She looked at me without speaking, and we rode most of the rest of the way in silence. It was only as we approached the airport that she spoke again. “Dax, you don’t understand,” she said suddenly, “I’m—”
“Don’t understand what?”
“Nothing. It’s just that I can’t stay here. There are too many memories.”
“All right,” I answered, “you don’t have to explain. Just promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“That if you go to the States you’ll let my friend Jeremy Hadley take you over to the State Department. They’ll at least tell you the truth about what happened to your father.”
She was silent for a moment. When she spoke again her voice was very low and there was something suspiciously like tears in it. “I will.”
There was one last-minute addition to the passenger list. Hoyos. He came over to me while the others were boarding. “I have spoken with el Presidente. He is willing for me to accompany him if there is room in the plane.”
I looked at him questioningly.
“I am much too old to develop new allegiances,” he said. “There is no place for me here.”
“You may go.”
“Thank you, excellency.” He hurried aboard.
El Presidente and Amparo were the first to board. They spoke to no one. I couldn’t see his face—the collar of his greatcoat was pulled up around it—but at the last moment he turned and looked out. He seemed to be searching for something, but after a moment he disappeared inside.
Hoyos was next aboard. He scampered upward without a backward look. Beatriz was next. She turned and came over to me. She raised herself and kissed me quickly on the cheek. “Thank you, Dax.” Then she turned and hurried up the stairs.
I stood there looking after her. Suddenly I began to feel better. Somehow I knew that in a few days, when I followed her to New York, things would work out between us.
The cabin door shut, and a moment later Giraldo began to turn the engines over. I listened critically. They were running as smooth as silk. He stuck his head out the window and gave me a thumbs-up. I gestured back at him.
“Remember to come back after you put down in Panama!” I shouted over the roar of the engines.
He nodded, grinning, then, cranking up the window, began to taxi out onto the apron. I watched the plane turn into position, and at a signal from the control tower go racing down the strip and off into the sky. I followed it until its blinking red and green lights vanished among the stars. Then I turned and looked at the others.
It was Vasquez who put it best:
“Once, perhaps, in every fifty or a hundred years a man like el Presidente comes along. A man whose capacity for good or for evil is so vast that it is almost beyond the comprehension of ordinary men. Such a man was he, and we shall not forget him. For the good things he has done, and for the bad. But the tragedy is that with so little effort on his part it might have all been good. I pray to God that we may never see his likes again.”
It was after four in the morning, and we were still in my office. So much had already been done. The cease-fire order had been confirmed and the language of a blanket amnesty had been agreed upon. It would be issued in the morning.
“Gentlemen,” I said, “it now becomes the duty of this junta to elect a provisional president to govern in its name until an election can be held. As agreed, I shall vote only in case of a tie. There are four votes among you.”
Tulia got to his feet. “I have taken the liberty of getting in touch with the commanders in the field. They all agree that you are the logical person to carry on the government until an election can be held.”
“I am honored, gentlemen, but my answer is the same as it was earlier this evening. No. The honor you do me is great but the temptation is even greater. For too long in our country this has been the classical means of seizing power. Just this once let it not be said that all of us acted out of personal motives, but only for the ultimate good of our country. Actually I no longer belong here. I have been away too long and know too little about the needs of our people. What is needed is a man who knows and loves the people of Corteguay—all the people, the campesino and city dweller alike. There are good men among you. Select one and I will deem it an honor to serve under him.”
Tulia looked at the others and then back at me. “In anticipation of your refusal we have made a second choice.”
Vasquez got to his feet. “Colonel Tulia,” he said in a hurt voice, “you forgot to consult me.”
The others began to smile. Tulia, too, began to smile. “Would you accept my apologies, Señor Presidente?”
We walked down the hallway to el Presidente’s office. Now it was no longer his. I supposed in time we would get used to that, too. I opened the door and stood back. “Tomorrow morning this will be your office, Señor Presidente.”
Vasquez started forward, then stopped. He stood there for a moment looking in, then turned to me. “Tomorrow morning it will be mine,” he said quietly, “but tonight—tonight it is yours. Without you there might not have been a tomorrow.”
He pushed me gently through the door. “I will come back in the morning,” he said. “Good night, Señor Presidente.”
One by one they bid me good night, and then walked down the corridor. I watched them until they had passed the guard at the far end, then turned to Fat Cat, who was standing silently against the wall.
“Shall we go in?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, “I have a premonition.”
“You and your premonitions!” I laughed, and strode into the office.
I walked around the desk and sat down in the chair. It was just the kind of chair to make a man feel big and strong and powerful. I leaned back in it, putting my hands in my pockets. I felt el Presidente’s revolver in one of them, and I took it out and threw it to Fat Cat.
He caught it deftly. “Where did you get this?”
“El Presidente tried to kill me but it misfired.”
A shadow flashed across Fat Cat’s face. “That’s twice today you escaped. The third is the unlucky time. Come, let us go from here.”
I laughed. “I’ll go after I’ve had one cup of coffee. There’s a kitchen back there; go make us a pot.”
