The Hamlet Warning (5 page)

“Polled Herefords,” Loomis said. “All right. I’m impressed. You and the company have gone to a great deal of trouble. But you’re talking about thirty-some-odd years ago. If you know that much, you know I left at fifteen. And I’ve never been back.”

“And now you can’t go back,” Johnson said. “Not unless you send in your boxtops and accept our generous offer. According to the script, along about here you’re supposed to start weeping, swear you’ll do anything to go home again, and break into ‘America the Beautiful.’”

“Shit, just my luck,” Loomis said. “I’ve forgotten the words.”

“Your mind tends to rot in two-bit tropical revolutions,” Johnson said.

“Since it’s old home week, how about some company news? What ever happened to Smitty?”

“He bought it. About sixty-eight. Chopper lost a blade in the Delta.”

“Tompkins?”

Johnson laughed. “He’s out. A millionaire. The company set him up in a Delaware corporation as cover. He’s apparently more businessman than spook. The cover grew too lucrative. Now he’s running an airline.”

“Melana?”

“You’re not going to believe this. I flew back from Beirut and married her. Three kids now. Two boys and a girl.”

“Son of a bitch. That must have jolted the folks at Langley.”

“For a time. But it’s all right now. Gooks are in fashion and I’ve got a houseful.”

“Somehow, I never figured you for a family man.”

“Melana knows the score,” Johnson said. “She knows my work. She knows me. We just carry a lot of insurance and don’t think about it. She’s young and still beautiful. If anything happens, she’ll make out.”

That was Johnson. The complete realist.

“I suppose you heard about Susy,” Johnson added.

“Yes,” Loomis said, fighting to hold back his anger. “They didn’t have to do that.”

“The company wasn’t involved,” Johnson said quickly. “I made certain, later. It was local talent. The company had nothing to do with it.”

“Well, it happened,” Loomis said. “She’s long dead. And you’ve made your point. What is it they want me to do?”

“First, go on the payroll.”

“In place?”

“In place.”

“No,” Loomis said emphatically. “I’m old enough to be old-fashioned. I only work for one country at a time.”

“Better think it over. The pay’s good, and you’re no spring chicken.”

“I’ve had better offers, and from nicer people.”

“All right,” Johnson said. “That was the first proposal. This is the second: There’s no reason we can’t work with you in your present capacity.”

“That’s for me to say,” Loomis pointed out.

“All you have to do is fly to Washington for a briefing. That’s what they really want.”

“No. Washington can come to me.”

“Christ!” Johnson exploded. “Who in hell you think you are? This is top-level. The White House. National Security Council. Joint Chiefs. Do I make myself clear?”

Loomis thought out his answer carefully. “Anything Washington has to say to me, they can pass
on
through you or through someone else. I’m busy. I’ve got problems of my own. I don’t have time to play grabass in Washington.”

“You’re crazy!”

“Maybe. But at least I know who I’m working for.”

“They’ll pull strings.”

“Let them pull strings. I’m not going to Washington. That’s final.”

“All right. I’ll deliver your answer. But I’m sure that won’t be the end of it. You’ll be hearing more from me.” Johnson fumbled to find the door release.

“Wait,” Loomis said. He reached beneath the steering column and punched the emergency flasher button. After three flashes, he turned it off.

“What the hell was that for?” Johnson asked.

“That was permission for you and your men to leave,” Loomis told him.

“You’re putting me on.”

“Twelve men,” Loomis said. “A thousand-yard perimeter. They let you in. And they wouldn’t have let you out without my signal.”

“In darkness?”

“Sniperscopes,” Loomis explained. “We may run a backwater operation down here. But we run it right.”

He punched the button opening the door latch for Johnson. The sound was loud in the silence of the night. Johnson stepped out and closed the door. Loomis wheeled the Olds around and headed back toward the highway, leaving him standing at the edge of the cane field. 

Chapter 5

Minus
11
Days
,
11
:
48
Hours

After the third assassination attempt against him, Ramón had developed sleeping problems. Each time he dozed off, he tended to relive the stark terror of that night when bullets and grenade fragments filled the house and he lay helpless on the floor, splattered with gore from what had been his brother. His insomnia was beyond solution. He would not allow himself the luxury of sleeping pills, heavy wine, or other conventional remedies. So, he was wide awake when the message came shortly after midnight.

