He owed his life to Swarzwalder, John thought, and he’d intended to make an effort to be more pleasant to the strange man. However, after a halting attempt at conversation just before they’d boarded the bus, John had become distracted. He’d drifted away from Swarzwalder and the others and had sat in the rear, hoping to sleep.
John again closed his eyes and studied the gentle explosions of light on the back of his eyelids. Someone on the tour would be dead within three days if Alexandra and Peters accomplished what they were supposed to, he thought. That was assuming the assassin didn’t kill the dragons first. Still, whatever happened, there was absolutely nothing he could do but stand by helplessly and watch; he could do nothing but wait for the thing to be over. It was a situation he was just going to have to accept.…
“Mr. Finway?”
“Huh?” John had just started to doze. He slowly opened his eyes to find Raul standing in the aisle beside him. It was only fitting that Raul should be the one to disturb him just as he was finally about to fall asleep, John thought. There were three guides, two of them beautiful, pleasant women, and then there was Raul; Raul was the reason the third bus was half empty and the other two so crowded. “Good morning, Raul.”
The small, round man smiled tentatively, but it didn’t seem to fit well on his face. It was obvious to John that smiling didn’t agree with the other man.
“Are you comfortable, Mr. Finway?”
“I was.”
“May I sit down?”
“Why not?” John replied, somewhat reluctantly sliding over on the seat. “They tell me it’s almost a free country.”
Raul frowned. “What do you mean?”
John sighed wearily as he impatiently motioned for the other man to sit down. “Never mind, Raul. My sense of humor’s a little warped to begin with, and I’m feeling just a bit grumpy this morning. Come on and join me.”
The Sierran eased himself onto the seat. There was a hint of embarrassment in his smile as he made a quick, curiously birdlike gesture at the landscape passing by outside the window. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” John replied, studying the man’s face. He was certain that the Sierran had not come back to give him a private tour lecture, and he wondered what was on the man’s mind.
Raul’s muddy eyes shifted away from John’s, but the tone of his voice remained enthusiastic, if slightly forced. “Every section of the country shares equally in our good fortune. Before Manuel and the revolution, all of the wealth and skilled people remained in Angeles Blanca; there were no doctors anywhere but in Angeles Blanca; men had to send their wives and daughters to whore in Angeles Blanca so that their families would not starve. There were the rich in Angeles Blanca, and the rest of us were very, very poor. Now we are—”
“A lot better off, but at an economic dead end,” John interrupted. “Excuse me, Raul, but I don’t need the standard political speech. There’s very little you can tell me about San Sierra under Sabrito that I don’t already know or can’t imagine. I’m ashamed of the fact that the United States supported Sabrito and every other dictator in Latin America, and I’m ashamed of the continuing boycott. Is that what you want to hear? I’m a great admirer of Manuel, and I’m also an admirer of the Sierran revolution—up to a point.”
Raul tried and failed to erase the petulant scowl from his face. “I don’t understand what you mean by ‘up to a point.’ Any revolution must continue if it is to survive. You are either for the revolution, or you are against it.”
“No, Raul. The trouble with most revolutionaries is that they get addicted to the excitement and the power. They don’t know when to stop because, most of the time, they don’t know when they’ve won. Manuel was certainly right to throw out the bad guys, but it was a mistake to align San Sierra with Russia. Instead of massive aid from the United States, you got a blockade, and the Sierran people end up playing cannon fodder for Russian interests in Africa.”
“We support the revolution—”
“No. Sierrans may support the revolution, but there are no revolutionaries in the Politburo. Russia is no more revolutionary than the United States. They’re blood brothers, Raul, two sides of the same coin as far as their ‘revolutionary’ interests are concerned. Their chief interest is in maintaining order in their respective spheres of influence and in trying to broaden those spheres. You can talk all you want to about the ongoing revolution, and you can correctly point out that the Sierrans are better off now than they were under Sabrito. It doesn’t change the fact that they would be still better off if Manuel had lined San Sierra up with the United States. America would have given a lot, you know. The problem was Manuel; he was afraid that the United States would pressure him to eventually hold elections and give up some of his power. Manuel didn’t like that; he preferred to remain a dictator.”
