Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

  “Oh,” she said. “I guess I’m not as controlled as I like to think I am. I wonder who took them?”

  “I know who took them—el Presidente. He doesn’t care what he does to my life or anyone else’s so long as I come back to him.”

  “I see,” she replied thoughtfully. “So when my pictures didn’t work, he thought yours would.”

  “That’s right.”

  Sue Ann was silent for a moment. “What are you going to do?”

  He met her eyes. “I’m going back, of course.”

  “After all he’s done to you?”

  “Yes. Not for him or even because of him. For a lot of other reasons. For my country, my mother, my sister, my father. So they will not have died without reason.”

  Sue Ann looked at him steadily. “Do you want to get the divorce?”

  “You do it. I won’t have the time.”

  “My lawyer will make the usual settlement.”

  “I don’t want anything. I don’t need it.”

  “You’ll keep the things I gave you? I’d like that.”

  “As you wish.”

  They stared at each other silently. “Well, I guess there’s nothing else to be said.”

  “I guess not.” Dax turned and started for the door. Her voice stopped him. He turned and looked back at her. “Yes, Sue Ann?”

  She was holding two of the photographs in her hand. She looked from them up to him. “You know,” she said, “I take a better picture than either of them!”

  XII

  Book Six: POLITICS and VIOLENCE

  165

  “I don’t like it,” I said, as I turned the car into the narrow dirt road. “We should have heard the dogs by now.”

  “He keeps dogs?” the girl asked.

  I glanced at her. Her young face was completely unaware. “Dogs, cats, goats, pigs, chickens, you name it. If he were on a highway in Florida he could put up a sign and call it an animal farm.”

  The house was still hidden behind the next hill. “Maybe he doesn’t keep animals any more,” she said. “It’s been a long time since you were there.”

  I nodded. It had been a long time. Five or six years. “No, if there are no dogs then Martínez is dead. He’s the one who gave me the only dog I ever had as a boy. A little yellow dung-colored mutt.”

  We crested the hill and the house lay in the shimmering heat of the small valley below. “Look,” Fat Cat said, pointing.

  I followed his fingers. High in the sky, circling lazily on the currents of air above the house, were two condors. As I watched, another awkwardly got up from the ground behind the house.

  I didn’t speak until the car stopped in front of the gate. Part of the wooden fence was down, and a few feet beyond it lay a dog, its skull broken and its brains spattered over the earth.

  I turned off the motor and sat very still. The air smelled of death. That was the one thing that hadn’t changed, that would never change. The peculiar smell and stillness of la Violencia.

  I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stiffen. I glanced into the back at Fat Cat. He felt it too. Already his gun was in his hand. His face was damp with sweat.

  I turned back to the girl. “Wait in the car until we go and see what happened.”

  Her face was white under the tan but she shook her head. “I will go with you,” she said. “I will not stay here alone.”

  I glanced in the rear-view mirror. Fat Cat nodded imperceptibly. He got out of the car and held the door for the girl. I led the way up the path to the small house.

  The door hung half open on broken hinges. There was no sound from inside the house. I gestured to Fat Cat, at the same time pushing the girl behind me against the wall. With a swift, sudden gesture Fat Cat kicked the door the rest of the way open and rushed inside. I was right behind him.

  Almost as soon as I got inside the one-room shack I turned to keep the girl from entering. But I was too late. She stood there in the doorway, her face white and frozen with horror, staring at the headless body of Martínez, then at the grinning severed head in the center of the small wooden table facing the door.

  I stepped in front of her quickly and pushed her back out of the doorway. She spun around weakly, and I caught her, thinking she was about to faint, but instead she leaned away from me and retched.

  “Close your eyes and take deep breaths,” I said, holding her by the shoulders. She had courage, this girl. It took a few minutes but she regained control of herself.

  Fat Cat came out into the yard, holding a piece of paper in his hand. “The stove is still warm. They were here this morning before we got up.”

  I took the paper and read the penciled scrawl:

  THIS IS THE FATE OF ALL WHO WOULD SERVE THE BETRAYERS OF OUR PEOPLE.

  EL CONDOR

  I folded the paper and stuck it in my pocket. I remembered the boy who had run away the night his father had been killed. Now the name was his and all the violence and death that went with it. And something more, something his father never had. Help from outside. He had been trained in political and guerrilla tactics.

  But the weapons were the same as they had always been. Violence, terror, and death. I had seen many changes since my return to Corteguay, but this, it seemed, never changed. La Violencia was always with us.

  I looked at the girl. “Are you better now?”

  She nodded, wordlessly.

  “Go back and sit in the car and wait for us.”

  She went back to the car and got into the front seat. I turned to Fat Cat. “I wonder why they did not come for us? We were less than ten miles away.”

  Fat Cat looked at me impassively. “Perhaps they did not know we were there.”

  “They knew,” I said. “They left this note for us. They knew we would come looking for Martínez if he did not appear.”

  Fat Cat shrugged. “Perhaps they suspected a trap.”

