In the backseat, Hoyle reached into his pocket for a few coins. “Let me give him something.” Charlie’s eyes found Hoyle’s in the rearview mirror, but Smith motioned Charlie to drive on.
“Don’t give him anything. It only makes them worse.”
Charlie snapped out a phrase in Guaraní, firmly but not loudly, and the beggar removed the cloth and skipped away. Hoyle watched the kid dodging between the rows of cars, barefoot and graceful as a toreador.
“How long have you been with the agency, Mr. Smith?”
Smith had introduced himself as Neil, but in this moment Hoyle didn’t care to remember.
“Four years,” Smith said.
“Right out of college?”
Smith shook his head but did not turn around. He seemed suddenly bored. “I was with the Department of Defense before that,” he said.
“One of the McNamara Whiz Kids?”
At this, Smith turned, and the eyes behind the wire-rimmed spectacles glittered. A few seconds passed, and then Smith asked brusquely, “Did Langley promise you some position of authority down here?”
“No.”
Charlie gripped the wheel with two hands, pretending to concentrate intently on the traffic stopped in front of him.
“Do you have counterinsurgency experience?” Hoyle asked.
“I was in Cambodia,” Smith said. “Three years. I ran the Company’s paramilitary operation against the Khmer Rouge. Until last week I worked at MACV Saigon.”
MACV was the headquarters of the Military Assistance Command Vietnam. It was responsible for everything from supplying toilet paper for the troops in the field to the conduct of a pair of secret wars in Laos and Cambodia.
“What did you do at MACV?” Hoyle asked.
“Phoenix Program.”
In Laos, Hoyle had heard whispers of the project, a combined effort on behalf of CIA, Vietnamese Special Branch, and American Special Forces. Its goal was to kidnap, assassinate, and destroy the Viet Cong infrastructure throughout South Vietnam. It was what the agency called “wet work.” Killing. Hoyle had a hard time placing the young man wearing the tweed jacket in a rice paddy, lurking on ambush.
“I read your file,” Smith said. “You want to add anything?”
“About what?”
“About what happened in Vientiane.”
Vientiane was where Hoyle had come by his latest scar.
“I did what the report said,” Hoyle answered. His tone was enough to keep Smith off. But Smith had made his point—he was aware of the charges leveled against Hoyle. He knew they included murder. Hoyle looked directly into the round spectacles, and it was Smith who turned away. Hoyle had made a point of his own. What had happened in Laos was no concern of Smith’s.
“Maybe you need someone else,” Hoyle said. It was not a bluff. He was suddenly convinced this operation would be a disaster.
“You can take orders?”
“Yeah. I can take orders,” Hoyle answered.
Smith took off his glasses, wiped them with a handkerchief, and then slipped them back on. He said, “Then we’ll have no problems.”
The Impala looped around the Plaza Isabel la Católica, back onto the Avenida Aciento Arce, and turned left into the American embassy. At the gate of the consulate, a squad of dejected Bolivian conscripts piled sandbags in a semicircular heap. Charlie guided the car to the curb, and Smith got out. Hoyle remained in the back.
“Are you coming, Mr. Hoyle?”
“I’m a contractor, Mr. Smith. I try to avoid the flagpole, if you know what I mean.”
“I want you in on this.” Smith leaned through the window and looked at Charlie. “Pick up his luggage from the safe house at the Plaza España. I want to start for Camiri before dark.”
Hoyle opened the door and reluctantly followed Smith.
Charlie called after him, “I’ll be waiting out front when your meeting is over, boss.”
“Quit calling me boss,” Hoyle said.
In the lobby, a secretary looked up from her desk as Smith approached. The woman’s hair was auburn and swept up onto her head. She wore blue eye shadow and spectacles that were turned up at the corners, the combined effect giving her a distinctly feline appearance. A stern-faced United States Marine stood at parade rest behind her desk. The woman started to form the words “May I help you” as Smith flashed an ID card.
“This way, sir,” the marine said.
