The Hydra Conspiracy Page 13

  Wilson moved away from the map and stood in front of Noble. “If you’ll permit me to say so, sir, I have an alternate solution.”

  “What is it?”

  “I think the government should institute a policy of land reform for peasants and increased wages for workers.”

  “Oh yeah?” asked Noble. “Well I’m of the opinion that nobody should get anything for nothing. I think that’s bullshit.”

  “But the people are starving to death in this country,” Wilson argued. “You can see them lying dead in the gutters of Halvados City. That’s the sort of thing that causes social unrest.”

  “I don’t give a damn!” Noble screamed, slamming his fist on the table. “Why should I give away anything that I have? I worked for all that I have! Let them work for themselves!”

  “But sir, you inherited from your father most of what you have.”

  Noble’s face grew flushed with anger. He pointed his finger at Wilson. “You’re fired!”

  “I’m fired?” Wilson asked incredulously.

  “That’s right.”

  “But how can you fire me? You’re not even in the government.”

  “I’m not in the government?” Noble asked, raising his eyebrows. “Of course I’m not in the government. I and my associates own the government. Now get out of here this minute, you pinko bastard!”

  “Huh?”

  Noble looked at Pisco. “Throw that son of a bitch in the stockade.”

  “But he’s an American citizen!”

  “Not any more, he’s not. You’d better do what I say or I’ll call Washington and cut off all foreign aid to this damned little banana republic you’ve got here.”

  Pisco took out his pistol and pointed it at Wilson’s heart. “You’re under arrest.”

  “What for?”

  “Because he said to arrest you. Now get moving, you pinko bastard.”

  “But…”

  “Get moving!”

  Pisco marched Wilson out of the room, turned him over to aides, and then returned. “Mission accomplished, sir,” he said.

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” Noble said. “Well, I think we’ve got the situation here pretty much under control, haven’t we?”

  Noble searched the faces of the assembled generals and admirals; they all nodded happily.

  “Good,” Noble said. “Let’s turn in for the night, because we have a busy day tomorrow.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It was night at the military base, which already had been renamed the Santiago del Pisco Air Force Base. Nearly everyone was asleep; guards walked their posts around the perimeter of the base, the hangars, ammunition dumps and mess halls.

  Noble and his entourage had a special building all to themselves, which was surrounded by a platoon of crack Halvados paratroopers. Noble slept by himself in a corner room on the top floor. In the next room was Butler, who was wide awake with his clothes on, wondering what to do. He lay on his back with his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. He realized he had only one option, which was a dangerous one. Somehow he had to alert the local office of the Bancroft Institute that a mass crackdown against factions opposed to the government would take place first thing in the morning. He knew he couldn’t use a telephone on the base because all calls probably were monitored. Therefore he had to get off the base somehow and make his way into Halvados City, where he would find a public phone.

  He looked at his watch; it was three o’clock in the morning. Soon it would be light. It was now or never. He got out of bed and put on his black shoes. He wrapped his red-and-yellow repp tie around his neck and put on his suit jacket. Standing in front of the mirror, he ran his fingers through his hair. Then he checked his Walther to make sure it was ready for action.

  Stealthily he opened his bedroom door and looked down the long dark corridor. No one was there. He slipped out of his room and crept down the corridor, descended a flight of stairs, and saw a sentry standing outside the door. Somehow he had to get past that sentry. He knew there would be sentries at the other exits of the building as well. He’d have to kill one or con one. He decided to try and con one first.

  He opened the door; the sentry swung around his rifle. “What do you want?” the sentry asked in Spanish.

  Butler smiled. “I’ve run out of cigarettes. Do you know where I can buy some?”

  “Nobody is supposed to enter or leave this building,” the sentry said. He looked about nineteen and had smooth dark skin.

  Butler laughed. “But amigo, I need some cigarettes. You know how it is.”

  The sentry nodded. “I know how it is.” But he kept his rifle pointed at Butler’s stomach.

  “Is there an officers’ club around here where I could go?”

  “The officers’ club is that way.” The sentry pointed with his gun.

  “Thank you, amigo.”