  I nodded. That would be more like it. This was the first time I had come to my hacienda without the escort of soldiers el Presidente insisted accompany me every time I left the city. “Let’s see if we can find a shovel,” I said. “The least we can do for the old man is bury him so the buzzards and the jackals won’t get to him.”

  Behind the house the goats, sheep, pigs, and chickens had all been slaughtered in their pens. Even the old gray mule that Martínez rode lay dead in its stall. I shook my head. There was the difference. Years ago all these animals would have been taken away by the bandoleros. But not now. This was pure destruction.

  We found shovels and began to dig. The sun was beginning to go down by the time we finished. I threw the last shovel of dirt on the grave and stamped it down, then looked up at the sky. Ten or twelve of the big birds were hovering in the air over our heads.

  “We’d better get out of here,” I said. “I don’t want to be caught on the road at night.”

  Fat Cat nodded. He threw his shovel on the ground. “I am ready.” He glanced at the house. “Shall we burn it?”

  I shook my head. “No, they would see the smoke. They would know we are here and they would come to investigate.” I dropped my shovel. “Poor old man.” I looked at Fat Cat. “Nothing ever really changes, does it?”

  He grimaced. “Only the world outside.”

  I nodded. I knew what he meant. For others war and peace were subjects for discussion. The agony of death never intruded into the council chambers, not its smell, its horror. Just the clean aseptic words that were recorded on tapes and written on paper.

  Fat Cat followed me to the car and climbed into the back. I got in beside the girl. She looked at me, her eyes wide. I felt her shivering beside me in the sudden chill of dusk.

  I switched on the ignition and looked at the fuel gauge. It registered less than a quarter full. I turned to Fat Cat. “Have we got gas enough to get back to the city?”

  He nodded. “There are two ten-gallon containers in the trunk.”

  “Better fill the tank now,” I said, “I don’t want to stop on the road at
night.”

  It was over three hundred miles to Curatu. I gave Fat Cat the trunk keys, and he walked around to the back of the car. I turned to the girl. She was still shivering. I put my jacket around her shoulders.

  “Thanks.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “We’re not going back to your hacienda?”

  I shook my head. “Not with the bandoleros nearby.”

  She was silent for a moment. “I never realized it was like this.”

  I lit a cigarrillo. “No one ever does.”

  “My father said—”

  I interrupted. “Your father!” I said angrily. “What does he know? He did not come from these mountains, he lived in the shelter of the university. Everything to him was abstract theory. What does he know about the stink of death?”

  She pulled my jacket closer around her. “The guns,” she said, almost to herself. “They were not intended for this.”

  “Guns are for killing,” I replied brutally. “What did he think they were for—wall ornaments?”

  “He does not understand about things like this,” she insisted stubbornly. “They promised him—”

  “They?” I interrupted again. “Who? The bandoleros? The comunistas? Those honorable men whose words have been trusted for generations? Your father is a fool, a dupe.”

  “It is the fault of el Presidente!” she answered angrily. “He was the first to break his word!”

  “Your father was involved in a plot to assassinate el Presidente. It failed, and he fled for his life. Now that he has safely reached another country he is sending guns to do what he could not do. It does not matter to him how many innocents like Martínez die in the process.”

  “Democracy,” she said, “my father believes in democracy.”

  “So does everyone else. That word is responsible for as many crimes as love. Somehow it always comes down to one thing. Democracy is on as many sides as God.”

  “Then you think el Presidente is right, that the corruption of his government can be overlooked?”

  I took the cigarrillo from my mouth. “No, it cannot be. But you are too young to remember what it was like before him. He represents simply one step forward. There is much more to be done. But not this way.”

  She turned and looked at the silent house. “You believe that, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I answered simply.

  “You think that if the guns are stopped this will stop?”

  “If the guns are stopped it will be a beginning.”

  I saw her shoulders straighten under the jacket as she turned to me. Her eyes searched mine. “Can I trust you?”

  I didn’t speak. Whatever answer she sought she would have to find it herself.

  “You will not betray my father? Or me?”

  This I could answer. “No.”

  She was silent for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Tomorrow morning, at the port of Curatu. There is a ship coming in on the morning tide….”

  This was the break I had been searching for all the month I had been home. Now there might be a way out of the maze of lies and deception that had been woven around me by everyone whom I had spoken to, from el Presidente on down.

  Perhaps now I could find the truth that had eluded my father.

  166

  Beatriz Elisabeth Guayanos. That was her name. But I had not known that the first time I saw her in the Miami airport. I was waiting to board the plane to come home, and she was standing in front of the ticket counter.

  It was the way she held her head high that first caught my eye. She was tall for a Latin American, with raven-black hair bound high in a chignon. Slim, yet faintly voluptuous, with a suggestion of exciting flesh beneath her summer black chiffon dress. Perhaps there was a little too much bust, a little too much roundness of the belly above the swelling curve of her hips for the American taste, but her kind of beauty had been classic among us for generations. In the end, though, it was her eyes that held me. Framed by the sweeping dark curves of her brows and lashes, they were the greenest eyes I had ever seen.

