Bolo remained in his pilot seat as Yaquita and Smith climbed down the plane's folding stairs to the ground, then walked toward the horsemen, carrying their suitcases. Yaquita also brought her spy-radio/guitar.
"Do we have to go through customs?" Smith asked.
The vaqueros stood in their stirrups, waving their ribbons and roaring a greeting, "Ai! Pedrito!" He saw broad grins and many gold teeth.
Yaquita waved back at them, clutching Smith's arm possessively. Smith shook his head as he stared at the horsemen welcoming him.
"You see, Pedrito?" Yaquita said, smiling. "This is your home, whether you like it or not."
Chapter 22
LEAVING THE DISTANT, misty mountains behind, the ancient Spanish coach rolled across the vast grassy highland plains. The horses galloped down a rutted and puddled road.
Before slamming the door of the plush coach, Yaquita had kissed Smith goodbye, then ran back to the plane with the pilot, claiming other "important business" she had to attend to. She'd warned the coachmen sternly before she left, "I think Pedrito hurt his head or something. He is acting just a little loco. Take good care of him, and get him to the hacienda safely, or I'll rip out your eyes and feed them to the crows. Understand?"
Smith had no idea what he was supposed to do now, or how he would make his way with these strangers. They wouldn't believe that he wasn't Pedrito.
Perhaps, at least, they would have a telephone wherever he was going, and he could call Admiral Turner. Maybe then he could get this whole mess straightened out.
Smith sat on the coach's narrow padded wooden bench across from an enormous major-domo. Straining brass buttons barely held his black vest together across his gut.
The major-domo gazed fondly at his redheaded passenger and patted Smith on the knee. "Ai, Pedrito, how glad I am to see you again!" He swept his chubby hand out the window to indicate the plain. "You'll be glad to hear that everything on Rancho Miraflores is just fine, the whole five thousand square kilometers. We're taking very good care of it for you, awaiting your return."
"But I've never been here before," Smith said, and then the number registered in his mind. He looked at the major-domo. "Five thousand square kilometers?"
The enormous man put his head close to Smith, conspiratorially. He smelled of bacon grease. "Thanks to you, sly Pedrito, I think we'll add a little more territory to the rancho soon. After the wedding. Ha-ha-ha."
Compared to Yaquita's tiny balcony room in the Cantina de Espejos, the bedroom of the villa was the size of a baronial hall. Colorfijl Indian blankets woven from alpaca wool hung on the whitewashed walls, displayed diagonally alongside quirts, spurs, riatas. A carved mahogany wardrobe held twenty-five outfits, all exactly in Smith's size.
The out-of-place lieutenant walked through the arched doorway, gawking in astonishment, sure that he had gone into the wrong bedchamber. Before he could ask any questions, an ancient, gray-haired servitor rushed to him on wobbling legs. The old man threw his arms about Smith. "Ai! Pedrito! Como estds?"
The servitor held him off to look at him, paternally smoothing down Smith's mussed hair. Veins stood out on the old man's sinew, big-knuckled hands. "How glad I am to see you!
Smith decided it wasn't worth arguing with the man about his identity. At least Pedrito was liked around here, for a change.
The servitor led Smith off toward a side room with a tiled bath raised up on marble slabs. Freshly cut roses and carnations in crystal vases scented the room. "Come, Pedrito! Have a bath and get into some of your decent cloihesl You can't present yourself to your father looking that way!"
Smith stopped in amazement. "My father?" He knew he would never get past a father's scrutiny, and these people might actually get mad if they thought he was trying to deceive them. "I'm not Pedrito Miraflores. I'm an orphan!"
"Everything will be forgiven, I am sure, after all that you have accomplished for the people of our country. We're quite aware of your escapades, and your mother has convinced the don that your heart must have been in the right place. Passion runs high in your family!" The servitor laughed. "Your madcap pranks have outdone even the things your father did when he was younger." He lowered his voice, "I think the old man is secretly proud of you, eh?"
"Really, I'm not Pedrito! My name is Tom Smith. I'm from New York, and I work for the Navy. You're all making a huge mistake!"
