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  De Santiago turned to the window again as he considered his friend’s words, watching the woman and his children play. Beyond the wall that surrounded the pool were an expanse of green lawn, tall trees, and beautifully flowering shrubs. Emerald hummingbirds flitted about the flowers, doing a dance with the butterflies.

  So very peaceful. So damned deceptive.

  "Very well, Phillipe. As usual, very complete and well done. Thank you.” The tall man sat down. De Santiago turned next to a short, swarthy man sitting at the far end of the massive table. “Alvene, what of the scientists?"

  The little man was sweating profusely, as always. Alvene Dura dabbed at his forehead and neck with a large handkerchief as he spoke.

  "El Jefe, we have a slight problem on that count. Ramirez has reported the trial shipment may have been a bit too strong. He has reported several cases of overdosing within the first week of use in our initial test market." Alvene Dura used the sodden handkerchief to swab at his upper lip and at the folds of skin beneath his chin. He had fought side-by-side with de Santiago and, despite his awkward appearance, hair-trigger temper, and tendency to perspire, he was one of the bravest, most loyal men the leader had ever seen. "We have the scientists already at work on a slightly milder mixture. Unfortunately, one of them, Senor Djenka, became homesick for his puta in Bucharest. He tried to escape down the mountains. His body is feeding the piranhas in the Rio Napo now. His work was key to making the milder dosage work, maintaining its addictive quality without the…shall we say…serious side effects? I am afraid his notes died with him. We still have much work to do."

  De Santiago nodded.

  "You acted correctly, Alvene. We have time to correct the formula of the mix while we dance with the Asians and complete the delivery mechanism. Meanwhile, make certain that we don't ship any more to Carlos. We can't risk the Americans sensing something new and finding out about our producto especial until all is ready."

  Alvene Dura nodded vigorously, the perspiration dripping off his nose as he did. Next, de Santiago turned to the only Anglo in the room.

  "Senor Holbrooke, what do you have to tell us?"

  The dapper Donald Holbrooke was dressed immaculately. He wore a tropical weight seersucker suit, a lavender silk shirt, and with a conservative striped power tie perfectly knotted at his neck. He cleared his throat before he spoke and, when he did, the Haavaad accent was overdone.

  "El jefe, I am afraid that it is not good news. Our Swiss accounts are near empty. The American Treasury Service discovered the Liechtenstein accounts shortly after they found the ones in the Caymans. Both have been confiscated."

  Angry murmuring broke out amongst the group. De Santiago raised his hand for silence.

  "Compadres, please allow Senor Holbrooke to continue."

  Holbrooke adjusted his tie. He had a tendency to smile, showing his perfect teeth, even when the news he delivered was not what the group wanted to hear.

  "Thank you, Mr. de Santiago. As I was saying, both accounts were confiscated for a total loss of four-hundred-and-fifty million dollars, U.S. On the bright side, our investments in the U.S. tobacco companies and the U.S. HMOs are showing better than fifteen per cent returns on a per annum basis. We will net about one-hundred-and-fifty million dollars on those investments alone this year. Our land holdings in Miami, Los Angeles and New York have appreciated by ten percent this year for a net gain of about seventy-five million."

  Holbrooke paused to check his notes. The group squirmed uncomfortably. This pompous gringo had a tendency to drone on and on for hours about money and investments and amortization of bond debt.

  “Pay no attention to the others,” de Santiago urged. “We must manage the revolution as a business in order for us to realize its glorious potential.”

  The business end was why Holbrooke was there. He owed no allegiance to the people or their struggle against the capitalists. He was as pure a capitalist as there was.

  "Yes, thank you. I must remind you, as I told you when we made them, that those investments I’ve just detailed are not liquid. It will take a year or more to unwind them without running the risk of being discovered. Meanwhile, gentlemen, we have ourselves a cash flow problem."

  Alvene Dura’s well-known hot temper flared and he jumped to his feet, his face immediately livid.

