Ted Bell - Spy

“Alex?” Stoke said from the open door.

“Sorry, just looking.”

“We don’t want to keep the Mambo King waiting.”

“Where’s the lady of the house?” Alex asked the butler as their footsteps echoed down the length of the hall. He was now even more curious about this woman who might one day marry one of his closest friends.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen, Madame said to tell you she had an emergency appointment at the studio. Overdubbing, I think was the expression she used.”

“Charles calls Fancha Madame,” Stoke said. “Says it all the time. He doesn’t mean anything derogatory by it.”

“Quite normal, I assure you my good man,” Hawke said, suppressing a smile. He wouldn’t have missed this for the world.

“Well, we won’t be here too long anyway,” Stoke told Charles.

“This is Mr. Hawke. He and I are going out to the Boat House to check on our houseguest. How’s he doing, Charles?”

“The colonel seems much better this morning, sir. I just took him some tea. Would anyone else like a chilled beverage? Mr. Hawke? Mr. Jones?”

“Maybe later, thanks,” Stokely said, and led Hawke out into the sunshine on the lawn. The ruffled blue waters of the bay lapped at the grass and a Great White Heron picked its way along the shore. Hawke caught a glimpse of a large stucco structure just visible through the grove of coconut palms by the water.

“That’s the Boat House?” Hawke asked, surprised at the size of the thing. It would have made a nice pensione on the Grand Canal.

It was an old two-story building, clearly built at the same time as the main house. The architecture was more Venetian and a long dock extended out into the bay. On the landward side, a beautifully tiled exterior staircase led to an upstairs apartment, probably used at one time by servants or the owner’s dock master.

There was music coming from the apartment. Loud, but with a lot of static, as if from an old wireless set. Tito Puente and his Mambo Kings were singing, “Hernando’s Hideaway.”

Stoke led the way upstairs and used a heavy key to unlock the weathered wooden door. They entered a small sitting room with old varnished bamboo furniture and a leafy green wallpaper that was tired and water-stained. Shafts of smoky sunlight through the many windows provided most of the room’s illumination. An open door on the far wall led to a small Pullman kitchen; and a second door revealed a slightly larger bedroom containing a single unmade bed.

In the corner, a man in white pajamas was sitting in a sagging armchair reading the Miami Herald, tapping his toes to the mambo beat. An old RCA Victor radio set, sun-bleached blond wood cabinet, stood by his chair. He was young for a colonel, Hawke saw, probably not more than thirty years old. Beneath his pajama top, heavy bandages were visible. He had a lean coppery face, busy black eyebrows, and no moustache above the white teeth.

The man spread his paper across his thighs and smiled around his cigar as his host and the visitor approached.

“Colonel,” Stokely said, “this is Mr. Hawke. I’ve been telling him all about our exciting meeting in the Tortugas. Mind if I turn this music down a little?”

The man grinned, showing a lot of teeth. “Señor Hawke, it is an honor. I am Colonel Fernando de Monteras, of the Fuerza Aéreo Venezolana. I am honored by your presence. Forgive me for not standing. Won’t you please sit down?”

Hawke and Stokely pulled up two bamboo side chairs.

“Pleased to meet you, Colonel,” Hawke said amiably. “Sorry to hear about your accident. Where were you flying from when your plane went down?”

“Cuba. The Isle of Pines. A big island off the southern coast. Do you know it?”

“Well enough. I believe El Jefe landed there with his boat Granma prior to his glorious revolution in 1959.”

“He is a great politician.”

Hawke said, “You’re an admirer of Fidel, Colonel de Monteras?”

De Monteras shook his head. “No. I said only that he is a great politician, Señor Hawke. Politics is the art of enriching oneself, the art of robbery; that is the very definition of politics for an immense majority of Latin American people.”

Hawke leaned forward and spoke carefully. “I would like to help you, Colonel. I understand from Mr. Jones you seek asylum. I may be able to arrange that. In return I want you to tell me why your government is buying Russian anti-ship missiles from the Cubans. And, of course, a great deal more.”

“Señor Hawke, please believe me. If you can provide a safe haven for me and my family now living in fear in Caracas, I will tell you everything I know.”

“Why do you want to leave Venezuela, Colonel?”

“I believe my government, in league with others in the hemisphere, is stoking a confrontation with the United States. They are fanning the fires even now as Chávez calls for a communist jihad against American influences in the region.”

“You don’t support this thinking?”

“Señor, I think such confrontation as Chávez imagines would lead to the ruin of my country and the death of many millions of people. I am a warrior who loves his homeland. But I am not a suicidal fool.”

Hawke turned to Stokely. “Could you please call Charles and ask him to send some iced tea and sandwiches out to the Boat House? I think the Colonel and I are going to be here awhile.”

Stoke rose from his chair and went to the phone.

“Tell me something, Colonel. Are you really a pilot?”

“No, señor. I am a commandant in the secret police. I wear the FAV uniform sometimes for travel on unofficial business.”

“Business that takes you to Cuba. How deeply are Fidel or other Latin American leaders involved in this business of yours?” Hawke asked the Colonel.

“Up to here, Señor Hawke,” Monteras said, making a slashing motion across his neck. “If not to their eyeballs.”

“I saw pictures of the two missiles on your airplane, Colonel. Unless I’m mistaken, those are EMP warheads. Electro Magnetic Pulse devices. Am I right?”

“They are, señor. New weapons to destroy command and control centers.”

“I know what they are. Only two countries have the technology to generate EMP without the concurrent use of nuclear weapons. Britain and America. So those warheads were stolen. I want to know where and by whom. Now.”

“I don’t know, señor.”

“You don’t? Then I don’t know if I can help you, Colonel. My very best wishes for a safe trip home.”

Hawke stood up and looked at Stokely, shaking his head.

“Please! Señor Hawke, please sit back down, I beg you. I am aware of one name. A man now in England who may have been deeply involved in the illegal purchase of these restricted devices. Perhaps he can be of some help to you.”

“His name?” Hawke said, remaining on his feet.

“He’s German. A former ambassador in Brazil.”

“Zimmermann,” Hawke said quietly.

“Yes. You know this name? Rudolf Zimmermann. He negotiated the sale of the EMP technology to my country. Something went wrong during the negotiations. A large sum of money disappeared. Chavez wanted his head. He fled to England, leaving his wife behind at Manaus. I don’t know where he is now.”

“I know where he is now,” Hawke said, returning to his seat and looking at the Venezuelan with narrowed eyes.

“Where is that, señor?”

“He’s en route to Manaus in a small urn,” Hawke said. “No matter. I want you to tell me absolutely everything you know about this Zimmermann transaction.”

“You’ll get my family out? What do you want to know?”

“Not what I want to know, Colonel. What I need to know.”

“I understand the distinction, Mr. Hawke.”