by Bacon Thorn
Frowning, confused, less fearful, the woman nodded and said scornfully, “What’s the matter with you? We don’t need police here. They’re all in the living room with the princess and her servants, except for my son’s cuadrilla. They are upstairs watching the Yankee football game.”
“The princess?”
“Sure. From Spain. How did you get in? I didn’t see you come in. Let me go! I won’t scream.”
“What is your name, mother?”
“You ask my name? You should be ashamed. I am the mother of the greatest bullfighter in the world. I am Señora Luisa Pedraza Campeador y Camaro, who else?”
“I am sorry, Mother, but you must take my word for it; your son’s in danger. We are here to make sure he doesn’t get hurt. Now, tell me quickly, who exactly is in the living room? How many altogether?”
Señora Camaro lifted her bewildered face and stared at Bombito to determine if she could trust him; then, placing her right hand over her heart, as if she might still its rapid beating, she whispered what he wanted to know. According to her, there were two loyal servants, Rosalie and Marianne, serving hors d’oeuvres and cocktails to the guests. Princess Marguerite Estrella of Spain and four sober, reticent attendants, one a man with a strange horizontal scar on his face between his upper lip and his nose, sat in wingback chairs across from her son, his lady guest, and his two bodyguards, Jorge and Angel, who were armed.
With her mention of the scar-faced man, Navarre exchanged a warning glance with Bombito. They both knew who he was and how dangerous he could be. He was the one who’d fired a rocket at the limousine carrying Peñas and Navarre, disabling the vehicle after it crashed through the phony barricade.
Bombito thanked Señora Camaro for her information, instructed her to detain Rosalie and Marianne silently in the kitchen when they returned from the living room, and quickly learned from her the geography of the rooms between the kitchen and Camaro and his guests.
It was 5:45 when he gave his men their assignments. Gomez would remain in the kitchen to guarantee the silence of the women and to intercept any person coming down the hall and entering the kitchen or that part of the house. Bombito and Navarre would inch their way through the dining room, past a formal sitting room next to it, through the large library, and into the lavish living room via sliding doors kept closed, but not locked. They opened at the south end of the living room, not far from where the great grand piano sat silently waiting the next virtuoso who came to play for the magnificent torero.
Servando and Validod were to reach the living room by the more direct and openly exposed route of the wide, mahogany-walled hallway. Uncarpeted and polished, it offered a noisy surface for shoes, so they would remove theirs for silence. They had five minutes to rendezvous at the living room and were not to show themselves until they heard the voices of Bombito and Navarre.
Navarre found himself a few minutes later with his ear pressed to the crack that separated the sliding doors. Bombito kneeled beside him, his automatic pistol drawn and held with the barrel pointing at the ceiling. Navarre saw the two maidservants leave the room, and he had to strain to hear the conversation when Yuma asked an apparently innocent question of Princess Marguerite, who, according to Señora Camaro, was sitting across from her and Cid Camaro. “I have always been so interested in the royal lines of Spain, your highness. Your great-grandfather must have been Don Carlos, Duque de Madrid, who was succeeded by his son, Don Jaime, Duque de Madrid, as pretender in 1909. I believe he died in 1931, and the succession passed to his uncle, Don Alfonso Carlos, Duque de San Jaime. With his death, I think it was in Vienna in 1936, the Carlist line became extinct. Isn’t that so?
“Also, isn’t it true that an unusual hereditary birthmark identified the earliest line? One similar to the stain you bear?”
The response by Princess Marguerite to Yuma’s rude question was cold, cultured, and precise. Her eyes blazed when she said, “In Spain, when I was a child, insensitive people were punished for embarrassing royalty. However, what you say is true. The birthmark was the seal of recognition that authenticated those in the Carlist line.”
What in the world possessed Yuma, Navarre wondered, to deliberately humiliate the princess, and how did she know so much about the intimate history of Spanish royalty? She had to have a reason, he was certain, and it was going to explode like a bombshell in the living room. Blood was sure to fly and stain the gorgeous silks and carpets of the lovely room.
