Ross Thomas - Missionary Stew

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It’s a learning experience. I’m joining management next month and they thought I could use a little foreign seasoning. I suggested London, but when this flared up they shipped me off down here — on the cheap.”

“You fly in with the rest of them?”

“Just barely. We all chartered a plane out of Miami. At first, they wouldn’t let us land. Then the rebels took the airport and so here we are.”

“When’d they take it — the airport?”

Leed looked at his watch. “About two hours ago. After we landed they held a press conference — the Committee of a Thousand Years. They claim they’ll have the whole city by morning. Noon at the latest. For such a ragtag bunch, they seemed awfully confident.” He offered Haere the pint of vodka. Haere had a sip, handed it back, and said, “It should be a hell of a story.”

Leed shook his head and the gloom returned to his face. “You know what the awful thing is, Draper? I don’t even care who wins. I don’t give a rat’s ass. That’s really awful, isn’t it?”

“Maybe London would’ve been better,” Haere said.

Leed nodded. “Yeah. Maybe it would’ve.”

Haere knocked at Velveeta Keats’s door, and it was opened by Jacques, who put a finger to his lips. “Shh,” he said. “There is sadness. A death.”

“Whose?” Haere said as he came into the room.

Velveeta Keats turned from the window. In her hand was a sheet of paper. Cecilio stood near her. Velveeta Keats gestured with the sheet of paper. “The embassy just sent this over by messenger.”

“Who died?” Haere said.

“Papa. He died. Somebody shot him in a Bob’s Big Boy. Mama’s lawyer called the State Department and they cabled Mr. Rink at the embassy and since the phones are still out, he sent this over by messenger.”

“I’m sorry,” Haere said.

“Don’t be,” she said. “In a Bob’s Big Boy. Wouldn’t you just know it?”

Jacques cleared his throat. “This changes things.”

“How?” Haere said.

“With the death of Monsieur Keats, we must withdraw.”

“Your English gets better and better,” Haere said. “Withdraw from what?”

“From tomorrow’s affair,” Cecilio said. “What affair?”

Jacques looked surprised. “The rescue of our good friend Monsieur Citron, of course. It is all arranged. Did we not say we would arrange it?”

“Maybe, friend,” Haere said carefully, “maybe you’d better tell me about it.”

“You must understand that we committed the entire nine thousand dollars,” Cecilio said.

Haere smiled. “Tell me about it.”

“Yes, of course,” Jacques said. “We will even draw you a map.”

Morgan Citron finished reading what he had written in the spiral notebook at eleven that night. He rose from the stone bed, went to the door, and called for the guard. When the guard appeared, Citron poked the notebook through the bars.

“Here,” he said. “Give this to your sister and her cousin and they will be two thousand dollars richer when they deliver it to the man in Los Angeles.”

The guard thumbed through the notebook. “This is not Spanish,” he said.

“No.”

“It is not English either. I can read a few words of English.”

“It is French,” Citron said.

“I do not read French.”

“It’s a pretty language.”

“So I have heard.” The guard put the notebook away in a pocket. “Do you want a priest?”

“I am not of the faith.”

“He would be someone to talk to.”

“Thank you, but I would rather not.”

The guard nodded. “Well, he’s usually drunk by this time anyway, but if you change your mind, I can have him here in the morning.”

“When does it happen?”

“At six. I will wake you at five, if that is all right.”

“I will probably be awake by then.”

“Yes. That is true. Well, if you change your mind about the priest...”

“I think not.”

The guard tried to think of something else to say, but couldn’t, and finally settled for goodnight. After he was gone, Citron sat back down on the stone bed. He thought about death and dying for a while, but found he could think of it only in abstract terms. Somehow it seemed extremely impersonal. He wondered when the fear would come. Probably about 3:00 in the morning, he told himself, when you start praying and calling for the priest. He suddenly realized they were actually going to kill him. A sense of near well-being swept over him as he also realized there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

He bent over and reached into the plastic waste bucket, took out the Rolex watch, wiped it off on his pants leg, and slipped it into his shirt pocket. If they aim for the heart, he thought, they’ll hit the watch. At least they won’t get that. He chuckled as he lay down on the stone bed, his head now cushioned by the folded jacket. The thought of the watch made him smile as he stared up at the high stone ceiling. He was still smiling slightly when he fell asleep.

The three of them were eating dinner from trays in the immense room in the Presidential Palace when the young captain came in. Colonel-General Carrasco-Cortes looked up from his tray and said, “Well?”

The young captain looked uncomfortable. “A report by radio from Colonel Velasco. There will be a slight delay. A mechanical problem. With the rotor, the colonel said.”

“How slight?” Carrasco-Cortes said.

The young captain looked even more uncomfortable. “An hour. Perhaps less.”

“That’s cutting it awfully fine,” Tighe said.

The general glared at him. “Any suggestions?”

“Boat?” Tighe said.

“That yacht of yours?” Yarn asked.

The young captain cleared his throat. The general raised his fork, put a piece of meat into his mouth, looked up at the young captain, chewed, and nodded for the captain to speak. “The yacht was surrendered an hour ago by Admiral Beccio,” the captain said.

“Beccio,” the general said. “That pansy pig.”

“We wait for the chopper then,” Yarn said.

“How long do we have, my boy, hmm?” the general asked.

“Three hours at the most, sir.”

“You will be going with me, you understand.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Keep us informed.”

“Yes, sir.”

The young captain turned and walked the long length of the huge room to the double doors. He turned, looked back at the three men, then opened one of the doors and went through into the anteroom, where six men stood, staring at him. Three of the men wore army uniforms. Two were majors; the other was the young lieutenant. All of the officers were armed with M-16s. The other three men, the civilians, were dressed in dark T-shirts and khaki pants. Around their necks were bright-green scarves. The civilians were armed with pistols: two .45 caliber automatics and one long-barreled .38 Colt revolver. The pistols were stuck into their belts. The civilians were all in their late thirties. None of the army officers was more than twenty-nine.

“Well?” the oldest civilian asked.

“They think the helicopter is still coming,” the captain said. “I told them it would arrive within the hour.”

“And they believed you?” the older of the two majors asked.

The captain nodded. “They continued to eat.”

“They believed him,” the other major said.

“Are they armed?” the oldest civilian asked.

“The two gringos have sidearms,” the captain said.

“And the general?”

“A pistol in his desk drawer.”

The oldest civilian nodded and turned to the older of the two majors. “We want them unharmed,” he said.

The major nodded. “I understand.”

The oldest civilian nodded at the young captain. He turned, grasped the knobs of the huge doors, and flung them open. The two majors and the young lieutenant raced through the doors and into the room, their M-16s aimed at the seated men at the room’s far end. Carrasco-Cortes had just forked another piece of meat into his mouth. He looked up, obviously surprised, even shocked. He chewed once on the meat, then bent forward and spat it out onto his plate.