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Doc's men a splinter group out of the loop of cominaque. Note:
Use the little ditty about the toys for the girls boys; to wit, rocket laungers aimed at aribs so on. end note. Also explain how the mossad had sent in a team of, use the herbrew word, then a second team, the him and yosaff. end note Note: He is about to hit Yosaff, When Walter Johnson orders him to stop. Sam turns on Walter Johnson, offers Walter agree of to tell him what he knows. atrocties, inculding Sam the
training of tourtures.
Sam remembers he had yet to go over the
folder for them. Note: Sam's height, etc. Also the people in the cafe, also the mention of east texas brought the smile to Sam's face. Note: It was only fitting that state had sent him; I was respnicale for Sam's placement in the agency. etc. The streets of Quatamala City. afterall
There was nothing quiet about Quatamala City...ever; even when it was dark and silent and most of its inhapitnts slept. But during the day, yes during the day the streets rushed, as if the pavemet itself were in motion. This was pitculary true of Calle
Sarrenrto street, which begin way out at the city limits by the city dump as a dirt road and then spertined into pavement where manaquinds in expensive dresses stared out store windows, sprinted down slop-eyed jut-edged corners where push-venders lined up, and evened out for miles where right around the city center the four lanes melted away in to two and traffic bumbered to bumbered and
horns blared and faces with sweat from the noon day sun running down their necks crained out windows and cursed, cursed to the
Gods, the drivers ahead, themselves, and just for the release of it all. Thus the street outside of the Cafe Guata in Guatamala City was its useal busteling for the time of day. The only thing out of the ordinary was the decrept 1967 Ford Farlane swaying on broken springs as it creeped at a snails pace. The car stalled traffic to less then a creawl. And the drivers thought: Ah, here was a reason to really release cursers. Not just the normel: Move
it. Let's go. But down home laten stick it in the face curses: Your mother is a whore! Your father was raised by pigs. I fucked you Mother! The curses were a frutile attempth to urge the driver along. To no avel. The Fairlaine, a dark searching face peering out at the stores, continued to bounce and sway, ignoring the traffic behind it. Walter Johnson was unware of the everyday game of name
calling playing outside...and in truth wouldn't have cared. He played life by the numbers. And he was by the numbers bored. Which meant real bored. Or as he saw it: I. M. B. I am bored. BORED with looking at pictures and hearing about this idiot and that idoat. Which was much how the drivers outside felt about the creeping Fairlaine. So it was when he half joked, and only did so because the pile of folders on the table was, he saw, down to one. "Hey East Texas, who's the last one?" That for the first time since his arrivel a day earler that easy smile he had come to know to many
years ago to count jumped on Sam Wall's face; up until then Sam had played it cool, not much of a smile, hell, not much of a grin. Hell, Walter was was glad to see the smile. The smile was like going home after too many years to count. The smile was part of Sam, as a piticual color suite or car is a part of a person. Call it a worry free smile; the kind of smile that daniced across the lips. That's it. A dancing smile. One moment it was there, brought foreward by some unseen music playing, the next moment, the band quiet, it was gone; oh the smile was still there but the music had ceased playing leaving a slight curl of the upper lip. The mention of East Texas had facalated the smile and Sam passed along this smile as he had pushed a eight by ten glossy acorrss the table. A slight second later distain rested on his lips. "Mr. Fostor," He said, "Owns
the 'Cafe Suanos,' in Antigua. I imgine you will meet him tomorrow at the festival. Feeds us information; mostly worthless; always undercover...he fancies accusing everybody and their uncle as a either working for us or the D.E.A." "He thinks that by casting the spotlight on others he
remorves supposion on himself," Walter ventured. "Something like that," Sam opinionned. They oucipied a window table facing the street. Sam was station head for the C.I.A. in Quatamala. Was. Not much longer. One more week. Walter was sent up from Washington to debreif him
and breif the new man. They were old frineds...going all the way back two men could go without sharing the same womb; and that was a fair number of years ago. They were going over the people who
information. A very simple asighnment. O. W. T. O. I. W. T.
N. Otherwise known in State Department jargen as: Out with the old and in with the new. They were also doing it B. T. N. numbers. "You don't much like him, huh?" "No." "Personal." "Right." "Okay," Walter said, accepting Sam's judgment "Then there is no reason to alert your replecement." "No. Fostor's a good snitch. Distastefull. He's running By the
around tagging an american woman name Karon as a D.E.A. snitch. The communtiy in Antigia is quite small, of americans anyway, and she's taking it hard; dosn't understand the back stapping that goes on. This isn't the first time Foster's pulled this stunt." "But not our problem." "Nope. Not our propblem." "Could he be right." "No." "You checked." The smile returned. He rifled through the folders before him and pulled a thin file out. All it held was a eight by ten glossy. A bright cheery a-typical southern calaforna spandex clad tanned face blound hair smiled at me. "Why bother?" "See what you mean." "Yeah," he replied, "She left a husband back in San Daigo who had left her and came to Antigua to sort things out. She's into
new age healing and such. Opened a cafe. Foster made a pass and she shot him down. He's not a happy camper." Walter filed away what Sam said. Was't Sam's proplem anymore, anyway. A.B.G. All but gone. Walter envied him. The retirement. Returning to East Texas to work the ranch his parents had worked and their parents before them. He was about to say as much when they came in, four in all...each carried carbines. They had the weatherd bronzed look that expeearence told him came from living out in the open; propley in the mouontions. Bandanas obscured their faces. Walter tensed, the presure pressing the thirty eight shelved in the holster hidden from view by a sport jacket. But the pressure was nothing compared to the presure that quickly built up behind his eyes; he hadn't used the gun, any gun, in years: he was a desk man, a yes man, a man who planned to retire in Washington D. C. and attend cocktail parties and bed other mens wives who were busy working the eight pluse eight to get ahead. Sam's eyes narrored at him. No, they said. The four men went to a table kitty corner from us and spoke rapitly to a man sitting alone there. "Let's go now. Move! Now!" The man hesatated. Frightened. Sure. Terrafied. Yes, his eyes displayed terror. He knew. Knew this was the end of whatever little piece of life he had left. THe man who had spoken barked again. "UP! Puta!" Evedently humor had graced the man's life because he looked at the coffee cup before him, then picked it up and drank as if he
had all the time in the world. The man who had issured the commends raised his carbine and shot him point blank in the head. A single Bang! The coffee cup slipped from the man's fingers and shatterred to the floor. The man's head did a slwo waltze to the table, bounced once, then lay as if asleep. As the four men filed out, the one who had shot the man paused for a second at where Sam And Walter sat and looked hard at Sam. Sam shook his head and pointed with one hand at the his other hand hidden from view beneath the table. "Someday, hombra," he said and followed the others out to the street. "Over there slumbed on the table top," Sam said matter of factly, "Is senor Basalone. Snitch. Plays both sides of the fence. Used too anyway." While he had spoke, he had stuffed the files away in a black briefcase. He uncurled his lean six foot fame and stood. His hollow cheeks suck in, giving him a lean appearence of a man who worked the land all his life. He pointed at the waiter who was the only other person in the cafe and rotated his finger indacating the phone. "Polica," he instrcted. But the waiter was mesmorized by the appearently sleeping man seeping red liguid onto the colth table cloth. "Polica. NOW!" As if punched, the man bolthed for the back room where the presumed phone was. "Who was the man who spoke to you?" "Raul. Your local counter insurgency leader. Small potatos.
That's his entire army; Guzman, who runs the show, dosn't think Guatamala city is very importemt in terms of miltary stragy...God knows he's right. He, Raul, thinks I killed his half brother Jorge." "I see." He had. And Walter knew for sure. And he thought that he alone knew for sure. He was mistaken. On the way out Walter inquired wehter he was attedning the Genreal's 'Welcome Party,' for the newly appointed Iseral
Ambassador and his wife. The Genreal, Sam almost scoffed, but didn't. The stuffed shirt U. S. Ambasador who demanded to be referred to as the 'General'. What a lark. He streatched his jaw, as if finding the both the question and the united states ambasador distasteful and replied, "No." Walter already knew. Parties and Sam. Not his styly. And the Sam and the Ambasador. It would be kind to say that they were cut from different cloth. "And tomorrow? Arangments are set? "Not in stone," Sam replied, "Not after Seniro Basone" A raise of the eyebrows from Walter in aknowgment.
Chapter two jason The arrivel of a newly apointed Ambasador was always a reason to throw a cocktail party; or so Alacander Bray, who was the Americn Ambasador beleived...mostly because their wasn't along the lines of excitement, much to do in Quatamala, which he considered to be a dirt water country. No big game to hunt. No corpereat jets to travel from here to there, no lobbyest spreading money around like water. Just a dinky little country stuck between Mexico and El Elaslavdor. But to throw a party for the newly appointed
Isreale ambassdor and his wife, now this was an event, quite possible the event of the season. Who didn't like Isreal? Except for Arabs, and lord knew there wasn't twenty Arabs in the entire country. But the question was: Who loved Isreal. Almost every Senter and Congeesmen in Washington. God loved an underdog and so did the American People, and so did the Presadent who loved the votes from the American People. So the Ambasador, who never met an oppertuty to climb the diplamatic ladder, pulled out all stops and almost emptyied the Embassy Budget to ensure the event was a crown jewel. And was he already reaping benfits? Damn right. The Senters from Il. Fl. Tex. And CA had flown in on a corpret jet supplied by A.D.M...supermarket to the world. Nine Congressmen on a jet
supplied by United Brands...fruit market to the world. The head of the guatamala miltary, and...or, hell anybody who was somebody in queatamal was there. And what a shinding it was too. And right of center of the grand ballroom where the crystel chandler hung in the Ambasador's
resadence, he stood suryving the scene. How his heart fluttered joyishly. His domain danced, laughed, flirted, shouted bousterly. IT WAS ALIVE! Whe even the old Nazie, Hre Heniz, the german ambasador, was right this moment laughing it up with the new isreal ambasador; scandolous, why the german bastard had to know where every old nazie in central america hid; yet there he stood as if best buddies gabbing with a jew; God, nothing like a good shingding to bring men of differrent policitcal beliefs togeter. There are men, women, who collect beautfull things. To gaze upon. To touch. To feel...beautful inside. To fill an outside the skin void. But the the virture of collecting, becomes adictive and by virture much like a of
needing a fix and needing a fix and needing a fix and on and on and on the craving an insatabile beast requiring constant feeding. Such it is with collecting. The item is acculamaled. Hung on the wall, or placed on the mantle, or stored away in a vault; the inital joy a gunshot, rocking the heart and sending the adrainiln racing. But then. The racing heart stills. Yawn. Lock it away. What's next? The German Ambasador was a collocter. When he first laid eyes upon Crista, he had to have her. He collected her. He, in her words, fucked this beautful creature thrice, yawned, and thought: What's next.