Gripping Bombito’s arm, he whispered hoarsely, “I can’t explain now, but all hell’s going to break loose and we need to be ready.”
That’s when they heard Yuma say to the royal guest, “Your highness, you must feel thwarted to be a pretender yourself. Isn’t it true that the birthmark you bear on the right side of your neck appeared in some generations of the royal family, skipping others, and always showed up as a stain on the left side of the body?”
Navarre and Bombito were on their feet before the uproar in the living room broke out. Throwing the doors open, the two rushed into the room, just as the scar-faced man reached inside his expensive blue suit coat for the hidden gun. His hand was just visible, clamped around the handle of his automatic, when Bombito fired quickly in popping succession. Flavio Ruiz was pinned against the soft cushion of his wing chair by the slugs that tore into his chest, and he slumped as the wide-eyed woman in the chair beside him screamed shrilly and closed her eyes in a dead faint. The second and third men thrust their arms high in the air, shaking with fright that they might be next.
The deadly surprise that happened at the same moment Flavio Ruiz died originated behind Navarre and Bombito. It occurred so quickly and unexpectedly that Angel Calderon, one of Camaro’s veteran bodyguards, was grievously wounded, all because the rescue squad, including Navarre, had completely overlooked the fourth man in the party of the counterfeit princess. When Angel spotted Victor Hijuelos at the foot of the stairs that led down to the broad hallway with his Glock in his hand, his response was too late. Even as he dug for the automatic in his shoulder holster, Hijuelos fired and Angel was hurled by the impact of the bullet into his chair and over it, landing across the knees of his patron, Camaro.
Navarre dropped to the carpet, rolled violently over on his side, facing the staircase, leveled, and fired his Beretta in time to witness Bombito execute a whirling reversal of his body, like a gymnast twisting his torso, and also fire at Hijuelos just as the man aimed at Navarre. He was struck, not once, but three times, by the bullets from Navarre, Bombito, and the quick-stuttering chatter of the machine pistol held by the shoeless Thomas Servando, who reached the stairwell by the hallway from the kitchen. The force of the fusillade turned his body like a ballerina pirouetting in a dance of death. Then, as Navarre jumped to his feet and hurried to Yuma, she suddenly shouted, “The princess, Thomas!” He turned, but Bombito behind him had seen the slight movement of her hand inside her purse and fired twice. She gasped, reached forward as if to rise from her wing chair, and died.
It was Yuma who rose to her feet, stepped over to the counterfeit princess, took the small, silver three-shot derringer from her opened purse, and then grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled the wig from her head. The slicked-down hair on the skull of the dead man with the purple stain on his neck, posing as a woman, was all the evidence she needed to nod her head firmly, purse her mouth, and say, “I knew it. It takes a woman to know a woman and she was wrong for the part.”
In the next few minutes, confusion, bewilderment, and explanations reigned in the house of Mexico’s principal torero. In the end, after terse statements from Bombito and Virrey, who gained entry after pounding on the front door, thanks from Cid Camaro and an invitation from him for his rescuers to be his guests at the Plaza de Toros the next day, the team of agents filed out, with Yuma in tow, after the arrival of the ambulance to whisk Angel to the hospital, along with the dead bodies.
Bombito could not forgive himself for jeopardizing the lives of the hostages and his own agents by over
looking the fourth man Mama Camaro had identified with the other visitors who were in the living room. The fact that Hijuelos had left the room to find a toilet upstairs was not an excuse as far as Bombito was concerned. It was a gross error in judgment, and he would pay for it with his own harsh condemnation of himself.
While Bombito cursed his stupidity as he drove through the dark streets, Yuma sat next to Navarre in the back seat and answered his question: “What made you suspect that the princess was a fake?”
“I played a good part in a foreign movie filmed in Madrid and I had to learn about the Carlists to make my role authentic. I remembered that historically the embarrassing stain always showed up in the Carlists on the left side of the body. Somebody goofed when they did the makeup for the princess, painting the stain on her right side. Thanks for showing up. I knew you would come.”