The servant clucked his tongue sympathetically, "Ah, the bump on the head . . ." He smoothed back Smith's red hair, touched one of the bumps on his forehead—Smith couldn't recall whether he'd gotten it from Yaquita or the muggers in the Grande Hotel. "I heard about that. Well, of course you are Pedrito Miraflores. I changed your diapers when you were young. How could I not recognize you?"
Another servant stood in the bathroom door with plush towels and a robe draped over his arm. The old servitor swept his hand out expressively. "See how nice they've kept your room— and that says something, doesn't it?" Now he slid in a few words, as if hoping to jog Smith's memory of his childhood, "Considering how you always made such a mess when you were a rambunctious boy."
Smith stared at the trappings, the furniture, the spaciousness. Now this was a lot better than being chased and shot at. His vacation had been a disaster, and, so far, he hadn't really been able to enjoy himself. Any time soon, these people would realize their mistake, and Smith felt sure they would be properly embarrassed and help him straighten this whole mess out. But for the moment, he decided he'd simply relax and enjoy.
The old man beamed to the servant standing in the door. "Paco, draw Pedrito's bath! Can't you see he's in need of some relaxation? I think he's going to raise a little hell while he is with us, so let him rest and get his strength for now."
Smith stood speechless. No one had ever expected him to raise hell in his life.
Later, he tugged his fancy new clothes into shape, though they were already in perfect order. He wasn't used to being dressed like a Spanish grandee: gray bolero jacket, lace-front shirt, tight gray pants and cummerbund. It made his formal Navy uniform seem like casual clothes. He wondered if he was going to some sort of costume ball or a fiesta.
More than that, he felt bothered by something else. He'd begun to wonder about things. Everyone here thought he was Pedrito Miraflores, and treated him accordingly. Yaquita, the police, servants and strangers on the street. Even these clothes fit him as if they'd been tailored to his body.
And it caused him to wonder. Is it possible that I am Pedrito Miraflores? Could I have really bumped my head and be suffering from amnesia or some kind of delusions?
He'd always thought that alcohol made him sick, yet now he found that he loved the taste of rum. And everyone here thought he was Pedrito.
What if I go back to New York and find that I don't really have a job in the Navy? he wondered. What if I went home and the apartment I think I live in is locked, or what if the whole neighborhood never existed?
Is it possible that I could be Pedrito?
As strange as the thought had seemed at first. Smith began to wonder, and the more he considered, the more frightened he became. It all sort of made sense. Pedrito Miraflores was apparently a bad man, a murdering revolutionary who had no love for Americans.
But if I felt guilty for my deeds, Smith thought, and if I were hit on the head and were suffering from amnesia, so that I constructed a new identity for myself—wouldn't it be possible that I just might take on the identity of an alter ego, the man I wish I were, rather than who I am?
The idea seemed baffling, terrifying. But it also seemed plausible. Smith was an orphan, a man who had no wife or girlfriend or even close drinking buddies at home. Such an empty life in so many ways—as if his mind, unable to concoct a suitable fiction, had simply left the whole field of human relationships blank. Even his name, Tom Smith, seemed a handy fiction.
Smith had been worried that he would get home and find that his life had been shattered, that because he'd gone AWOL, everything would fall apart. Now he began to
wonder. What life? What if I lost my apartment, and my phone bill went unpaid? When was the last time anyone of import called me? Do I even have a life?
It was with such thoughts that the old servitor led him to an immense library in the villa. Red Moroccan leather chairs and sofas with brass studs were spaced on terra-cotta tiles around a big fireplace. A wrought-iron chandelier hung from the arched ceiling. Standing lamps lit the bookshelves and a huge mahogany desk where an ancient Remington typewriter sat. An antelope head was mounted above the fireplace, and a large bull's head hung on the opposite wall. The far door of the study stood closed and imposing.
The heavy door opened, and Don Pedro, Pedrito's father, strode in dressed exactly like Smith. He was a very proud grandee, his pale hair turned an iron gray, as was his neatly clipped goatee.
"Ai, Pedrito," the elder man said, his expression severe. "So you have finally come home. I thought you'd forgotten who you are, what family blood flows through your veins."
Smith remained confused, but leaped at the chance to ask a question. "All right, sir—perhaps you can indeed explain it all to me. Who am I, really?"
