The Hamlet Warning (22 page)

Loomis let his irritation show. “Of course I’m worried about María Elena. Why not? She should be back by now. There’s only one explanation. Ramón doesn’t believe her story about the bomb. He’s holding her hostage. And he’s going to use her in some way.”

“I guess I’m just dense,” Johnson said. “But what good would we do her over there blowing hell out of things?”

“I just want to bring back one of Ramón’s stud ducks,” Loomis explained. “The Professor, or some other
honcho
. Then I’d be in a position to talk about a hostage exchange. And it’s the
only
way I know to talk to Ramón direct about a cease-fire.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? That makes sense, even to me. What are the odds?”

“A battalion of U.S. Marines probably couldn’t get it done before daylight,” Loomis said. “I figure it might take you and me a couple of hours.”

Johnson laughed and picked up his Heckler. He slowly but firmly slipped a cartridge into the chamber. “Loomis, I’ll sure say one thing for you,” he said. “You don’t leave a fellow much room to say no.”

Chapter 25

Minus
13
:
18
Hours

From the old fort they moved downriver, carefully avoiding where possible the open patches of moonlight, taking their time, frequently standing motionless for several minutes to make certain they didn’t blunder into rebel troops.

They passed the Alcazar, tall and unreal in the moonlight. Johnson seemed far more excited over the Alcazar than at the possibility of running into soldiers. Loomis had to explain, in whispers, that the castle originally was built by Christopher Columbus’s son, Diego, in 1510, and for many years served as the seat of government in Spanish America. Apparently the restored palace remained unharmed. Loomis literally had to pull Johnson away from it.

Moving with even more caution, Loomis edged closer to the river as they neared the docks. Twice they circled around rebel checkpoints, avoiding contact.

When Loomis sighted the Tower of Homage he turned away from the river, but Johnson was not to be denied.

“What is that?” he whispered.

“Oh shit, Johnson, why don’t you buy a guidebook?” 

Loomis fumed. He explained that the old fortress, dating back to 1505, had been restored, and was still used by the military. He figured the rebels would be concentrated there.

They were. From a distance, Loomis could see a hundred or more soldiers bivouacking near the tower.

By contrast, the rebel headquarters in the Primate Cathedral appeared deserted. Two lone sentries stood at the heavy pair of wooden doors inset into the thick, flaking walls. Only two feeble lanterns lighted the courtyard. The faint light glinted softly off the ancient sunburst of stained glass over the doorway. Carefully, Loomis studied the bell tower to the right of the doors. Each bell had a separate arch to protect it from the weather. But the crumbling bricks sheltered no snipers. He studied the roofline. He could see where the original white walls were stained by streaks of rust from the roof. But he could see no snipers posted on the roof. He signaled to Johnson. They hunkered down by a wall across the marble courtyard and watched the entrance.

After a quarter of an hour, they heard voices approaching. Four men came out of the darkness talking, laughing. Loomis gathered that someone had messed his pants during a crucial part of the day’s action. The rebels seemed to think the subject funny. Loomis watched carefully as they walked into the faint light around the doorway. The sentries gave them respectful salutes as they entered the cathedral.

Johnson looked at Loomis.

Loomis shook his head.

Ten minutes later, five more officers came from the direction of the tower and entered the cathedral. Loomis recognized a familiar shape.

“The sloppy little one with the beard and glasses,” he whispered. “That’s the son of a bitch we want.”

Johnson pointed to his watch. Five minutes until twelve. The rebel brass apparently were attending a midnight briefing to cover last-minute details for the morning attack. Loomis waited ten more minutes to make certain the guards were not being relieved at midnight.

“Let’s go,” he whispered to Johnson. “I’ll take the one on the right.”

As they walked casually, confidently, across the courtyard toward the cathedral door, Loomis began talking to Johnson in a low voice.

“The colonel” expected him to do all the work, and could never be found when needed, Loomis complained in Spanish. Johnson nodded and made sympathetic grunts. The guards glanced in their direction, but seemed unconcerned. Not until they were within ten feet, as the light from the lanterns fell across their faces, did one rebel become suspicious. He was bringing his gun up, on the point of challenge, when Loomis hit him.