Navarre was relieved and deeply grateful that the mission had been a success. He realized that the idea of losing Yuma after all they’d been through together had been alarming. Had it happened, it would have been a blow he was not certain he would have been able to handle. He knew he was still confused about supplanting his love for Meg with a new one. Guilt and loyalty to his dead wife was part of it and perversely he regretted that he would grow out of it. But more than anything now, he was excited that he was playing a crucial part in the pursuit of Pappe Nuños. It was deliberate retribution he wanted, grim, unshakable, face-to-face vengeance. Somehow he knew that it would happen, and his pulse thundered in his head.
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Chapter XIX
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The two Mexicans who stood behind the barrera, a wooden fence that encircled the wide perimeter of the Plaza de Toros, were somber and vigilant. From their position they had a sweeping view of the great white moon of sand, and curling up and out from it like the inside of a large bowl, the bleacher sides of the stadium rose some two hundred feet to the rim. Jutting up from the last row was a high, encircling wall.
To the casual observer, the pair were clearly wealthy aficionados whose importance allowed them the privilege of the callejón—the wooden walkway behind the barrera, which separated the first row of seats from the great, sandy arena.
The tall one with the healing scar on his forehead wore a costume resembling the traje de corte of Spain, consisting of high boots, tight pants, a short bolero jacket, and a flat-topped, broad-brimmed sombrero cordobés. He was armed, as was his companion, but his fifteen-shot Beretta was cleverly hidden beneath his jacket. His short, squat companion was dressed in a business suit, walking boots, and a headpiece resembling a visor, a gorra. It was pulled down to shade his eyes from the sun. High-powered binoculars hung on straps around the men’s collars. The shorter of the two held a long-lensed camera encased in leather. It was slung from his left shoulder by a strap. Occasionally he raised it as if to unsnap the lens cover to take a picture, then seemed to change his mind. Lazlo Peñas twisted the squelch button on the radio in the tailored camera case.
“Damn it, Thomas,” he fumed. “It doesn’t make sense. Not a Goddamn word. Nothing. The stadium is as quiet as mother’s milk, not a ripple. The fifth bull will be on the sands in a few minutes and nothing has happened. It’s almost 6:25. Shit! Could we have guessed wrong?”
Navarre squinted across the white desert of sand. Three horses with flowered collars, harnessed abreast, were making a final sweep of the arena, pulling the manned drag rake behind them, smoothing the hoof prints from the flat surface and layering the faded brown stains of dried blood with unsoiled sand.
The screams and roaring which seemed to have shaken the jammed stadium a few minutes before now lingered as a lull, a hum of expectant voices punctuated with isolated yelps, whoops, and high laughter as small bags of brick dust were thrown into the air to burst with a shower of red on unsuspecting spectators.
The blue shadow trail of the blazing sun had traveled across the sand and was edging toward the red door, the gate of fright from which the proud bulls thundered into the arena, raging against the light.
Navarre saw clearly through his binoculars the white lettering on the red toril door: 21 Oscuro, the number and name of the next fighting bull from the cast of La Punta.
“I don’t know, Lazlo,” he said, putting down his glasses and leaning forward with his arms folded across the top of the rough wooden fence. “I don’t know. I can’t think of anything we’ve overlooked. Maybe we’ve planned too well, you know, scared them off, but I don’t believe that either.”
“I don’t think we’ve guessed wrong,” Peñas replied.
“Don’t forget we know for certain that a man claiming to be blind, with a superb guide dog for the sightless, was questioned a few days ago when he was found in the vacant president’s box by the supervisor of the stadium cleanup crew. I’m sure he was not there by accident, or out of curiosity. We wouldn’t have learned about this incident if it hadn’t been reported to the impresario and he hadn’t related it to one of your men. I believe the blind man was there for the single purpose of allowing his dog to sight and smell out recognition signs the animal would need later. I also believe, as Gil predicted, that some personal article of the president’s was introduced to the dog while he was in the box. He explained that his guide dog was helping him to visualize the president sharing his excitement with thousands of other enthusiasts on the opening of the bullfighting season. Innocent enough? None of us believe that! I am especially certain that his visit foreshadowed an attempt on the president’s life. Don’t forget, I’ve seen those dogs in action. The fact that Yuma and I escaped them was pure luck!”
