The Hamlet Warning (11 page)

Part Two

Chapter 12

Minus
7
Days
,
05
:
33
Hours

For the first time since the revolution began, the sniping failed to end at daylight. If anything, the tempo increased. Shooting erupted at several points along El Conde and throughout the Old Town, with snipers firing brief bursts from balconies and rooftops, then disappearing before government troops could retaliate, only to pop up again and repeat the performance in other places. Grenades and plastic explosives were lobbed into the streets from windows and balconies by unseen terrorists.

Just before dawn, Colonel Escortia moved six French-made AMX-13 tanks into the business section, between El Conde Gate and the Tower of Homage, hoping to cut his losses. But the snipers were elusive. They were almost impossible to catch in the act. They went unarmed on the streets, to all appearances mere frightened civilians scurrying for safety. But once inside buildings, they raced upstairs to designated rooms. From beneath mattresses, secret panels, and carpet-covered trapdoors they took weapons and joined in the battle. When the return fire became too intense, they hid the weapons and fled down the stairs or over the rooftops, once again mere frightened civilians.

Immersed in his own problems, Loomis was only vaguely aware of the intensified fighting. He’d spent most of the night with El Jefe and the generals, mapping a plan of action. When they reached agreement on basic strategy, he went to the phone and made arrangements for a temporary headquarters, with tight security, and the various communication setups they would need.

An hour after dawn, he set out for the Hotel Embajador with a driver and the jeep. A soldier rode shotgun on the air-cooled Browning M1A6 machine gun.

The route out Avenida Bolívar took them within two blocks of the United States Embassy, and Loomis was relieved to see that all seemed quiet there. They heard sporadic firing from the vicinity of the university to the south as they passed. As they drove through the Botanic Gardens, Loomis swung his Heckler up, alert for an ambush, but the entire stretch seemed deserted. They made the trip without incident.

The lobby of the Embajador was jammed with newspapermen and television crews who had flown in from all over the western hemisphere. The Embajador by tradition served as press headquarters during Dominican revolutions. Most of the foreign correspondents were veterans. Many had covered Dominican revolts before. Some had requested their favorite rooms. All undoubtedly had done their homework, Loomis figured. He knew many from past wars — a few dating back to early Vietnam.

As Loomis entered, they swarmed across the lobby toward him.

“What’s the situation, Loomis?” asked the man from the
Washington
Post
, his voice rising above the din.

The group crowded around Loomis, blocking his way. Hand-held television lights flared, and he squinted against the glare. He slung his Heckler and held up his hands for silence. “Shut those fucking things off,” he told the cameramen. The lights went out. The group stood quiet, expectant.

“You probably know as much as I do,” Loomis told them.

“Bullshit,” said the lady from the
New
York
Times
. “We happen to know you practically sleep with El Jefe.”

Loomis looked at them for a moment, as if reluctant.

“All right,” he said. “This is from ‘a well-placed source within the administration’ or whatever cliché you people are using these days. Don’t quote me direct. I’m just a fellow doing his job. I’m willing to let the locals have all the credit for their little wars.”

He paused, making certain no pen had yet moved, that no camera or tape recorder was whirring.

“I talked with Colonel Escortia by phone a few minutes ago,” he said. “I
can
give you some background information. So far, there’s been no fighting in force here in the capital. It’s still all hit-and-run. There’s just more of it today. Most of the fighting has been in the old section, back over by the river. About fifty rebels were killed during the night. Government losses were about the same, with another forty or fifty wounded.”

“What about civilians?” the
Washington
Post
man asked.

“I don’t have a count on that.”

“What measures are being taken by the government?” the man from Montevideo asked.

“Colonel Escortia has moved tanks into the old city,” Loomis told them. “But let me stress that he did so for the protection of his men, not for the additional firepower. As far as I know, only light weapons have been used.”

“What about the situation in the rest of the country?” someone asked. “Is the revolution widespread?” 

“There have been reports of heavy fighting in San Francisco and Santiago,” Loomis said. “You could say the issue is in doubt in both cities. But we have no firm figures.”

“Is the De la Torre family safe?” the
New
York
Times
woman asked.

“They are in residence at the palace,” Loomis told her.

“Are they in custody?” she demanded.

Loomis hesitated, regretting the tone of candor he’d established. Although he trusted these professionals to protect their source when asked to do so, he also knew they were capable of providing their own slant.

“They are palace guests, under the protection of El Jefe,” he told her.

“Have you had any contact with Ramón?” asked the
Post
.

“Unfortunately, no,” Loomis said.

The reporter’s eyebrows lifted. “Why ‘unfortunately’?”

Loomis carefully planted his bombshell. “Because, if the government were in contact with Ramón, certain negotiations might be possible. Not from any position of weakness on the part of the government. Let me stress that — not from a standpoint of weakness. Ramón hasn’t caused that much damage. But the government might make certain concessions to him, from a sincere desire to restore peace in the Dominican Republic.”

There was a brief silence while the reporters recorded and assessed that information.

“Is that official?” the
New
York
Times
woman asked.

“That’s from your same famous, anonymous and well-informed source within the administration,” Loomis said.

As the reporters scattered to phones and typewriters, Loomis hurried on through the lobby to the elevators and to Johnson’s room on the third floor.

Johnson answered the door, pointed to a carafe of coffee, and returned to the phone. Loomis closed the door, latched it, tossed his Heckler onto the rumpled bed, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He also helped himself to a jelly roll from Johnson’s unfinished breakfast — and eavesdropped.

Johnson’s end of the conversation seemed to consist mostly of affirmative grunts. But after several minutes, he grew impatient.