  "And just what is this cash flow problem, gringo? Could it be that you have stolen more from us than even the American authorities?"

  Dura made a move to reach for the wicked razor-sharp belt knife he always carried but de Santiago was already holding up his hand, motioning impatiently for him to sit back down.

  Holbrooke had taken an unconscious step backward, toward the door. Dura was closer to the truth than anyone in the room could imagine. He would gut him for sure if he had any suspicion that Holbrooke had been siphoning off large chunks of their money. He could feel the cold beads of sweat trickling down the back of his neck. He had to remind himself that the fat, sweaty little man had no way of learning about the Swiss bank accounts. De Santiago knew full well his financial expert was taking a stipend off the top. El Jefe just had no idea of the magnitude of that cut or he would have demanded more for his own kickback. Ten percent was a small price for him to charge for the risks he took on their behalf. Any good investment counselor would charge roughly the same fee for a like amount of work.

  Still, if any of the other men around this table ever found out, Donald Holbrooke would be supper for the crows before that day’s sunset. And he knew it only too well. The risk was worth it.

  De Santiago slammed his fist down on the table when Dura continued to stand there, glaring at the American.

  "Alvene, control your temper. Don’t ever forget that Senor Holbrooke is one of us. If I killed everyone who brought me bad news, you would all have long since been with your ancestors in heaven. And especially you, mi amigo, with the report you have brought us today."

  Alvene fell heavily back down into his chair, his face still crimson. With great difficulty he said, "Forgive me, El Jefe. We risk so much only to have our money stolen by the Americans.” He shot a seething look at Holbrooke. “It angers me. That’s all."

  De Santiago waved his hand, acknowledging the half-hearted apology and signaling Holbrooke to continue.

  "As I was saying, we have a cash flow problem. With the current liquid assets and available revenues, we will not be able to meet payments as soon as next quarter. We need to either scale back our expenses or increase revenues."

  De Fuka looked at de Santiago and spoke.

  "Surely our friends in Iran and Pakistan will extend us credit? Are not our enemies also their enemies?"

  De Santiago shook his head sadly. De Fuka was his most accomplished aide. The one man in this room with which he would trust his own soul if need be.

  "My friend, it is a cash-and-carry world. There is no credit there. But the timing is right. One of the first issues you will have to negotiate with Sui's people is the matter of a considerable cash payment to become a part of our alliance. Senor Holbrooke, how much do we need?"

  Holbrooke thought for a few seconds. Forty million dollars would cover their expenses nicely at the current rate, and until they had the exportation of their new product well into the pipeline. Still, he could smell opportunity here. He did rapid calculations in his head, the smile never leaving his lips.

  "El Jefe, we must have at least sixty million to cover the next quarter until shipment of the new product, fifty million if we scale back the efforts of the revolution until we have positive cash flow again."

  The latter option would never be approved. Sixty million would be the figure.

  De Santiago nodded slowly and turned again to de Fuka.

  "You must get sixty million. That will be Sui's down payment to participate in this operation. We are too close to our goal to scale back now."

  “I will do my best,” de Fuka said.

  “I am sure you will,” the leader said, turning next to the three men who sa
t together at the far end of the conference table, the final three members of his inner circle. Each of them wore camouflage uniforms and had so far remained silent for the entire meeting. “Now we require a report from the jungles, from the front lines of the revolution, from the brave men who continue the fight even as we enjoy our cognac and shrimp cocktails here this morning. Colonel Abella?”

  When the dark-skinned soldier stood, he uncoiled to over six feet tall and his bulk seemed to fill the room. He remained at attention as he spoke, his eyes steely and firmly focused on his leader.

  “We have had a total of seven ambush assaults on government troops in the past ten days, all, I am pleased to report, with great success. We lost a dozen of our brave freedom fighters but we claimed the souls of over forty of El Presidente’s traitors. It remains our mission to strike like a cobra, without warning, and to further demoralize the enemies of the people of our country until they are ultimately liberated by our leader, El Jefe.”