They were led up a set of back stairs to a desk, a second marine, and a gray vault door. Smith signed in, Hoyle declined, and they were admitted into a long office lit by fluorescent lights. Typewriters and telex machines chattered, and a pinched-looking CIA officer glared over a filing cabinet as they walked into the office. “What do you need?” he asked.
“Good afternoon,” Smith said. “Mr. Hoyle and Mr. Smith to see the acting chief of station?”
The tense-looking man did not move. His eyebrows went up slightly, and Smith again showed his ID.
“He’s in a meeting,” the man said, going back to his desk. “You’re going to have to wait or come back later.”
“Okay. We’ll wait.”
Hoyle watched as Smith found a chair and the officer fed a sheet of onionskin into his typewriter. Hoyle walked over and sat on the corner of his desk. When the man looked up, Hoyle leaned close to his face.
“Listen, dickweed. I’m in-country under nonofficial cover. Every second I sit in this embassy, that cover gets thinner. I suggest you get off your crack and tell your boss we’re out here before I jam you under the door frame.”
Drawing a collective gasp, the office came to a halt. At that moment a door to the inner office opened, and Cosmo Zeebus came forward, a bluff man with a red face. He recognized Hoyle at once; he was jovial and cheerful. Obviously, he’d missed the outburst.
“Look what we have here…Mis-ter Hoyle.” Zeebus had a broad Mississippi accent. This, combined with his backslapping manner and potbelly, gave the impression of a deputy sheriff, not an intelligence officer. “Cable traffic said you were down south—I didn’t believe it. I thought you were medically retired after that thing in Phu Bia?”
“It was Vientiane.” Hoyle shook Zeebus’s hand.
“Shot in the face is what I heard.” Zeebus scratched his belly and continued, “Good to see you anyway.” He nodded at the pinched-faced man, still sitting like a tailor’s dummy at his typewriter. “You met Foster? My operations officer?”
“We were just getting acquainted,” Hoyle said.
“You down here to help us deal with our bandit problem?”
“I understand there’s going to be a briefing. With the ambassador,” Hoyle said.
“Briefing? Hell, no one told me.” Zeebus huffed. “Come on back, then.” He started for the office door then turned, seeming for the first time to have noticed Smith. “You want to bring your case officer in on this?”
“My name’s Smith, Mr. Zeebus. I’ve been placed in charge of the counterguerrilla operation in Santa Cruz.”
Zeebus blinked. “What do you mean, in charge?”
Smith handed over an envelope. “Here’s my tasking letter, signed by the director—”
“Whose director would that be?”
“The director of the Central Intelligence Agency.”
AMBASSADOR HIELMAN’S OFFICE was a mahogany tomb: leather sofas, brocaded draperies, and a desk the size of a small car.
On the green leather blotter in front of him was a photostatic copy of the communiqué given to Major Buran following the ambush. Smith and Hoyle watched while the ambassador lightly traced a pencil under the lines as he read them. Cosmo Zeebus stood by the fireplace and puffed a cigarette.
COMMUNIQUÉ NO 1
TO THE BOLIVIAN PEOPLE Issued March 27, 1967
Revolutionary truth opposes reactionary lies. The military clowns who have seized power, murdered workers, and squandered our resources to U.S. imperialism are now fooling the people with a cruel joke. The hour of truth approaches. Now the peop
le will rise up in arms, responding to the military gangsters with armed struggle.
On March 23, forces of the Fourth Division, based in Abapó and numbering approximately 37 men, under the command of Major Buran, entered guerrilla territory along the Ñancahuazú River. Enemy losses were 17 killed, including a lieutenant, and 14 prisoners, 5 of whom were wounded in the clash. These were given the best medical care by our own doctors. All the prisoners were set free. In making public the details of the first battle of the war, we establish our norm: revolutionary truth. What we do will always be demonstrated by the reliability of our words.
We issue a call to workers, peasants, and intellectuals. We call on those who believe that the time has come to respond to violence with violence, to rescue a country being wholesale to U.S. corporations; and to raise the standard of living for our people, who with each passing day suffer more from unnecessary poverty.
THE NATIONAL LIBERATION ARMY OF BOLIVIA.