Raul shook his head angrily. A few of the other passengers were glancing back at them, and Raul lowered his voice. “I don’t understand you at all. I thought you were a revolutionary. We have instructions to give you special attention because you have always fought for our causes. I understood that you supported San Sierra now.”
“I do support San Sierra—when you get it right. San Sierra’s been making a lot of mistakes in the past few years. I recognize bad guys when I see them, Raul. I don’t like them; I don’t like what they do to people. I fight them in any way I can, and it takes freedom to fight. Understand this: I wouldn’t last a week here or in the Soviet Union. You can’t fight the bad guys when they have all the power.”
“You are saying that Manuel is a ‘bad guy’?”
“I’m saying that it’s long past the time when a great warrior and hero should have retired. If anything happened to Manuel now, this country would fall apart. Then you’d see a lot of your glorious Russian revolutionaries up close, because they’d be rolling right through your countryside in their tanks, just like in Afghanistan.”
Raul’s face had grown brick red. “You think the United States is better?”
John shrugged and smiled thinly. “In the United States you have a better chance of getting rid of the bastards before they get rid of you. If they don’t want to retire, we throw them out.” John suddenly reached across the seat and placed his hand on Raul’s shoulder. The man shied, but John maintained contact. “Look, my friend,” John continued, “I don’t want to argue with you. I’m here as a guest in your beautiful country. I didn’t come here to criticize San Sierra or debate your politics. I want to learn. I’d like to see the country and get to know you and other Sierrans as friends. Okay?”
Raul, obviously uncomfortable, looked away and cleared his throat noisily. “There is something I would like to talk to you about.”
John took his hand from Raul’s shoulder, again leaned his head back and stared straight ahead of him. “What is it, Raul?”
“You don’t look happy.”
“I’m happy, Raul,” John replied, choking off harsh laughter. “I appreciate your concern, but it’s not needed. I don’t want any special consideration.”
Raul shook his head stubbornly. “You don’t look happy,” he repeated, an edge of bitterness creeping into his voice. “You haven’t looked happy since you arrived here. Perhaps we do not live up to your expectations? After all, you could have gone to Bermuda.”
John waited until he was sure that his rising impatience was under control before he answered. “I like San Sierra, Raul,” he said softly. “I’m very happy. I can absolutely assure you that I’ll remember this trip for as long as I live.”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
John laughed sharply. “I’ve never been more sincere in my life.”
“If you are happy, then why don’t you show it, Mr. Finway? You always have what you Americans call a ‘long face.’ You stay off by yourself. Look.” He gestured around the bus, as if the empty seats were John’s responsibility and evidence of his duplicity. “Your long face makes people nervous. They do not want to be around you.” He pause
d, dropped his gaze. “Then there was your accident.”
John laughed again. “Jesus, Raul, are you afraid I tried to kill myself because I’m so unhappy?”
Raul laid his stubby hands in his lap and studied his palms. “Let me try to make myself clear, Mr. Finway. Have I done something to displease you or make you angry?”
“No, Raul,” John said shortly. He was becoming angry. “You are without doubt one of the most gracious, brilliant tour guides I’ve ever encountered.”
Now Raul looked at him. If the Sierran detected sarcasm or irony in his voice, John thought, his eyes gave no indication of it. He was glad; he did not want to offend the Sierran, only get rid of him.
“When a person looks unhappy and keeps off by himself, it can reflect on us,” Raul said quietly. “It is our job to make people comfortable and happy. An unhappy face makes other people unhappy. With a famous person like you, it’s even more important for tour guides to do a good job. If you were to complain, or return to the United States and write a bad article about San Sierra, it would be very bad for Constantina, Maria, and myself.”