Fat Cat looked at me hesitantly. “I don’t like to leave you alone.”
“What can happen to me in the time it takes to brew a pot of coffee?” I asked. “See, it’s already daylight.”
Fat Cat still didn’t move.
I got to my feet and took a machete down from the wall where el Presidente had hung it. I placed it on the desk in front of me. “Besides, I have this.”
Fat Cat shook his head and turned, still silent, and started back to the kitchen. I heard the faint rattle of pots and then the sound of water running. I got out of the chair and walked slowly around the office. It was filled with memories of el Presidente. There were pictures of him everywhere I turned—medals, medallions, scrolls, cups, each engraved with his name.
The gray morning light began to fill the room. I walked over to the window and looked out at the city. The streetlights were beginning to go out near the port and soon the first rays of the sun would be creeping in from behind the mountains to the east. I opened the wide French doors and went out into the garden to breathe the morning air.
It was sweet and fresh as I strolled across the garden to the wall to look east to the mountains and catch the first glimpse of the morning sun. Then I heard a faint sound behind me. I started to turn but suddenly I was caught in a grip of steel. An arm crooked around my neck from behind, and I was jerked backward almost off my feet as a harsh voice whispered in my ear. “Not a sound or you’re a dead man!”
I tried to turn but the arm held me as if I were a baby. Again that voice in my ear. “El Presidente—where is he?”
The pressure relaxed slightly so that I could speak. “He is gone. Exiled.”
The arm tightened again. “You lie!”
Another
voice came from behind me. “It does not matter. This one is as good.”
I stared as the man behind me came around to face me. He was one of the ugliest individuals I had ever seen. His mouth was twisted in a perpetual grin over blackened steel false teeth. His right hand was crushed, the fingers twisted, and a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun rested negligently in the crook of his other arm.
“Do you recognize me?”
I shook my head.
“Remember the boy whose father you talked into coming down from the mountains to be murdered?”
He began to laugh as he saw my eyes widen. “That’s right, el Condor. I never forgot your face, how could you forget mine?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t have even if I had wanted to; the arm around my throat allowed me scarcely enough air to breathe.
“Let him go.”
Abruptly the arm was taken from my neck, and I was hurled back against the wall. I stumbled and almost fell but managed to turn and face them. The other man was older, square and stockily built. There were two guns stuck into his belt.
“How does it feel to be trapped the way my father was trapped?” el Condor asked.
I didn’t answer.
“I swore that I would not go back to the mountains this time without the blood of at least one of my father’s assassins!”
I still didn’t speak. I was tightening my muscles for an attempt to escape. Carefully I tried to gauge the distance between us. He was at least eight feet away.
“Assassin!” el Condor suddenly screamed. “You die!”
I sprang toward him at the same moment I saw the muzzle of the gun flash. At first I thought he had missed, then I was on the ground before him, staring up at him, and I knew he hadn’t. But the strangest thing was that there was no pain. I had always thought there would be pain.
Everything seemed to slow down. Even el Condor’s smile as he slowly raised the shotgun to fire again. Then a crazy thing happened. There was a flashing light and the arm that held the gun seemed to fly off from his shoulder and float lazily through the air. I saw el Condor’s mouth open and heard his scream as the blood came gushing up. Then the light spun at him again and the scream was cut off.
I heard the shots, and I could count them as I turned my head. Three, four, five, six. There was a horrible look on Fat Cat’s face as he walked steadily toward el Condor, the bloody machete held high in his two hands like a woodsman’s ax.
Desperately the other bandolero clawed at the gun left in his belt, but it would not obey his frightened fingers. He turned screaming and began to run. He had gone but four paces when Fat Cat threw the machete after him. Abruptly he seemed to break open from the back of his head to his spine. He plunged forward over some small bushes out of sight.
I twisted my head toward Fat Cat. He was walking toward me, then he seemed to stumble and fall. He lay stretched out on the ground only a few feet away.
“Fat Cat!” I called, but my voice was very weak.
At first I thought he did not hear me, then he raised his head and looked over at me. He began agonizingly to crawl slowly toward me, rolling, using his elbows, clawing his way. The blood was streaming from his mouth and the hole in the side of his neck.
I stared at him in shocked surprise. Fat Cat was dying. I couldn’t believe it. Not Fat Cat. He could never die, he was indestructible. “Fat Cat, I’m sorry,” I wanted to say, but I couldn’t get the words out.
Now our faces were almost touching and we hung there together on the spinning earth staring into each other’s eyes.
I felt the icy polar cold creeping upward through me. “Fat Cat, I’m cold,” I whispered. Even as a child I had hated the cold. I loved the sun.
But the sun coming over the mountains now gave me no warmth. Only a bright dazzling light that hurt my eyes and made it difficult for me to see. I felt the cold getting colder and creeping ever higher.
“Fat Cat, I’m afraid,” I whispered. I squinted my eyes against the sun so that I could see his face.
Fat Cat raised his head and into his eyes came a look I had never seen there before. It was all the looks of love in one expression. Of a friend, of a father, of a son. Then he pushed his hand out over mine and covered it. I gripped his fingers tightly.