Hielman put down the paper. The casualty numbers were correct, and although not publicly admitted by the Bolivian army, they had been confirmed to the ambassador by the minister of defense.
“Mr. Zeebus is of the opinion that this guerrilla organization was of minimal importance,” the ambassador said.
“I’m not sure how Mr. Zeebus drew that conclusion, sir.” Smith’s voice was even.
Zeebus puffed heavily on his cigarette. “What does Langley say about the ambush?”
“They think a new guerrilla organization has formed in Bolivia,” Smith answered.
Zeebus exhaled. “New? Not PGA?”
“PGA was Argentine. They’re finished.”
“What about the communiqué? You agree it was written by the Bolivian Communist Party?” Hielman asked.
“It said the Bolivian people were hungry and oppressed. You don’t have to be a Communist to agree with that.”
The ambassador’s eyes cut to Hoyle. “What is your function in this operation?”
“Mr. Hoyle is a paramilitary operator,” Smith answered.
Hielman removed his glasses and placed them on the blotter. “Are you an intelligence officer, Mr. Hoyle?”
“I’m a contractor, Mr. Ambassador.” The word “contractor” hung like stink.
“Mr. Hoyle was assigned by the Directorate of Operations, sir. He confirmed the death of Masetti and Atilio in Tarija Province. I’ve just arranged for him to remain in-country.”
“To do what?” Hielman asked.
“I’ve set up an office in Camiri, close to where the guerrillas are operating. A storefront exporting business. Mr. Hoyle and I will work out of there for now.”
Zeebus walked over from the fireplace. He screwed a cigarette butt into the ashtray on Hielman’s desk.
“I tell you what—why don’t we just cut the Beltway bullshit? They don’t want another ‘Veetnam’ down here, and we’re not gonna have one. There’s twelve of these guys at most. They’re nothing but a Maoist splinter group from the Bolivian Communist Party.”
“We may not be dealing with locals,” Smith said.
“What do you mean?”
“The National Security Agency has monitored eleven high frequency transmissions out of the Ñancahuazú Valley in the last three weeks,” Smith said. “The transmitter is Czech-made. A D47 field radio.”
“Who are they talking to?” Hielman asked.
“NSA is still trying to break in to the code groups. The messages were all acknowledged by a twelve-meter station outside of Havana.”
Zeebus guffawed. “You telling me these guys are Cubans? Cubans in Bolivia? Bullshit.”
Smith chose not to respond. And to Hoyle, sitting quietly, the circumstances of his posting became a bit more sinister: If the guerrillas were Cuban, or Cuban-backed, the situation might very quickly escalate. The agency would need “distance” when things turned bloody. Hoyle was aware at once who in this operation would be expendable.
“Your letter grants you a pretty wide mandate, Mr. Smith. Is it your intention to run a parallel effort?” Hielman asked.
Smith stood. “No, sir. I’m going to run the only effort. I’m going to suspend all other initiatives and contacts immediately.”
“Not my contacts,” Zeebus said.
“Especially CIA contacts,” Smith replied.
The ambassador became red in the face. “I’ve been a diplomat for thirty years, Mr. Smith. Most of that time in Latin America. You’ll find I am not a person who enjoys excitement. You’ll have cooperation and support—because I’ve been ordered to give it to you. I’m going to expect results in return.”
Zeebus escorted them from the ambassador’s office and down the corridor. His fury eventually found vent. “This is bullshit,” he sputtered. “The only reason this thing has stayed out in the boondocks is that we’ve backed Presidente Barrientos. I’m not gonna let you cowboy in here. We’ll just see what Langley says before you go pulling any plugs.”
Zeebus tried to brush past, but Smith stopped him. His voice was low. “I am what Langley says. Your operation is terminated—period. I find out there’s a competing effort, I get surprised by any hidden parts, and I’ll personally make sure you get pissed on from a great height.”
Zeebus cocked his jaw, and Hoyle watched Smith walk away.
“What does that little shit think he is?”
“In charge,” Hoyle answered. “Do yourself a favor, Cosmo. Try not to get pissed on.”