“Loomis is here now,” he said. “I’ll let you know as soon as I find out.” He hung up the phone.

Loomis reached for another jelly roll.

“Want me to order you up a breakfast?” Johnson asked.

“No thank you,” Loomis said. “I’m not very hungry. The folks at Langley up early this morning?”

“Nobody, including me, has been to bed in a week,” Johnson said, rescuing his ham and eggs. “Somehow, they just don’t share my confidence in you.”

“They should have been with me during the last four or five hours,” Loomis told him. “I’ve even built some confidence in myself.”

“I take it, then, that you
do
have a plan.”

“Do indeed,” Loomis said. “But first things first. Why don’t you call up all those brand-new eighty-thousand-a-year file clerks over at your embassy? Tell them to be over at the Jaragua by ten o’clock. We’ll set up headquarters there. Arrangements are being made now. We’ll get the show on the road. Miles to go and all that crap.”

“What in the world would make you think we’ve got any new company men planted in the embassy?” Johnson asked.

“An axiom of the trade,” Loomis told him. “CIA intelligence officers always act like file clerks. The file clerks always act like CIA intelligence officers. But we’re giving you carte blanche. Call in all of them you need.” 

“How will they get over there?”

“An escort will pick them up at the embassy at nine-forty,” Loomis said. “Most of the fighting is back toward the river. They shouldn’t have any trouble.”

“Your exact words last night, as I recall,” Johnson said. “And I almost got creamed three times on my way back to the hotel. Once by rebels and twice by your people.”

He went back to the phone and put a call through to the United States Embassy. Loomis spotted a tell-tale bulge in Johnson’s luggage. He went to it and pulled out a fifth of bourbon. He poured some into his coffee. Johnson cupped a hand over the mouthpiece.

“Help yourself,” he said.

Cup in hand, Loomis crossed to the dresser, where he picked up a leather case that had caught his eye. The Oriental girl who looked back at him from the frame was familiar, yet unfamiliar. He had difficulty matching this well-coiffed, fashionable, anglicized matron with the painfully thin waif he had known a dozen years ago. The children beside her were more exotic than Oriental. An attractive family. Beside the case was a stack of travel brochures. Johnson, always the tourist, saw the sights and absorbed local lore wherever he went.

And he had seen most of the world.

Johnson cradled the phone. “Listen,” he said. “The people at Langley are shitting little green apples. They want to know what you plan to do about the tanker.”

“I guess we can tell them now,” Loomis said. “Did they move some backup into Lisbon?”

“Half the force in Europe, apparently. That’s a big station to begin with. Now there must be a hundred men there. That enough?”

“Depends on how bright they are.” Loomis thought back over his plan. He still could find no hole in it. “All they’ve got to do is to find an authentic case of bubonic plague and check same into a Lisbon hospital within twenty-four hours or less.”

Johnson stared at him for a moment until comprehension came. “Im-fucking-possible!” he exploded. “You’re crazy!”

“That’s the trouble with you Civil Service types,” Loomis said. “No sense of challenge.”

Johnson considered the idea. “It might work,” he said. “It just might work. But there’s not enough time. Couldn’t we fake it?”

“No. We can’t risk the Hamlet people suspecting we’re onto them.”

“Can’t be done,” Johnson said. “Not within twenty-four hours.”

“Fifty bucks says it can.”

“You’re on. What’s the secret?”

“No secret. Just ingenuity and a lot of hard work.”

“Maybe you better tell me,” Johnson said. “Langley may be a little short on ingenuity this morning.”

“Think it out,” Loomis said. “We don’t want a registered case. This patient has to be completely unknown to authorities such as the World Health Organization. A patient that can’t be traced. So we can forget about most of civilization. But it’ll be found where bubonic plague is indigent. Any guesses?”

“India?”

“Close. Might do in a pinch. But I’m counting on Africa. That’s closer to Lisbon.”

“How will we find this patient? Put classifieds in all the papers?”

“Oh, Lord, Johnson, you’re supposed to be the expert on clandestine operations. Think, now. Who would have charge of a case of bubonic plague in some remote region of Africa?”

“A medical missionary?”

“Right. Some contemporary Doctor Livingston, a thousand miles out in the bush. Now, what do you suppose would entice such a man to make us the gift of a bona fide terminal case of bubonic plague?”

“How would I know? A new choir loft, maybe?”

“O.K., you’re dumb, so I’ll tell you. Only one thing would work: a good supply of medicine to salve his professional conscience. Advancement of science and all that. Isn’t there a pharmaceutical company among the Delaware corporations?”

Johnson nodded. After the CIA failed in its early efforts in the late forties and early fifties to plant intelligence officers among foreign news correspondents and the overseas ranks of existing commercial firms, special corporations were formed solely to serve as cover for agency men abroad. At the time, the State of Delaware offered the simplest and easiest route to incorporation. The many worldwide commercial operations of the CIA eventually became known in the trade as “the Delaware corporations.”

“Also, we’ll need a company man who knows medical jargon well enough to pass for an M.D. If you have an M.D., so much the better.”

“This is beginning to sound dirty.”

“I’ve had good teachers. Have Langley locate the headquarters of all churches and organizations that send missionaries into the outback. Put out the word through the pharmaceutical company: they’ve found a superdrug that just might cure advanced cases of the plague. It might stop this scourge of mankind once and for all, and so forth. They need a terminal patient to test the stuff on. The drug is extremely unstable, which is the reason for speed. They’ve just made up a fresh batch of it, and they hate to waste it. As far as the bush doctor is concerned, the drug — and the patient — are being flown to Lisbon for the most expedient rendezvous possible.”