Loomis handed him the Heckler MP5 and an extra clip. They backed out into the hall. Johnson stopped to check the load.
“Give me time to get down there,” he said.
“Five minutes,” Loomis said. “No more. They’re probably already beginning to get nervous.”
Johnson went out the back way to circle the hotel. Loomis walked down the long corridor of the L-shaped building, to the balcony that jutted over the front entrance. The swimming pool was nestled in the angle of the L, with the pavilion at the far end.
Fortunately the revolution had driven the few remaining tourists inside. The corridors were deserted, and despite the heat no one was using the pool.
The reinforced concrete railing of the balcony was slightly more than waist high. Keeping low, Loomis moved to the front of the building, directly over the entrance where, except for a bit of luck, he would have been assassinated.
He waited five minutes by the sweeping second hand on his watch, flipped off the safety on his weapon, and stood up abruptly.
None of the gunmen had shifted position. They turned, bringing their weapons up. Loomis killed two with short bursts before return fire chewed into the concrete behind him.
Ducking below the balcony wall, Loomis waited until Johnson started the crossfire. Confident his target was otherwise occupied, Loomis again swung his weapon over the balcony. He fired a dozen rounds into a man fleeing down the driveway. He was knocked sprawling, his weapon bouncing along the gravel.
Johnson’s final burst sent the fourth man tumbling into the swimming pool.
Either there was no fifth man, or he had fled. Loomis walked cautiously down the first flight of steps, rounded the flagpole on the landing, then edged down the last half-flight. Inside the lobby, three hotel employees were flat on the floor, judiciously awaiting the outcome of the battle. No one was curious enough to come out and learn what had happened.
Loomis crossed the wide entranceway to the pool area. With his toe he rolled one of the assassins over onto his back into a spreading circle of blood.
He’d never seen the man before.
Johnson walked up, looking at the body in the water. “Shit, now I’ve messed up the pool for the tourist trade,” he said.
With the shooting over, Loomis allowed himself the luxury of anger. “Four of them. With AK-47s. Sons of bitches weren’t taking any chances, were they?”
“You should be flattered,” Johnson said. “You must have one hell of a reputation in this part of the world.”
“Let’s go,” Loomis said. “I feel like cracking a few heads tonight.”
Johnson pointed to the bodies. “Shouldn’t we tell the hotel people what to do with the debris?”
Loomis started back toward the jeep. “That’s their problem,” he said.
*
Minus 15:32 Hours
The streets of the Old Town lay relatively quiet and peaceful under a bright quarter-moon while both rebel and government troops made preparations for the battle anticipated at dawn. All electric power to that section of the city had been cut, and above the darkened buddings the stars were bright in a cloudless sky.
Loomis drove slowly toward the government headquarters at the old fort just north of the rebel lines. Johnson rode shotgun, keeping his Heckler at ready, watching the doorways and overhanging balconies.
“Tomorrow they’ll move on the palacio,” Loomis said.
“What are the odds?”
“For El Jefe, not so good,” Loomis said. “Not without help.”
“What are you going to do? Don’t you think it’s about time to bail out of this mess?”
“I’ve got several alternatives working,” Loomis told him. “What I’ll do depends on what happens. We’ve heard that a U.S. Navy task force left Gitmo yesterday, headed this way. You know anything about it?”
“Your sources on that are probably better than mine,” Johnson said.
“El Jefe may request intervention. Allowing for the bomb situation, what do you think are the odds on that?”
“My own opinion?”
“Yes.”
“Your best estimate would come from somebody at State,” Johnson said. “But since you ask me, I’ll tell you. I wouldn’t count on the President doing a damned thing.”
“But it could happen?” Loomis insisted.
“Depends on how much pressure is brought to bear, and from what direction. If Alcoa needs the bauxite, that’d bring pressure. If the sugar is needed, that’d be more. There are a lot of little factors that are beyond my purview. The President might risk it.”
