worst kind of political blunder.”
“What we were thinking,” Berger said patiently, having waited for a gap between sentences, “is that we could organize something important somewhere else, to take priority. If you could make the announcement before anything breaks out of Miami it wouldn’t seem that you were ducking anything.”
Crowther looked at him over the half-glasses. “Is it that serious, Abe?”
“Possibly not. But my theory about what to do with trouble is to detour around it. Miami’s full of volatile Latin Americans of every political persuasion-right, left and middle. We have an FBI report that one of the middle-of-the- road groups is organizing an anti-Caldera demonstration for Saturday-anti-Caldera, and anti-Crowther. I don’t know much about it, but apparently this isn’t something we’d worry about ordinarily. They’re professional people, lawyers and so on, and they’ll keep inside the police lines.”
“That doesn’t sound bad. Don’t forget I’ve integrated more than a few schools. This won’t be the first time I’ve seen a picket sign with my name on it.”
“The catch seems to be,” Berger went on, “that political leadership in the Spanish community down there is pretty much up for grabs. Both the left and the right are looking for an excuse to get out in the streets and make some noise. There are a lot of guns in that part of the world, as I don’t need to remind you. I’m not saying we can’t protect you. I think we can. But why not finesse the whole thing?”
Crowther removed his glasses and tasted the end of one of the ear-pieces. “What does the Bureau recommend?”
Berger hesitated. “The feeling there is that this is a chance to get certain people out in the open so we can see who they are. That’s their problem. The Secret Service problem, to put it bluntly, is to keep you from being shot. Knock on wood.”
“Abe, talk sense. I’ve made a few enemies along the way, but this Latin American business is very remote, believe me. Off the record”-he returned his glasses to his nose and peered over them at Berger-“the CIA believes that the Caldera regime may be shakier than most people realize. The matter has been talked about at the cabinet level, and I take the position that this government cannot afford to let Communists assume power in a country within bombing distance of the Panama Canal. But I’m not publicly identified with this view-it’s not my department. So will you stop jittering?”
“Franklin Roosevelt was shot at in Miami.”
“A long time ago. I agree, some psychotic might get the idea that he could help his faction by taking a shot at me, but that’s one of the hazards of holding public office. It can happen anywhere. I don’t think it would be a bright idea to ride down Eighth Street, through the heart of the Spanish section, in an open convertible. I usually try to cooperate, even though I do think you fellows tend to get a little overprotective at times. Get me to the hotel so I can deliver my speech. Then get me back to the airport. My God, if a cabinet member can’t go into any American city any time he likes, this country is really in a bad way.”
“I don’t like it,” Berger said gloomily. “But I’ll go down tomorrow and see how we can set it up. Under the circumstances I want you to wear your bulletproof vest.”
“O, Abe, for God’s sake,” Crowther said irritably.
Lorenzo Vega, in a battered six-year-old Dodge-it was knocking badly, but who had money for a ring job? — turned off Biscayne Boulevard on 72nd Terrace. It was 11:00 P.M. on the nose. He prided himself on keeping appointments exactly on time. In this business it was important.
He was looking for a black Chevy parked between street lights, and he already knew it would be a Hertz rental. That was the way they operated. His headlights picked it up, parked on the left. There was a figure at the wheel. He had his lights on high beam, hoping to glimpse a face, but of course the agent was shielding himself, and all Vega could see was the back of the hand with a burning cigarette stuck between the fingers. They had a mania for secrecy, these people. Why couldn’t they make a simple appointment to meet him in a bodega? This was the United States, their own country, after all. What were they afraid of?
And yet he was in no position to criticize. They hadn’t come near him for more than three years. Whatever they wanted, he had made up his mind to ask for $5,000, and if they acted shocked he would direct their attention to the rise in the cost of living.
He parked. As he walked back, all he saw was the hand and the cigarette. He touched the front door-handle, for his own amusement, and of course he was told quietly, “Get in back, Lorenzo.”
He entered the car. The driver started his motor and drove back to the boulevard, where he turned left, then right on 69th Street and came to another stop. Apparently procedures had changed since Vega was dropped from the payroll. The rear-view mirror was tilted up. The driver was wearing a hat and wraparound shades. His hair curled up at the back of his neck, another sign of how times had changed. In the old days, they had always seemed fresh from the barber.
Vega scratched his belly reflectively, starting a tape recorder tucked in his belt. It wasn’t a modern model, but it was the best he’d been able to come up with on short notice. No one, he knew, was going to look after Lorenzo Vega unless he did it himself.
The agent continued to cover his mouth, and when he spoke he didn’t turn around. “I’ve got an easy assignment for you.”
Vega’s voice should have been cool and self-possessed, but he was at a disadvantage here, and what came out was nearly a whine. “You’re going to have to show your credentials. I’ve had trouble that way.”
The man flipped open a leather folder. Still without turning, he used a tiny pencil flashlight to light up a card giving his government affiliation and declaring that his name in his present role was Frank Robinson.
“Does that satisfy you? Of course it could be a forgery, but you know that. You’re no maiden.” The light clicked off. “What kind of shape is your organization in?”
“Are you sure we want to call it an organization?” Vega replied bitterly. “For three years I haven’t seen a penny of funds, and now all at once, when apparently you want something, what I have in the way of a cadre is myself, my brother and a couple of cousins. But I still have a following! The point I’m making, I can’t get them to come to meetings on a regular basis when I have nothing in the way of patronage, know what I mean?”
“What about your paper?”
“I have no paper any more, Mr. Robinson. What I have is a printer’s bill, six months overdue, and this, I regret, I am unable to pay.”
“How much?”
Vega hesitated for a tiny tick. “Approximately five thousand dollars.”
The agent laughed. “One other thing you have, Lorenzo, is a sense of humor. Here’s what we want, and if you can’t do it we’ll just have to go into the files and get somebody else.”
“Those others. They’re big on flowery promises, but can they deliver? When I say I will do something, you can rely on it.”
“Yeah, yeah. We’re thinking about Saturday.”
“Crowther?” Vega said alertly.
“You know that Galvez and his NLS crowd are going to run a demonstration in front of the St. Albans. ‘American imperialist bandits,’ kind of thing. That we don’t care about, it’s par for the course. Did you know Gil Ruiz is in Miami?”
Vega sat forward, genuinely surprised. Gil Ruiz was a Brazilian, a professional revolutionary, he called himself-a professional phony, in Vega’s opinion. He had been in on the overthrow of a very stupid, very backward, very corrupt military regime, but the day-to-day business of running a government had bored him. Ever since, he had been sneaking around from one underground movement to another, stirring up trouble and getting his followers killed and jailed. He was a man of gesture, with an aura of spurious romance which appealed to susceptible teenagers. He had no business being in the United States.
“Gil Ruiz is definitely not in Miami,” Vega said flatly. “You are misinformed.”
“Somebody who looked like him landed on Pepper Key two nights ago. One of your local Communists picked him up in a Volkswagen camper. Unfortunately we lost track of him coming into Miami. Perhaps you also aren’t aware that an ad-hoc committee of leading leftists is calling for a rival demonstration Saturday?”
“I have heard something, but how many can they influence, after all? A handful.”
“Considerably more than a handful,” Mr. Robinson said dryly. “You haven’t been keeping up. Our estimate is four hundred. Galvez will have twenty or thirty at the most, walkers not fighters. The so-called militants will elbow them out of the way and take over the demonstration. And that won’t mean peaceful picketing. We think they’re
