Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

  I was too stunned to speak.

  El Presidente smiled briefly, then with a wave of his hand he was gone. I watched his car pull away and go roaring out the gates before I cut the engines in again and started to taxi to the hangar.

  New York, I thought. It would be good to be back in New York again. There was nothing to keep me here now. Except one thing. Beatriz. I would not go back alone. This time she would go back with me. As my wife.

  196

  The change in my status was evident the moment I got down from the plane in the hangar. Giraldo, who had become accustomed to being with me and had grown rather careless about his uniform and his manners, now stood stiffly at attention, his uniform neatly brushed. The two mechanics behind him also stood at attention. Even Fat Cat, in his own sloppy way, seemed to stand straighter, though I could see from the look in his eyes that it was more for their benefit than for mine.

  “Lieutenant—”

  “Sí, excelencia!” Giraldo had spoken before I’d had a chance to finish.

  I would have to remember now to speak more quickly or I should be giving all my orders in two installments. “Please have the plane serviced and thoroughly checked out.”

  “Sí, excelencia!”

  I looked at him. “I hadn’t finished yet,” I said mildly.

  “Perdone, excelencia!”

  I had to smile, I couldn’t help it. “Fill the tanks and stand by. We are soon to return to New York.”

  “Sí, excelencia!” Giraldo saluted sharply, then looked at me hesitantly. “May I offer your excellency my congratulations and best wishes in your new position, and assure you of my total loyalty?”

  “Thank you, Giraldo.”

  Again he saluted, and this time I returned it. I went out of the hangar ringing with his orders to the mechanics. Already Giraldo saw himself as attached to the vice presidential staff.

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see Fat Cat walking slightly behind me. He was still in that strange posture which seemed so wrong and awkward for him. “You’d better relax,” I said to him out of the corner of my mouth, “you’ll break in two.”

  Almost immediately everything dropped. His chest deflated, and his stomach reappeared again. “Thank God!” he murmured gratefully. “I was beginning to think I would have to remain like this forever!”

  The two soldiers who drove me were at attention beside the jeep. Everybody saluted. I saluted, then they saluted again, and finally to put an end to it I got into the car. We roared off toward town.

  “How was it out there?” Fat Cat whispered under cover of the roar of the wind in our faces.

  “Not pretty,” I said. “It will be years before we recover from this.” I was silent for a moment. “The hacienda is gone. There is nothing left but the cinders.”

  “You can build again.”

  I shook my head. “No. Another house, yes. But not the one.” The feeling of the loss was beginning to register. It was as if a part of my life had vanished.

  Fat Cat knew how I felt and changed the subject. “I was in the control tower when the news came over the radio. Everyone wanted to know what it meant.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “There were some who thought that at last the old man was getting ready to step down and turn it over to you. At least that’s what they kept telling me.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “What could I tell them?” Fat Cat asked expressively. “Let them think I was a fool and didn’t know? That it was as much a surprise to me as to them?”

  I detected the faint note of reproach in his voice. “It was a complete surprise to me,” I said.

  Fat Cat looked at me for a moment, then decided I was telling the truth. The reproach faded from his eyes.

  I soon discovered there were some advantages to my new position. We raced past the checkpoints without once being stopped, and when I got to the Palacio del Presidente I found I had been moved from the small office in which I had been installed on the day I arrived. I now had a large suite of offices next to el Presidente’s own.

  By the time I reached them I had run a gauntlet of good wishes and protestations of undying loyalty. It was with a feeling of relief that I finally closed the door to my private office behind me. I walked around the desk and sat down in the chair. I leaned back, swinging, trying it out for comfort.

  “You look as if you’d sat there all your life,” Fat Cat said.

  I looked over at him. “Don’t you begin.”

  Fat Cat didn’t answer.

  “Go up to our apartamiento and bring down my suit. I want to get out of this uniform.” Suddenly I didn’t feel right in it any more.

  Fat Cat nodded and left. A moment later I had my first official visitor. It was Coronel Tulia. “I’m sorry to disturb your excellency, but I have important papers that require your signature.”

  There was something about this tall reserved soldier that I liked. I felt none of the usual Latin American effusiveness in him, the false compliments or scraping to superiors. He had not even mentioned my new position.

  “My signature?”

  “Yes, as vice president.”

  “What are they?”

  He took them from his briefcase and handed them to me. “Execution orders,” he said briefly. “For Pardo and Vasquez.”

  I looked at him in surprise. “I wasn’t advised of their court-martial.”

  “There has been no court-martial, excellency.” Tulia’s face was expressionless. “They were condemned by order of el Presidente.”

  I stared at him. Tulia knew as well as I that this was contrary to clause six of the surrender agreement. Under its provisions no man could be judged without trial. “Then why didn’t el Presidente sign the order of execution?”

  “Under our constitution,” he answered, “it is the vice president who has the power to set the final penalty in cases of treason. The president is considered to be the government and therefore in prejudice. Only if there is no vice president is the president empowered to act.” Tulia paused for a moment, then added significantly, “You are now the vice president.”