“I admire a man with firm answers,” Loomis said. “What about the atomic bomb? Doesn’t that enter into it?”
“That’s one of the little factors I mentioned,” Johnson said.
Loomis parked the jeep on the sloping street in front of the old Santa Barbara Church. While Loomis lifted the hood, removed the distributor cap, and lifted out the rotor, Johnson backed into the street, looking up at the old church with its ancient arches, grilled windows, and impressive bell tower.
“That thing must be old as hell,” he said. “When was it built?”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, Johnson,” Loomis said, irritated. “Do you always have to be the fucking tourist?”
“I’m serious,” Johnson protested.
“Hell, I don’t know. But it’s fairly modern. Built some time in the seventeen-hundreds. Now the old fort, where we’re going, is more your speed. It was built in fifteen-seventy-four.”
They passed through a checkpoint manned by six government marines. Then they climbed the six tiers of steps leading up through a flowered park to the fortress. A row of ancient cannon, unused for centuries, still pointed out over the harbor. Loomis could see two of El Jefe’s generals sitting on a cannon in the moonlight, deep in a heated argument. One of the generals, Eduardo Arango Jimenez, wanted to move artillery and tanks from the Duarte Bridge westward to form a wedge between El Conde Gate and the palacio. He pointed out that the rebels for the moment had little use for the bridge. He doubted any effort would be made to capture the bridge or its approaches. The other general, Jorge Gomez Franco, thought the rebel advance on the palacio could best be thwarted by a heavy attack on the flank. Gomez pointed out that tanks and artillery could sweep southward at daylight, diverting rebel attention from making any more efforts toward the west.
Loomis joined them and listened quietly to the debate, asking occasional questions to pinpoint troops and lines of contact. Johnson wandered away, examining the old fort.
The discussion continued more than an hour. At one point the generals asked Loomis for his opinion. He agreed that both plans had merit. A combination of the two might be best, he pointed out. If the rebels could be contained at El Conde Gate, only time might be gained. On the next try the rebels might succeed. But if they were contained at the gate, while a thrust southward along the river managed to cut their lines of supply, then defeat would be clear-cut.
The generals were dubious. They felt the government lacked the manpower for such a wide front. Loomis didn’t argue with them.
The only person he had to convince was El Jefe.
Eventually, he tired of the talk. He felt he knew the lines and general dispersion of forces as well as could be expected. He only needed one more bit of information.
“Where is Ramón’s center of operations?” he asked.
“The Primate Cathedral seems to be the staff headquarters,” Gomez said. “But Ramón isn’t there. We don’t know where he is. We suspect he may be with a force somewhere in reserve.”
“Who seems to be running things over there?”
“Professor Salamanca of the university.”
“Formerly of the university,” Loomis said.
They laughed. Loomis shook hands with them and wished them luck. After rounding up Johnson, he returned to the jeep, thinking.
The plan that kept nagging him was just crazy enough to work.
“You like to ha
ve some fun?” he asked Johnson.
“It all depends,” Johnson said. “What’s your idea of fun?”
“The rebel headquarters is in the Primate Cathedral, just a few blocks south of here. We might sort of reconnoiter, see what’s going on down there.”
Johnson made a silent whistle. “Look, Loomis, I know these rebel guys are amateurs. But I assume they know enough to post a few guards, load their rifles, and all that.”
“You worry too much,” Loomis said. “We can move right down the riverbank. We ought to be able to take care of anyone we happen to run into.”
“Loomis, you’re nuts. You know that? What would be the point?”
“They tried to kill me tonight. I’d like to stir up their shit a little.”
“People have been trying to kill you for thirty years now. You’ve never taken it personal before.”
“It’s always personal.”
“The girl. That’s it. You must be worried about the girl. You wouldn’t let a friendly little ambush upset you so.”