Ramón was certain that his year-long campaign to mount a successful revolution was near fruition. All signs pointed to it: growing unrest in the streets, increased repressions from the administration, mounting dissension in El Jefe’s own party. But Ramón knew, from his copious reading, that a revolution must be plucked at the right moment. A day too soon, or a day too late, and all might be lost.

The message indicated that perhaps the moment had arrived. El Jefe’s hired gunman, Loomis the
norteamericano
, would be leaving for Santiago de los Caballeros within hours to bring the De la Torre family back to the capital. The information came from a good source and Ramón did not doubt it. He had thought, several times, of using the kidnaping of Manuel de la Torre as the kickoff for the revolution. From his studies, he had learned that the principal danger in any revolution is the rise of a third, moderate force as a haven for defectors from both combatant sides. Manuel de la Torre was a logical rallying point for such a group. He was personable, held the respect of many intellectuals, was well known from his writings, and was well separated, politically, from his brother. His kidnaping would at least delay the organization of a political haven for noncombatants. And Ramón was sufficiently imaginative to realize that the kidnaping of De la Torre’s film-actress daughter would make bigger headlines abroad, focusing international attention on his revolution.

The fact that the De la Torre family would be in transit, protected only by a company of soldiers, seemed to present an opportunity too great to be ignored. True, in their home in Santiago, the De la Torres ostensibly were virtually unprotected. But Ramón had learned that the Santiago police and special army units kept them under constant surveillance, with a radio net that in moments would seal streets and summon hundreds of well-armed men to the scene.

In the
palacio
, the family would be even more inaccessible. Ramón knew he must prepare the first major operation of his revolution for execution within the next eighteen hours.

He awoke his aide, Juan, and prepared messages for delivery throughout the city. Juan was reluctant to go.

“
La
Banda
,” he explained.

The irony of the situation was not lost on Ramón. He was preparing to launch a revolution, and his men were terrified by street hoodlums. His Paul Revere was afraid of being mugged. There was reason for the concern.
La
Banda
had ruled the streets after dark since the Balaguer regime.

Ramón sent Juan out into the night armed with a quotation borrowed from the great Latin revolutionary José Marti: “It is better that a man die young for an ideal, than to live all of his life without one.”

While he waited for Juan to deliver the messages, Ramón went into the kitchen of his heavily guarded compound and prepared an elaborate salad for himself, using exotic cheeses, fruits, and seafood in proportions he’d determined after long experiment. He now seldom ate anything else, and he carried only 126 pounds on his six-foot frame. His gaunt build, thin face, and high cheekbones, combined with dark, sunken eyes ravaged by insomnia, had led some of his men to call him
La
Calavera
— “The Skull” — a word that in their idiom carried the added connotation of “daredevil.” This nickname disturbed Ramón. He hoped he had courage, but he did not intend, ever, to be reckless.

He returned to his study and continued his work, correlating the revolutionary thoughts of some of the world’s great thinkers — Leo Tolstoy, Henry David Thoreau, Ralph Waldo Emerson, George Bernard Shaw, Seneca. The difficulty was that some of the best material was the less familiar, rarely printed. He had devoted every spare moment during the last five years to this work.

After two hours of reading and writing, he heard voices in the outer corridor. He switched off the light and went to meet his advisers.

His council of war had arrived.

They argued until daylight.

Ricardo Morales, the hatchet-faced lawyer from Santiago, agreed that the revolution’s affairs had reached the pinnacle. He urged immediate action. “The northern provinces are ready,” he said. “Our men are trained, they are psychologically prepared. If we wait much longer, they will become bored, lose their enthusiasm.” 

Julio Paredes, the portly, asthmatic doctor from San Francisco de Macoris, was less certain that the moment had arrived. “El Jefe is losing prestige and support every day,” he pointed out. “His generals are feuding. The economic reprisals from his anti-U.S. policies are beginning to hurt. The longer we wait, the easier he will be to overthrow.”

“The outbreak of revolution will bring even more severe economic pressure to bear,” the lawyer countered. “Tourism will dry up overnight. Even the quick-divorce flights from New York probably will be halted.”

Ramón listened to the arguments with a detached air. Nothing was being said he had not explored, evaluated carefully. There was only one opinion he really wanted to hear: that of Professor Mario Salamanca. “What do you think, Professor?” he asked.