"So Sam decided to stay in, no?" Crista asked. Walter Johnson detacted a trace of regreat in her voice and breifly wondered weather she was seeing Sam. But he shrugged it
off. After all what did it matter. It wasn't like she was his misstress. An occasonal lay was about it. "Yes," he replied. They stood on the balconly. A chill was evadent in the air and Crista had a schall wrapped around her shoulders. Her blond hair fell across the shall. Behind them chatter and music and gaity rang out. Ahead the embassy compound. Walter lighty brushed a hand over her shoulder. She raised a hand and trapped his beneath hers. "How long will you stay?" "A week. Maybe ten days." "It will be diffacult. The ambasador must entertain the new Isreale ambasdor and his wife. He will expect me to be there." Crista was married to the german ambasdor and he found her statement more then slighty amusing. He suspected, correctly so, that the german ambasador was a closet nazie, and that the mere thought of entaining the israel must have sent him into a tizzy. But the german ambasador considered himself of higher breeding and would, with a stiff upper lip, roll out the provible red carpet. "We will find a way. The israel abasador wants to attend the festival smana santa in Antugue tomorow. So many people will be there. We will be able to slip away." "Yes," she replied, "But you will have to have Sam come so he can escort the ambassador and his wife. Otherwise?" "Of course," Walter replied. "He is in charge of scuety." "Sam dosen't like me." So that was it, Walter thought, that and Richard Wilson. He
smiled and let his hand slip beneath the schall. He cupped a breast. "Sam dosen't like too many people. There is a room
upstais." "They will not miss us," she said, almost indiffertly, "They are all busy trying to impress the Israel ambassador. So yes."
Chapter Note: What you want to do is turn this into a much more indepth work; Sam had spent the past twenty years working for the Embassy some where or another. He has these memories, one such place was Telave. Also Sam's thoughts on the Isreals. Comparing them to germany, also the german ambassasdors thoughts on Isreal, how they humilated his country his father. Also on Sam himself, leary of the wad, the masses, always kept to himself, the ranch,
retirement...was it that, would it be that clean...like his living quarters; he only has to things of intrest special to him or mabye three, sparse but out of some great scheme, he liked things
simple. end note.
Years stared out the bedroom window. For a moment the eyes picked out the brighty lit windows of the ambasadors resadence and the silloterr dancing figures. Then they collousled into a collage; a mixmatched collage: the oil wells that went bust, an ex-wife, the blounds, Budapest, Prauge. Guatamala, the ranch in East Texas. But Sam wasn't the kind to dwell on the past. He never had been, and at times envied those who could or did. He never imginned this, as some called it, shortcomming, as a flaw. The past was past. Dead. Buried. Sinking a spade in soft sodden earth and heflting dirt over the shoulder unitl the right moment in histroy lay bare seemed a bit self prettensious serving at best. Not that the present was so great...to live without unimginable. Nor was the future so bleak...the eyes blinded at its sight. It was just that he had a job to finish. NIether past nor the future
mattered. (BUt if pressed, no not pressed but pinned down or nailed to the cross as Jesus was, He would admit to a longing for an end and after a ten year absence a return to his ranch in East Texas. And if he dreamed at all he dreamed of the
simplicity...mending a fence here and there, chasing down in the jeep a stray calf, sitting on the rocker on the pourch and smiling at all and at nothing.) But he commended himslef to not dwell on this; and after a few seconds the dwelling took the shape of the present. He always laughed during these moments, as his father before him must of laughed. Afteral the here and now loomed. THe road ahead, well he hadn't reached that point yet. He had traveled all this and was turning away when pain racked his stomich. For a second his knees buckled, but he managed from shree force of will to remain standing. The engery seemed to ebb from his shouders, leaving fatigue in its place. He slowly, like a child, a step at a time, went to the bathroom. He sighed at the bottle of Mylanta. What had the docote said. Perforrated Ucler. The doctor, a serious man, explained furter about the wall of the stomich, a tear, blood. Hell, Sam knew all this. He had crapped blood for about a month now. But the weakness. He
couldn't understand the weakness. So uncharisticly he mentioned this to the Docter. The doctor, still gravely serious, ecplained. THe loss of blood weakened the system. An operation was the only answer. The sooner the better. Sam thanked the serious man and left. He had spent two many years in Guatamala, seen too much to alow a Guatamalaian Doctoe to operate on him. He would have the operation, if nesscearry, in Texas. For now there was Mylanta. The
Mylanta eased the burning which in turn eased the pain. Another week. Just another week. A few hours later he sat in his study going through folders. The weakness had presisited and just lifiing a folder tired him. For the umteenth time he conisdered a shot of BOrbon. Unlike before, he nagged away at the voice echoing No and went to the kitchen and from the cabient remoived a glass and poured two fingers neat from the Wild Turkey bottle. He carried the glass back to the study, took a sip, then another and another. By the forth sip the weakness was a distance memory. On his desk was a box of A. Fuente Hemingway cigars; aproatenly called short storys. He extracted one from the box, unwrapped it, clipped the end and stricking a wooden match puffed until a red ember appeared. Then, content for the first time all day, settled in for some serious work. The final item on his plate was tommorow's trip to Antigua. Undoubtly the new Isreal ambasador would be attening the
festivies. Which meant the U. S. Ambasador would go. Sercurty arrangemts had to be made. And as always Samta Santa would prove to be a sercurty agents nightmare. For the guatamalians Smana Santa was the holiest relgious day of the year, surpasing even christmas and easter. Tens of thousands of people, some traveling from as far away as Japon, would crowd the narrow streets of Antigua to view the resarection of Jesus Christ. He made a call to Gerad to reserve the balcoly at the Cafe Suanos for the ambassdors party. His last thought before drifting off to sleep was that he wouldn't want to lose an ambasador this late in the game.
Note: THe narrater swiches from vernuclaer speach to a better form of writing; and explains this change.
Note: Gerard hates Sam. end note. Hell they all hat Sam except for Yosaff. jason
Forty miles away in Antigua at Suanes De Quetzle Cafe the roaches were the size of beetles. And they had wings! Man, the german youth thought, and jumped as if on fire as one flew out from what seemed like sealed bricks of the wall he rested against. At the moment the roach flew, or jumped as the case was, the germen youth was in the act of raising a cup of coffee and the cup arced across the room and smashed against one of the doors leading to the balcony. "What the hell!" the youth screamed. "The flesh eating bastards are spraying next door," Gerard calmly said by way of an explnation. By which he meant that the resterent next door which, to Gerards vegatration mind, served dead flesh, was extermlaing. "You mean that was a roach," the youth exclaimed. "Yes," Gerard noncaltnly replied. He had just finished up a rather large bowel of pot and was so mellow that for one of the few times in his life he conceded that even roaches had a right to live; a sentment that was sure to last only as long as the mellow mood. The youth hurridly grabbed his backpack and all but ran down the stares.
The youth had been the only customer. It was almost closing time and Gerard was happy to see him go. So much so that he waived off the thought of chasing him down for the money he owed for the coffee. What did he care. Tommorow was Smana Santa. Double prices all day. He watched the roach work its way across the linolin. Should he step on it or not. Before he could decide Saea, the indian girl who worked for him, flattened it. For a second gerard imagined the roaches karma, a sky blue hue, leaving the dead carcus and wondered if it would enter a humen body. The thought preplexed him right up until he fell alseep.
Note: Do you want to use the fog? Later on maybe? Note: Expand Migual. He used to teach, but was? Also Sam has never listedd Migual as as a surce. Big note: Sam's stomich, the
bleeding ucler. The pain a constant reminder, there, but guaged to be far enough away; use this throughout the novel even when with Luera. end note. Note: Redo some of this. Change the fog part and have Sam wake up first, the little things, like mylanta. Right on schedell the four a. m. fog rolled in from the mountions and settled over the streets of Guatamala City; the fog hide or disquised the ugylyness, both the aged stench, the layer and layer that had crusted upon the city streets over the past few hundred years, and the fresh baked yet to settle stench; the coughing of chicken busses cranking as their decrept and ancent long worn engins awoke from the long night slumber, the skurrying of thousands of street urchens picking through the
garbasge...flinging aside the few scrapes unusable, the drunks puking, the whores discarding their purses loaded with used
condems, the hustlers, pimps and theves jacking a blade in the soft underbelly of a errent stragler. Sam had passed a sleepless night and awoke well before dawn. He prided himself as a meticlous man, a man who left no stone unturned. And it was details that had kept him tossing and
turning. The little things. Paper clips. pencils. These would concern him were he an office manager. The little things. What men
to deploy in and around Antigua later on. What cars should be used. The Mercidies, favored by the Amabasodr, would stand out, its ostinttagiousn an open invitation to petty thives and to the rebels. A small conovoy of miltary jeeps, three or four, would be better served, frist acting as a deterernt merely by their
nauture, and second, they were
all teran vicele. Very little
things. Which restrnt. Paper or cloth table-covers. Details. But before all this, he wanted to speak to Carlo. Wanted to find out why Raul, who was a little fish in a big sea, had killed Mr. Basalone. Killed him in broad-daylight. Through the fog Sam slipped out the side gate of the embassy compound, lifting a hand at the marine who stood guard. He was well aware of the dangers that lurcked at this dead time before dawn and carried a knife, a can of pepper mace and a miltary issue colt 44. He moved steady thought the streets, alert for any
movment from the shadows between buildings. After seveal blocks he turned up Calle 5, away from embassy row. Two men seemed to appear from nowhere ahead of him. He disengaged the colt from the
shoulder harness and let in hang at his side from his right hand. His intent was clear. And as quickly as the men had appeared, they vanished. Reholstering the Colt, Sam briskly continued walking, turning left, then right until he came to the cafe guate. A stray dog eyed him for a moment before lazly troting up the street. a rusted
steel gate streatched across both windows and the door. Sam stuck the butt end of the Colt throught an opening on the gate and banged several times on the glass. The noise echoed up the
deserted street. Sam waited, patentent. After a few minutes the face of Carlo Ramize appeared through the glass. He smiled at Sam and frist unlocked the door, then the gate. (Note: the gold teeth. end note.) "I return to find a dead man, police asking questions and an hestackialy waiter. I have very pretty senoraeta upstais who has
spent the night erassing the memory of the dead man left on my table. The poor waiter is right now probably at mass. Poor deval. The police are right now scratching their heads. So now you come to remind me, no?" "What are freinds for," Sam drily responded. "Yes indeed, to distrube a man locked in the loins of love. Come in. Come in. I will crack open a cheap bottle of Ron. You will drink picito and we will talk poco and you will leave me to replenish her loving embracing loins." Chairs were set seat down on the tables. A smiple bar
constructed of plywood was laid out along the far wall. Several stools set seat dwon atop the bar. Sam uprighted two on the floor while Carlo's pryed the cap off a bottle of Ron Botron then set the bottle atop the plywood and deftly set two glasses next to it. Sam waited until he poured before speaking. "I need some infomation." "Of course," Carlo's replied, raising one of the glasses, "Why else would you wake a man at such an ungodly hour. What time is it anyway." "Just past four." "Jesus, puta and the gods balls. What can be so urgent?"
