Inside the windowless Quonset the air was stale with sweat. The Ambassador was in the middle of the floor doggedly doing push-ups; from the beginning he had put Cielo in mind of Alec Guinness in Bridge on the River Kwai—stuffy, blimpish, courageous. Cielo couldn’t picture himself ever trusting the man but he rather liked him and was pleased no harm had come to him.

Cielo spoke in English because he knew the Mexicans among the hostages understood it. He was not so sure of the Ambassador’s Spanish.

“We’re going to blindfold you. Don’t be frightened—you’re going to be set free in less than twelve hours. Our ransom demands have been met and we intend to honor our part of the bargain.”

He watched their reactions. Vacuous slow gapes; tears; explosions of relief; glares of disbelieving suspicion. One of the Agriculture Ministry men beamed gratefully at Cielo.

It was his first experience in the management of hostages but he had heard that they sometimes became sycophantically dependent on their captors. The friendliness with which most of them stared at him did not surprise him.

He said without conviction, “You’re close to freedom now. Please don’t risk it by foolish behavior. If anyone tries to run for it we’ll shoot without hesitation. If you co-operate you’ll be free by morning.”

They watched him expectantly. The Ambassador, on his feet now, tried to squint defiantly but his relief was too evident; finally he turned toward the others to hide his involuntary smile from Cielo.

He fingered the submachine gun absently. “In a moment we’ll blindfold you. You’ll be taken out of here and down the same path by which we arrived. We’re going to take you back aboard the same boat as before and you’ll be locked in the crew’s quarters forward. As you recall there are six bunks and a toilet. It will be cramped but it’s only for a few hours. Before daylight you’ll be set ashore and you’ll see the last of us.”

One of the American Marines glared at him, filled with distrust. That one had been a troublemaker from the beginning; in retrospect Cielo wistfully wished that if someone had had to be killed it could have been the Marine rather than the Peace Corps youth. The youth had made trouble with his mouth and drawn attention to himself but this Marine was far more dangerous in his silent scheming ways. Two nights ago he’d tried to organize an escape by digging out under the back wall. Vargas had heard the noise and they’d put a stop to it, bloodying the Marine’s nose as a lesson, but it hadn’t put a stop to the Marine’s brain. The Marine was dogged—a good soldier; Cielo didn’t lack admiration for him.

“When you’re set ashore you’ll find a burro trail leading into the forest. Follow the burro trail for several hours. It will be morning by then, you’ll have no trouble. By noon you’ll come to a paved highway. After that you’ll make your own fate. A car or a truck will come along, you’ll make your own decisions. By tomorrow night you’ll be home with your families. So please be patient just a little longer.”

He addressed this last directly to the Marine because he understood the Marine to be susceptible to reason. Threats would not dissuade the Marine from resistance or rebellion; reason might. It all depended whether he could convince the Marine that he actually meant to set them free. If the Marine believed he was destined for murder then no amount of logic would calm him.

The Marine’s thoughts were not readable. He met Cielo’s stare without guile, reserving judgment.

Cielo said, “It is, you see, in our own interests now that you all be released unharmed. It proves to the world that we are men of our word, and also in a practical sense it will help to calm the rage of your governments. If we were to murder you we’d become hunted outcasts everywhere. If we keep our word and release you, we are heroes—at least to those who agree with our purpose. I therefore beg your co-operation for a few more hours.”

He was thinking, To them I must be a terrifying apparition—the size of him, the beard, the machine gun, the unnaturally gruff rasp he used for a voice in their presence. It was a good thing they couldn’t see the fraud underneath. He was searching his brain: Was there anything else he ought to say to them? He couldn’t think of anything. It would have to do.

He backed toward the door. “In just a little while now,” he told them, and left. At the moment of going through the door he realized that if Soledad could see him now she would laugh at him.

He imagined the bubbling caress of her voice and thought, I am truly a figure of ridicule. The thought put him in a better frame of mind until he went into the big hut and crossed glances with young Emil. The youth gave him a rakishly defiant look, brimming with sullen resistance. That one had made a murderer of Cielo and the thing had gone altogether sour then; Cielo was in command and could not absolve himself of the responsibility but it was Emil who had killed the American boy, without orders, and thus put an end to Cielo’s plan that no one be injured. From that moment it had no longer been a bluff; up to then Cielo had been prepared to give it up if the target governments had refused the ransom demands but after Emil’s act there had been no choice. Once the American was dead it would have been foolhardy not to make use of the corpse so he had ordered it dumped in the town.

The American’s jiggling earnestness, his ceaseless talk, had irritated them all but in truth the American had meant no harm and done none, except to their nerves. Cielo thought, I had better light candles for him.

He’d already reprimanded Emil harshly but beyond that did it matter? It wasn’t Emil’s fault that nobody had told him the whole exercise was a sham, a bit of theater, a command performance for the entertainment of old man Draga. Emil, in committing them to the irrevocability of their course, had merely shown that he believed it wasn’t a lark; it was war. Well it was war only in Draga’s withered mind but Emil didn’t know that because there was no way for anyone to explain it to him. And maybe Emil was right. You had to do this sort of thing believing in it; otherwise you were worse than a fool.

Emil had served in the American Army toward the end of the Viet Nam absurdity; there he had learned to kill dispassionately and casually. Perhaps he had murdered the American boy to remind his older companions of what he thought they were up to. Cielo remembered the sullen contempt in Emil’s eyes when he’d admonished them beforehand. There’s to be no killing.

Such a stupid farce, he thought. The old man would have done better to entrust his job to Emil. For purposes of revolution you needed kids. People too young to have grown inhibitions.

Cielo fingered the submachine gun again. At least he could finish the job; that much he could do. Get the money back to Draga and make sure it wasn’t hijacked along the way by outsiders. But one thing was sure. No more hostages were going to be murdered. He’d shoot Emil before he’d let him kill another innocent.

The others in the room came forward slowly, sweeping the walls and the cot frames with damp toweling, preparing to quit the hut. Cielo drew back the cuff of his fatigue jacket to examine his watch. Just right. Any minute now the rain would begin and daylight would drain away. Soon they’d be on the river bound for the sea. Ghosts in a rainy night; no one would catch them now.

Chapter 5

When Carole emerged into the steamy Houston heat there was a ravening mob of journalists on the concrete steps and Howard took her arm, leading the way, trying to drive a wedge through them. Strobes half-blinded her and there was the flicker of lenses. One of the bayonet microphones almost took her jaw off. The reporters were all talking at once and she couldn’t understand a word; she cringed, shaded her eyes, got behind Howard and pressed forward, using him as a ram. “Get me out of this.”