His first blow, a horizontal chop to the trachea, stunned the youth. As he bent forward, choking, fighting for air, Loomis brought a vertical chop down across the base of his cranium. The cervical vertebrae parted with a sickening crunch. Loomis caught the soldier’s rifle before it clattered to the pavement.

As Loomis turned, Johnson’s man dropped onto the stones, his head rolling over to rest at an odd angle. Johnson obviously had not lost his touch with his favorite punch: a heel-of-the-palm jab to the chin. Loomis had never liked the blow. Too much depended on angle and timing. But the whiplash effect could be devastating. Johnson always achieved spectacular results. The man was dead.

“I hated to do that,” Johnson said softly. “I think if I lived in this flea-bitten country, I’d be on
his
side.”

Loomis handed the rifles to Johnson. He checked inside the doorway, then dragged the bodies inside while Johnson kept watch. Beyond the entry way the church was dark. Loomis propped the bodies behind one of the massive pillars.

He moved the lanterns to cast even more shadow on the doorway, put Johnson in position, and stepped back to estimate their chances. In their khakis, standing in the shadows, they might pass as rebel sentries. In any event, the element of surprise would be in their favor. He put his Heckler within easy reach and took up his post with the M16 rifle.

“I just want the Professor,” he explained to Johnson. “We’ll let the rest leave, if we can. If not, we’ll waste them. And if anything happens to me, head west, right up that street, until you reach Calle Piña. That ought to put you in the clear.”

“I’m wearing my dogtags,” Johnson said. “If anything happens to you, I’ll just drop myself in the nearest mailbox.”

They waited in silence for almost an hour before they heard sounds from inside the church. Loomis tried to estimate the number from the approaching footsteps before they came through the door, deep in an argument over the proper placement of rocket launchers. Six officers passed within an arm’s length of Loomis, hardly aware of his presence. None fitted the rotund shape of the Professor.

Loomis breathed easier as the group walked across the courtyard and disappeared in the direction of the tower. Johnson grinned and tossed them a belated, mock salute.

The next group came so quietly Loomis didn’t hear them until they were near the door. Three came through first, several steps ahead of the Professor and a companion. The five started across the marble courtyard. Loomis heard no sounds from inside the church. He reached for the Heckler.

“Freeze!” he called to the five. “Anyone who moves is dead!”

Exposed in the open courtyard, the rebel officers obeyed their better instincts. They stopped, motionless, hands well away from their bodies.

“Now, put your hands on top of your heads,” Loomis said. “Move!” He gave them a few breaths to contemplate their vulnerability. He still heard no sounds from inside the church. “Now turn around, slow, and face me,” he ordered.

He watched Professor Salamanca’s face as recognition came, and in that moment Loomis was certain that the Professor was the one who had ordered him assassinated.

Johnson moved out, flanking. Loomis side-stepped to the doorway.

“Come in, gentlemen,” he said. “One at a time, please.”

The lanterns inside were of better design — Coleman’s with mantles. But they were turned low. Beyond, the church was dark. The meeting apparently was being conducted deep within the building. Loomis motioned the rebel officers into a line along a wall, then knelt to turn up a lantern.

Johnson entered and stopped, staring up at the shrine. “Good God, what in hell is that?” he asked.

“The tomb of Columbus,” Loomis told him. “His bones are in that lead box over there.”

“No shit!” Johnson said. He went over for a closer look.

“Who’s your friend?” the Professor asked Loomis.

“Just a tourist I picked up.”

The Professor snorted. “He smells like CIA to me.”

“Believe me, he’s a tourist,” Loomis said.

“You guys sure make it tough for a fellow to see the sights,” Johnson complained. He moved in and took their sidearms, a collection of Berettas, Llamas, and Colt automatics, taking care not to interfere with Loomis’s field of fire.

Loomis tossed him a roll of heavy nylon-threaded Scotch tape. “Lash them all up except the Professor,” he said. “The Professor goes with us.”

“You’re insane!” the Professor said. “There are hundreds of rebels, anywhere you turn.”

“And all asleep,” Loomis said. “You four, turn around and put your hands behind your backs.”

