“Is the De la Torre family safe?” the New York Times woman asked.
“They are in residence at the palace,” Loomis told her.
“Are they in custody?” she demanded.
Loomis hesitated, regretting the tone of candor he’d established. Although he trusted these professionals to protect their source when asked to do so, he also knew they were capable of providing their own slant.
“They are palace guests, under the protection of El Jefe,” he told her.
“Have you had any contact with Ramón?” asked the Post.
“Unfortunately, no,” Loomis said.
The reporter’s eyebrows lifted. “Why ‘unfortunately’?”
Loomis carefully planted his bombshell. “Because, if the government were in contact with Ramón, certain negotiations might be possible. Not from any position of weakness on the part of the government. Let me stress that — not from a standpoint of weakness. Ramón hasn’t caused that much damage. But the government might make certain concessions to him, from a sincere desire to restore peace in the Dominican Republic.”
There was a brief silence while the reporters recorded and assessed that information.
“Is that official?” the New York Times woman asked.
“That’s from your same famous, anonymous and well-informed source within the administration,” Loomis said.
As the reporters scattered to phones and typewriters, Loomis hurried on through the lobby to the elevators and to Johnson’s room on the third floor.
Johnson answered the door, pointed to a carafe of coffee, and returned to the phone. Loomis closed the door, latched it, tossed his Heckler onto the rumpled bed, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He also helped himself to a jelly roll from Johnson’s unfinished breakfast — and eavesdropped.
Johnson’s end of the conversation seemed to consist mostly of affirmative grunts. But after several minutes, he grew impatient.
“Loomis is here now,” he said. “I’ll let you know as soon as I find out.” He hung up the phone.
Loomis reached for another jelly roll.
“Want me to order you up a breakfast?” Johnson asked.
“No thank you,” Loomis said. “I’m not very hungry. The folks at Langley up early this morning?”
“Nobody, including me, has been to bed in a week,” Johnson said, rescuing his ham and eggs. “Somehow, they just don’t share my confidence in you.”
“They should have been with me during the last four or five hours,” Loomis told him. “I’ve even built some confidence in myself.”
“I take it, then, that you do have a plan.”
“Do indeed,” Loomis said. “But first things first. Why don’t you call up all those brand-new eighty-thousand-a-year file clerks over at your embassy? Tell them to be over at the Jaragua by ten o’clock. We’ll set up headquarters there. Arrangements are being made now. We’ll get the show on the road. Miles to go and all that crap.”
“What in the world would make you think we’ve got any new company men planted in the embassy?” Johnson asked.
“An axiom of the trade,” Loomis told him. “CIA intelligence officers always act like file clerks. The file clerks always act like CIA intelligence officers. But we’re giving you carte blanche. Call in all of them you need.”
“How will they get over there?”
“An escort will pick them up at the embassy at nine-forty,” Loomis said. “Most of the fighting is back toward the river. They shouldn’t have any trouble.”
“Your exact words last night, as I recall,” Johnson said. “And I almost got creamed three times on my way back to the hotel. Once by rebels and twice by your people.”
He went back to the phone and put a call through to the United States Embassy. Loomis spotted a tell-tale bulge in Johnson’s luggage. He went to it and pulled out a fifth of bourbon. He poured some into his coffee. Johnson cupped a hand over the mouthpiece.
“Help yourself,” he said.
Cup in hand, Loomis crossed to the dresser, where he picked up a leather case that had caught his eye. The Oriental girl who looked back at him from the frame was familiar, yet unfamiliar. He had difficulty matching this well-coiffed, fashionable, anglicized matron with the painfully thin waif he had known a dozen years ago. The children beside her were more exotic than Oriental. An attractive family. Beside the case was a stack of travel brochures. Johnson, always the tourist, saw the sights and absorbed local lore wherever he went.
And he had seen most of the world.
Johnson cradled the phone. “Listen,” he said. “The people at Langley are shitting little green apples. They want to know what you plan to do about the tanker.”
