The Marchand Woman

Relief flooded him; he tried not to let it show.

The old man said, “We must pull in our horns and wait it out. Cover our tracks completely.”

“This killing—was it Luz?”

“No. You don’t trust Luz, do you?”

“No, I never have.”

“You needn’t be concerned about him. Luz obeys my orders without question and without deviation. He will continue to do so even if the orders come from beyond the grave. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.” The meaning was clear and it proved once again the old man’s shrewdness. After the old man died Luz would deliver the safe-deposit key to Cielo and Julio. The half million dollars: the house, the landing, the fifty-foot boat. That was the leash to which Cielo was tethered. That and his loyalty to this absurd old man.

Then he understood something else. The anguish with which the old man had skirted the issue of the CIA woman’s death, and the way Emil had flushed and averted his face—it could only mean the woman had been killed by young Emil, or by others at Emil’s command.

Cielo said, “It means postponing the attack on Havana then.”

“It can’t be helped. We must go to ground. Keep all your men in the camp, don’t let anyone out on furlough. Keep your radio receiver switched on at all times and have a man monitor it twenty-four hours a day. If we learn of any danger approaching you we’ll give you warning by radio, but you’re to use it only for receiving and you’ll make no transmissions. Questions?”

“Harry Crobey—is he in charge of the investigation?”

“We don’t know. My sources in the government are not master spies, you know. I acquire dribbles of information here and there. I know that Anders is a sort of troubleshooter for a department of the CIA headed by a gentleman named O’Hillary who seems to have all the earmarks of a clever and ambitious civil servant. Up to now the handling of the investigation of the Mexican kidnaping has been guided more by political considerations than by legalistic ones, but the murder of this girl may change that. We don’t know yet. I don’t have a private pipeline into the White House or the CIA’s top echelons. I have only friends, here and there, with their ears to the ground. Of course I have friends on the police here in San Juan. They know about Anders well enough. They haven’t been able to tell me very much about Crobey, however. He’s here and he met with Anders—just before the girl died—but the nature of his official function is obscure. We’re not even certain who he’s working for. He told a police detective he’d come to Puerto Rico to scout film locations for a Hollywood director. That’s patently ridiculous, of course, but it shows how little we’ve learned. There’s a woman with Crobey, too—either an associate or a courtesan.”

“What’s her name?”

“Marchant, I think. Or Marchand. Something like that.”

“Carole Marchand? She’s the mother of the boy Emil killed.”

“Then perhaps that’s who she is.” The old man didn’t seem interested. “I keep my lines open to the police, of course, and any information they have tends to filter back to me. But if Crobey is free-lancing we’ll have no way to anticipate his movements.”

Cielo said, “Crobey’s like a mamba. I know him—he’s dangerous.”

“We’ll see that he doesn’t find you. Your job now is to go to ground and keep the others in the burrow with you. Don’t communicate with Soledad.”

“I know that well enough,” he said irritably.

“I’m sorry. Love of a woman often makes a man foolish. I’m fortunate to be so old. Pretty girls no longer turn my head.”

That wasn’t true at all; the old man was only having his little joke as a way of easing the admonishment. There were always delectable girls around the old man. Cielo didn’t like to think how they probably must service him.

“I wonder how they traced us here,” Cielo said.

“I’ve no idea. But Puerto Rico’s a big country. Let’s just make sure they don’t trace us any farther than they already have.”

“Will you have Anders and Crobey killed, then?”

“I haven’t decided yet. The decision will depend on how close to us they come.”

Emil, throughout this, had wandered about the deck with his hands in his pockets. Cielo said, “What about Emil? Do I take him with me?”

“No. Emil will remain here and go about his business as if nothing were amiss. His absence from this house might create suspicion.”

Cielo was relieved not to be harassed by Emil’s presence; things in the camp would be tense enough without him.

Emil said, “While you’re waiting up there you might draw up the plans for the coup in detail. I’ll have a look at them afterwards. This investigation will die away like they always do. When it does we’ll make our final decisions. There’s not going to be any more foot-dragging.”

The old man smiled. “To the young everything must happen quickly.”

It was more than that, Cielo thought. Emil wanted to get the job done while the old man was still alive because only in that way could Emil be sure of securing the power he wanted for himself. The old man would see to it that Emil was looked after: Perhaps Emil even had designs on Castro’s position. Without the old man there wouldn’t be a prayer of that happening—Emil had no constituency. So he had to move fast.

All I have to do, Cielo thought, is delay things until the old man dies.

After that it would be possible to deal with Emil, because he could be isolated.

Emil watched him angrily: For an instant Cielo was afraid the youth had read his mind. Emil was clever in his brutal way.

The old man reached for the newspaper beside him. “Luz will drive you back. I know you’d prefer another chauffeur but Luz is the one I trust to make sure you’re not followed.”

On his way out of the house Cielo felt a measure of dulled contentment. The predicament now was in the old man’s lap. The old man would die soon and everything would dwindle away—all Cielo had to do was go to ground and stay there.

Chapter 15

The message at the hotel desk advised Gle

“We heard about Rosalia.” It was, in its tone, sufficient expression of shared sorrow. Crobey’s voice went on: “We should meet.”

“I agree. Where and when?”

Crobey gave him instructions and Anders broke the co

“Did Langley call back after I left?”

“No sir.”

“No messages of any kind from O’Hillary?”

“There’s a Telex, sir. Plain English. It’s only a confirmation.”

“Read it to me anyway.”

“Yes sir. Message reads, ‘Prior instructions remain in effect until further notice. No change in orders.’ That’s it, sir—just the signature.”

“All right. Thanks.”

He went outside with his hand on the flat automatic pistol in his pocket. There were taxis at the curb; he boarded the first one and rode it to the north gate of the university and paid it off there and walked through the campus, stopping twice to check behind him. Students milled about the lawns and a couple was necking under a palm tree; a fat youth sat on the grass reading a comic book. Anders drifted aimlessly among the buildings, going in and out, upstairs and down, from one building to another, staying within crowds when he could; he kept an eye on his watch and at exactly half past five he emerged from the south gate of the campus and walked a block to Calle de Diego where a taxi was just pulling up: Anders stepped in and the car pulled away and Crobey, on the other side of the seat, twisted around to look back through the window.