Except that Raul’s “problem” had probably never even occurred to Constantina and Maria, John thought. It was Raul who was worried, and John was suddenly convinced that people on other tours had complained about Raul. John found he felt sorry for the squat, ugly bureaucrat who was trying so hard to hang on to his job.
“Listen to me, Raul,” John said with genuine warmth. “I’m not going to make any complaints because I don’t have any complaints. This is my happy face you’ve been seeing. Believe me, I really look mean when I’m disturbed about something.” He paused and waited until Raul sheepishly met his gaze. “Now, I really don’t want you to worry about me anymore, Raul,” John continued seriously, emphasizing each word. “You’re a tour guide, not my babysitter. From what I can see, everyone’s having an absolutely marvelous time. Nobody but you gives a damn about me. If I want to be by myself, that’s my privilege. Do I make myself clear?”
For just a moment John could see the full extent of the other man’s anxiety, resentment, and hostility reflected in his face. Then the muddy eyes turned away.
“Your attitude has a bad effect on the other passengers,” Raul insisted. Then he abruptly stood up and walked stiffly back down the aisle.
John stared at the departing man’s back, thinking it over and regretting the conversation that had just taken place. Some spy he would make, he thought; he wasn’t even involved in any plot or counterplot, and all he had managed to do was attract the hostile scrutiny of a Sierratour guide who was especially dangerous precisely because of his paranoia and insecurity.
John found that the thinly veiled confrontation with Raul had left him even more impressed with the professionalism of Alexandra and Peters. When he thought back to the incident at the airport and realized how close he had come to exposing the dragons, it made his stomach muscles contract painfully.
The conversation had served to underline his uselessness, John thought. In his present situation, he was not only useless but represented a potential threat to Alexandra. He’d had a chance to leave, and he had not been able to do it. What he would do, he decided, was take steps to at least neutralize himself as a source of attention.
He stretched lazily, rose, and walked toward the center of the bus. Both Raul and Swarzwalder looked at him and smiled approvingly.
HOTEL SIERRAS NEGRAS
Wednesday, January 23; 10:30 A.M.
Peters
Peters stood at the stone railing of the hotel’s second-floor balcony lounge. There were four other people on the large balcony with him: two men were playing a hotly contested game of table tennis, and a young French-speaking couple sat in the hot morning sun, completely absorbed, as far as Peters could tell, in a game of Scrabble.
Peters, standing with his back to the others, had positioned his body in such a way as to make it appear that he was gazing at the lake below and the mountains beyond. In fact, he was glancing sideways and focusing all of his attention on the two buses that were loading at the front of the hotel, below him and to his left, for the day trip to Peleoro. He was using his trained memory to make a mental note of the passengers’ faces, linking them with names when he knew them.
Everything was going smoothly, he thought. Since arriving at Sierras Negras late Tuesday afternoon, he and Alexandra had broadened their contact with the other members of the group. They had taken turns walking the corridors of the four wings their group had been assigned, trying to match names and faces to room numbers, which had been listed on a mimeographed sheet given to each passenger. The result of their efforts had been a chart, crude and incomplete, but a starting point for the room search that was to come.
Peters was keenly aware that the search entailed a considerable degree of risk; no matter what precautions they took, there was always the chance they might be observed, or even caught in a room. Nevertheless, he considered the exercise absolutely necessary for two reasons. Since a room search was the next logical step in the hunt for the assassin Alexandra believed to exist, he knew there would have to be a search, or Alexandra’s suspicions might be aroused.
But the search had become much more than a charade staged for Alexandra’s benefit, Peters thought, as had his surveillance of the men and women boarding the buses. Somebody on the tour was most certainly hunting him; if possible, Peters wanted to take the man out before the tour reached Angeles Blanca. He considered it very likely that the CIA agent assigned to watch him had stayed behind and intended to search his luggage. Peters hoped that was the case. He had taken precautions, and anyone attempting to open his suitcase or radio would be killed almost immediately. Disposing of the body would, of course, pose some problems, but he was confident he could solve them. The important thing was that the agent on his trail would be gone, and he would be left with a clear field.