From upstaires a course woman yelled: Carlo! "By the balls of jesus," he moaned, "she's got mine. Hurry up Sam!" A smile flicked across Sam's face. If threaics were cash, Carlo would be a rich man. But then he would just squender it on women. Again the cry for Carlo, again a bastard religious moan from him. "You think this is a laughing matter, no." "Of course," Sam replied. "One of these days your dick is going to get you in real trouble. But this is your problem, to be sure. I need to know what this afternoon was all about. And don't tell me it was just a hit. Something is in the air." "The man was killed because he like parrote...talk talk talk what other people tell him." Taking a moment, Sam lifed the glass and took a long swallow, then set the glass down. The raw rum burned all the way down. The enegy that sleep had replenshed ebbed a bit and he felt tired. "Carlo ," he said slowly, shaking his head, "Rual and his little band of revalunarys are cautious men. They do their dirty work in the dead of night. For them to risk capture can only mean
something is up. I need to know what it is?" "I agree," he replied, "Their balls travel by nights shield, while their hearts beat slowly under the hot jungle sun. But I truly know nothing. Would I lie to you, no. I am as surprised as you. And angry that Raul chose my little comador. He is like a borther to me. Why he do this to me."
"He was about to shoot me also." "Yes, but, and forgive this please Sam, but you are C.I.A. He shoot you in my little comador and I am famous. No?" Although Miguals logic was flawless, at least by Guatamalian standards, Sam bristled all the same. Migual saw this. "It's a little joke, no. No. But if your are to die, should not a freind benafit. No." "I will try to keep that in mind," Sam dirly replied. "You keep your ears open. I need to know what Migual and his little band of dreamers are up to." A cry from above. An angish curse from Carlo. "Yes, Sam. And be careful. And if not, please do it here." But Sam had already departed. There were other souces of infomation. And he felt an urgency; inside him, an unexplainable urgency. But as the pavement ground out from under him, his shoes, suddenly stopped. Head cocked, he wondered if he was creating something out of nothing. Had premature bordom already set in.
Note: Rearange this so it fits better with Doc. Flows. end note.
High in the mountions mystries joined together and played out as if a surreal painting by Munch. The dense fog garnled the denze foresst, looping the trees, carsssing the branches, huging the earth; the fog in turn embassed the darkness painting the illison of something therre, then vanished, opening pocetes, granting a
peek at a acorn, yes, an acron, but wait, a pepple, no not a pepple, but a dead squele...or posibly? Here where all legends and superstiousins lived, The guatamalan Indians believe that legends were the cloth woven from superstiousn; trusts in legends but remain superstious. The rebles understood this. So did Doc Wilson. He understood both, the indians need to love yet fear spirits, and the rebels need to enlist the indians to their cause. But then Doc Wilson was a legend to the indians, who wispered how the man was
agless, how the great Agua God had sent him to them, how he healed many, saved countless lifes. But at that moment he was very
unlegend like. Trousers rolled down around his nakles, he was taking a shit. His seventy-six year old jaundence yellow eyes shone out anmial; easly, the fog playing its games, mistaken as mountion lion, or a dragon, or the messanger of death...and had by chance an indian stumbed upon Doc Wilson, those intense yellow eyes would awaken a thousand years off Mayan superstision, sending the man fleeing to the village medican man.
Pacing. Pacing. Pacing. Jesus had paced the lenght of the hut a hundread times and had done so for what seemed all night. In fact had been as nervious as a cat on the provibal hot tin roof since killing that damn two timing stoolie at the Guat cafe
Jumpy, is how Doc saw it. That was why he had left the
hut. A man pacing like that paces the sleep right out of whoever is sleeping. That and to take a shit, but the shit could of waited...at his age one shit more or less, well what did it matter. "Doc," Raul yelled, "Hey Doc where you take off too?" As jumpy as Jesus, Raul was, Doc thought. Using paper stuffed in his trousers pocket, he wiped himslef and stood, but not all at once, he had stooped for so long the cold and damp had premented his joints and had nearly forzen the poor old bones in place, and pulled the trousers up. The act, shitting, standing, and tugging up the troousersl, all done a million times over the years for the first time tired him; no, he reconsidered, not the act but the one.
furtility of it all. How many more shits did he have in him.
One thousand. Who knew. Who cares...no one. Once dead he would become the stuff of true legends in the mountions. But he wasn't thinking about shits, but about later. Later. He snorted. Futile. Cynasisem. God, what a waste. Guzmen was negarating with the govement to end the so called cival war, while the Iserals were lobbying for an elclusive contract to train
sercruty personal and Raul had hatched a plan to take the Iseeals out of the game, and without the knowedge or blessing of Guzman; what a lark: The govement signs an accord with the rebels while
trianing men in the art of torture and Raul wants to kidnap and kill. There were all nuts. All of them, inculding himself. Hiding in the mountions. Years of hiding. Sleeping on cold damp ground. Hiding by day, traveling by night. Longing for a warm meal and a easy chair and a book. Books. He missed books most of all. Hu, huh, all those years ago Sam was right. It was all just a game. Hu, huh. "Over here, Raul," he, voice more a crackle, called out. But his voice, its lowness, was just a whisper in the fog and Migual had to yell out thrice more before he stumbled upon Doc. "Doc," Raul said, "Can you do something for Jesus. He's driving me crazy." "Hu, Huh," Doc mutttered. "The others will be here soon. Jesuss will firghten them back to their woman." "You mean their fields." The harvesting season had began. "Same thing." "Hu, Huh." "Doc. Doc, we need the other men to pull of the kidnaping tonight. Please. Do something." "Hu, huh," escaped from Doc's lips. Migual took this as a 'yes' and began to pick his way back to the hut. Doc followed, a wearyness in him, such as he had never felt in his life.
Chapter Note: Insert a chapter about the rebels, migual and so on. Note: Sam is weary of why they are there and has a single question for the one sits. Why did he not send someone else, the mossad dispatching a senior agent to perform such a menial task, and adding to boot a bone crusher. The man delivers a folder on the ambasasdor and his wife; here Sam gets his frist look at Lorna; (change her name) and reacts not at all, he hids his surprise well, or so he thinks; the other agent picks up just a hint, and wonders, since there is nothing in Sam's file that he knews them. end note. Note: Mabye a little bit about the cigars, Hemingway short stories and how Sam had got eveybody hooked on them as opposed to cuban cigars. also the Blatens bourbon, a jap at selling it on the black market by Johnson. Also, Avial goes back to the Isreal Embassy.
Also Sam knows about the good-cop bad cop routine. Note: Sam has a humador and there is several cigars in the Humador. Note: The trip is in the afternoon and Sam tells him this so he knows. end note.
The minute hand rested at ten to eight as the second hand rolled lazely around the white faced wall clock in Sam's office. He had been watching it, daydreaming really, when a knock at the door broke his concintration. He sighed at the door, wishing who over was out there would go away. A second single knock told him the wish was in vain. "Com'on in," he called out. The moment the door opened exposing a burly bear of a man in
his late fifties and a young man who resembed a card-board cutout off what a uptight securty agent should look like, he knew they were mossad agents. But why they were there intiruged him. An instintive anamosity flared up. He had, over the years, delt with the mossad, and disliked the encounters. They were invareible airagent, above the pelgml roaming the earth; and to them
everybody inculding fellow jews were plegm, mere peasasnts to be treated as fodder to further their own gain. But airagence was one thing; Sam could live with airagence. But wanton murder another. The mossad were dierctery respondibe for the deaths of the U. S. Mirens in Lebonon. They know the make of the truck carrying the bomb and when the terrisote attatch was set to occur, but failed to notify the American command post; it wasn't in their interst to do so. For this reason alone Sam intenstily disliked the mossad. And was why he failed, even when the older of the two pointed at two chairs along the wall facing the lone window in the room, to offer the courtsy of a chair, perfering for them to remain
standing. "There is no need to sit down," he said, "You won't be here that long." The younger man obverisoy bristeled at this. He leaned his plams atop Sam's desk, a mencing snarl curling up his lips. "We're from Isreal intelagence." "I don't give a fuck where you are from," Sam replied, "And get your hands off my desk." "Or what!" For a man of his size, Sam sprang up and grabbed the stratled
man by his shirt. "I will asume you are stuped. And in doing so alow you the benafit of the doupt in such matters as these. Therefore I will repeat myself just once. Take your hands off my desk." "Taase Ma shuhu omer Lecha, Aviel," the older man said. "Yosef, ten li lishbor lo et hayad." "Aviel...asita me-atzmecha shote gamur. Lech, lech! Khacke bathutz!" the older man ordered. "Yosef?" The older man angerly waved a hand, "LECH!" The younger man did as instructed, but before departing
passed a glance of pure hate at Sam, a glance that said: We will have another time. Considering his impending retiriment, Sam brushed the obvious challange off. "So," the older man said the moment the door closed on the younger man, "As you have already gathered, my name is Yosef. And you are Sam Wall. The man who left is Aviel. Young. A little hot. And airagent. But we, you and I, are both professionals. So with your permmission, I will move one chair to in front of your desk. Please." Sam relented. Maybe it was the: Please. Yosef, comfitable seated, ventured as much. Then laughed. A loud bloustious life is a game so lets all play along laugh. The laugh, infectious, and Sam alowed a smile to flicker across his face, that easy east Texas smile. "I am alowing you to sit for one reason, I have a question.
but it can wait until the end. For now let me say that you were kind of rough on him," Sam stated. "To build his chariter." "And to hate me just a little bit more?" "Of course," Yosef allowed freely, "His job is to mistrust. And hate." An understanding wave of his hand. "Keep him out of my way," he matter-of-factly stated, "Otherwise he will be useless to you for a long time." It was Yosaf turn to wave a hand in the air, not so much in dismissel but as an acceptence of a means of comacation. When he brought the hand down, he pointedd at the cigar box on Sam's desk. "Are those Cuben cigars." "No," Sam, his fondness for cigar's showing, "Better. Fuente. Hemingway short stories. Care for one." "Yes," he responded, "Very much. In Iseral, cigars, well, camel dung taste better." Dispite his dislike of the mossad, he found himself warming to Yosaf. And was, as he had been many times in the past, reminded of an old saying. You can not genoerlize about a race, a people, or in the case of the mossade, an organzation. But this was untrue. The french baked tasty bread. The itialiains were excelent lovers. Americans exchelled at snack foods. Muslims gave way to extramise. The mossads trained airagnet shits who for the most part screwed up and through smoke and mirrors managed to convince the world otherwise. (The k.g.b, for all their supposed foul-ups, were, at the height of the cold war, far supriour at the spy game
person...whatever their national or political or religious orgin. Cigars were Sam's true passon. And like all passons, he reveled in sharing the delight, and was pleased that Yosaff
possosed the knowedge and
shared the passion. Togheter they
extracted a cigar from the box, and were anybody watching it would be appearent at the enjoyment they took in painstakingly
unwrapping the celavane, the plesure in rolling the end in thier mouth until enough mosture brought out the nature tobagoe flavors before biting, thus gingelry breaking the wrapper. The lighting, the final ritcial, brought contment to both their faces; the contentmet grew as a cloud of smoke hovered above them. "My wife," Yosaff remakred, "The smell. I can not smoke in the house." "I don't have a wife." "I know." "The lackeys at Langly gave you my file?" "Of course. We are the promisded land, after all. Also there are many jewish voters in the States." For a few moments, as if dwelling on what Yosaff had said, but realy enjoying the cigar, Sam, lips puckered, hands folded behind his neck, puffed, thus obscuring himself in a fog of smoke. "Waste of time," finely he said between cigar clenched teeth, "I am retiring." "Yes," Yosaff, useing the cigar as if he was conducing an orchseita, responded, "I know. Shame. We are about the same age. Men like Aviel, they possese little sence for the sublities. Cold.