Loomis let his irritation show. “Of course I’m worried about María Elena. Why not? She should be back by now. There’s only one explanation. Ramón doesn’t believe her story about the bomb. He’s holding her hostage. And he’s going to use her in some way.”
“I guess I’m just dense,” Johnson said. “But what good would we do her over there blowing hell out of things?”
“I just want to bring back one of Ramón’s stud ducks,” Loomis explained. “The Professor, or some other honcho. Then I’d be in a position to talk about a hostage exchange. And it’s the only way I know to talk to Ramón direct about a cease-fire.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? That makes sense, even to me. What are the odds?”
“A battalion of U.S. Marines probably couldn’t get it done before daylight,” Loomis said. “I figure it might take you and me a couple of hours.”
Johnson laughed and picked up his Heckler. He slowly but firmly slipped a cartridge into the chamber. “Loomis, I’ll sure say one thing for you,” he said. “You don’t leave a fellow much room to say no.”
Chapter 25
Minus 13:18 Hours
From the old fort they moved downriver, carefully avoiding where possible the open patches of moonlight, taking their time, frequently standing motionless for several minutes to make certain they didn’t blunder into rebel troops.
They passed the Alcazar, tall and unreal in the moonlight. Johnson seemed far more excited over the Alcazar than at the possibility of running into soldiers. Loomis had to explain, in whispers, that the castle originally was built by Christopher Columbus’s son, Diego, in 1510, and for many years served as the seat of government in Spanish America. Apparently the restored palace remained unharmed. Loomis literally had to pull Johnson away from it.
Moving with even more caution, Loomis edged closer to the river as they neared the docks. Twice they circled around rebel checkpoints, avoiding contact.
When Loomis sighted the Tower of Homage he turned away from the river, but Johnson was not to be denied.
“What is that?” he whispered.
“Oh shit, Johnson, why don’t you buy a guidebook?”
Loomis fumed. He explained that the old fortress, dating back to 1505, had been restored, and was still used by the military. He figured the rebels would be concentrated there.
They were. From a distance, Loomis could see a hundred or more soldiers bivouacking near the tower.
By contrast, the rebel headquarters in the Primate Cathedral appeared deserted. Two lone sentries stood at the heavy pair of wooden doors inset into the thick, flaking walls. Only two feeble lanterns lighted the courtyard. The faint light glinted softly off the ancient sunburst of stained glass over the doorway. Carefully, Loomis studied the bell tower to the right of the doors. Each bell had a separate arch to protect it from the weather. But the crumbling bricks sheltered no snipers. He studied the roofline. He could see where the original white walls were stained by streaks of rust from the roof. But he could see no snipers posted on the roof. He signaled to Johnson. They hunkered down by a wall across the marble courtyard and watched the entrance.
After a quarter of an hour, they heard voices approaching. Four men came out of the darkness talking, laughing. Loomis gathered that someone had messed his pants during a crucial part of the day’s action. The rebels seemed to think the subject funny. Loomis watched carefully as they walked into the faint light around the doorway. The sentries gave them respectful salutes as they entered the cathedral.
Johnson looked at Loomis.
Loomis shook his head.
Ten minutes later, five more officers came from the direction of the tower and entered the cathedral. Loomis recognized a familiar shape.
“The sloppy little one with the beard and glasses,” he whispered. “That’s the son of a bitch we want.”
Johnson pointed to his watch. Five minutes until twelve. The rebel brass apparently were attending a midnight briefing to cover last-minute details for the morning attack. Loomis waited ten more minutes to make certain the guards were not being relieved at midnight.
“Let’s go,” he whispered to Johnson. “I’ll take the one on the right.”
As they walked casually, confidently, across the courtyard toward the cathedral door, Loomis began talking to Johnson in a low voice.
“The colonel” expected him to do all the work, and could never be found when needed, Loomis complained in Spanish. Johnson nodded and made sympathetic grunts. The guards glanced in their direction, but seemed unconcerned. Not until they were within ten feet, as the light from the lanterns fell across their faces, did one rebel become suspicious. He was bringing his gun up, on the point of challenge, when Loomis hit him.
