'I just want you to know what you threw away. You threw away any chance of succeeding with the Agency, of rising in it. Do you understand that, Earl? You are a very great man, a hero, but you are a stubborn son of a bitch and you have betrayed me and made me look foolish.'
Earl let him blare on.
'Do you realize that this means no move to Washington? No big house in McLean? No good school for your?'
'Are you done yet? I'm tired.'
They reached the hotel.
'Earl, I'm very sorry. I tried to help you. I still can't believe you did this to me. Earl, I can't help you any more.'
'You see this rifle gets back to the marines at Gitmo, right?'
'Fuck the rifle. There's more important issues than the rifle.'
'Not to me. You see this rifle gets back or I'll take it personally.'
Frenchy swallowed at Earl's hard glare and the implied threat, and said nothing.
Earl turned, left the car, and climbed up the stairs to the porch. He needed a shower and a night's rest before heading back to Havana, by what means he was not yet sure. He just knew that's where the airport was.
'Senor?'
'Yeah?'
Three Cuban state policemen in those brown-green uniforms were waiting up there for him.
'You have a visa?'
'What?'
'A visa, senor?'
'I came in with a congressman. It was an official?'
'You have no visa, senor, you must come with us. This is against the law.'
'What the hell are you talking about?'
'It is the law, senor. In Cuba we always obey the law.'
Then two other policemen joined the three, then three more. Swarming him, they moved him to the black paddy wagon that had just arrived, and took him away.
Chapter 48
The cab dropped Frenchy at the United Fruit Company executive mansion up in Vista Alegre, above the hot and fetid city, where he was staying in a VIP suite. He walked in, dragging the carbine and the sniper rifle, the Super.38 hanging in his tanker's holster in plain sight, hot, sweaty, dirty, his young face covered with stubble, aware exactly of how glamorous he was.
People looked, people gasped, people pointed. He seemed to have become the man he had always dreamed of being: cool, elegant, wary, tough, savvy, capable. A hero. There were several young American women staying there, various daughters or mistresses or new young wives of important United Fruit execs, and he could tell that at least two or three of them watched him as he sauntered into the bar and ordered a quick beer, the two rifles leaning against the next stool. He knocked back the cold drink and settled in for a moment or two of reflection. What he was thinking, however, was: They think I'm such a cool customer!
God, he enjoyed his little performance!
He knocked down the last of the beer, picked up the rifles, sauntered back through the lobby to the concierge and said, 'Luis, don't wake me. I'm going to sleep for the next six years.'
Luis nodded, but alas also had something himself to present Frenchy. The Medal of Honor, like Earl's? Not quite. No, it was a yellow telegraph message. He looked at it.
HELO FLIGHT SET GITMO 0900 HRS STOP
MEETING AMBASSADORS OFFICE HAVANA 1500 HRS
STOP MANDATORY YOU ATTEND STOP EVANS
Shit.
Already it was beginning. How would he explain? Was it a failure with total catastrophic ramifications or was it just a setback of some sort? He didn't know. He'd been out of the America House so long he'd picked up no gossip or context. He had no idea what was going on, what was being said, what he could expect.
He went upstairs, peeled off the dank jungle clothes, and climbed into the shower. The water, piercing and furious, restored in him the illusion of good health, and he dried.
He thought he ought to call Roger. He didn't like the tone. MANDATORY YOU ATTEND. Roger almost never spoke harshly or gave direct orders, so it bugged Frenchy that he was taking such an attitude. He picked up the phone, dialed the number and waited. And waited. And waited. Nobody picked up.
All right. He dialed Roger's apartment. No answer there either.
He checked his watch. It was about four. There was no reason for Roger not to be there, unless he was off at a match somewhere, and it seemed unlikely he'd be playing tennis so soon after the Moncada business, but you never knew.
He dialed a secretary he knew.
'Hey, Shirley, what is?'
'Walter,' she hissed. 'What are you doing? You can't call me.' The phone clicked as she hung up.
He dialed back.
'What the hell is?'
'If I get caught talking to you, I'm screwed, too.'
'What?'
'Call me tonight at my place.'
The line went to dial tone again.
Frenchy slept for a few hours, went out for a late dinner, ate alone in the nicest restaurant he could find, and then thought about, but decided against, a whore. He finally got back in around eleven. He dialed Shirley at her apartment.
'What is going on?'
'There's a big flap. The word is, you're out.'
He didn't say a thing for a while. It did happen: a big screw-up, a blown assignment, especially if you weren't one of the old boys with the Harvard/OSS pedigree, could spell the end. They didn't like it when other people failed. They were allowed to fail, but nobody else was.
'Who says?'
'Walter, everybody says.'
'Shit.'
'There's a guy here.'
'A guy?'
'Yeah, he's thrown the whole place for a loop. He's one of your guys. Nobody will say his name. I only know he's here and he's got everybody scared to death.'
'Tall guy. Real undistinguished looking. Could be a salesman. Nothing special about him, except the way people scurry and defer, as if he's some kind of great man.'
'That's the customer.'
'And bald?'
'Yeah, bald.'
Shit thought Frenchy. The man called Plans was back in town and he smelled blood.
Chapter 49