Effencent. I read your file. There is heart." "Subleties?" Sam responded, then held the cigar out and
excamed the tip, "The Mossad?" "We are two old warrows." "Yes. But sublities aside, you, the Mossad, intend to protect the ambasador tommorow, as opposed to leaving the task to the Guatamaolan security forces or the C.I.A.?" "The Guatamlan secuty forces," he said, nodding to himslf, "I would rather piss against the wind and pray then trust in them. As for the C.I.A. Well, This is your...how do you say...turf. But, and as I am sure you take no offence, the Mossad prefers to protect its own." "Yes," Sam responded. A good quater inch ash had aculamated at the end of his cigar. He tapped the ash into an ashtray on the desk. Then placed the cigar between his teeth and pulled hard until a cloud of smoke bellowed out. "The State Department
considers Quatamala to be their turf." "As well they should," Yasoff, flipping, as if a pencil, his cigar palm inward and pointing the butt end at Sam, replied, "Which is why I am here." "Oh," Sam said, "Not to smoke a cigar? I mean you seem to know so much about me." "Yes, the cigars," he smiled, "They...how do you
say...prompthed me to attend to this little erend." "As opposed to sending a flunky?" "Flunky. I am sorry my english, well." "Sublities," Sam reminded.
"flunky? Subitlies? they mean the same? "Why of course" "Yes. Then this is why I came," Yasoff responded. He withderew a mainla envlooupe from the beifcase and slid it across the desk. The envolepe set there while they, both enjoying this cat and mouse game, puffed on the cigars. At last Sam flipped the cover. A woman, somewhere between her mid-thities and early forties, stared out at him. At first glance she was just another woman. Shoulder lenght aubron hair, highcheekbones...all in all rather pretty. But at second glance, reganation, and his heart
skipped a beat, and his breath uncharistly caught in his chest. But Sam was adept at poker. And his face remained blank, or so he thought, as he flipped the page. A stern man, face hard, a little over weight yet stance riged, stared out. He flipped to the last page. Stats only. Name. culanary likes and dislikes, ecterta. "What dose she," he asked, then cuaght himself and regrouped, "What do the Iseral ambosador and his wife have to do with me?" Yoasff held back the planned immideate replay, and instead studied Sam. Something was amiss. A shadow had flickered over Sam's face. What? Should he bag the mission? All his training told him to do so. Or at the least retreat. Maybe he had missed something in Sam's file. But what, what was this 'thing' that could jeperdize the mission. He pulled hard on the cigar and leaned forward and stubbed it out, at the same time decided to go ahead as planned. "The Ambassador and his wife are attending the Saman Santa in Antigua."
"I am aware. As guests of the American Embassy." Sam replyed. "I assumed that the Mossad would provide for their sucerty." "Yes. Of course. The are our responibilties. No? Yosaff said, "Not you, of course, but your men." "Really," Sam said, hiding his surprise. "And if I refuse?" Note: He is upset about the mossade taking over securty arrangments for the trip, now he must share his information, like about the murder at Ruals. "But you cannot. Your State department has already approved of the arranlgment. Your Mister..." "You mean Walter Johnson "Yes, quite so," Yosseff responded, "He is the man. A very congenial man." An ass, Sam angely thought. "Then it is settled. All I do is follow orders" "As I. I want you to remembe that," Yasoff pointed out, "Now you said you had a question for me." "So I did," Sam intoned, half lost in thought. "And?" "What?" "The question?" "Oh'yes. Why did you come here?" "To deliver..." "No," Sam interrubed, "The question wasn't intended for you. But for myself." "Yes, yes. Just so. I, as well, have a question." "I know," Sam absently responded, "I am a little bit rusty at
poker. So look in my file." Pushing up from the chair, Yossff nodded as if to himslef. "I shall." "Yes," Sam, studying the picture of the woman and thinking she had hardly aged a day, agreed. Yossaff had left and almost as an extenstion of his thoughts, his hand reached for the phone on the desk. A crisp male voice answered "Yes sir." "Where is the Isseril ambasasdor?" "I beleive with the German ambasador and the General, sir" In one of those comical farces where uninportent men vainly storve to pump up their inportence, the american ambasasdor had from the first requested that he be addresed as 'General.' He, the ambasador, reasoned that since he had acheived such rank while in
the miltary reserves, then it was only fitting and proper that the title fit him. He was not dettered in his reasning by the fact that he had never fired a weopoon except at a tree, where-as other men had actually died in combat. Sam was the only one to address him as 'Ambassador.' Which ranckled the man to no end. "You beleive?" "Sorry sir. They are in the generals gun room." "And the Iseral's ambasador's wife?" "His wife?" How the hell should he know this! "Yes, his wife?" "I..." The man did not know. "Find out. I'll hold." Withen fifteen seconds, of which Sam continued staring at the
photo, the adjunt was back. She is taking tea in the rose room. Yes, she was alone. Before disenging, Sam considered a last minute check on the arangments for the trip to Antigua. He told the adjunt to hold for a second. He held the phone away from his ear. The photo of her lay in front of him. her face distracted him and he turned in over. He felt uneasy. Yosaff. Did he know? He had to assume so. The Mossade, best not to underestatment them. They were up to something and inteneded in playing him as the patsy. "Scrape the jeeps. We are using Mercides. The limos," he said slowly into the phone. Bulletproof glass all-around. Also inform the Ambasodor that departure time has changed. Four instead of Two." This would throw off an ambush on the road if one was planned and the rebles knew the deprature time and the route; yeah the route...there is only one route to Antigue and he wished there were another. "Also have a Hury on Alert, and I don't mean the men josing in the pilots lounge, but a-ready, blades rolling, from four to four. Got that! An afrimative was given by the adjutent. There were too many oddities. The assnation yesterday of Senor Basalone. He didn't have a clue, he just knew he had to find out. And as he bore in at Lurer's picture, the need to discover what was going on felt on the more urgent. Sam stood and headed for the Rose room. He nodded to himslef, an old hapit whenever reconsidering a decision. The limos were bullete proof, and had reninforced steel undercarages. He also made mental for note the call Gerard He and reserver postion the two Cafe men Suano's at the
balcony's entarnce. He sighed. This would make very Gerard happy.
Note: Describe the office. Note: explain how the mossad sends in teams, use the herbrew words for this, and how Yosaff and Avel were the final stage of the operartion. Also explain about killing a man, the procedure for the mossad. Also Yosaff reads the mossad file on him and the Langly file, then reads the embassy file. Note: Sam was tossed out of Budapest because of the stunt he had pulled, and the mossad saw his demotion to guatamala as the resulte of an ineptness. end note.
Yossof had hurried back
to the Iseral Embassy and clositered
himself in is office to study the file supplied by Langly on Sam Wall. He had been at it for about an hour when he came upon what he had missed. He had lit up a Cuban cigar, which was rather distastful after the Fuent at Sam office. The cigar in his hand danced in the air as he shook his head at the ceiling. He had a habit of shaking his head at moments like these. The act served to remind him of the three cardnell rulls taught at the Mossad
trainig center: research, resarch and more research. He correctly beleived that there was no place in the spy bussness for amtures, they made mistakes, and mistakes got people killed. He was no amature, but he had made a mistake. He had overlooked a minor item in Sam Wall's dossiea. He could console himslef that he hadn't really overlooked it. He had noticed it all
right, but he brushed it away as if a crumb on a table-cloth. Twenty-five years ago Sam Wall, along with four other Texas boys, had gone on what Texans termend, much as Jews, Yosaff imagined, saw a Bar-Mitfia, a male comming of age ritical into Mexaco, and onto Guatamala. Except that finding manhood in the free-swingingram-shakle wastlands of Mexico and Guatamamla sounded, to Yosff, like a hell of a lot more fun then partricing in the time honored
tradation of the Bar Mitfa; which at best enjoined into a tangled boring bash where relatives, depending on their gender, either hugged the boy to overstuffed bossems, or endured over excharated sexual encounters by old men who had long forgotten how to get it up. That Sam had sowed his wild oats twenty-five years past, meant little by itself. But Yosaff also know Luara Katz well. Knew her before she married the ambasasdor. He had helped her parents emagrate from Airgintina. Had watched the girl grow into a woman and had hugged her goodbye twenty-five years ago as she had set off for a year to explour Cental and South America. And The spark of reganiation in Sam Wall's face had said it all. Luara and Sam had met. Wehether they had become lovers was of no consqence to Yosaff. There was only one question left to be answered: Did this pose a threat to the mission? But he had no doubt of this. Not after meeting Sam Wall. He had expected a carier man counting the days before retirement. A man light on intellagnece, as most C.I.A. men he met were; oh adaquite to the task, to be sure, but the task itself wasn't much and didn't require much...after all
this was Guatamala not Russia. "Damnit," he angerly cursed and slamed the file shut. He leaned forward and with his right index finger staped at the intermcom. "Aviel, come in here and bring the Mossad
intellagence file on Sam Wall with you." Unlike the Russian K.G.B and the C.I.A., each humoongious orgzations where often times the right foot had no perception which way the left foot was going, The Mossad was bascikly small, less then two hundead actual trained opertives to cover the entire world; thus dependence upon native Jews for information were
estaintle to its succecess. A maid or garnder in Ten Downing Street passed on invalubal knowedge, as did a Screat Agent in Washington. So it was in Guatamala. The Embassy personal complied the information and added to the required folder for later
disasimation by the Mossad. The Embassy had a file on Sam Wall, but Yosaff, reasoning that the informaton was more then likly run the of mill: If he indulged in Whores, what bar he freguatied, who were his sorces, ecterta, had assighned Aveil to read that file while he, Yosaff, read the file from Langly. After all Sam Wall was just a fifty-five year old man working out the last days before retirement. Right. He was a nobody. A C.I.A. lacky asighned to a third rate country. Right. He sighed and echoed, right, as Aveil entered. "Why the file on Sam Wall, Yosaff." Utulizing the cigar as a pointer, Yosaff diercted him to sit. He complied and laid the file on the desk. He felt, since his first day at the Mossad training acdemy, a kinship with Yosaff,
and very much respected him. But there were times when Yoasff brought to mind an old yiddish saying: He crawled on cautions hind legs instead of forging forward. He senced this was one of those moments. "Did you go through it throughly?" "Sure," he replied, "Standard background matreal." Clenching the cigar between his teeth, Yosaff nodded and spread the file open. Aveil patitently waited. It took Yosaff less then three minutes to isolate the incadent. He pushed folder aside and opened the folder from Langly. He rifled through several pages until he found what he was looking for. He twiled both folders so they faced Avial, then flicked his index finger, urging him to read. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes in thought. After several minutes, Aveil cleared his throut, indcating he had finished. Yosaff opened his eyes at stared at him. "What did you see." His tone was fatherly. Although he had acted harsh toward him in Sam Wall's office, it was just that: an act. They had rehearsed the secne before entering the office. The good-bad cop routine. "A person willing to bend the rules." Clasping his hands, Yosaff leaned forward. Avial was half right, of course, he thought, due, no doubt, to the virture of youth and in inexeparence. Sam Wall was far more then willing to bend the rules. As the files indacated, he simply ignored them on two occasions. The first was while asinghed to the American
Embassy in Budapest, Hungary. He had, against polcy, supplied three American journlisht with means to travel into what was then
diplomatic plates, and roadmaps on the most adventaious route to travel to avoide boarder guards; then he had personaly
requsistioned a Huey and rescured them, again against polcy. The little stunt had cost him a demotion to Guatamala. Ah, but it was in Guatamala where Sam Wall really shinned. He simply murdered the countries top General and the leading counter-insjurgency
leader...at the same time; now that, Yosaff, impressed, thought, took chutzpa. Sam Wall had snuck into a hevealy guarded miltary compound and under the cover of dark made his way to the generals privat house where the General and The counter-insurgency leader were doing what? That was something Yosaff dearly wanted to know. He had excuted them with a single shot to the right temple. "There is one more item, Avel," he said, taking the cigar from his mouth, "Sam Wall knows Luara." "How do you know this?" In under a minute, Yosaff explained. "ALso, our little goodcop-bad-cop act failed to fool him for a minute. In fact it was only the shock at seeing the picture that lead me to rework his file. He won't make the same mistake twice." "We could nuturize him?" "No." "Scrub the mission?" "No. The," Yosaff, distatstefuly, grunted, " this foolish mission goess forward." "Maybe we are overracting. He is only one man. What can he do?"
