'He's a killer,' responded Weingrass icily, staring at the terrorist's face. 'He'd kill you without thinking for an instant about the life he was taking—the way he wants to kill Jews. The way he will kill us if we let him live.'
'That's revolting, Mr. Weingrass,' said the other nurse. 'He's a child.'
'Tell that to the parents of God knows how many Jewish children who were never permitted his years.' Manny left the room to rejoin Gonzalez, who had hastily gone outside to drive his all too recognizable car into a garage; he had returned and was pouring himself a large glass of whisky at the bar on the veranda.
'Help yourself,' said the architect, walking into the enclosed porch and heading for his leather armchair. ‘I’ll put it on your bill like you do with me.'
'You crazy old man!' spat out Gee-Gee. 'Loco! You plain loco, you know that? You could'a been killed! Muerto! You comprende? Muerto, muerto— dead, dead, dead, you old fool! Maybe that I could live with, but not when you give me a heart attack! I don't live so good with a heart attack when it's fatal, you comprende, you know what I mean?'
'Okay, okay. So you can have that drink on the house—’
'Loco!' shouted Gonzalez again, drinking the whisky in what appeared to be a single swallow.
'You've made your point,' agreed Manny. 'Have another. I won't start charging until the third.'
'I don't know whether to go or whether to stay!' said Gee-Gee, once more pouring a drink.
'The police?'
'Like I told you, who had time for the police? And if I called them, they'd come around in a month!… Your girl, the ama de cria— the nurse, she's calling them. I only hope she found one of those payasos. Sometimes you gotta call Durango to get someone out here.'
The phone on the bar rang—it rang, but it was not the ring of a telephone; instead it was a steady whirr-toned sound. Weingrass was so startled that he nearly fell to the floor pushing himself out of the chair.
'You want me to get it?' asked Gonzalez.
'No!' roared Manny, walking rapidly, unsteadily, towards the bar.
'Don't bite off my cabeza.'
'Hello?' said the old man into the phone, forcing control on himself.
'Mr. Weingrass?'
'Perhaps yes, perhaps no. Who are you?'
'We're on a laser patch into your telephone line. My name is Mitchell Payton—’
'I know all about you,' interrupted Manny. 'Is my boy all right?'
'Yes, he is. I've just spoken to him in the Bahamas. A military aircraft has been dispatched from Holmstead Air Force Base to pick him up. He'll be in Washington in a few hours.'
'Keep him there! Surround him with guards! Don't let anyone near him!'
'Then it's happened out there?… I feel so useless, so incompetent. I should have posted guards… How many were killed?'
'Three,' said Manny.
'Oh, my God… How much do the police know?'
'They don't. They haven't got here yet.'
'They haven't… Listen to me, Mr. Weingrass. What I'm about to say will appear strange if not insane to you, but I know what I'm talking about. For the time being this tragic event must be contained. We'll have a far greater chance to catch the bastards by avoiding panic and letting our own experts go to work. Can you understand that, Mr. Weingrass?'
'Understood and arranged,' answered an old man who had worked with the Mossad, a certain impatient condescension creeping into his voice. 'The police will be met outside and told it was a false alarm—a neighbour whose car had broken down and couldn't
