shallow, the sweat clammy on his pale, oval face. For some reason, this brought out the monster in Speshnev.
He felt like sitting the young man down and lecturing him for several hours on all the things he did not know, on the sentimentality of his dreams, the vagueness of his plans, the suicidal nature of his operations. This fellow had so much to learn! He had learned nothing yet! He was unformed, like some sort of retarded child who with his pretty face and incredible luck bobbed this way and that on the tides of history.
They had found a path through the forest, which essentially trended upwards, broken up here and there by knots of rock. The skyline was invisible given the heavy canopy and the only penetrating light came from behind, not above, where it reflected off what could be seen of the sugarcane field where it was still visible between the knitted tree trunks a half mile or so down the slope.
'We had better be going, no?' asked the young man.
'Not quite. Let's see how he's going to run this little drama. Look about for a tree, straight, with good stout branches.'
'Do we have?'
'Yes, yes, yes. Find one! Do something helpful for a change!'
The boy found one; Speshnev, of course, found a better one. He commanded the boy to lean against its trunk, his legs splayed for support, his arms wrapped securely about the center shaft. That posture established, Speshnev used him as a kind of stepladder, pulling himself up till at last he stood on the braced shoulders and therefore was able to gain leverage on a thick branch at shoulder level. From there, he scampered like a monkey up the trunk and when he was high enough, locked himself against it, pivoted, drew his binoculars, and fixed on his pursuers.
In time, he came down.
'What did you see?'
'What I expected, mostly. Amateurism. He moved the troops out from the village, but raggedly, at the half- step. He was smart enough to break one team of athletes-fast movers-off to the right, where evidently the foliage is thinner. They're the blockers. They're going to race us to the top and cut us off, and drive us back to the main body.'
'Oh, Christ.'
'He probably has only one or two good platoon-level leaders. That would be par for this pitiful army. His best man he clearly put in charge of the fast movers, for that's the key to his operation.'
'Will we beat them?'
'Well, no. But we don't have to. He didn't send enough. They will reach the crest ahead of us, but they will be hot and angry and sloppy. And, there aren't enough of them to form a line. They'll stagger, lose contact, look for the easiest ways through the thorns. At a certain moment, we'll go to ground. We assume they'll pass us by. They'll run into the main body. There'll be a scene, recriminations, threats of punishment. Under that distraction, we'll make it to the crest at one of its lowest points, but not its lowest, because once they realize they have missed us, they will go immediately for the lowest one. Do you see?'
'How do you know all this for certain?'
'One just knows certain things. Come on, now. We have to get as close to the fast movers as possible, for the further they come down, the more they will recover and the less sloppy they will become. The higher up we encounter them, the better for us.'
'I hope you know what you're doing.'
'So do I. These are the only eyes I own.'
Earl saw the execution. He was in the gap at the crest of the hill and the village was a full mile away. But the 10x Leica binoculars resolved it well enough: he saw the pistol come up and jump, and the old man go instantly limp, and fall hopelessly to the earth. From so far away the sound of the shot only reached him seven seconds later and it was dry crack, not like a shot at all, but wind-blown and hollow.
Something in him recoiled at the ugly nakedness of it. He fixed his binocs on the officer, now busy giving orders, and saw without surprise that it was the fellow with the scalpel who worked on eyes. He spat into the dust, slipped back a little, lit a cigarette.
In time, Frenchy caught up. He was limping badly.
'Goddamn boots,' he said. 'I have a blister.'
Earl looked and saw the young man had the Abercrombie & Fitch luxury items, creamy dark leather.
'You'd think for all I paid for them,' Frenchy said, 'they wouldn't be bad.'
'You didn't break 'em in good. Say, where'd you get that pistol?'
'Earl, it's just like yours. A Colt Super.38. I saw the guys you put down. Man, I had to have one.'
'Don't shoot yourself. Or me.' Earl pulled his pack around, pulled out the first-aid kit, and got out a bandage.
'Here. Patch it up. You've got a lot of walking left today.'
Frenchy set about to repair himself while Earl peered over the crest, watching the officer make his dispositions. He watched as a designated crew stripped off helmets and packs and left rifles behind, taking only canteens and pistols, and began to assault the mountainside in a single line, on the double quick. He broke the remaining troops into three other elements, and each set off to find a different way up the mountain.
Frenchy asked him what happened.
'He shot an old man,' Earl said. 'Then he split his troop up into four elements. He's sending one, stripped, to block the hill. The others will maneuver and pursue.'
'So where do you think they are?' Frenchy said, fiddling with his own binoculars.
'Somewhere about halfway down. Probably less than a thousand yards from where we now sit. Somewhere down in that forest. I'd guess they're in the brush, because they might be visible from the trails. If the officer can spot them, he can bring fire on them and pin them. Then it's over.'
'Maybe the officer will do our job for us.'
'I don't think so. I think they'll get up close to the crest and try and hide from the boys coming up fast. They think they can evade, get over the crest, and get down before the officer can reassemble his people and get them onto this side in some kind of order.'
'So where will our boy go over the crest?'
'He'll go over where it's brush so that nobody can get a fix on him. Then he'll beeline down, but not where it's easiest. I make it halfway down there?' he pointed to a fold in the side of the mountain, '-and that gets him to the beach, not as fast as where it's clearer but under better cover.'
'So that's it.'
'That's it. And he'll make it, too. This has been figured nicely, I think. Very good job. This guy is a professional.'
'You know how it's got to be, Earl,' said Frenchy. 'Castro, then the other guy. Kill them both, Earl, and send the message we came here to deliver. The Big Noise. Then we can go home heroes.'
'Oh, boy,' said Earl, 'that's just what I want to be.'
Chapter 44
Roger thought he would be seedy. In his mind, all Russians were pitiful little men in suits cut by drunken chimpanzees, with bad haircuts, bad manicures, bad teeth. But this fellow was well equipped, even splendidly equipped, in all the important areas: the linen suit was British, his hair was well trimmed and Brylcreemed back smoothly, he had glossy fingernails and his teeth were white and flawless.
'You look surprised, Mr. Evans. You have never spoken with one of us, I take it.'
'No, I haven't,' said Roger. 'I have never felt it necessary. I know my task. Now see here, uh, Mr. Pashin, this was your idea. Let's not turn it into an ordeal, let's get on with it.'
'But a drink, surely.'
He raised his hand, snapped his fingers with authority and instantly, obeying the mandates of the cosmopolitan culture, a waiter hurried over.
'Senor Pashin?'