Horn-rims askew, his beard untrimmed and awry, his suit soiled and rumpled, the Professor hardly seemed the type one would select as a councilor. But no one was more thoroughly informed on Latin American politics, past and present. The Professor spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

“The matter simply boils down to a question of opportunity,” he said. “The kidnaping of the De la Torre family could serve as the classic
grito
of revolution, proclaiming that we are at last committed. I frankly don’t know when a better opportunity might occur. Another factor to consider is that it would require only a small force, leaving our organizational charts intact for the opening phase of the revolution for every major town in the north. I believe we could control the entire Cibao within a week or two, and with it the country’s breadbasket. I believe we should strike.”

The Professor’s analysis was recognized as the final argument. Yet the decision clearly was Ramón’s to make. The group watched his reaction, waiting, expectant.

Ramón rose and faced them. “I agree,” he said. He turned to Doctor Paredes. “I also agree with the doubts, the misgivings you voiced. But I think Professor Salamanca has put the issue into words. We are ready. We can’t afford to let this opportunity go by.”

They hurriedly made plans. Forty rebel soldiers would be moved from San Francisco de Macoris to Rincón in a stake-bed truck, with both men and weapons concealed under a load of sugar cane. A frame to provide adequate space under such a cargo had been prepared months ago. Another thirty men would drive south from La Vega in private cars, their weapons hidden beneath seats or in auto trunks. A traffic search on that short distance of road was a minimal, calculated risk. Sixty men from a group of rural guerrillas encamped along the Río Yaque del Norte would march eastward to a rendezvous where the Duarte Highway crossed the Río Yuna.

Near that point, with more than 130 well-trained men and plenty of weapons, Ramón would organize the ambush to start his revolution.

Ramón could see no way that his plan could fail.

He had hopes of taking the De la Torre family alive, but this was not essential.

Their deaths also could accomplish his major objectives.

Chapter 6

Minus
11
Days
,
02
:
42
Hours

Loomis made the three-hour, 175-kilometer trip to Santiago alone in his private Olds. He thought of taking Bedoya, but he felt that his
segundo
might be needed in the capital.

He drove fast on the long, open stretches of the Duarte Highway, curving northward and westward around the eastern slopes of the Cordillera Central. To the west he could see the peaks rising to more than ten thousand feet. He passed through fields of sugar cane, cocoa, and coffee and, at times, long expanses of virgin hardwood timber. The highway, rebuilt during Trujillo’s last years, was good, one of the best in the country. In general, it followed the route of the first highway, built during the 1916 American occupation, connecting the capital with the country’s breadbasket, the rich, fertile Cibao valley along the Río Yaque del Norte.

Three days of rain had cleared the air along the slopes, and from the higher places it seemed he could see all the way to the coast. The sky was cloudless, but the rains had cooled the land and tempered the effect of the strong sun. Loomis drove with the air conditioner off, the windows lowered. He often passed fields of workers tending the crops. Some waved as he passed. He wondered what was on their minds. He knew what would be on his mind, if he were in their place, trying to live on 180 pesos a year.

In 1869, during one of the half-dozen times the United States seriously considered annexing the Dominican Republic, U.S. Senator Charles Sumner, in a celebrated opposition speech, warned that the United States would be linking itself to “a dance of blood.” As proof, he merely cited Dominican history.

The phrase was apt. Neither the Vietnamese, nor the Koreans, nor any people Loomis knew had endured so much. In the months when he had little else to do, he had read deeply in Dominican history.

He passed through the town of La Vega, where — with divine assistance, it was claimed — a handful of Christopher Columbus’s armored Spaniards murdered thousands of helpless Indians. And within a generation, all Indians were gone in a classic case of genocide. Slave ships, beatings, disease, unaccustomed work, the sword, and the gibbet destroyed a peaceful, gentle people.

Blacks, other Indians, other peoples were brought to the island, but in five hundred years the philosophy had not changed.

Loomis wondered, at times, how El Jefe would be rated among the scores of dictators who had ruled the Dominican Republic. There had been excesses during the last few years. El Jefe didn’t condone the use of
La
Banda
, but he regarded it as a necessary evil. Strong, unpalatable measures had to be taken to control some elements, he said. Loomis had been powerless to stop the practice. It was beyond the limits of his authority.

There were no simple answers to the problems of the Dominican Republic. One former president, Juan Bosch, had his initial enchantment with democracy tempered by experience. Bosch now believed that the Dominican Republic was without a political solution in the institutional sense. He advocated a benevolent, responsive dictatorship.

El Jefe was far more benevolent than most in the country’s history.