  Tulia did not have to point that out. It had already begun to dawn on me. I looked down at the papers. Were el Presidente to sign them an outcry would go up around the world; these men had been denied their rights under the surrender agreement. But not if I were to sign them. I would assume the responsibility.

  I looked at Tulia. “If these men had come before a court-martial what do you think the verdict would have been?”

  “I cannot guess the decisions of others.”

  “If you were to sit in judgment would you have found them guilty?”

  Tulia hesitated a moment. “No.”

  “Despite the fact that they led their troops against their own government?”

  “Yes.” Tulia’s answer came without hesitation. “You see, I know the facts of that decision.”

  “The truth?”

  Tulia nodded.

  “I would like to hear it.”

  For the first time I noticed the tension under which Tulia was laboring. Faint beads of perspiration dampened his forehead. Suddenly I realized the courage it took for him to come even this far with me. One word and he might stand beside the others in the dock.

  “Sit down, Colonel,” I said gently. “You are among friends.”

  Gratefully Tulia sank into the chair. To give him time to compose himself I took out a thin black cigar from my case and offered it to him. He shook his head so I lit it. Then I leaned back and waited.

  “There were seven regiments in the field when the fighting began. Seven regiments, seven colonels, including Mosquera, who is now dead.” Tulia leaned forward. “In many ways the rebel attack was what has become almost the classic opening in modern warfare. Like the German blitzkrieg of Poland and the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, it came without notice, without warning. And we were caught completely unaware.

  “It was on a Saturday morning that the attacks b
egan in the north. Nothing much was said about it at first because everyone assumed it was just another bandolero raid. By the time we realized that it was more than that the fighting had begun in the south. The news came while all seven of us were having dinner together at my headquarters. You cannot imagine the confusion and rumors. At one point during the night we even had a report that el Presidente had been assassinated, and that the rebels were in complete control of the government.”

  Tulia reached into his pocket and took out a cigarette. “It was at that moment that we got an invitation from the Communist, Mendoza, to join the revolution. He promised that we would be welcomed in the south as brothers in arms.

  “The seven of us stood around the table looking down at the message. The lines to Curatu were down, we could not even reach the capital by radio. The outside news networks were spreading conflicting reports. Both Brazil and Colombia reported that the government had already fallen, and there was not one word from el Presidente. We did not know what to do.

  “To continue the struggle if the government had already gone under could only result in unnecessary deaths. To join with the rebels if the government had not fallen could only assure them victory. It was Vasquez who finally came up with the solution to our dilemma. Vasquez, the gentle one with the wisdom of Solomon. Right there we formed a junta. We agreed that the three weakest regiments would go over to the rebels. They would delay and procrastinate until the situation clarified.”

  Tulia ground out his cigarette. “The three weakest regiments belonged to Pardo, Mosquera, and Vasquez. They deliberately led their regiments onto the peninsula, where they knew they would be trapped. Mendoza ranted and raved at their stupidity, but there was nothing he could do. It was already too late.”

  A curious speculation came into Tulia’s voice. “I wonder if Mendoza suspected that we tricked him.”

  “Mendoza was captured?”

  “Yes, but just last night he escaped.”

  That kind always got away; they were like rodents carrying the plague. I looked down at the papers.

  “These are only the first you will be asked to sign,” Colonel Tulia said suddenly. “Every officer in each of those regiments down to the rank of lieutenant has also been condemned. The typists are working overtime to prepare the execution orders.”

  “Every officer?” I asked incredulously.

  “Yes, almost a hundred.”

  I stared down at the papers again. These were the kinds of men el Presidente wanted to kill while a man like Mendoza was running free to spread his poison? I got to my feet slowly.

  “Leave the papers with me, Colonel. I think in view of what you’ve told me el Presidente should review the matter.”

  197

  I got out of the jeep in front of Beatriz’s house. The shutters were drawn, the house seemed empty. “Go around to the back,” I ordered the two soldiers.

  “Sí, excelencia.” They went off at a trot.

  “Come with me,” I said to Fat Cat, and walked up to the front door. I pounded the heavy brass knocker. The sound echoed through the house. I waited a moment, then lifted it again.

  There was no answer. I had a hunch. If Mendoza went anywhere, it would be here.

  Fat Cat moved back and squinted up quizzically. “There’s no one in there,” he said. “Even the shutters are shut tight.”

  There was certainly no sign of any movement within the house. Slowly we began to walk around it, checking all the windows. They were all tightly shuttered except one, a small window on the second floor. I guessed it to be a bathroom window.

  We passed the soldiers. “See anything?”

  They shook their heads. Fat Cat and I continued on around. The small window was the only one we could find unshuttered. I stood there looking up at it. I couldn’t be this wrong.

  Fat Cat followed my eyes. “I could climb up that tree and get in the window.”

  I looked at Fat Cat and had to smile. “You couldn’t get through that window if you were fifty pounds lighter.”

  “We could send one of the soldiers.”

  “No.” If Beatriz was in the house I didn’t want to take the chance of anything happening to her. “I’ll go up myself.”

