Don Pendleton - Diplomacy Directive

“How do you propose to stop me?”

“Tie you up, if necessary.”

“Sounds kinky,” La Costa replied. “But it’ll have to wait.”

“Fine with me. But you still haven’t explained where you came up with the idea someone on the outside is behind this.”

“Because neither of the radical politicos in this region operates this way,” she said. “They’ve protested, even turned riotous and been squelched by local police, but an outright act of violence is totally out of character. Plus the fact, I know the head of the Independents personally. He would never do anything like this.”

“Maybe his people planned it without his knowledge?”

La Costa shook her head with a snort. “Not likely. Believe me, Stone, I’ve been here for over a year reporting the news. I know everyone who’s anyone. This isn’t his style.”

“Then maybe you can help me after all.”

“How?”

Bolan grinned. “By making an introduction. Maybe if I hear it from this guy myself I can help clear him and his people.”

“I’m not sure he’d meet with you.”

“Never know until you try,” Bolan replied. “Besides, it’s better than being tied up in some strange hotel room until I can clear this up by more indirect methods.”

La Costa laughed. “Says who?”

Despite Guadalupe La Costa’s reservations, Mack Bolan eventually convinced her to take him to the leader of the Independents.

Something made him admire this young, spirited reporter. She didn’t take any sass and gave out plenty, and she seemed genuinely concerned about reporting the truth no matter how brutal it might seem. Bolan could admire that kind of gutsy determination and devotion to duty; he understood those traits because they were so much a part of what made up his own identity. He related to La Costa and in large part that contributed to her attractiveness.

“The Independents are led by a man named Miguel Veda,” La Costa told him as Bolan drove them to the man’s seaside home northwest of San Juan.

It seemed Veda lived off the coast. Although he had other business interests to the degree that his political interests seemed more entrepreneurial—or those of a raving lunatic who really cared little about the future of Puerto Rico—La Costa’s description of Veda’s estate left Bolan with the impression business was good. When they finally arrived at the place, about a thirty-minute drive from the hotel, the big American’s assessment was confirmed.

Two uniformed security men checked their credentials and La Costa’s vehicle, including looking in the trunk and running a mirror the length of the undercarriage, before an escort team in a golf cart led them up the driveway. More armed security ushered them into the house. They were shown to a spacious office and library. Most of the furniture looked early twentieth century, although some peculiar-looking pieces were interspersed among the predominant decor. Everything here looked as if it had been chosen with regard to functionality, with very little gaudiness apparent. Everything had to serve some practical purpose; Veda obviously didn’t buy anything for its artistic value.

“You’re damned right he doesn’t,” La Costa replied in agreement when Bolan verbalized the sentiment. “Miguel’s the kind of man who doesn’t feel he should squander his hard-earned money on overpriced trinkets while his people are starving.”

“Miguel,” Bolan echoed. “You’re on a first-name basis?”

La Costa looked abashed. “Have been. He gave me my first big break down here. It’s not easy being both a woman and a minority in the press, even today. Especially working in Puerto Rico, where the male ego is fragile enough that machismo is still a mainstay of the culture.”

“I’d think something like that would prove a real turnoff for someone as strong-willed as you.”

La Costa smiled and winked. “You have no idea.”

A set of double doors on the far side of the office, opposite from where they had been shown in, swung open and cut short their dialogue. The man who stepped into the room walked slowly with a visible limp. From what little La Costa had told him about Veda’s activities, Bolan didn’t figure that the man could have been a day over fifty, but this man looked twice that age. Unkempt white hair grew in tufts along the sides of his head and yet curled oddly into neatly trimmed sideburns that ended midear level. Liver spots were visible on his exposed arms and the once-dark skin had taken on an odd, yellowish tint when the light hit it a certain way. His face possessed a gaunt quality, but still had more health and glow than the rest of his body appeared to have, which was a bit of a surprise to Bolan.

Two muscular men wearing pistols in shoulder holsters followed Veda and took up positions where they could react quickly should any threat present itself.

“Lupe,” Veda cried, shuffling over to her and bending to accept a kiss on the cheek.

Veda turned to Bolan, then extended his hand.

Bolan felt as if he were shaking the limb of a skeleton. “I’m—”

“Colonel Stone, U.S. Army,” Veda finished. “Yes, Colonel, I knew of your arrival practically from the moment you stepped foot in Puerto Rico.”

Bolan held an impassive expression. “You seem well-informed.”

Veda chuckled as he sat behind his desk. “It’s a job requirement in my business.”

“Which is?”

“Come now, Colonel, there’s no need to be coy,” Veda said pleasantly. “I know who you are, so it stands to reason I would know why you’re here.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because of the incident the other night at the rally.”

Bolan nodded in way of prompting him to go on.

“I’m sure that Governor Hernandez’s advisors are telling him that either the Independents or our contenders are to blame,” Veda continued, “but I can assure you that such allegations are entirely false.”

“Really,” Bolan interjected. “Why?”

“Because despite whatever rumors you might have heard to the contrary, we are not violent militants. In fact, I do not believe in violence as means to an end, whether for political purposes or otherwise. I believe in peaceful resolution to conflict.”

“You can’t ever hope your views will be recognized through standard political channels while your group is sanctioned.”

“On the contrary, it is because we are under sanctions that is at the very heart of these matters. You see, Colonel, supporters for the idea of statehood for Puerto Rico have dwindled over recent years for a good number of reasons, the instability of the economy and devaluation of the U.S. dollar not the least of them. This has caused significant increased support for our cause. The current party in power knows that, just as they know that their own influence falters.”

“So if you know that they’re touting propaganda about your efforts and the Independents, why not set the record straight through peaceful means?”

Veda laughed outright this time. “We do, Colonel Stone, we do! And that’s why I can promise you that we had nothing to do with this. Someone is out to destabilize Puerto Rico because it is a commonwealth and protectorate of the United States.”

“And?”

“What sense does it make for a group like ours to conduct violent acts against the established government, when by their nature those same acts would topple our wish to be independent and promulgate further interference by the United States? In fact, I surmise such acts would force the president to invoke emergency powers by military means. Your presence here is proof enough of that. Is it not?”

Veda gave pause there, probably so Bolan had some time to absorb it.