"He's in a postion to ruin the mission. And we were the ones who placed him in such a postion." "The U.S. State department is corpuratioing with us. This Walter Johnson is their point man. We could have them rein him in." "Mmmmm," Yosaff murmered patiently, "Yes. We need to know why he killed this genreal and this counter-insurgency leader. There is no mention of why in the folder. Maybe this Walter Johnson knows." "If not," Aveal said, "Then let me termanate him. What's it matter? We have termanated C.I.A. opertives in the past." "No, Avel," he said, "You are not to act in such a manner without my orders." "What if I have no choice?" "Then you are to fall on your sword. Others are doing no less." As much as Avel wanted to prsue the matter, he was relucktent to push the point because Yasoff might consider him a coward. But he had to. Had to press the point. Yasoff was courting cauation unessary." "We can termanate him in such a way as to lay the blame at the feet of the counter-insurgency." "You missundersstand me, Aval," he said, "Killing Sam Wall is not what trouples me. I imgine we can relieve him of the burdon of living easly enough, but what if we were to fail and only wound him. I think I knew this man. He is from Texas and see's himslef as an american cowboy. The' American Cowboy.' A mytical figure
invented by jewish filmmakeers like Samual Goldwyn. Mr. Goldwwyn patterend this myth after the mythical freedom fighters at
Massada. Unlike you or I, this man acts out of love or consciince, instead of duty to country. What do you imgine he would do if
only wounded and found out what we were planing? I imgine he would relive us of our lives easly enough and at the same time unravel a year of planning. No, barring extream preajudce, we will let him live. But do make inquires with this Walter Johnson. I am most curious why Sam Wall termanated the Guatamalan General and the rebel leader. Although I think I know why. And Aval, be very careful. We are on far ground." Far ground. The Isreal term for standing on enamy tarritory. "We as Jews are always on far ground, Yasoff." "Yes, but we are also on his ground." "Shalome," Avel said, senceing the meeting was over. After a few minutes, Yasoff picked up the phone and placed a call to the American Embassy. He asked to speak to Luara Katz and was told that she had left the complex with Sam Wall. He gently replaced the receiver and leaned back in the chair. He smiled, thinking that perhaps Sam could save her; he half hoped this were true.
For severl minutes Sam stood obscured by the french door leading to the Rose garden and watched much like a voyer; there seemed to be a catch in his heart every other breath...and a burning pit where his stomich was. She sat there, a book held extended in her right hand. rested on a matching saucer A dainty tea cup, rose pattern, which was postioned on a round
peditsel wrought iron table. Irregular shaped concret squears lead from the door up to the table. Rose bushes adroned all sides of the table. A wisp of a breeze was evadent, and every now and then it tossled her shoulder lenght aubron hair. When this occured, she, as if a fine race-horse shaking away a command, flicked her head to one side, cascading the hair over and unfruling down upon her shoulders. During these moments, the sun radatated off her face, highlighting the splender of her high cheekbones, exunating the bronze color of her spanish heartige. And it was at these moments his heart caught in his chest. Indicision wasn't his weak suite, far from it. Even as a youth, he had had a quick mind, anyolizing and sizing up a
sutoration and dricting a course, never fearfull or heastatent what the final out come would be. But faced by her after so many
years he found himself unabe to decide on a course of action. Oh' he was able to size up his options well enough, and recignized
there were only three. Just walk up and say hello. Stand there and think up a witty entrence line. Forget it and return to his office. Returning to the office was unthinkable. Staged entrancess weren't his style. So he decided to walk up and say hello. A long slow hello followed by his quick easy smile. "Hello," she, momentarly averting her eyes from the book for a second, automaticly responded. Then her eyes returned to the book, lingererd there for a quarter second before her head rolled back around so quickly the long aubron hair splayed out ahead of her. "Samual!" "It's good to hear your voice again," he said, maintaing the easy smile. "Samual!" "You allready said that." "But how? I mean. Oh I don't know what I mean. Let me touch you. Then I will know you are real." He held his arms out wide as she stood. She touched his shoulder first, then his arm, then his chest, then burshed both plams up his chest, stepped back. Her eyes were lit up like a fourth of July fireworks display. "It is you." Twenty five years of space seperated the twenty five inches between them; yet neither one moved, each prefering to gaze into the others eyes. How many years had he imgined this scene. How many years had she imgined this scene. How many years had both of them imgined this scene. Twenty five, to be excat. They could recite in their sleep the last minutes togeter. The writer,
Huxely, referred to Panajel, in Guatamala, as the single most beautful place on earth. A volcloonic lake and a morining mist that descend upon the waters from the towering volcoanos so sweet and pure and clean that the scense actually taste the beauty, inhale it really, filling the scenses, purafying the spirit,
clensing the heart, leaving behind tranquity and sereneness. Here cut off from the outside world, they had met. They had sat outside their pensiosn until almost three in the morining, listening to the town yell and whoop and laugh and dance and sing and sigh and sleep, and only after all the talk in them was exhusted and the bottle of Ron Botran empty on its side that they stood and he encicled her waist and pulled her close and kissed her and
together under the begining wisps walked to his three dollar room and had lain in bed together, naked, touching, but never making love. What was it she had said to him. "Are we in such a hurry to honeymood without being in love.?" And to this he had no answer. Even as drunk as he was. But he understood love. And understood loves importence to such a girl. Or he wanted to. He despartly wanted to. And in his despartaion of wanting to, and the rum convincing him he could, he understood and held her and slept. The morining brought the regreet of not pressing the point, but as he looked into her eyes, he was glad he had not, and sure they would have time, all the time in the world. But he was young than, and time seemed endless. And it was here in paradise they had said farewell. He, well becasue to do otherwise unthinkable. They dressed and set off to find, as Sam put it, his pards. They found his pards, Roger Mason,
and Frank May, enteraining two german girls over breakfast at a joint where eggs and a glass of rum cost three Quatazales, which was the equivent of fifty cents. Roger was already a bit drunk, but what the hell this was paradise, and one hand hung loosly over the girls shoulder almost touching her left breast. Interductions were made, during which leers were passed about, and then one of the German girls asked Luera where she was from. When Luera said Iseral, the german girl, ashamed, bowed her head as did her
freind. A rather awarkward silence followerd, and to break it, Roger went off in search of a pay phone for his once a week check in with his parents...and was glad to go becasue the silence was very uncoomfiabe. When he returned, Roger's face was ashen. His father had died in his sleep. Roger's mother was distraught on the phone. Sam had traveled the Pan-American highway all the way from Brownsville Texas to Guatamla with Roger and Frank. He had a duty to his friend. Roger did not call him on this, sencing Sam's reluckence, seeing the love in Sam's face, and Lurea too; not that it took a Rode Schoer to see this, any fool who took one look at the way they were together could see it. Frank May, who considered himself lucky to add using his fingers, saw it and insisted that he could drive Roger to the airport in guatamala city. Then they both insisted, punching Sam on the shoulder in the way young men do to prove everything is jake. The german girls quietly excushed themselves, explaining they had to pack. The party was over. Paridise had come to an end. It wasn't jake. They had traveled all this way together. The last sight he had of her was sitting on the grass staring at the water. He waited all of five minutes for her
to turn around and say something. She never did, and he couldn't understand. But he had come to understand. Although born in Airgintina, she had been raised in Iseral. He had come to understand very well. Breaking the spell, she, at last whispered. "It is you. Really is you. But how?"" He shurgged. How would come later. "So what do I do," he asked, "Hug you, kiss you or just stand here like a statue." "Hug me tight, Samual." In under a second, he bridged the twenty-five inchis and ecircled her waist and pulled her close. They embraced like that for over ten minutes. Note: Here explain how Sam feels, how they feel. end note. At last Sam said, "Let's go for a walk. I have a man to see. Besides we have a lot of catching up to do. Note: What to do here. They need to catch up. Sam's face all lines, so much charcter, his hair gray, looks like? end note.
Cafe Guate: Sam & Lorna & and a woman searching for? Note: The time. It can't be noon yet. They could be on a spanish lunch, which was earler then in the states. end note.