  There was enthusiastic applause from everyone around the table as the monstrous man sat back down. Applause from everyone except Donald Holbrooke. The American was studying his fingernails, considering his need for a manicure at the soonest opportunity.

  “Colonel Marquez?” de Santiago said when the ovation died. “Your report on internal security?”

  Marquez's most distinguishing feature was a long, pink scar that ran from the outside corner of his left eye, across the bridge of his nose and to just below his right ear. Legend had it he had killed another dozen men in hand-to-hand combat even after having his face split open by the bayonet of an enemy of the revolution.

  “Only one rat has been trapped since our last meeting, El Jefe. He was leaking word of the whereabouts of Colonel Abella’s guerillas and was directly responsible for the losses the colonel mentioned in his report. We cut the throats of his wife and each of his five children while he watched, then removed his limbs and ran his torso up the flag pole in the village square so his neighbors could see the results of his treason.”

  Another hearty round of applause and enthusiastic cheers greeted the graphic report. De Santiago’s eyes now fell on the last soldier in the room, a small man with thick eyeglasses and a long beak of a nose that gave him an almost scholarly look.

  “Finally, Colonel Fernandez.”

  Even when he stood, the man would have hardly been waist high to Colonel Abella. He was known as “The Flea” by the elite band of saboteurs and explosive experts who worked with him.

  “I believe you have heard already of our very successful sabotage attack on the barracks at Colon de Paso. We will have other rather explosive projects to report to you soon, with equal results, I assure you.”

  Again applause erupted among all the men gathered in the room as the diminutive rebel soldier sat back down. He almost disappeared behind the stack of papers on the table in front of him.

  Several of those present had questions about the operations the men had mentioned but a discrete knock at the oak doors interrupted their discussion. It was Guzman, de Santiago’s bodyguard, who stuck his head inside.

  "Excuse me, El Jefe. Your guest from Bogota has arrived."

  De Santiago waved his hand.

  "By all means, bring our guest in, my friend." He looked at those sitting around the table and noted the quizzical looks on their faces. “This is someone I want you all to meet. A true hero of the revolution.”

  The short little man who accompanied Guzman through the door hardly looked like a hero. He seemed to be trying to hide behind the bodyguard. His eyes were wide and nervous and his face pale and frightened. He was dressed in a rumpled, cheap suit and a yellowing white shirt. He most resembled a lower level clerk, someone who was merely furniture in some government bureau somewhere.

  De Santiago rose and walked over to embrace the little man, then kissed him on each cheek.

  "Come my friends. Meet the greatest hero of the revolution! Jose Silveras is our eyes and ears in the heart of El Presidente Guitteriz's government. Without him, the people’s war would have been lost already, I am afraid."

  De Santiago placed his arm around the shorter man's shoulder. He led him to the table. Each of the others stood, walked over to the man, and solemnly shook his hand. The little clerk seemed on the verge of fainting dead away, his knees trembling as he stood there.

  Finally, as they were seated, de Santiago asked, "Tell me, my friend, what is it that is so important that you journeyed all the way from Bogota?"

  Silveras began speaking slowly. A vein twitched in his left temple. Those assembled around the table had to listen hard to catch his words over the noise from outside, the songs of the birds and the children splashing in the pool.

  "El Jefe, there are two things that I came to tell you and you alone. I had hoped that we could speak privately."

  De Santiago smiled.

  "Don’t worry. These are my most trusted people. I trust them with my life. You can speak freely here."

  Silveras glanced around the table, looking at each face, and began again, still reluctantly, still quietly.

  “If you insist. The first matter is the Joint Drug Interdiction Agency, the JDIA. I have seen them with my own eyes. They are operating with El Presidente's military command. They have what they call an ‘in-country command post’ in the Ministry of Defense compound in Bogota. They have much power. Very much power." Silveras swallowed hard and licked his lips. "El Jefe, I am very thirsty. Might I have some water?"