Loomis arrived in Santiago de los Caballeros well before dark. He drove past the tree-shaded squares and the Trujillo era’s overly modernized buildings to the Trujillo-built luxury hotel, the Matum. Checking in, Loomis shaved, showered, and changed from slacks and pullover to a light tan suit and tie. With yet another hour to kill, he went down to the dining room for dinner. Shortly after dark, as young couples began to gather at the Matum for a night of dancing, he checked out and drove to army headquarters.

Colonel Felipe Rodríguez Prado met him in the outer offices with a warm
abrazo
. Not yet thirty, Rodríguez was the best-known hero of the revolution that had elevated El Jefe to office. Although severely wounded, he had led the charge that had breached the walls at the military center, an action that had been witnessed by El Jefe himself. After the battle, Rodríguez was commissioned by El Jefe while a doctor worked to recover stray bits of metal from his wounds. Now, Rodríguez not only was in charge of the entire Santiago Province, but also was the eyes and ears of El Jefe in Santiago.

He took Loomis into his inner office and closed the door. “Let’s go get drunk and talk of old times,” he said.

Loomis laughed. He felt affection for few people. Rodríguez, with his easy smile and direct manner, was one. “El Jefe would tack my balls to the nearest wall,” Loomis said. “But after this assignment, we will have to have a serious
parranda
.”

Rodríguez walked to his desk, took a cigarette from a silver case, and lit it thoughtfully. “A delicate assignment,” he said. “Señor De la Torre won’t go unless forced.” 

“Maybe we can convince him it’s for his own safety,” Loomis pointed out. “And for that of his family.”

“He’s blind to the danger,” Rodríguez said. “I’ve had hell with him — and that daughter of his. El Jefe has insisted on close security. But if De la Torre sees one of my men on his property, he complains to me personally. And the daughter makes a game of shaking her protection.”

Loomis had hoped there would be no difficulties. But Rodríguez confirmed his premonitions.

“What do you suggest?” he asked.

Rodríguez smoked in silence for a moment, considering. “We know he’ll refuse. Yet, we’ll have to ask. So I propose that you ask him, politely, with a company of my best men behind you.”

“You’re a genius,” Loomis said. “Those were my exact thoughts.”

At 8:30, Loomis knocked at the front door of the huge, rambling De la Torre
estancia
, hoping to catch the family finishing dinner. From long surveillance, Rodríguez knew that they dined late. Apparently the timing was perfect. When the butler, a big Indian peasant, showed him into the high-ceilinged study, Loomis caught a glimpse through a distant doorway of the entire family seated at the table.

The house was in traditional Spanish style, with heavy wooden furniture, exposed beams, and thick paneling throughout. The somber tone of the dark wood was relieved by the bright weavings and tapestries.

The De la Torres were an enigma to Loomis. He knew many details of their private lives. And none fitted.

María Elena de la Torre Ibañez and her fifteen-year-old brother, Raul de la Torre Ibañez, were Manuel’s children by his first wife, who died of a ruptured appendix on a yacht cruise to the South Pacific. A year later, Manuel married one of his graduate students, Juana Velez Gutiérrez. Juana was not much older than María Elena. 

Juana believed in miracles and experienced visions. Some said she was a mystic. Others said she was a religious nut. Juana and María Elena rarely spoke to each other.

But María Elena was the most intriguing mystery. Trained in music, drama, and ballet from an early age, she became a film star overnight with a remake of
Joan
of
Arc
. After a brief, intensive career, she quit Hollywood following six films. She became a political activist, first traveling, making speeches, then dropping from sight to pursue academic degrees. She completed work for her master’s and Ph.D. Her dissertation, a firsthand study of revolutionary politics, was scheduled for publication by a university press. And now she had just as mysteriously returned home to live. No one knew why. She had long refused to talk to the press.

De la Torre kept Loomis waiting less than two minutes. He was a smaller man than El Jefe, almost a head shorter. But in the prominent nose and deep-set eyes Loomis could see a strong family resemblance. He entered the study with his puzzlement evident in a slight frown. “Señor Loomis,” he said. “The name is familiar. But forgive me, I cannot put it into place.”

Loomis didn’t waste words. He shifted into flowing, formal Spanish. “With your permission, Señor De la Torre, I have the honor to be chief of security to El Jefe. He has sent me with a cordial invitation for you and your family to visit him in the capital for an indefinite stay.”

“Of course. The
norteamericano
,” De la Torre said. “Have you dined?”

“Thank you, yes.”