It was a labyneath of streets they traveled. Sam had lead the way, and she had followed. As evadenced by the sun diectry
overhead, it was a little past tenn, and the early lunch trade threaded their way to the restrunes and comadors. They were
oblivios to the busssnessmen, secaraeis, clerks. For them the blocks served as years. For it seemed that for every block they walked, a year of their life was exchanged. A half block for him,
a halk block for her. In this way they skimmed life's edeges, filled in the blanks, laughed, offerd the occasonal wistful
understanding nod at the occosanl misforutune every life holds. He wasn't an out going man, and rarely talked about himslf; in turn she was shy, and prferred to stay in the shadows, bowing to the duties requied of an abasadors wife only reluckeinty. But talk they both did and so freely, as if once again kids. The un-kindist cut of all they left un-skimmed: the night they had held each other and the morining they had parted; perhaps for both the memory was to painful to broch, or still too close to feel
outright. The streets passed him by, and he grew so lost in listening and listened too that he walked right by the Cafe Gaute without so much as a flicker of reganiation. And it wasn't until three blocks
further that he stopped dead in his tracks. Luera, at the time relating an amusing ancadoet concerning the then presadent Bush and Primer Begain, kept right on walking for sevverl steps until she too realized that he wasn't be side her. She stared
questioninly back at him. He wore a peplexed frown. She wondered why? He didn't say: What am I doing. I am not nineteen any more. Damint, he had to get a grip on things. If only for Lurera sake, he reminded himself. "About that man," he said, and smiled broadly. "We missed his place by two blocks. You seem to have an effect on me." "Like-wise," she said. "Yes. Well. We..." His voice trailed off in the way a voice will do when lost for the next word. "Walk back-wards." He laughed at the image. "Backwards?" "Why not," she, face soft from the feast of rememberence, "in this way we will turn away the seconds lost." Why not indeed! "Then you must walk backwards to where I am standing." "Or you could wak forward to where I am." "Realy?" So proud. Ready to play; not for years tho. But still so proud. She flung her head to one side and walked backward to his side laughing all the way. And so they both did. Laughing, passing the foolish people frowningg at them, as they went. At the door to the Cafe Gaute,
Sam held his arm out as if a crossing guard and spun on his heels and swang open the door for her. You'll like Migual. He's loud. Bloustious. But he has honor." "Like you Samual." "Right. Sure." And he laughed again. The thought not so much ridiclous but very close to his core, his up-bringing, his belief in himself...the one thing he set stock in. The only thing he had fath in. "Yes," Samual, "I think so. I remember a boy who..." But thankfully they were at the Cafe Gaute. At least Sam thought so. He wasn't ready to broach that night long ago. It was too close to his heart...still. Embassiment cuts both ways. ALthough a grown woman who lived in a male domanated socity, and married, Lurer, like most oldworld woman, had a childlike innacents concerning sex, blushed. As Sam (taking care not to pick the talbe where Senior Bassone had sat the previous day,) chose a table, she smiled at herself. This person. Shy. Retacence at the mention of men. Soft. A bleeiver in love. Romance. Yet a diplamats wife. A proud citizen of Isreal. Willing to fight for her land. Fight to the death. A sigh. Her two sides. So opasite. Really. Note: Do you want to mention the place is full or that Sam looked for Migual when he walked in but did not see him and assumed correctly that Migual was upstairs, endnote. "Tea for Two," Sam, speaking to the waiter, joked. "And tell Migaual I request his company." The waiter, face pale, the same one who had witnessed the
assanaton yesterday, (and was the waiter superstious? Yes. Sam was there yesterday and a man had been murdered. This did not boad well to him), walked away, Sam cocked his head and looked at Luera who was busy examing the art on the walls, the collection of indigienc masks, the colorful cloth; woven into each the histry of a villege...centeries of history. Her eyes were lively as they drank in the art; and the livlynss warmth him. Her gaze lingered on a piticual peice and he shifted his gaze to it, and in doing so rearanged his attention and took in a sentance from a conversation going on at the next teable over. I really don't want to see him again or talk to him," the woman said. What she really said was: I love him. But? And lord knew the 'But' could be anything from A-to-Z. Sam thought this. And It was becasuse her voice was shrill, and carried as if scratching on tin-foil, that Sam paid the conversation notice, and once noticed glanced at the woman. To consider her pretty would be an
oversatement. But to consider her plain would be just as much of an understatement. As for her build, well she resmembed a folk guater sporting stick legs. He thought this, and concluded
considering her at all was a waste of time. So instead he touched Lorna's hand at the excat moment Migual steamed down the stairs, shot a glance around, saw Sam and marched over and yanked a cigar from the several that Sam carried in his shirt pocket. "By the holy church," he boomed, "Don't you give a man a moments peace!" This was Migual's way, bloustius, and Lorna seemed to sense
this and smiled at his threatics. "Ah, unrapped you the bring cigar a and bueatfull rolled woman," Migual cajjowed. He
forefinger. "Sam told you of my explotes, no? So you came to see the great lover himself, no? I am currenty engaged at the moment, but..." "Migaul," Sam admonished, "Where are your manners? She is the wife of the Isreal ambasidor." "By a goates jewels," he bellowed, "Do you think I am
uncivilized. But the Iseral ambasidor is a busy man, no?" To be offended by this payosso...rouge clown. Imposssibe. Luera had not spent the last twenty years married to a diplamlat for nothing and had learned a thing or two about diplomicy.
"Yes," she responded, actually relishing the attention...so unlike the cold airagent overtures dircted her way by Isreal men. She touched Sam's hand. "But." and let her meaning trail off. "But of course," Migual, head hung like a resighned puppy, sighed, "You only have eyes for Sam. Well I hope you know he is soon to be without a job, cast aside to the streets, a man without a job is a man who lives on the fringe of socity. Now I am a bussnessman, as you can well see." "Yes," she, matching sigh for sigh, said, "But amor." "Enough," Sam growled, "I am not in the mood for these games just now." To Luera he said, "Migual and I have a little bussness to attend to. Shouldn't be but a moment." "He also has a nasty temper," Migual squealed. Sam grabbed him by the elbow, leading him away from the
table. Migual pleaded, "He will beat you, senora. He is a mean man." At such threatics Lorna couldn't help but shake her head. And was still doing so when the shrill voice at the next table over inquired, "Are you really the wife of the isreal ambasador?" "Why yes dear," she replied. She thought: How could that horrrbe man speak to the wife of Iserale ambasadorr so. She should say something. Maybe on the way out. "I was wondering if you could assite me?" she asked. "How so?" Thinking: What could this woman want from me. Not unkindly. Just preplexed. "Well," the woman started, "I am Jewish. I mean not Isreale. But, well Jewish." Then as if a need to elaported further, explain in detail, or perhaps clense her conseince, she brust out, "I am not religous; piticiauly so. I mean I do attent temple now and then and. Oh, well you know?" Or sure, Luera knew. Knew all about American Jewishness. Fundraisers. Dollars, much needed dollars, donated to Isreal...for her country was such a small counrty, so many people, so little spare land for indsusties, and needed the hard curency. And the American who imagrated. So radical, as if finding their Jewisness, their birthright, homeland, place on this earth...they had to take up arms and fight for what? For a little piece of? What? She wasn't sure she was sure of the answer. At one time she was sure. Many years ago. Now. But this woman did not want to hear the misgivings of an older woman who had reached that point in life where one questions long held beleifs; questions them, yes, but
dose not abandon them...for this took more then courage. She had courage. Plenty of that. She had gone down this self-exaning road many times over the years. But there were many kinds of courage. She smiled. This was not time nor the place for such thoughts. The woman thought she was smiling at her, smiling in memory at her own such misgving over being Jewish. Luera had none of those. She was an Isreal citizen. And knew it. Knew it from the first day of live. Her father was a Zinist. In her house Jewish meant honor. And Jewish honor was the only thing. And the surveal of Isearl the only porioty. "Yes," Luera answered, "I know. But how can I be of help? Maybe a Rabbie?" Hopeful. "No no," the woman hurried continued, "It's this guy I am seeing. He's...he's not anything. I mean, not Jewish." Oh," Lurea responded, "I see." "I told him I we would never get married. I mean. He's not Jewish. I am almost thirty now and feel my Jewisness and
want................ By the stairs. Sam. Migual. Sam so tall. Dark eyes studying. Stance slighty off center, at ready. .....Jewisness Sam who wasn't Jewish. ....attend bible school.... Sam! ...maybe spend a year on a Kibuttz... Just shut up, Lurea wanted to say, Just shut up. But duty to Isreal held the words down. Tied them really. She shifted her gaze
away from Sam, her heart realy. "Then you must not marry this man. You are Jewish. Presue this road and you will find fullillment. The other road will leave you wondering forever." "Yes, yes," the this. Diffaclt. But." "Being Jewish is always diffacult." "Yes, but there is the pride." "There is this." Although the woman was considerbly younger then Leura, and cursed, or blessed, depending the point of view, with what girl muttered. She timidly shrugged. "I knew
Americans consider openness but in actuallyty is a disguise for fear of the unknown, (Note: fear of the unknown? Change this.end note.) she surpriesed Leura by alwoing the conversation to finish itself and just nodded a 'thank you' before returning to her companian. Leura was thankful for this and returned her gaze to Sam, mentally urging him to finish his bussness and return to her. She wanted to feel him close.
2 Freindly Q&A&!
Q: What have you found out? A: Mouths are clamped tighter then a convent's virgins legs. Q: Not a peep about what went down here yesterday? A: Only the bleeps from the sheep fearing the approtching sheepherder; one, my freind, who's wife has dried up. Q: Damit?
A: That's what Jesus cried out on the cross. Q: No fucking doubt! A: It is this silence that troubles me most, my friend. My people eat the parrets balls then in a rush to spill a screat throw them up. But this. A bad omen. An ill wind. A..." !: Shut the fuck up you silly bastard! To fenge hurt was one of Migual's favorate expressions; it almost always elecited sympanty. He did so at Sam's last retort. But they were old freinds, and Sam waved a hand...saying: Save it for when we are both emptying a bottle of rum and bullshitting about our conguests. "Compardar," Migual whispered, "Perhaps we are pushing like a woman about to bear unripe fruit. No?" "No," Sam responded, then laid out the Mossad. Ending with: I hate them bastards! "By Moses balls," he responded, "Is this beautfull woman who eyes only see a long tall Texan in danger?" "No." Sam said, and rubbed his eyes. "This is a mans game. Machismo. The fucking Mossad! The stuped ambassodors! Idealislt Raul! and..." "And?" "Doc!" Sam threw a clenched fist at the air. "Doc's in here somewhere!" "That old rumor?"
Note for Migual. The old woman gosseping, leaning against what not, the men gathered in groups enjoying what not. end note.
Note: This part explain about Migual, the hurt in his eyes. HIs life. how he came to be. Also Sam thinks: Migual is hurt. Also the records of Migual born in the mountions had been destoryed, Sam had seen to it, that and other so on. End note. Migual had been born in a mountion village. As kids he had played and fought with Raul. When he was awarded (Note: awareded by a christain charity. end note.) an american schorship for the unaversity, he cried at the thought of leaving Raul behind. But his parents had insisted. So had set off for Guatalmala City, and had studied engening, vowing someday to return to the mountion, return and remake this beast, the moution, tame it realy, so water bubbled where once only dust settled, so trees grew where once only grusle grass grew; yes, tame it, and in the process restore to his parents and Raul and the other viligers lost respect while
improving life; for he was a peoet at heart...had always been even as a child, and knew, even at the foolish age of sixteen when knowing is secure food found on somebodies eleses table, that food, and warmth and love were nessary for the body, but that respect was nessary for the soul. A year. He soaked up the words in books. The second year. He drank the words of the proffesors. Three. He died inside. This was the year when the solderss came and burnd the village, sparing, and who knew the reason, the hut but not Migual's parents. He had grown bitter and flung away all such thoughts as engenring, and embraced the poet in him, the child who had wide-eyed listened to the elders in the villege tell there tales, and opened little Bogata where he reasoned he could drink and fuck and lose himself; whoever that might be. But it had
not been so easy to forget...even when cheap Ron filled his belly and blurred his head; espeicaly then. Although he was an
intellagent man, inatly so, he had to totely loose himself before finding himslf; by this time almost ten yaers had elapsed. One morining the mirrow shone back at him what, unmasking the years, the hidieas years. With shock he had discovred that he had shed his skin and become what? A man. He was no longer a child hiding
behind the veil of greif and guilt. And now upon this discovry there was nowhere to hide; oh but he tried in drink and women and lies. In the end, and mostly out of desperatoion, he fled to his
parents hut, now sheided by jungle-like underbush. He supposed he expected to find the village rebuilt, Raul older, married,
childern. And others. but the army had bulldozed the earth itself, burying evrything but, and who knew why, the hut. The hut. An earthen floor. Tin roof. Pine sides. Washbasen. And memories. Yeah, memories. Funny thing memories. He didn't remember his
mother's cooking; oh he knew she cooked maze and if lucky a chicken...but that wasn't a memory. That was just part of everyday growing. And he didn't remember his father going off at sunrise to work in the fields, allthough he did. That too was just part of everyday growing. All those acts that people do repeatiscly
everyday were simple things done to survie. He remembered them yes, but so what. It was what he felt inside. This he rembereed most fondly. At night. The lights out. The moon, when there was one, ilumanaing. He, asleep, but pretenting realy. His parents quietly beneath there clothing making love; so very quietly as not to wake him. How he wished he could have provied them a large
house where they could hoop and hollor and moan and groan; but of course, they would not have done so...their joy was a quiet joy. Note: He finds Raul. Meets the Rebel leader, or comadnet for the regon, buffons he considered them, but he had to help in some way or form. He also provided money and guns. So it was
understanderble he was upset. "Right. Find out where he is camped out!" To say that Sam wasn't aware of the commings and goings would be an understatement. He was, and had been aware of Luera's
longing gaze for quite some time now. As much as he needed a few more minutes with Migual, his heart was done...it reached out to Lueara. He added, "Please." and headed to where she sat.
