Ross Thomas - Missionary Stew

Citron stood in the chief warder’s office, his wrists locked behind him in handcuffs. The warder studied the papers on his desk that contained the instructions for the disposition of the prisoner. The warder was an army major called Torres. He was fat and overage in grade. A trace of saliva leaked from the left corner of his mouth. He wiped it away with a green silk handkerchief as he studied the papers. After finishing the papers he glanced up at Citron and then leaned back in his chair, his eyes shifting to the young seated captain. Citron thought the warder’s eyes spoke of corruption. He hoped he was right.

“The telephones are out,” Major Torres said, keeping his tone casual, almost indifferent.

“When are they not?” the captain said.

“And the firing? It seems to be coming from nearer the city center.”

The captain shrugged. “A small band of drunkards with old M1 s and eight rounds each.”

Major Torres nodded. “And the television?”

“I have not watched the television,” the captain said.

“Nothing but Gunsmoke episodes. On the radio there is no news either. Nothing but martial music. Each time I turn it on they are playing ‘The Washington Post March.’ ”

“It both soothes and inspires,” the captain said.

“And what of the general?”

“He is well and fully in command of the situation. Already he has taken corrective measures.”

Major Torres nodded doubtfully, wiped his mouth again, and pointed at Citron with his chin. “And this one. He is to be shot tomorrow morning. Why not do it now and get it over with?”

“Tomorrow morning,” the captain said firmly. “Everything must be done exactly according to your orders. It is a matter of some delicacy.”

Major Torres grunted. “Executions are never delicate.” He studied Citron. “Is he rich?”

“No,” the captain said.

“Important?”

“He is a convicted spy. That’s all you need to know.”

Again, Major Torres grunted. “If he is neither rich nor important, we should shoot him now.”

“You have your orders, Major,” the captain said.

Torres ignored the captain and examined Citron carefully. “Well, spy, what have you got to say?”

“I have no wish to be shot.”

“You speak very good Spanish.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you have money?”

“None.”

“If you had money, you could buy a fine last meal.”

“I have no money.”

“Then you will eat what the rest eat.” Major Torres pressed a button on his desk. A guard entered. The young lieutenant rose and unlocked Citron’s handcuffs. The guard looked questioningly at Major Torres.

“He is to be shot in the morning,” Torres said. “Find him a nice cell.”

The guard nodded, took Citron by the left arm, and led him away.

The cell was on the ocean side of the prison. There was a barred window high up. The cell was small, no more than five by seven. It was lit by a single bulb and contained a plastic bucket, a clay jug of water, and a low stone bed. A folded blanket was on the bed.

“I can sell you cigarettes and food and even liquor, if you have money,” the guard said.

“I have no money,” Citron said. “It was taken from me.”

The guard shrugged as he closed and locked the cell door. The door was made of iron bars. Citron looked around the cell and sat down on the stone bed. He sat there for nearly an hour, staring down at the floor, his head bowed, his arms on his knees, thinking of pastmistakes, old loves, untaken paths, and the final indignity he would have to brook, which was death. After that, no more surprises ever. He absolved himself of all sins, if sins there were; almost but not quite forgave his enemies; rose, and urinated into the plastic bucket. When he was through urinating, he sat back down on the stone bed and took off his right shoe. He then rolled down his sock and slipped the gold Rolex from his ankle. He put the watch in the plastic bucket. It would be safe there, he knew, at least for a while.

He folded his jacket into a pillow. He lay down on the stone bed, his hands locked behind his head. He stared up at the high stone ceiling. After a while he closed his eyes. After a while he even slept — and dreamed of Africa.

The office was large enough to pace in. It belonged to the charge d’affaires of the United States embassy, who sat behind his teak desk and watched the man in the three-piece blue pinstripe pace up and down as he cajoled, implored, and even threatened.

The charge d’affaires was Neal Rink. He was fifty-nine years old and had risen as high as he would ever rise in the Foreign Service of the United States. Threats, even threats from such smooth articles as Draper Haere, no longer bothered him. Ten years ago, he thought, you might’ve hopped; fifteen years ago you would’ve leaped. Now he smiled, leaned back in his chair, and said, “So it’s come to this, has it?”

Haere stopped pacing and looked at Rink. “To what?”

“To threats.”

“I’m not threatening you, Mr. Rink. All I’m—”

Rink, still smiling, interrupted. “You are threatening me, Mr. Haere. You’re threatening me with assorted members of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, with a gaggle of congressmen you seem to have in your hip pocket, with crucifixion in both the New York Times and the Washington Post , and with disgrace, dishonor, and possible bankruptcy.”

Rink reached down into his bottom drawer and came up with a bottle of J&B Scotch whisky. “I suppose I should tell you that I’ve got a rich wife and that I’m retiring from the fudge factory in exactly two months and nine days. With that in mind, maybe you’d be willing to drop the act and join me in a glass of whisky. I’m sure Miss Keats would also like one.”

Velveeta Keats nodded. “Yes, sir, I would.” She looked up at Haere from her chair in front of Rink’s desk. “You sounded awful mad there, Draper.”

Haere grinned. “I was selling. I always sound mad when I’m selling.”

“You’re really quite good,” Rink said as he poured the Scotch and added water from his desk carafe. “I assume it’s quite effective when dealing with candidates for public office.”

“It’s one of the first things I learned,” Haere said as he accepted his drink. “If you sound angry, you also sound convinced. People like conviction. Especially in politics, where it’s a reasonably rare commodity.” Haere took a long swallow of his drink, sat down in the chair next to Velveeta Keats, and looked at Rink. “Okay. Let’s hear it. What can you do about Citron?”

Rink had some of his Scotch. He seemed to like its taste. Then he sighed and said, “Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing until Merry finds out what they’ve done with him. We need to know where the body is.” He smiled at Velveeta Keats. “I didn’t mean that literally, of course.”

“No, sir. I didn’t think you did.”

“There’s also another problem.” Rink tilted his head toward the window. “Hear it?”

Both Haere and Velveeta Keats nodded. The gunfire, although still distant, seemed to be increasing in intensity. “That’s the sound of counterrevolution,” Rink said. “One that has at least a six-to-five chance of succeeding. For Mr. Citron’s sake, you’d best hope that it does.”

Before they could ask why, there was a knock at Rink’s door. Rink told the knocker to come in. The door opened and Don Merry entered. His hair was mussed, his tie loosened; he looked haggard. There was no smile.

“Well?” Rink said.

“I’ve just come from the palace.”

“Were you able to see the general?”

“No, sir. It was impossible. There’s suddenly a siege mentality over there. But I did see Colonel Velasco.”