Peñas grunted, still on edge and impatient. “I agree the man and his dog was no accident. It was a clear warning. But damn it, nothing’s happened.”
Navarre was also frustrated. He was thinking about the defense precautions that had been put into effect since the meeting at the pensión had broken up late the night before.
Long before the planning ended, Peñas had received positive verification of the burning of the farm at Duelos. It had been torched; only the adobe walls remained standing. Also, he’d been contacted by the team searching for the desert graveyard and learned that early efforts had uncovered fourteen bodies, and the leader estimated that many more would be found. The reports of the farm’s destruction and the location of the mass graveyard were two more forlorn facts in the overall theme of assassination.
As for Yuma Haynes, when Navarre brought her to Peñas, after her rescue, she had apologized for her irresponsible action in returning to Mexico and thanked him for her life. Peñas smiled and shrugged. How could you be angry long with a beautiful woman whose smile was like the sun coming up? He insisted, however, that she restrict her movements and accept the fact that she would be closely guarded by two agents who would stick to her like glue. He did give in to her request to join Cid Camaro at the plaza, providing he had assurances from the bullfighter’s security team that her guards would come with her and she would be watched over carefully.
Major Girado Gil had taken to the air shortly after 2:00 p.m. to command an aerial helicopter surveillance team of three machines. The two smaller ones, MD 600Ns, carried a pilot, a copilot, and men armed with submachine guns and repeating twelve-gauge shotguns, loaded with heavy shot. Any living thing within range of 150 feet could be shredded or minced by the flying lead.
The third machine was a bigger, versatile US Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk with a primary mission to carry a limited number of troops trained for confrontation in dangerous conditions. It could accommodate ten armed men and two pilots. Its two pintle-mounted .50-caliber machine guns, located in the starboard and port windows, together provided a 360-degree defense and assault capability. The strategic assignment of the Black Hawk was to land combat-ready men on the sands of the arena when called into action, to repel and kill any threatening dogs or humans that had survived the firepower of the outer defenses of the bullring and penetrated into the circle of sand.
The helicopters, designated
as Sky Watch, were flying irregular crisscross patterns over the plaza, where bullfight celebrants had gathered in great numbers. The three aircraft had passed over the arena at altitude at least six times in the past two hours and presently hovered in the distance just above the rim of the stadium.
High above the helicopters, a spotter plane streaming a bright red banner advertising Cerveza Bohemia puttered across the fans seated below in the deep saucer. In all three of the helicopters, high-powered telescopic lenses magnified the faces of the spectators so that from fifteen hundred feet up individual features were startlingly clear.
“Hell, I can see the mole on the president’s chin,” one of the airmen had remarked.
Major Gil had been in constant radio contact with the ground commander, Phillip de Mexico, who had deployed one hundred roving agents near anticipated trouble spots in the plaza. The men on the ground were armed with the same weaponry as the Sky Watch teams. Twenty “precautionary” ambulances with crews were stationed at key points ready to respond.
Kelly Francis Romera, the redhead referred to as Colorado, who had been appointed Navarre’s bodyguard and whom Navarre liked because of his laconic sense of humor and his knowledge of the bullring, had led a force of one hundred men which had combed every inch, nook, and cranny of the plaza for any sign of dogs, explosives, or arms and had come up empty handed. The search had ended at two o’clock, and Colorado had turned his group over to the taciturn Siempre Bombito, who had grudgingly forgiven himself for his oversight of the fourth man at the bullfighter’s mansion. He promptly usurped one hundred seats surrounding President Calderón’s box. With his men interspersed in the president’s party and forming a cordon around the jefe máximo, a shield of living flesh had been formed. Three of the many spectators who had lost their seats created such a row that they had been forcibly ejected from the plaza, searched, and detained. The others had left grudgingly, but with the consolation of a reward for their tickets that amounted to five times the going scalpers’ price.