Johnson picked up his Heckler and paused, listening. Then Loomis heard it, too.

Footsteps were approaching from somewhere deep within the church. Normally, a barrier of metal rods separated the church proper from the tourist area around Columbus’s tomb. But the rebels had removed several of the rods, providing direct access to the church.

Loomis knelt and turned down the nearest Coleman. Johnson backed into the darkness of the church. Loomis walked quietly to a corner, under the huge frescoes beside the shrine. He was still hoping the newcomers would walk into the light unaware, that they could avoid shooting, but the Professor saw his chance.

“Trap!” he yelled. “Go back! Get help!”

Johnson’s Heckler opened up on full automatic inside the sanctuary. The noise was unbelievable. The five captives bolted for the door. Loomis cut four down, but he allowed the Professor to run, certain he could stop him. The Professor was at the door, in full stride, when Loomis caught him behind the ear with the butt of his weapon. The Professor fell sprawling and lay still.

Again all was quiet in the church.

“I could use some light over here,” Johnson said. “You all right?”

“I’m O.K. It’s these other fellows I’m worried about. I think they’re all down for the count, but I’m not sure. Be careful.”

Holding a lantern well out to one side, Loomis checked the damage. Johnson had killed four rebel officers and critically wounded two. Blood, brains, and chipped masonry covered the floor. 

“I sure hope nobody hit poor ol’ Columbus,” Johnson said.

Loomis hurried back to the Professor. “We’ve got to get out of here,” he said. “If we have to, we’ll carry the son of a bitch.”

The Professor was dazed but able to stand on his feet. Loomis found his glasses and handed them to him. A thin trickle of blood ran from his ear into his beard.

“How much time do we have before the whole rebel army comes swarming over here?” Johnson asked.

“About two minutes. You have anything you want to do?”

“Not especially.”

“There’s a cannonball from Sir Francis Drake’s flagship buried up there somewhere in the roof. It’s something every tourist ought to see. If you want to run up and take a look, I’ll see if I can’t hold off the rebel army for a while.”

“I’ll pass. If you’ve seen one cannonball, you’ve seen them all.”

Johnson hurriedly extinguished all the lights. Loomis led the Professor and Johnson out into the night.

“How far do we have to go?” Johnson asked.

“Eleven or twelve blocks,” Loomis said. “We’ll try to come out somewhere around the Gate of La Misericordia. People in that direction will think the shooting was down by the river.”

Keeping to the shadows, they made four blocks without incident.

They were nearing the intersection of Calle 19 de Marzo and Calle Padre Bellini when a burst of bullets passed within a yard of them and slammed into a wall, showering them with concrete chips and plaster. Loomis ducked to the pavement, pushing the Professor full-length. Johnson sprawled beside them.

“
Alto
!” a sentry yelled from the opposite side of the intersection. 

“That guy has got it ass backward,” Johnson said. “Isn’t he supposed to challenge first,
then
shoot?”

Johnson worked his Heckler into position. Loomis could see more rebels in the doorways beyond the sentry. He didn’t want a firefight. He put a hand on Johnson’s arm. “Hold it,” he said.

“Well, it pisses me off,” Johnson fumed. “Nobody does his job right anymore.”

Loomis pulled his Colt .357 magnum and put the barrel against the Professor’s temple. He cocked the hammer. “Professor, your life depends on how well you carry this off,” he said. “Send those soldiers south, down toward the ocean.”

The Professor nodded, swallowed carefully, and called out a stream of obscenities that immobilized the sentry.

Never letting up on the tongue-lashing, he rose and stepped into the moonlit intersection. He rattled out orders, dividing the men into patrols to scour the ocean front for government troops he said had penetrated rebel lines.

“Hang onto that fellow and you might win this war,” Johnson said.

Loomis waited until the soldiers left, then led the Professor and Johnson on west. Near the Old City gate they found barricades manned by government troops. Loomis called for them to hold their fire.

Prodding the Professor, they crossed the street under government guns. Loomis identified himself to a captain and borrowed a jeep.

*

Loomis held his temper until they reached the Jaragua. He took the Professor straight to Johnson’s room, pushed him into a chair, and let his anger flow.