. There’s the Communist Party, the Socialist Party, and Socialist Labor Party, the Socialist Workers Party, the Socialist Liberation Front, and the Socialist...”
Noble interrupted him. “You don’t have to tell me all their damned names. All I want to know is how united are they?”
Pisco laughed. “They’re at each other’s throats all the time. If they ever got together they could take over the country.”
“Then it shouldn’t be very hard to round them up?”
Pisco snapped his fingers. “Chicken soup.”
“I want them all in jail by noon too.”
“No problem.”
Noble took another cigar out of his pocket. “Well, I guess that just about takes care of the opposition, right?”
“Wrong,” said Putney Wilson. “You’ve forgotten the guerrillas.”
“Oh yeah, the guerrillas.” Noble lit his cigar and blew smoke into Wilson’s face. “Where the hell are they?”
“Everywhere, but their stronghold is in the Sierra Choroni Mountains.” Wilson arose and walked to the map, where he pointed out the mountain range on the eastern border of the country. “It’s very difficult terrain. You can’t get tanks in there, and bombing does no good because the guerrillas have dug themselves into the mountains.”
“Where do their food and supplies come from?”
“They smuggle it out themselves.�
��
“How?”
“Nobody knows.”
“I know,” said President Pisco.
Noble looked at him. “How?”
“Through a tunnel!”
“A tunnel?”
“Yes.”
“Why can’t you find it and stop it up?”
“Because it is deep underneath the country.”
“You can’t find out where it starts?”
“We know where it starts. It starts in Vladivostok in the Soviet Union, goes all the way under the Pacific Ocean, under our country, and comes up in the Sierra Choroni Mountains. You see, it’s all a Russian plot.”
Noble looked at Butler. Butler looked at Wilson. Wilson looked at the ceiling.
“I see,” said Noble, turning his gaze to Pisco once more. “How many of these guerrillas are there?”
“Oh, about a hundred and fifty,” said Pisco.
Wilson shuffled around in front of the map. “My information is that they number about three thousand men and women.”
“That’s a lie!” screamed Pisco.
“It’s the truth and you know it!” returned Wilson.
Noble turned to Ambassador Snell. “Can you shed any light on this?”
“I retire in six months,” replied Snell. “That’s all I know.”
Noble looked at Pisco. “How many men are in your Armed Forces?”
“A half million.”
“How long will it take to mobilize them?”
“A few days.”
“Good. Issue your mobilization order immediately after this meeting. And then mount a systematic attack against these guerillas. Corner them in the mountains and burn them alive.”
Pisco smiled. “But you know we cannot do that, señor.”
“Why not?”
“Because if we do that your country may cut off military aid to us. Already some of your politicians say that Halvados is a repressive dictatorship. They say that we torture political prisoners, which of course is true. If we arrest everybody and exterminate the guerrillas, there will be no more foreign aid for us, I’m afraid.”
Noble pshawed. “That’s silly. Did we cut off military aid to Brazil, Chile, Argentina, Uruguay and all those other countries that do the same things you do? Of course not. Sure, some politicians make a fuss, but they don’t mean anything. If they ever get too strong, we’ll just handle them the way you’re going to handle your Opposition Party. We’ll put the bastards in bins and fry their balls off. We’ll make them wish they never were born. In the good old U.S. the military is on our side, and whenever it comes to a confrontation, the side with the most guns will win. Why, those fools actually think they can defeat us with their mouths! Are they in for a surprise!”