The father clapped his hands briskly, his eyes flashing fire. "You are Pedrito Miraflores Santa Garcia de Consolvo Guzman y Hildago Clarida," his father said, "and don't you forget it! You are a descendant of the barons of Germany and the grandees of Spain."
"I am?" Smith said. The father seemed certain. This Pedrito fellow was getting more and more interesting all the time.
"Indeed you are!" The father paused and looked even more severe. "And you are also a reprobate, a turncoat to your class, a drunken sot, a despoiler of women and a complete disgrace!"
"Oh, no!" Smith said. "That couldn't be true."
"Yes, it is true!" the father said, emphatically. "And don't interrupt me! Now that you have come home to stay, I can begin to repair the damage you have done to the Miraflores reputation. I still have political influence. I can contact the President of the Republic of Colodor. By posting, shall we say, a bond, I can get you amnesty, remove the price from your head, and you can setfle down like a good son. Get married, make me a grandfather."
Smith's head spun. Why was everyone talking about marriage all the time? He felt certain that he'd never wanted to be married. In fact, he felt certain that his whole uncertainty over the past few hours had just been a moment's irrational fear. "But sir—I'm sorry to contradict you, but—"
"No argument! Go see your mother! Go! Before I change my mind and banish you to work on the llama ranch for five years." He shooed Smith off, chasing him down the hall. "Oh, and welcome home, son!"
Pedrito's mother was about fifty. Her hair was nearly the same shade as Smith's, but tinged with gray. She wore a black lace dress with a mantilla comb perched in the back of her hair. She sat in the drawing room in a brass-studded armchair and fanned herself with a black, folding Spanish fan.
Seeing Smith approach, she sprang out of her chair to throw her arms about him. "Ai! Pedrito!" she cried. "Oh, my darling son! At last you have come back to your mamacitar She stepped back, holding his arms, staring at his clothes. She stroked his face, and tears streamed down her cheeks.
Her emotional reaction made Smith terribly embarrassed— so disconcerted, in fact, that he didn't dare even tell her he wasn't really her son. He had never been treated this way before.
Once the woman had mastered her display and sat back down in her chair, she looked up at him, censoriously. "I've prayed and prayed day and night for you to reform, Pedrito." She jabbed her closed fan in his direction. "Tell me, have you given up drink?"
He was about to answer emphatically that he never touched alcohol ... and then recalled he had indeed been drinking lately, but it was only the small amount of Yaquita's rum. Well, a moderate amount. "Oh, yes! Well, I mean mostly."
The mother clearly tried to maintain a severe expression, but she could not stop her doting. "And gambling?"
"I never gamble," Smith said, shocked. "That's for sure." But then he remembered the contest he had won. But that didn't really count, did it?
"And loose women?" She raised her eyebrows.
"Oh, heavens no!" He blushed crimson as he remembered Yaquita. "Well, I mean, sort of." Smith couldn't keep up this act much longer. He needed to sit down. Even more so, he needed to fly back home to New York, and get his life back to normal.
The mother leaned back in her chair with a sigh of satisfaction. "You see, Pedrito? My prayers are answered." Smith thought she would have been happy with him, no matter what he said. "The good God reigns in Heaven, and all is well here on our Miraflores ranch."
She coyly reached forward and tapped him with her fan. "Now that you have been properly welcomed home and properly scolded by your mother and your father, I have a surprise for you!" Her dark eyes gleamed.
The mother raised her voice toward the lacy curtain that blocked a side room. "He's here! You can come in now, Bonita, my dear."
A gorgeous blonde swept aside the frilly curtain, flouncing in to greet him. Her gown was a descending poem of ruffles; she wore a white comb in her hair and a white mantilla. Her large catlike eyes were the color of gleaming Colodoran emeralds, her skin a dusky bronze.
In a theatrical gesture, Bonita stepped out and spread her arms wide. "Ai! Pedrito!"
She engulfed him in an embrace. Smith had no recourse but to return the hug. His face above her shoulder stared at Pedrito's mother. "Uh, who's this? Do I know you, miss?"
Bonita giggled and then hugged Smith again.