“I guess we can tell them now,” Loomis said. “Did they move some backup into Lisbon?”
“Half the force in Europe, apparently. That’s a big station to begin with. Now there must be a hundred men there. That enough?”
“Depends on how bright they are.” Loomis thought back over his plan. He still could find no hole in it. “All they’ve got to do is to find an authentic case of bubonic plague and check same into a Lisbon hospital within twenty-four hours or less.”
Johnson stared at him for a moment until comprehension came. “Im-fucking-possible!” he exploded. “You’re crazy!”
“That’s the trouble with you Civil Service types,” Loomis said. “No sense of challenge.”
Johnson considered the idea. “It might work,” he said. “It just might work. But there’s not enough time. Couldn’t we fake it?”
“No. We can’t risk the Hamlet people suspecting we’re onto them.”
“Can’t be done,” Johnson said. “Not within twenty-four hours.”
“Fifty bucks says it can.”
“You’re on. What’s the secret?”
“No secret. Just ingenuity and a lot of hard work.”
“Maybe you better tell me,” Johnson said. “Langley may be a little short on ingenuity this morning.”
“Think it out,” Loomis said. “We don’t want a registered case. This patient has to be completely unknown to authorities such as the World Health Organization. A patient that can’t be traced. So we can forget about most of civilization. But it’ll be found where bubonic plague is indigent. Any guesses?”
“India?”
“Close. Might do in a pinch. But I’m counting on Africa. That’s closer to Lisbon.”
“How will we find this patient? Put classifieds in all the papers?”
“Oh, Lord, Johnson, you’re supposed to be the expert on clandestine operations. Think, now. Who would have charge of a case of bubonic plague in some remote region of Africa?”
“A medical missionary?”
“Right. Some contemporary Doctor Livingston, a thousand miles out in the bush. Now, what do you suppose would entice such a man to make us the gift of a bona fide terminal case of bubonic plague?”
“How would I know? A new choir loft, maybe?”
“O.K., you’re dumb, so I’ll tell you. Only one thing would work: a good supply of medicine to salve his professional conscience. Advancement of science and all that. Isn’t there a pharmaceutical company among the Delaware corporations?”
Johnson nodded. After the CIA failed in its early efforts in the late forties and early fifties to plant intelligence officers among foreign news correspondents and the overseas ranks of existing commercial firms, special corporations were formed solely to serve as cover for agency men abroad. At the time, the State of Delaware offered the simplest and easiest route to incorporation. The many worldwide commercial operations of the CIA eventually became known in the trade as “the Delaware corporations.”
“Also, we’ll need a company man who knows medical jargon well enough to pass for an M.D. If you have an M.D., so much the better.”
“This is beginning to sound dirty.”
“I’ve had good teachers. Have Langley locate the headquarters of all churches and organizations that send missionaries into t
he outback. Put out the word through the pharmaceutical company: they’ve found a superdrug that just might cure advanced cases of the plague. It might stop this scourge of mankind once and for all, and so forth. They need a terminal patient to test the stuff on. The drug is extremely unstable, which is the reason for speed. They’ve just made up a fresh batch of it, and they hate to waste it. As far as the bush doctor is concerned, the drug — and the patient — are being flown to Lisbon for the most expedient rendezvous possible.”
“I’ll sure say one thing for you, Loomis,” Johnson said. “You’ve really got one hell of a devious mind.” He started toward the phone, but hesitated. “Does the patient necessarily have to be a terminal case? Wouldn’t a tolerably sick one work just as well?”
Loomis shook his head sadly. “Johnson, you’ve just got no class. That’s the key to the whole thing. The doctor is happy to get the dying man off his hands. After the damned drug doesn’t work, all we have to do is bury the patient and send the doctor a letter saying that was tough titty about his patient, but he has made a tremendous contribution to medical science.”