4
THE ROAD FROM La Paz was jagged and ghastly, like a scar drawn across a face that might otherwise have been pretty. Long rains had made the hills verdant, almost lush, and it seemed that in each place the land had been made beautiful, the road became suddenly cruel; it was nearly impassible in places where streams tumbled down from cliff sides, or where salt springs leached across the roadbed. Hoyle stretched out as best he could in the front seat of the Land Cruiser, an M16 between his legs and his knees jolting into the underside of the dash each time the vehicle managed to strike a particularly vehement pothole, which was often.
It was a wonder of geological science that the road could be a quagmire in one place and, within the space of a hundred meters, bone-dry and pocked with hard foot-deep craters. The Land Cruiser jerked and pounded across the valley, through several pointless diversions and cuts. Smith sat in the backseat, his rifle across his lap, reading a Bolivian army intelligence estimate, a thick typewritten document as useless as it was voluminous. Behind the wheel, Charlie lit a series of cigarettes, biting down on the filters and grunting “Sorry, boss” after particularly arduous jolts.
As the road climbed from the valley floor, the sky seemed to lower. Cloud bottoms swept the ridges to the right and left, and as they started up the long series of hairpins carved into the mountain, Hoyle could see fingers of mist stir over the top of the road. In one moment, the skyline at the crest would be razor-sharp and lit by sunlight, and in another moment gray and indefinite, as though someone had scrubbed a photograph with a pencil eraser.
Hoyle was the first to spot the wreckage, two burned jeeps looking like charred, rusty bathtubs, and the carcasses of the trucks, all crowded together on the last turn hacked against the steep hillside. The truck bodies were angled across the road, the first still jammed over the guardrail and the second, pointed uphill, with its front wheels knuckled under from a broken axle. One truck had burned completely and the other roughly in half; the cargo bed and the wooden slats on one side were untouched by fire or even smoke. All the vehicles were pocked thoroughly with bullet holes.
Charlie tossed his cigarette from the window, and Smith looked up from his reading as the Land Cruiser slowed.
“Stop here, Charlie,” Hoyle said. “We’ll walk the rest of the way.”
Charlie pulled the vehicle to the inside of one of the hairpins, positioning it in the shadow of the drop-off above, in a place it could not be shot at from the road higher up. Hoyle pushed open the door handle and swung the rifle from between his legs. He allowed the passenge
r door to swing closed and jacked back the charging handle of his M16. Slipping from the backseat, Smith inserted a magazine and also cycled the charger on his weapon.
Clouds touched the top of the road and swirled over the ridge above them. As the sun slipped in and out, they were dappled with light, shadow, and the gray luminosity that came through the fog.
Hoyle walked up the remaining hairpins, Charlie behind him, followed by Smith, who carried his weapon by the top handle, swinging it like a briefcase. At the base of the last remaining turn, Hoyle stopped and listened. The only noise was the buzzing of flies. Debris littered the roadside, ammunition pouches, spent cartridges, magazines for weapons that had not been fired, souvenirs of the calamity that had befallen the convoy.
Ten feet away was the first body, black and swollen and recently worked over by crows. It was the corpse of a sargento segundo, a corporal, his fatigue uniform nearly brown with road dust and soaked through black in places with blood. His bloated hands were clenched tightly into fists that looked like terrible, poisonous mushrooms. At the entrance to the switchback lay a second corpse, that of a cabo, a private soldier, shot through the base of the jaw. His body, too, was black with exposure and his head seemed flattened, the skull fractured. His jagged gray mouth was pulled back in a grimace, and his teeth were white in the sun.
At the center of the kill zone, scattered in the road, were seventeen bodies. Hoyle looked around, up the hill to the place he guessed the ambush party had set up, then back at the debris. The wreckage of the vehicles was a uniform ashen color, olive-drab paint showing through only in places that had not burned, the bullet holes already rusting in the mountain damp. “This was a piece of work,” he said.
Charlie advanced no farther than the rearmost jeep and averted his eyes from the worst of the murder. Smith looked around with a perfectly impassive expression. Hoyle thought Smith was trying hard to look like he had seen it all. But, in fact, Smith had seen worse.
Killing Che Page 3