His voice was hoarse but soft. “Hold my hand, child,” he said, “and I will take you safely through the mountains.”
Postscript
Hildebrandt, his chauffeur, was waiting as he came through the swinging doors from customs. “The car is just outside,” he said, taking the valise. “Did you have a good flight, sir?”
Jeremy nodded. “It was a good flight.”
They got into the big limousine and it sped rapidly off into the night. There was very little traffic at this hour and almost before he knew it, the car was racing past the multicolored lights of the World’s Fair and onto the approach of the Triborough Bridge.
“I called Mrs. Hadley when I heard your plane would be late.”
“Thank you, Artie.”
They came off the bridge onto the almost empty East River Drive and, racing downtown, turned off at the Sixty-third Street exit. A few blocks more and the car pulled to a stop on a quiet tree-lined street just east of Central Park.
She was waiting at the door as he crossed the sidewalk to the steps of the gray townhouse. He stepped inside and shut the door and took her into his arms. They clung together silently for a tiny quiet moment.
She felt the weariness and the ache of travel in him. And something more than that. A strange stillness of spirit that was somehow foreign to his nature. She kissed him gently, comfortingly. Then she took his hand and led him into the living room.
“It’s the staff’s day off,” she said. “I’ve made sandwiches and coffee; they’re in the kitchen.”
“It’s all right,” Jeremy said. “I’m not really hungry.”
She looked up into his face. “How was it?”
“Pretty awful.” There were grim lines there she had never seen before. “I never knew there could be anything like that.”
She nodded. “Was there anyone else there?”
Jeremy shook his head. “I was the one.”
She was silent, watching him.
“It wouldn’t have been so bad if someone else had been there. But I was the only one. And there had always been so many people—”
“No more talk about it now,” she said quickly, touching her finger to his lips. “You go wash up. You’ll feel better after you eat something.”
Jeremy went upstairs and into the bathroom. A few minutes later he peeked into the children’s rooms. The girls first. Their room was the nearest.
They were fast asleep, their eyes tightly shut against the night. His golden girls. He smiled to himself. They were three and five years old and there was nothing that could wake them. Not even an earthquake.
But the boy was different. He slept lightly, and the slightest sound would waken him. Even now, as he came into the room, the boy stirred, then sat up in the bed. “Dad?” he asked in his nine-year-old voice.
“Yes, Dax.”
“What kind of a plane did you come home on this time?”
“A 707,” he answered, coming over to the side of the bed. He bent down and kissed the boy’s forehead. “Now, go back to sleep.”
“Yes, Dad,” the boy said, lying down again. “Good night.”
“Good night, son,” Jeremy said gently, leaving the room.
She was waiting at the foot of the staircase when he came down. Silently he followed her into the breakfast nook just off the kitchen. The table was already set with sandwiches, coffee, and cake.
Unexpectedly he was hungry. He sat down and began to eat. She sat down opposite him and filled his coffee cup. He finished the sandwich and reached for his cup. “I was hungry,” he said.
She smiled.
He took a sip of the hot coffee. His eyes were somber again. “No one came.”
“Very few do,” she said, “even und
er the best of circumstances. Ten years is a long time to be remembering.”
“I wonder if we’ll ever really know the story of that last day,” he mused.
“Never,” she said. “Within a few months they were all dead. Except Vasquez.”
“Do you think he killed them?”
“Yes.” Her voice was positive. “With Dax gone he knew the junta would fall apart. Who was there to be its conscience? Vasquez turned out to be no better than el Presidente.”
“There is talk of revolution.”
“Jeremy, I don’t care.” A faint edging of nerves came into her voice. “I told you, I don’t care. I left it a long time ago because it was sick and all they ever thought about was death and destruction. I don’t even want to hear about it any more.”
“All right, all right,” he said soothingly, “But I still remember sitting in the gallery at the UN when he made that last speech. The way he looked at them as he spoke. As if he was reminding the whole world of its conscience. ‘Let there be no man among you to help another make war against his brother.’”
She looked at him without speaking.
Jeremy put his hand into his pocket and took out a ring. “They gave me this,” he said, holding it out to her. “That is, I thought they had until I found out I was expected to buy it.”
She took it from his hand and looked down at it. “I always wondered about the inscription.”
“It’s a class ring. He was in Jim’s class at Harvard. We gave it to him when he had to leave before graduation.”
She studied it.
“Upstairs, when I was in the boy’s room, Beatriz, I was thinking. He’s so much like his father. He should know.”
“The boy knows one father. That’s enough.”
“He would be very proud of him.”
“He’s very proud of you,” she replied.
“He’s growing up,” he persisted. “What if he should find out?”
“I’ll take that chance,” she insisted stubbornly.
“In fairness to his father?”
“No!” she said sharply. “His father is dead and fairness doesn’t matter to him any more.” Abruptly she got up and walked into the kitchen. From the table he saw her pull open the incinerator chute and drop the ring into it. He heard it tinkling on its way down.
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