The bus doors closed and the buses pulled away. Peters turned and feigned interest in the table tennis game for a few minutes, then went back to the room where Alexandra was waiting for him. The rough room chart they had prepared was laid out on the bed.
“How many went?” Alexandra asked tensely as Peters entered the room.
Peters hesitated a few moments before answering. Her air of detached professionalism was at least in part a facade, he decided. Alexandra was bothered by his presence in precisely the way he wanted her to be. “Forty-two,” he said at last.
“Did John go?”
“No.”
“Damn,” Alexandra said with quiet intensity.
“He looks like hell. I don’t think he’s been sleeping.”
“He’s worried about me,” Alexandra replied distantly, looking up at the ceiling.
“Sure he is. But I wonder if he realizes how he stands out. He looks like some avenging angel, and he’s making that fucking Raul nervous as hell.”
Alexandra sighed as she uncapped a green felt-tip pen and wrote the number forty-two at the top of the chart. “All right,” she said in a tight voice, “give me the names. Maybe we’ll find what we’re looking for this morning. If so, we’ll arrange a little reception for our man or men when the buses return. Our job will be finished and we can coast through the rest of this trip.”
“Sounds good to me,” Peters said casually, deciding it was best, for the moment, to match Alexandra’s businesslike manner. He moved to the side of the bed and took the pen from Alexandra’s trembling hand. “Let me do it; it’ll be faster. I don’t know the names of all the people who went, but I think I can match up a lot of them.”
Alexandra lay back on the bed, closed her eyes, and put her fist to her forehead as Peters began marking the rooms he knew to correspond with the people he had seen boarding the buses.
“Sorry about the other night,” Peters said quietly, watching Alexandra carefully out of the corner of his eye.
“Yeah. Me too.”
“Well, I deserved what I got. You’re still unbelievable with a needle. You
should see the neat little hole you put in my belly.”
“Something for you to remember me by.” Alexandra rubbed her eyes, sat up. “God, I hope we find something, Rick. I just want to take care of business so I can tell John it’s over.”
“Yep.” He’ll know when it’s over, sweetheart.
“Who knows?” Alexandra said dreamily. “If we find who we’re looking for and make a clean disposal, maybe I’ll break training. I may just arrange a very private assignation with a certain well-known lawyer.”
Peters lifted the pen from the paper and looked at her. “Don’t get too loose yet, Alexandra. We’ve got at least one man, maybe two, to kill. We have to make his death look like an accident, and then we have to get home. Even with a lot of luck, it’s going to take a bit of doing.”
“I know,” Alexandra said tightly. “Just daydreaming.”
He brushed Alexandra’s legs gently with the back of his hand. “Hey, it’s okay. If we make our target today, the least you’re entitled to is one assignation with your husband. I do envy him a lot, you know.”
Alexandra looked at Peters. “Finished?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay,” Alexandra said, getting off the bed and smoothing down her skirt. Once again her voice was cold, emotionless. “Let’s go to work.”
John
John stood just behind the glass doors of the hotel lobby and watched the people boarding the buses. Swarzwalder, who had buttonholed him in the breakfast room and tried right up to the last moment to get him to come along, paused in the stairwell of the bus and motioned to him once again. John shook his head. He tried to smile, but his face felt as if it had been set in plaster.
Despite his earlier resolve to be more friendly and mix with the others, he had simply not been able to do it; and he had certainly not been prepared to spend a day in Peleoro watching his wife and Peters perform their act—walking arm in arm, pecking at each other, and in general behaving like lovesick teenagers. For him to try and act affable and carefree in that situation would, he knew, have resulted in a worse performance than the one he was giving now. He’d decided that he would simply have to wait out the week the best way he could and hope that Raul and the others would accept his explanation that he was naturally moody.
Turn Loose the Dragons Page 16