His first blow, a horizontal chop to the trachea, stunned the youth. As he bent forward, choking, fighting for air, Loomis brought a vertical chop down across the base of his cranium. The cervical vertebrae parted with a sickening crunch. Loomis caught the soldier’s rifle before it clattered to the pavement.
As Loomis turned, Johnson’s man dropped onto the stones, his head rolling over to rest at an odd angle. Johnson obviously had not lost his touch with his favorite punch: a heel-of-the-palm jab to the chin. Loomis had never liked the blow. Too much depended on angle and timing. But the whiplash effect could be devastating. Johnson always achieved spectacular results. The man was dead.
“I hated to do that,” Johnson said softly. “I think if I lived in this flea-bitten country, I’d be on his side.”
Loomis handed the rifles to Johnson. He checked inside the doorway, then dragged the bodies inside while Johnson kept watch. Beyond the entry way the church was dark. Loomis propped the bodies behind one of the massive pillars.
He moved the lanterns to cast even more shadow on the doorway, put Johnson in position, and stepped back to estimate their chances. In their khakis, standing in the shadows, they might pass as rebel sentries. In any event, the element of surprise would be in their favor. He put his Heckler within easy reach and took up his post with the M16 rifle.
“I just want the Professor,” he explained to Johnson. “We’ll let the rest leave, if we can. If not, we’ll waste them. And if anything happens to me, head west, right up that street, until you reach Calle Piña. That ought to put you in the clear.”
“I’m wearing my dogtags,” Johnson said. “If anything happens to you, I’ll just drop myself in the nearest mailbox.”
They waited in silence for almost an hour before they heard sounds from inside the church. Loomis tried to estimate the number from the approaching footsteps before they came through the door, deep in an argument over the proper placement of rocket launchers. Six officers passed within an arm’s length of Loomis, hardly aware of his presence. None fitted the rotund shape of the Professor.
Loomis breathed easier as the group walked across the courtyard and disappeared in the direction of the tower. Johnson grinned and tossed them a b
elated, mock salute.
The next group came so quietly Loomis didn’t hear them until they were near the door. Three came through first, several steps ahead of the Professor and a companion. The five started across the marble courtyard. Loomis heard no sounds from inside the church. He reached for the Heckler.
“Freeze!” he called to the five. “Anyone who moves is dead!”
Exposed in the open courtyard, the rebel officers obeyed their better instincts. They stopped, motionless, hands well away from their bodies.
“Now, put your hands on top of your heads,” Loomis said. “Move!” He gave them a few breaths to contemplate their vulnerability. He still heard no sounds from inside the church. “Now turn around, slow, and face me,” he ordered.
He watched Professor Salamanca’s face as recognition came, and in that moment Loomis was certain that the Professor was the one who had ordered him assassinated.
Johnson moved out, flanking. Loomis side-stepped to the doorway.
“Come in, gentlemen,” he said. “One at a time, please.”
The lanterns inside were of better design — Coleman’s with mantles. But they were turned low. Beyond, the church was dark. The meeting apparently was being conducted deep within the building. Loomis motioned the rebel officers into a line along a wall, then knelt to turn up a lantern.
Johnson entered and stopped, staring up at the shrine. “Good God, what in hell is that?” he asked.
“The tomb of Columbus,” Loomis told him. “His bones are in that lead box over there.”
“No shit!” Johnson said. He went over for a closer look.
“Who’s your friend?” the Professor asked Loomis.
“Just a tourist I picked up.”
The Professor snorted. “He smells like CIA to me.”
“Believe me, he’s a tourist,” Loomis said.
“You guys sure make it tough for a fellow to see the sights,” Johnson complained. He moved in and took their sidearms, a collection of Berettas, Llamas, and Colt automatics, taking care not to interfere with Loomis’s field of fire.
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