  She became aware of my stare and turned away slightly with that air of disdain that only years of having a dueña can give. I smiled to myself. It had been a long time since I had seen that particular gesture.

  She said something to the man at the ticket counter, and he turned involuntarily to look at me. I caught a glint of recognition in his eyes as he turned and spoke quickly to her. Now it was her turn to stare. I half held my smile. I knew that look. I could almost tell what they were thinking: what makes him such a cock? He’s not that tall, not that good looking. Still, all those women, all the things they say about him. I wonder?

  I saw her eyes turn frankly speculative. This time I did not contain my smile. I could feel the pulses quicken in me. This was the fever that had come with the first woman I had ever known, the challenge I could never resist. The look that seemed to ask: are you man enough?

  You saw a woman. You wanted her. Nothing in the world mattered until you possessed her. You could not eat, you could not sleep. The agony of the damned was yours until you slaked it in the even greater agony of the flesh.

  I began to walk toward her, and I saw the expression in her eyes change. For a moment I thought it was something like fear, then I felt a hand on my arm and turned.

  Hoyos and Prieto were at my elbow. “Buenos días, señores,” I said politely.

  “How fortunate, señor,” Hoyos said. “I am returning to Corteguay aboard the same plane.”

  “How fortunate indeed,” I replied, but the sarcasm was lost on him. There was no need for el Presidente to have gone to all this trouble. I had given my word that I would return. Besides, I was impatient to go over to the girl.

  This time it was Prieto, the younger of the two, who spoke. “And I am going to New York to prepare the consulate for your arrival. I am sure they will be most pleased to see you after you have finished consulting with el Presidente.”

  “Gracias,” I said.

  Just then a photographer and a reporter came up, and a flashbulb went off in my eyes. “Señor Xenos,” the reporter asked, “what are your plans now that Miss Daley has filed for divorce?”

  “I am returning home for a short vacation.”

  “And after that?”

  “After that?” I smiled ruefully. “I haven’t really thought much about it. I imagine I shall have to go back to work.”

  The reporter grinned. “It’s a rough life.”

  I laughed. “It doesn’t get any easier, that’s for sure.”

  “Will you return to Miami?”

  “I hope so,” I said. “Miami is a lovely city.”

  “Thank you, Señor Xenos.”

  The reporter walked away, the photographer followed him. I turned and looked for the girl but she was gone.

  Prieto touched my arm again. “You must excuse me, señor,” he said hastily. “I have urgent business to complete in Miami.”

  I nodded.

  “Vaya con Dios,” he said, already on his way to the exit.

  “Adios,” I called after him.

  The loudspeaker overhead announced our flight. I gestured to Fat Cat, who had been leaning against a post watching, and we started toward the boarding area. I saw her again as I started down the staircase. She was standing in the tourist-class queue.

  She glanced up, saw me, and turned her head away haughtily. I smiled to myself as I came down the steps. This, too, was expected.

  “Here we must part for the moment, señor,” Hoyos said.

  “But I thought we were returning on the same flight?”

  “We are, excelencia.” He smiled. “But an unimportant person like me travels turista.”

  “We will meet in Corteguay then.”

  “With God’s help.”

  Fat Cat and I walked over to the first-class section. I flashed the boarding passes to the attendant and he waved us through. As I joined the others waiting to board, I looked over the railing into the tourist area. Th
e girl had her face buried in a magazine but I was sure that she was aware of my eyes.

  I looked at the man behind her. It was Hoyos. I felt a sudden impulse to exchange tickets with him, and almost before I realized, I was gesturing to him.

  There was a puzzled look on his face as he came over to the railing that separated us. “Would you be kind enough to exchange seats with me, señor?” I asked.

  “But why, excelencia? Turista is not half as comfortable as first.”

  I smiled at him and looked at the girl. He followed my eyes, then gave me a knowing look. “Of course, excelencia,” he said quickly. “I am at your service.”

  We exchanged tickets and he went back through the gate. I didn’t bother. I merely stepped over the section of railing between us.

  “You can’t do that, sir,” an attendant called. “This is tourist.”

  “There’s been a mistake.” I smiled and waved Hoyos’ ticket at him.

  He studied my ticket and motioned me on.

  I walked over and got into the line behind the girl. She looked back curiously.

  “Are you going to Curatu?” I asked.

  She did not answer.

  “Vous parlez français?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Capite italiano?”

  “No.”

  “Sprechen Sie deutsch?”

  Again she shook her head, but this time there was a faint hint of a smile on her lips.

  “Well,” I finally said in Spanish, mock despair in my voice, “if you don’t speak Spanish I’m probably waiting for the wrong plane.”

  She began to laugh. “You’re waiting for the right plane, Mr. Xenos.” Her English was accent free. “It’s just that you’re out of your class. You don’t belong here with the common people.”

  I smiled at her. “That was most unfair of you. You know my name, and I don’t know yours.”

  A curious look came into her eyes. “Guayanos,” she said. “Beatriz Elisabeth Guayanos.”

  I looked at her. She seemed to be waiting for something. “Am I supposed to know you?” I asked. “Have we met?”