"This is your childhood sweetheart, of course!" the mother said. "See how little Bonita has grown!"
Bonita kissed him so avidly that Pedrito's mother covered her eyes with her black fan. When Smith did not respond to the blonde's passion, she pushed him back. "Why, Pedrito! Don't you know me? That little bump on the head may have made you forget everyone else, but certainly you wouldn't forget me."
"Well," Smith mumbled, "it's kind of sudden ... uh, Bonita. Was that your name?"
Clucking like a hen, the mother stood up and waved her fan at them. "Why don't you children change your clothes and go for a lovely horseback ride? Enjoy yourselves while I discuss the marriage plans with your father." "Marriage?" Smith said. "Again?"
The mother beamed at him. "Of course, you silly boy. Bonita's family owns half the next province. Once you are married, our ranch will double in size. You two have been betrothed since you were five."
"We have?" Smith said.
"Come along, you silly monkey." Bonita locked her arm in his. "You don't get out of it that easily. We've got a lot of plans to make." She whispered into his burning ear, "And a lot of . . . practicing to do!"
The mother waved happily as they went out into the hall.
Chapter 23
BACK IN LIEUTENANT Tom Smith's New York apartment, Pedrito Miraflores felt like a trapped animal. The place was offensively clean and neat. The air smelled of antiseptic fluids and air fresheners instead of sweat, liquor, bad food and cigarettes. How could Smith stand it?
Pedrito single-handedly engaged in a valiant attempt to make the place more livable.
First, he bought several rank cigars—not good Cuban cigars, unfortunately, and smoked them one after the other until the apartment air was laden with their stench. Though they were bad American cigars, it had been so long since he'd had a decent smoke, even these were tolerable.
Then Pedrito stalked about, tearing down the paintings of beautiful sunsets and big-eyed puppy dogs, leaving only crooked nails and dangling picture wires, which seemed to him more appropriate. He went into the bathroom and left the toilet seat up.
Now all the place needed were some cockroaches, a stray dog or two, some scorpions and a few chickens.
In the kitchen cupboards, Smith had neatly lined up all of the cans. The grocery list clipped to his freezer door had been typed. Pedrito didn't find a single item of spoiled food in the refrigerator.
Shaking his head sadly, Pedrito couldn't figure ou
t how a man could live like this. It sickened him.
He flicked on the TV and saw that Smith had preset the cable box to the local public broadcasting station. Pedrito clicked from station to station until he finally settled on a series of bad movies, after which he watched an hour of all-star wrestling.
Finally, nursing his own bottle of tequila, he felt more relaxed.
He went into the bedroom, opened the closet and saw Smith's Navy uniforms all hanging neatly, their creases crisply ironed, top buttons buttoned. With a mischievous smile, he shook the hangers, ruffling the clothes. He jostled the shoes lined up in ranks on the floor until the pairs were all mixed up. At this, he laughed out loud.
Hour by hour, this place seemed more and more like home. Smith would thank him when—or if—he ever came back. But that wasn't part of the plan. Smith was the patsy, and he was the infiltrator. Once he had passed along all the secrets from Naval Intelligence, this identity would be useless, and Pedrito Miraflores would be free to become himself again.
If Smith happened to get himself killed down in Colodor in the meantime, then Pedrito's legendary ability to escape death would be enhanced even more.
Pedrito rumpled the bed, tore off the bedspread and the mattress cover, grabbed a pillow and decided to sleep on the floor. He could feel the warm glow of tequila in his stomach, could smell the residual odor of cigar smoke in the air. Yet something was missing.
He went out to the dumpster, found someone else's rotten trash, and brought it in and dumped it in the kitchen.
He curled up on a lumpy blanket on the hard floor, and smiled as he sank down into the pillow. This was more like it.
Now he felt he could face the rest of his mission.
Chapter 24
AT THE MIRAFLORES' HACIENDA, Smith stood uncertainly beside a corral. He wore the fancy leather bolero and flat-topped hat of a vaquero with silver conchas, a wide riding belt, gaucho pants, and boots to complete his outfit. He was supposed to go out riding with Bonita, but he wasn't sure he even knew how to get into a saddle.
Ai! Pedrito! When Intelligence Goes Wrong Page 11