“Perhaps you will join me in a brandy …”

Loomis knew that De la Torre’s typical Latin cordiality was also a stall for time, while he sought to compose a reply El Jefe might not find offensive, yet one that would leave no doubt he meant what he said. Loomis declined the drink. 

De la Torre took his time pouring his own.

“Please convey to my brother my regrets,” he said. “As I have explained to him many times, we simply cannot leave Santiago. The children are in school. And I have my classes at the university …”

“I hope there will be no unpleasantness,” Loomis said. “But El Jefe has instructed me not to accept your regrets. I’ve been told to put this in the strongest terms. He has valid reason to believe your life — and that of your family — is in danger. El Jefe feels that since the danger exists because of his position, he is responsible for your safety.”

“I don’t wish to be rude,” De la Torre said. “But I have no intention of going to Santo Domingo. Please consider our conversation on this subject ended.”

“You’re making my job difficult,” Loomis said. “You know your brother. You can appreciate the position I’m in. Please ask your family to be ready to leave for the capital within two hours. They may take only essentials. Your property here will be well guarded until you return.”

“I’ll take this up with my brother,” De la Torre said. He crossed the room and tugged at a bell cord. The big Indian entered. “Please escort Señor Loomis to the door,” he said.

The Indian stood for a moment, uncertain, then moved toward Loomis. Taking a step backward, Loomis pulled his revolver.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’ve made this necessary. The house is surrounded by soldiers. Please tell your family to pack. If you don’t, I’ll call the soldiers in to do the packing for you.”

As Loomis stood, pistol in hand, he saw movement to his left. Turning, he brought the .357 to bear on a vision of loveliness. Dark thin face, large intelligent eyes, and an abundance of long dark hair. For a moment, he didn’t recognize her. He was used to seeing those delicate features ten feet tall on a movie screen. They now were reduced to a compact package no more than five-feet-four. But there was no mistaking that mouth. Prim one moment, full and generous the next, and with a smile and laugh that bordered on wanton, the mouth gave the face a kaleidoscope of constant, unself-conscious emotion. It was a face that had left critics ecstatic through six films. Clay had seen them all, some two or three times. El Jefe had prints of each and proudly screened them for visitors.

If the sight of the pistol fazed her, she hid it well.

“Papa! What’s happening?” she asked.

“Hector has ordered us to take refuge in that fortress he calls a home,” he said. “This gentleman is conveying the invitation.”

She glared at Loomis. “You’re not a gentleman,” she said. “You’re Loomis. I’ve read a lot about you.”

“And you’re María Elena,” he said. “I’ve read a lot about you, too.” He could have added that much of what he’d read was in his top secret security files.

“Please don’t say you liked my films. I think I might throw up.”

The vocal inflections, the facial mannerisms, he had seen hundreds of times. But no screen image had conveyed the awesome delicacy of that clear olive skin, the natural richness of that thick, dark-chestnut hair. He was puzzled and disturbed by his reactions. A decade had passed since his last infatuation. Occasionally a new girl would hold his interest for a while. And pretty girls were not exceptional in his life. The beach hotels usually were full of women combining a quick divorce with a brief vacation. Many seemed to need more than an ornate Dominican gold seal before restoring themselves, mentally, to freedom. Loomis had done what he could to help repair broken psyches from time to time. Some resulted in extended liaisons. A few of those women were well known in the entertainment field.

But dry mouth, accelerated pulse, a feeling of awkwardness? 

He thought he’d put that twenty years and more behind him.

“To the contrary,” he said. “I didn’t think a single one of your films had enough substance to merit your attention, or mine.”

Her eyes widened in mock surprise. She gestured to the pistol. “I knew film critics were hired mercenaries,” she said. “But I didn’t know hired mercenaries were film critics. This is the first time I’ve ever been reviewed at the point of a gun.”

“Please,” Loomis said. “I’m only emphasizing the urgency.” He holstered the pistol.

“You don’t have to apologize,” María Elena said. “Hitler didn’t. El Jefe doesn’t.”

“María Elena! My brother hardly deserves to be compared to Hitler.”

“Trujillo, then. If we had constitutional guarantees, hired mercenaries wouldn’t be able to come into our home waving a pistol.”

“We’re wasting time,” Loomis said. “I don’t want to call the soldiers in. But I will.”

De la Torre sighed. “Señor Loomis is right,” he said. “We really have no choice. I know my brother.” He turned to the house servant. “Please inform the Señora we will leave in two hours for an extended stay in Santo Domingo.”