Note: Luera had thought that the woman had wanted something else. Note: Where are you going with this. Are you trying to force it? Note: Luera wistfully glances at Sam; did he know that they never could have married; he wasn't jewish. end note.
Ah to witness love flowing like a crystle river. Truely a heart warming sight. Migual was thinking this as Sam and Lueara left when the woman who had been speaking to Lurera marched up to him at the staries were he stood. "You should be ashamed for the way you treated the wife of the Isreal ambasaorr!" A half raised eyebrow, as he stuied her. He had to go to the moutions and stop at many villeges, charm many women, find out what the hell was going on. For Sam. But he would sample this morsel first. A good dervrison was on the menue. If only to wash away the lingering betrayel directed toward Raul. The little
weasel. Then work. Sam would understand. Note: This is how he finds out his hut is being used and maybe this is how he dies by the mossade becasue of the hut. endnote.
Note: Describe Raul, Doc and the others. Note: Explain why the beans, they were exported to the states and almost never found in Guatamala, thus coffee in Guatamala taste like donkey shit...after all the Gutamalams needed money too. use this at Miguals Cafe. end note. Sofo is a woman. end note.
Yes, Raul and Doc were at the hut, as were Jesus and Yanw and Sofo. And had Migual known that Raul was at the hut, he would of passed on the tender morsel insulitng him and lit out for the Hut. But Doc had spread a rumor, placing it on the tonges of the women, and who better then a woman to spread a rumor, who trekked to Antigue and to Guatamala city to sell cloth or oranges or coffee benas stolen from a plantion by hiding the beans one at a time in threre hair during harvistig, of his own that said that Raual was just outside Chimtianago, which was far to the south of Antigua. He was there to negeate the sale of a thousand masks. The masks, crude things that were hand carved in the shape of a cat, or a bird, or a parret, or a clown, were sold to tourest who beleived the masks to be used in sercret Myan religious cremonels
where...no, humens were sacoiced. To aquire such a mask. Such a joy. To place it on the wall in the living room for all who entered to see. To feel the spuritoere in the telling of the history of the mask. Beyond dollars. Note: Find the word for witch
doctor both good and bad. end note. And while the others hudddled over cold coffee and a miltary map that had cost six mounts wages, Rual stood outside troubled, nostrels sucking in the cool mountion air. He was thinking that the moutions coughed up few of its secreats. And was as it should be. Of course the leafs wishpered in the wind, but the whispering were undisginable to all but outsiders. But Migual wasn't an outsider. And here that Raul's soul was troubled, troubled by his deception of his boyhood freind. He had never in the past hid or disguied or lied or attempted to deceice Migual before. And
because of this, he was more then troubled. His soul ached. He considered himself an honoable man. A man of his word. He was not a drunkard like so many of men in the mountons who had reserted to drinking to wipe away the stain they felt rested upon their soul whenvver they laid eyes upon their wife and childern going hungry. And disliked keeping sercrets from his old freind, and was very very very sorry that he had to murder the son-of-bitch at Migual's bograta; but, his was a simple life, a slow prodding mind best suited for plainting corn and hurrying along a relucktent donkey; city ways, well this confused him. This revloution confused him. The word: revaltion confussed him. He could never tell the others this. No. No. That would not do at all. They would lose confidence in him. He was the leader. Which was why he liked Doc so much. Doc knew everything. He truly was a genus. But in the matter of Migual, well maybe Doc was wrong. No, he reasoned, and not without deffaculty. He could agree that it was best to be cautious.
Espeicaly now. Kidnapping the Isreal Ambasaodor was a big thing.
Yes the mountions guarded its sercrets well, but such a thing. Such a big thing. Such a very importent thing. Why certenty many were willing to sell such a thing for Qutaiszed or two. But then who could blame them, really, when thier family was going hungry. But this thing would help end the hunger and restore diginty and honor to the villeges in the mountion. Yes he suppose Doc was right. But he felt bad inside. He would tell Migual. After. When things were better. After. When the el norte rebles who were negaraing peace without honor saw the great victory won. After. When the people in the villeges shouted out his name. Yes, after. So much thinking. Just the thought of it tired Raul, and he entered the hut and joined the others who were doing excatly what they had been doing when he had left the hut: staring at the miltary map. Note: explain the men and what they do end note. The map was all red lines and green lines and dark spaces. In short a mystry to all except Doc. He read the map well. There was only
one way into Antigua from Guatamala City. Which was really not importent. What was important was the way out. He had explained this to Raul over and over, much as a first grade teacher explains to a student; and although a bit slow at first, Raul eventualy understood. Then he latched onto the escape route, taking the others aside and patentily explaing how importent the escape route was to the plan. He felt importent in impacting this knoweldge to the others, like a true leader. Note: Is there only one way into Antugue? Side routes that led to nowhere, or danger. end note. So to shore up his sagging confadene, Raul planted a finger
hombra?" The others murmured, yes this was a serious question. One a leader would ask and ask and double check. A farmer always double checked the weather by visiting the Gruehaia at least twice a season. Did they realy beleave the Gruahaha could call upon the Gods. Provide rain. Yes. No. But why take a chance. Sure, Doc thought. He was sure. Although he was unaware that the Mossad, or more accuretly Yossaff suppled the infomaton
through a maid who worked at the Isreal embassy. Suppled the route that the motercade would take and also devisid the most expeadent retreat back to the mountions. Note: you need to rethink this; Yosaff is maniplating the entire event, inculding Luera being kidnapped and killed by the
kidnapperes, including the Huey; but there has to be a secadary plan. jason
The one thing that both Doc and Yosaff would both agree upon was that the only thing they had in common was that a cause burned deep in them; o'yes, and Sam, they had Sam in common...and at the present on their minds.This is where we will take the Isreal Ambasador.
Note: But the time is off. The money they had paid for the informaton was wrong, or as Doc thought: Sam had outsmarted them. So they revise there plan. end note. Also more on the plan, and
Sam, kill him in nessary. Doc, although he didn't relish the idea
Note: Okay, so you have Richard Wilson, and Garard, make them cararters in this farce, Gerard the hippie who revles in needleing men; thus what he dose to Richard. Ect. Then RIchard, who? The dysintary had inflamed his joints leaving a prment limp or
jerkness to his walk or limp. endnote. Run all this in Gerards first chapter. end note.
"Man, got to love that Sam man!" Gerard said, or needled. And continued. Merry. Upbeat. Grooven. Geard was all these things but most of all he was all tanked out on caffine. Seriously tanked. Eight cups of high octaine expressso in less than an hour. He was speeding. Riding the jittery expresss. Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! And best of all...as he had told Richard Wilson while they both ocuppied one of the four tables on the balconey of the Cafe Suannso, the very same balcony that overlooked Calle 5, which just so happened to be THE FREAKING MAIN PROCESSION ROUTE FOR THE SMANTA SANTA; THE FRAKING WHOLE SHOW WOULD PASS RIGHT BELOW...was the FREAKING SAM MAN! And what was causing Gerards grooven hippie love thy neighbor mind to fly so high? Sam had rented the balcony for the evening. The entire balcony. Two thousnd dollars. Man, that was some serious bucks. Antigua was one of the oldest spanish cities in Guatamala. Built in the bed of three volcanos, the air was sharp and clean, the sun bright, and the rain always ready to pounce. And outside
of Gerard's mind this beauty surounded him; and to be honest he usraly saw it, but not today, today all he saw was two tousand dollars. But Richard Wilson saw it. As he listened to Gerard, who was a vocal repeating michine, the slight breez rowing in from Agua tossled his hair, and he gazed wistfully at the long dormat volcano. Then shifted his downward to the street below. There life played out its daly five hundread year old farce; some of the players had changed, but then on the other hand maybe not. Forgen students jockied for space on the narrow sidewalks with stooopbacked indiean woman, a child cocooned on her back, one or two yapping at her side, merchints draging boxs almost brimming over, but not quite, with soda, chips, rum, ect, drunken indian men staggering side to side, almost bouncing off the walls of the buildings but never quite, almost spilling onto the narrow
cobbelstone street, but never quite and always mananging to wind up fowrwed down the center of the sidewalk knocking aside like ten-pins those unfortuenoe or to slow or to preoccupoed to get out of the way. The cobbelstone street, and every damn street in Antigua was cobblestoned, was also narrow, and the cars inched inched inched, and darted the carts inched inched inched, and the and
zagging, swaying and rolling, and rocken and bobben. And did Richard give a dame. No. There was work to be done. This is the excues Richard used to extract himself from Gerald's hyperactive glee, (who was his boss. And nodded, yes indeed work, but Richard, you got to love that Sam man! Or was he needling Richard? )
And Richard had been wondering this for quite some time. And in truth there was work to be done. Gerald operated an export bussness, shipping to the states, mostly unaversity towns, ti-died t-shirts, dresses, wrist bands, and the odd assortment of ideas that Gerald, useualy in a marayana induced haze, conjered up. It was Gerards lateist ideal that Richard had refered to. Tidied wallets. An instant seller, Gerard had screamed, every kid on campus would want one. The idea had come to him two weeks ago and the first shipemnt of ten thousand had arrived from the weavers whome Gerard employed. Now they had to be sorted into indicueal orders and labeled for shipping to the States. But there was another truth inside Richard. He walked
jerkitly...he walked so becasue he had come down with a piticae bad strain of dysintary that had due to lack of timely treatment invaded his joints leaving not so much a permiint limp but sticklike puppote walk. But he saw it as walking without authitory. This was not new feeling, vaclated by the fact that he was an underling, employed by Gerard several years ago...the act more a jesture of pity, then kindness, or maybe the act was a shot at Sam. He had often wondered about this over the years. What with there was Gerard and his hippie mentelty!(Or so he saw Gerard at the time.) And there was Richard! What! There was Richard Wilson, formly the United States Embassy liesaio between the State
Departent and the Press, then presto, he was out, fifty-five years old, no prospects exept for the prospect of returnig to the States to. What, Gerard had yelled, well let's offer the poor man a job. Yes. The poor man. And of course he had accrpted. What else could
he do? When he had frist accepted the job at the Embassy he had done so to escape the empty 'whats' in his life and the thoguht of retruning to them at the time all but broke his spirit. A better man. A man able to change course in mid-stream would have rejected Gerard's offer and made his own way. But a man whose soul had lost its authory. Right. He had also often wondered when, at what point, had the feeling of authitory dserted him. Was it when Crista and him had broken off their elcit four year relatinship? When he had lost his job. Or the night Sam had murdered two men. He jerked toward the office on Point 18. A man of worth to those he passed, many said hello, or asked how his day was going and a few mentioned much as one daily mentions the weather, Smana Santa...and wasn't to going to be the best festeval yet; a refrain echoed every year. Yes, to all he was an estraplishd citizen. But a sad man to himslef.