  De Santiago waved at Guzman who poured a glass full of water from the crystal pitcher in the middle of the table. He handed it to the little man. Silveras took a big drink, then continued.

  "This JDIA includes all the American's anti-drug organizations, including their military, but it does not include the DEA. I overheard two of their DEA agents talking about the JDIA. There is very great jealousy there. From what they said, their president is giving much money to the JDIA at a time when he is publicly cutting back the commitment to the DEA."

  De Santiago stroked his chin thoughtfully. There was advantage to be had here. Maybe they could exploit this rift and tear the American machine apart. He would have to think on this situation some more, but this held interesting possibilities.

  “There was a second matter?” the leader asked.

  Silveras took another swallow of the cold water and again considered the faces looking at him from around the biggest and fanciest table he had ever seen. He grew even paler and his lower lip quivered.

  “Are you certain it is safe for me to speak freely here?”

  De Santiago waved impatiently and said, “Of course. Of course. Go on.”

  "Yes, thank you, El Jefe. This one worries me greatly. I am reluctant to report to you, sir, that you have a spy in your camp.” All the air seemed to leave the room. Each man around the table stared at the clerk with obvious disbelief. “There is no doubt. I saw the report about the attack on your fields. Someone named El Falcone produced the information for the Security Police. The report said that it was this Falcone who gave the information to them. And it is of great distress to me to tell you that this traitor is someone very close to you, El Jefe. That is all that I know."

  The room was deathly quiet. There was only the sound of the children squealing, the woman laughing happily as they played together in the pool outside the window.

  No one needed to tell Silveras it was now time for him to go. He took one last drink of the water, then rose and left the room as quietly as he had come in, easing the door closed behind him.

  Each man in the group looked about the room then, but carefully avoided eye contact with anyone else. The implication was clear. One of them was El Falcone! And whoever it was, that traitor was a serious threat to the new alliance that was being formed. To the daring secret plan that was about to unfold.

  Juan de Santiago made a move to return to the window. To look out on the flowers and hummingbirds and distant cloud-draped mountains. On his beautiful, fertile woman and his ha
ppy children.

  Somehow, just now, it didn’t seem the right time to turn his back on anyone in this room.

  7

  Jonathan Ward gazed out over the peaceful blue waters of the Pacific. From his perch at the top of Spadefish's sail, more than twenty-five feet above the water, he could easily see the cliffs of Torrey Pines, just north of La Jolla. Further south, the jutting projection of Point Loma marked the entrance to San Diego Harbor. It was partially hidden by a bank of low-lying clouds. The newer Coast Guard lighthouse, low down on the Point, marked the end of land. The old Cabrillo Point Lighthouse up on the ridge was hiding in the mist.

  Ward loved this time alone. He enjoyed working with the crew, appreciated the camaraderie and steadfastness of purpose almost every one of them demonstrated. Up here, he would permit the gentle motion of the sea and the balm of the damp wind on his face to work its calming magic on him. This was his only chance to be by himself, to put aside the constant cut-and-dried decisions it seemed he was always being called upon to make and simply allow his consciousness to drift away. No wonder men had always sought the sea. It held healing powers for whatever might ail a man’s soul.

  The Commander was not totally alone. No one ever is on a submarine. The Officer of the Deck stood quietly nearby in the bridge cockpit. He knew the skipper well enough to sense that he now sought solitude. Especially now. Especially after how things had gone lately.

  Ward was thinking of home. And, of course, of Ellen. He knew he had been away far too much over the last twenty years. He also knew that this homecoming would be bittersweet. Would he still have Spadefish after the meeting tonight with Admiral Donnegan? Or would Hunsucker do enough damage to send him straight to the bottom? After what had happened out there, Ward was more certain than ever that he couldn’t trust that weasel. He was the type who conspired to get ahead with slick words and ingratiating smiles. A purely political animal. When it came time for him to step up to the next rung on the ladder, he would shove aside whoever was in his way, step right over him, and never look back.