“I see,” Johnson said. “No loose ends dangling.”
Loomis nodded. “You’re learning,” he said.
Chapter 13
Minus 7 Days, 03:16 Hours
Loomis opened the meeting two hours later in a hastily prepared suite at the Jaragua. The site was a compromise. Loomis wanted to get away from the palacio and the routine traffic of government. Obviously, the Embajador was out. The press immediately would grow suspicious of the activity. And Loomis didn’t want to meet in the United States Embassy, for he knew that would be the first step toward losing control of the whole operation.
The suite was stripped of all furnishings except tables and chairs. All pictures, vases, and ornaments were removed in the interest of electronic sanitation. A plain green felt cloth covered the big table in the largest room. Ordinary saucers served as ashtrays. When the suite was ready, Loomis had his staff make one final electronic search. They found no indication that the suite was not clean.
The entire wing of the hotel was then sealed. Loomis placed well-tailored, well-armed men at strategic points. Any remaining tourists — or newspapermen — who happened to be strolling down the corridors would see nothing to arouse curiosity. To all outward appearances, the guards could be native businessmen waiting for their wives or local executives quietly conferring on some matter. But if a tourist or newspaperman happened to make a wrong turn, attempted to enter a wrong room, he would be guided politely but firmly in the right direction.
Communications to the suite were jerry-rigged, but sufficient. Three lines were patched into the switchboard at the embassy to maintain continuous contact with key offices in Washington and Europe.
At 9:45 the first of the group arrived. By ten all were present, seated solemnly at the long table. Of the entire group, only Loomis and Johnson — and perhaps Johnson’s two men — knew the purpose of the meeting. Only Loomis’s use of El Jefe’s name had convinced most of the Dominicans to attend on such short notice.
Facing them, Loomis experienced a strong sense of déjà vu. He’d been through this so many times — the planning before committing the troops.
He studied the faces of the men around the table.
Most seemed more irritated than curious. Loomis knew he would encounter varying degrees of hostility among them. That was natural. He wasn’t worried about it. But he was concerned that the hostility might stand in the way, that they might not accept his word on the urgency of the problem. The Dominican Republic had been so totally immersed in its own affairs for so many years, and the Dominicans had faced so many crises, that such an abstract, faceless danger would be difficult for them to accept.
Loomis rose. He opened in English, aware that all in the room spoke the language well enough to follow his meaning. “Most of you know me. Some don’t. I’m Loomis, chief of security to El Jefe. I’ll introduce you quickly, for we have little time to get acquainted. To my right is Colonel Escortia, who is here representing the army in the Distrito Nacional.”
He continued on around the table. Johnson and his two agency men. Dr. Ricardo Espinosa, chairman of the physics department at the university, who, Loomis had been surprised to learn, was one of the leading scientists in the world in his specialty of molecular structure. Admiral Manuel Marquez of the Dominican Navy, who had weathered a number of rough political seas to keep his post. Navy Captain Luis Martínez, superintendent of Santo Domingo’s dock facilities. Juan Camacho, in essence director of Dominican foreign affairs. Dr. Francisco Limantour of the medical systems at the university. José Galíndez, chief of the Policía Nacional.
With the introductions completed, Loomis paused. He lowered his voice to a confidential tone. “Last night, Mr. Johnson, representing the United States Government, informed the Dominican Republic of a critical situation. I spent the night discussing the matter with El Jefe and his advisers. He has assigned me to bring the matter to your attention.”
As he talked, Loomis made eye contact with each of the Dominican leaders, attempting to break through their antagonism, their natural resentment that he, a foreigner, had been selected to become the confidant of El Jefe, to convey orders to the country’s administrators.
“Before I go into the matter, let me make plain the structure of this meeting,” he said. “I am acting for El Jefe. He has made me responsible for the decisions, subject, of course, to his approval. You have been asked by El Jefe to be my advisers. Your counsel and expertise are urgently needed. The next two or three days will probably be the most memorable in your lives. I hope they are not the last days of your lives.”