Note: This needs something.end note
It was with great reluckence that Sam departed Lerur's side. He would see her in a few hours. They, he assured her, would ride together to Antigua. Watch the fesstivies. Had she ever seen Smarna Santa in Antugia. No. It would, he promcied, stay with her forever. And of course, there would be time to talk during the festivities. She smiled delight at this. He left her where he had found her, in the Rose room where she waited for her husband. And it would of great to return to his office and rest, but he didn't return to his office, instead he set out on foot, hitting the indigines comadors where the husbands of the women who worked as maids at the verious embassies whiled away the day by drinking rum and playing domanoes; at each comador he spread Queatizels freely, and the Agudendi, which was foul tasting cane alcoele that was cheap and aged a day and garenteet to rot your brain and stomich and liver, flowed; at each comador the men, most who knew Sam, and had accepted this hard drinking gringo as a freind, and between drinks and songs on past glories exchanged stories and in doing so spilled what little there wives had said late at night...their wives the only story outside the liver murdering agadunti in their lives. And for his trouble he learned nothing, for they knew, outside of what ambassador was fucking what maid, nothing about the reble activry, and in fact showed surprise, which was a surprise in-itself since these men had given
up on life long ago, that the rebles were still enganged in a war with the goverment. Weren't there peace accords taking place? What rebels. The stuped little war is over. We don't have work now, nor then, nor will we. And by the time he headed back to the embassy, he was tired of it all, a little drunk, and sick to his stomich...litterly. Twice he bent over the gutter and threw up mucus and blood, the mixture splattering the pavment and splashing his shoes and
trouser cuffs. Each time the people walked hurrdily past him, pretening to ignore this seeminly drunk vargrant gringo. Each time he felt energy depart from him, stealing the will to take another step, begging him to just sit, sit, no, fall on the sidewalk and curl his head in his lap and rest. Rest. Rest. If he could only rest for a moment. Close his eyes. Yes, that was the ticket. Yeah, he heard his Dad say, when you'r out thr in nomansland, out at in the true badlands just rest...becasue out there resting is
forever; and then the buzzards swoop down and pick your carcus; then the wind and sand bury whats left and forevr becomes
enternty. Sure. Rest. So he forged foreward, feebly waving off the an helping hand from the mairne guarding the embassy entrance. Once in his office he would rest. Just an hour. One hour and he would be allright. And was that hour stolen from him. Not all of it.But enough. And it was with great annoyence that Yossaff ouccupied a chair in his office. Cigar in hand Yoass waved with the other and smiled at him. "I couldn't resist another one of your fine cigar's." As sick as he was as weak as he was, a narrowness crept across and down
Sam's brow until it settled upon his eyes; Yossaff correctly saw an unspoken warning there. "Don't ever enter my office again without my permission." This was not the warning Yosaff saw in Sam's narrrow gaze. "Yes, I agree." Yosaff diplmaicly coneeded. "But I want to speak with you before the ambasador left for Antigua and was concerned I would miss you. If I overstepped, well I apolgize." And from here time merged and he wasn't sure who
was speaking and who was dreaming and who was who. "Fine. What's on your mind? Besides stealing my cigars." "I understand your authorized a change in the trip to Antigua? The Ambassador was concerned about this. I assured him it was nothing to worry about. But you know diplamats, worry is their middle name." Sam murmured while liting a Cigar. "And Lurear?" "Mmmmm," "Yes, and
Lurera." "I realy have to work on my poker face. I mean the boys back home in East Texas will eat me alive." Sam said. He gripped the cigar between his teeth and mumbled, "We were just casual freinds. Not that it's any of your bussness. And as I am sure you know we spent the afternoon toghter. Any other questions? I don't have any other answeres." "Casual freinds, yes," Yossaff said. "Otherwise when you were in Isreale you would have visited her." That realy threw Sam. That Yosff had known he had been in Iseale. He had entered the country under an assumed name, traveled without diplamatic protication, and were he aperhened, well more then likey tried as a spy. He was one of a half dozen agents dispartched to Jorden and Isreale to gather facts concerning the car bombing at the Marine barrecks in Lebanon. The planning behind sending unknown opertives as opposed to opertives who operaated in
the Middle-East was sound in itself: Predestion faces blend in. The mission had been highy classfied, so much so that even Langly had been kept in the dark; only Walter Johnson knew, and a few people in Ronald Reagen's cabneit. Why Walter would volintee such information preplexed Sam. That Yosaff or his dummy had had a Q & A sessioin concring Sam bothred Sam more then the fact that Yosaff knew he had been in Isreali. The fact only served as further proof that something very big was underway and that the mossade
considered Sam a possible trate. Yes the remark had thrown Sam. But without any diffaclty what-so-ever he maintained a streight face. "Well I guess that question you had earler has been
answered, no?" "Yes, Samual, (Was that Luera calling him Samual?) it has. I am not your enamy." "That remains to be seen, I mean seeing as I have yet to answer my question. Now about those changes. I would like the Ambasador and his lovely wife to be at the carport no later then 3:45. I am only using one Limo. So if you intend to accompy the Ambasaor then you will ride up front with the driver or follow along in a viciley of your own chosing. I will ride in back with both ambasadors and their wives.
Also...in case your not already aware...I have a Hury gunship on A-ready alert. I am sure you know what this means. Three seconds to be airborn. Ten seconds to reach maxiiam speed of 350 miles an hour. Antigua is thirty miles away. You can divide. Any
questions?" "No." "Good. One more thing. Have you ever visited East Texas. Seen the utter empyneess of hundreads upon hundreads of miles of desert terren." "No." "How about the badlands of the Dakota's." "No." "Well the badlands of the Dakota's are nothing
comparted to East Texas. The sun. You can escape the cold in the Dakota's but the sun. Relantless. No escape. But never mind. But you have seen the Jorden River?" Sam's meaning was not lost on Yosaff. "Yes," he replied stiffly." And thankfully Sam was alone. And he wobbled to the
bathroom and swallowd a half bottle of Mylanta, then barly made it back to his desk where he sat back on the chair and slept. He didn't dream, he just fell into a black hole, swalled up really, for an hour, at which time a mental alarm rang in his head and the black hole grayed, then whittened, then was gone. He stared head on desk at the stack of pencels and pens in a cup. He messured the pain and found it had lessened to a tight belt wrapped around his waist. Next he dimly wondered if the meeting between him and Yosaff had taken place. He was unsure. The maid cleaned the office twice a day and the two cigar butts in an otherwise empty ashtray provided an answer. He stared at the butts for sevral seconds as if expecting them to tell a tale before going to the bathroom to swallow the other half of the Mylanta. Afterwards he grimiced at the clown face in the mirror wearing green Mylanta ring and said aloud: For better or worse it's showtime. At the window he overlooked the grounds and the carport...and here that worry free East Texas smile creased his face. The limo sat waiting. He said: "That is going to be one lonely Limo." He could not see the hellacopter port and becasue of this called to confirm the Hury gunship was on A-ready alert. It was.
Note: He is the sole authory here, not the ambasador, not Walter.
Him. If they have a problem, then take it up with State. But for now he was the so called caption of the ship. Note: The isreal ambasdor is upset by the change in arramngments. The german
Ammbasador and Crista is with them, use this. end note
Doc received information, and paid for it. Doc was unaware that the Mossad, or more accuretly Yossaff suppled Doc with the route that the amabaador was taking into Antigue. The one thing that both Doc and Yosaff would both agree upon was that the only thing they had in common was that a cause burned deep in them; o'yes, and Sam, they had Sam in common...and at the present on their minds. From the moment Yossaff had left Sam's office, his mind, Sam doing the spinning, reeled. He was as close to stunned as he had been in his entire life. Sam Wall? Sam Wall! Both as a question and an excmlation point echoed throughout his mind. The conversation...a surreal quilt, a quilt torn at verious points. Sam acted like he was on drugs, or at the very least drugged, his words slurred; at other times he was preceisly choerent, driving, with extream prejaduce, his point home.
Chapter Note: Thoughts on this chapter. He, Sam, is at the Cafe Quat speaking to Migual. This occures after Luera is murdered. He tells migual about this and explains that the mossad did it. Migual why. Sam explains for Isreal. Then Sam goes into his monalouge about how Isreals have no honor. Explains that he had once been there on a state bussness. Use you obsveration here. Sam then goes on about how the ten million jews slautered by Hilter, and the millions purges in the spanish inqusistion, ect, must be turning over in their graves at the atroctick comminted in their name; he rambles on, about how isreals have no sence of art, or love, excpet for country, ect. work on this. end note. About how they import
touture to prop up the encomoy and about their encoumy is based on mliterilisem; kids handing out cookies, teenagers brainwashed to serch luggic. end note.
Note: this chapter is Sam trapping Yosaff and Avel. Needs a lot of work. Migual goes with him? end note.
From the moment Sam left the Jeep next to a bank of bannana trees, all but camofglaged from the air by long drooping green leafs, he felt a mental wearness at the task at hand. Two hours later, the terion, thick underbrush, clusters of rocks, but mostly the steep and steady upward climb, had worn him pysiclay...and would such a climb (hike really), have tired him a few years ago...and he rested on his hunches for severl mintues, taking a sip from his canteen, and smoking a ciggrett, before continuing the last mile. But the last mlile was exzhusting, and more from deep tirdness, then from reconsine postion, he chose the first spot providing a clear veiw of the clearing below and the cabin. A whispering howling echoing. Goasts? No. Just the wind. Just the wind. It's the waiting. Even when all the training kicks in, this was always the hardist part. To wait. To keep the mind clear and aleart. Dwelling on Lana. No, harden the mind. Push her away. The cold mountion air. Drink a little whiskey. But not so much as to dull the mind. A ciggreatt?` Yes. A craving never so strong as when you should not smoke. The smallest ember could, by a trained eye, be seen for miles. Just wait. and Lord knew a cigar was a large ember.
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