  I reached the lowest branch easily, and pulled myself up. Slowly I climbed but it wasn’t as easy as it had been when I was a boy. I was blowing pretty hard by the time I finally got up there.

  I reached over and pushed. The window seemed to be stuck. I could see no sign of a lock, so I hit the frame smartly with the edge of my fist. The sash quivered and moved slightly. I pushed it the rest of the way up and began to climb through.

  “Be careful!” Fat Cat called.

  I nodded and climbed through. I had been right; it was a bathroom. Cautiously I crossed to the door. I stood there quietly, listening.

  There wasn’t a sound in the house.

  “Beatriz!” I called. My voice echoed through the rooms.

  Slowly I moved out into the hallway. There were four doors opening onto it. Three of them must be bedrooms. The only one I didn’t have to guess about was the door opposite the staircase. The small shield on it identified it as the linen closet.

  I checked the far bedroom first. The faint residue of perfume told me that this was Beatriz’s room. I went through it quickly. Her clothing was still in the closets; the dresser drawers had not even been disturbed. Wherever she had gone, it could not have been for long. Everything seemed in order. Even her suitcases were still in the closet.

  The second room apparently was her uncle’s. That, too, seemed undisturbed. The third was the smallest of the three, probably the maid’s room. It was the only one in disorder. The bed was rumpled and unmade, as if it had just been slept in. But the closet was empty, as were the bureau drawers.

  I walked back into the hallway deep in thought. It didn’t make sense. Why should the maid’s room look as if she had gone away? And yet her bed be the only one to have been slept in?

  I started down the staircase, then changed my mind. Still puzzling over the disorder in the maid’s room, I pulled open the door to the linen closet. My hunch was right but it almost cost me my life.

  Mendoza came out of the closet like a projectile. I clutched at him and we went tumbling backward, over and over, down the staircase. We landed on the floor below, with him on top and my head bursting and my lungs gasping for breath. I saw a knife flash and desperately I grabbed for it. I could feel the strain in my arms as I battled my assailant to keep him from using it.

  “Fat Cat!” I shouted. “Fat Cat!”

  Violently he clamped a hand over my mouth to keep me from shouting again. The slight easing of pressure enabled me to twist the arm out and away from me. I heaved with my body and rolled him off me onto the floor.

  We both came to our feet at almost the same instant. He lunged toward me, the knife still in his hand. I ducked away from the slashing blade. From behind me came a heavy pounding on the door. He cast a quick glance sideways, then back again before I could take advantage of it.

  “I don’t care about you, Mendoza,” I gasped. “Where is Beatriz?”

  “As if you didn’t know!” he answered, and lunged at me.

  I jumped aside again. “Beatriz, where is she?”

  Now Mendoza actually seemed to be laughing. He had to be mad. He began to swing wildly at me, mumbling incoherently all the while, “You can’t win! Someday we’ll get you, all of you! You can’t win!”

  I was so busy keeping away from his knife that I didn’t anticipate his sudden leap. He crashed into me, his weight carrying us to the floor. But this time I was faster. I rolled away from him and then back, catching his knife hand at his side just as it was coming up.

  It was an old bandolero trick. I clamped one knee and a hand down on his knife arm, pinning it to the floor, then with a crooked elbow jammed into his throat just below his Adam’s apple, I pushed with all my weight.

  His free hand clawed wildly at my eyes but I twisted my head away. And all
the while I put more and more weight on my elbow. I could almost hear the crunch as his windpipe crushed. Relentlessly I kept on applying pressure until at last his hands stopped moving and his protruding eyes and tongue told me that he was dead.

  Only then did I roll off and lie gasping on my back beside him. The pounding on the heavy door had ceased. In a few moments I heard the sound of a key turning and I began to sit up.

  Fat Cat was the first in. He leaped over Mendoza’s body and pulled me to my feet. “Are you all right?”

  I nodded, turning.

  Hoyos stood there, the key that had opened the door in his hand. Beatriz was beside him, her eyes wide and frightened.

  No one had to tell me where Beatriz had been, for I could see the handcuffs still on her wrists. El Presidente had assured me she was safe, and he hadn’t been altogether wrong. She had been very safe. In jail.

  Beatriz sat over in one corner of the couch. She was still crying. I looked up and saw Hoyos watching us from the hallway. Mendoza’s body already had been removed. I got out of my chair and closed the door. I came back to Beatriz and stood looking down at her.

  “That’s enough!” I said harshly.

  She was surprised at the sharpness in my voice and looked up, her dark-green eyes still brimming with tears.

  “You have cried enough, you’re merely feeling sorry for yourself. It is time to stop.”

  “You killed him! Now that my uncle is dead in the fighting there is no one left. I am alone.”

  “You were alone before I killed him,” I said patiently. “I tell you he was the one who had your father killed.”

  “I don’t believe you!” Beatriz’s eyes began to fill again with tears.

  This time I lost my patience. Angrily I slapped her across the face. “Stop it!”

  The shock dried her eyes, and she came up off the couch clawing at me. “I hate you! I hate you!”