Loomis gave the words time to take effect. The faces around the table were now a study in contrast.
He saw anger, curiosity, amusement, contempt, and surprise.
But he had reached them.
“Everything you are about to hear is in the utmost confidence,” he said. “Nothing revealed here is to leave this room. If you must divulge anything to an assistant, or if I feel I must, to my staff, we will all make the evaluation to do so.”
Loomis glanced at his watch. “I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. Less than forty-eight hours from now, a Liberian tanker is scheduled to arrive in Santo Domingo. She is scheduled to tie up alongside the docks in La Francia to off-load crude and some container cargo. The United States Government has information — has evidence — that a party or parties unknown have placed aboard that ship nuclear materials sufficient to construct a homemade but effective bomb well into the kiloton range. The United States believes that device will be detonated in Santo Domingo, probably within a week of the arrival of the material, unless we make a successful interception.”
Loomis waited patiently through the exclamations from around the table, then raised his hands for silence.
“I know this is a lot to absorb on such short notice. But we all have a lot of work to do. I hope you’ll keep this thought foremost in your minds: this is but one of two bombs to be constructed by this group. It’ll be set off without preamble, not as an attack on the Dominican Republic, but as an example to lend weight to an extortion attempt against the United States. We are not in a bargaining position, even if we knew who they are. We’ve got to find that bomb.”
He called on Johnson to fill the group in on the details. While Johnson talked, Loomis jotted down ideas on a legal pad, outlining the plan he’d mapped out with El Jefe.
Johnson described events leading up to the loading at the mouth of the Tagus, the aerial surveillance, and the various theories as to who might be behind the plot.
Colonel Escortia kept shaking his head in amazement, and Loomis made a mental note. Escortia, a man of action, might become a problem in a game of watch and wait. Dr. Espinosa, the molecular authority, was staring at the table, lost in thought. Of all the group, he alone had shown no surprise. The others listened to Johnson in stunned silence.
“We have no k
nowledge of what this Hamlet Group wants,” Johnson concluded. “But obviously, the United States and the Dominican Republic are in this together. My government offers every facility for your use in our mutual problem.”
He sat down, unbuttoned his collar, and loosened his tie. Loomis leaned back and braced his boots on the rungs of an empty chair. “Any questions so far?” he asked.
Dr. Espinosa looked up from his preoccupation with the table top. “Uranium or plutonium?” he asked.
“Our information is that uranium will be used for the Santo Domingo device,” Johnson told him. “Our man who managed to infiltrate the Hamlet Group learned, before he was killed, that the group also possesses plutonium. Their bomb maker chose uranium.”
“A mixed blessing,” Dr. Espinosa said. “And an understandable decision on his part. It perhaps would be less deadly in yield, but it would be much easier to construct and more certain, mechanically, to perform.”
“Why are you so certain Ramón isn’t connected with this?” Colonel Escortia asked.
“Primarily, because this is out of his league,” Loomis said. “We can’t be positive he doesn’t know about it. But for the moment I think we can assume he doesn’t. On the advice of El Jefe, I have leaked word to the press that the government would be receptive to dialogue with Ramón. We may need his cooperation on this. Obviously, his revolution will complicate matters. We may have to ask him for a cease-fire.”
Sharp glances told Loomis that the possibility didn’t sit well with the Dominican leaders.
But no one protested.
Galíndez of the Policía Nacional fixed his sleepy, heavily lidded stare on Johnson. “I have been to Langley for training by your agency,” he said. “I know of your computer, Octopus. I was told it contains names, descriptions, and modi operandi of thousands of criminals and political terrorists. Can’t Octopus help us on this?”
“We will call on Octopus,” Johnson said. “But a computer is only as useful as the information you can put into it. With this case, we have so few data. Perhaps, with developments, Octopus will be of some use.”
The Hamlet Warning Page 11