  Butler walked off in the direction the sentry had indicated, expecting a bullet in his back at any moment. But the sentry didn’t fire, and soon Butler was a few hundred yards from the stucco building, passing wooden barracks where soldiers were sleeping. Occasionally he saw sentries, but he stayed on the sidewalk where no one was likely to challenge him. He thought the base looked a little like Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri, where he’d taken basic training—but then, all military bases tend to look alike. They are grim places that smother the human spirit with regimentation, rules and regulations.

  Finally he came to a parking lot near a four-story stucco building different in design from the wooden barracks he’d just passed. This must be where the big shots live, he thought, and sure enough, when he drew closer, he saw a sign in Spanish that translated to “Bachelor Officers’ Quarters.” Butler walked into the parking lot and saw rows of Cadillacs, Ferraris, Mercedes-Benzes and Porsches. This array of exotic road machinery didn’t surprise him; he knew that the officer corps of most Latin American countries came from the wealthy ruling elite of the country. That’s how the rich maintained control over the armies, and that’s why the armies were quick to overthrow elected governments that tried to take a little from the rich and give it to the poor.

  Butler wanted a car that was fast and reliable, and decided on a metallic silver Chevrolet Corvette, the new model with the overhead valve V-8 engine that put out 210 horsepower and could take the car from zero to sixty miles an hour in under seven seconds. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out his little leather case of picks, standard operational equipment for all CIA agents. Selecting one of the picks, he inserted it into the door lock and twisted, and the door opened right up. He got in as though he owned the car, took another pick, inserted it into the ignition, tripped the tumblers. As he turned the pick, the lights on the dash went on and the engine sputtered to life. He turned on the headlights, let out the emergency brake, shifted into first. Letting out the clutch, he drove out of the parking lot.

  When he had ridden to the base from the airport earlier in the night he’d oriented himself with the relative positions of the airport, Halvados City, and the air base. Now he steered in the directions of Halvados City, passing rows of silent wooden barracks. The Corvette’s engine roared powerfully under the hood and Butler felt comfortable in the seat. He’d owned two Corvettes in his lifetime and knew how to handle them. He’d raced one once at the Lime Rock track in Connecticut and placed fifth in a field of thirty-two cars.

  He made a left turn and ahead down the road he saw the barbed-wire gates of the base. A sentry with a rifle slung over his shoulder stood at either side of the gate. They moved their rifles to port arms as the car approached and they saw the officers’ designation on the license plate. They opened the gates and Butler saluted as he drove past them.

  It had been easy getting out; it wouldn’t be so easy returning. Shifting up the gears, he sped down the ribbon of highway toward the glow of lights in the distance that he knew to be Halvados City. There was little traffic on the road, because few citizens of Halvados could afford to buy cars. Therefore t
here was no need of a highway patrol. Butler drove the husky Corvette at ninety miles an hour and soon was on the outskirts of Halvados City in one of its many slum shantytowns. There was a horrendous stench, for there was no plumbing in the shantytown, and dogs barked as he rolled through the streets. Families slept on sidewalks, hollow eyes in gaunt faces watching him pass by.

  He continued driving, thankful that he hadn’t been born poor in a country like Halvados, and entered a factory district, where huge buildings belched smoke into the night sky. Continuing onward, he came to a neighborhood of squat wooden homes in a decent state of repair, and concluded that this must be where the factory workers lived. If so, there must be a bar somewhere nearby. Sure enough, in a few blocks he spotted a one-storey white building all lit up; above its door was a sign that said CANTINA.

  Butler parked in front of the cantina, got out of the Corvette, and went inside. It was a rickety old joint with a sleepy bartender behind the bar and a few drunks drowsing on stools.

  “You have a telephone?” Butler asked in Spanish.

  “Back there.”

  “Give me some change, please.” He threw an American dollar on the bar.

  The bartender picked it up and looked at it. “What kind of money is this?”

  “American.”

  ‘Yeeccchhhh,” said the bartender.

  “Give me some change for the phone machine, will you?”

  “I don’t know how much to give you for this.”

  “Just give me enough to work the machine.”

  “Okay.”

  The bartender gave Butler a coin and Butler took it back to the telephone, dropped it in and dialed information. When the operator came on he asked for the number of the Bancroft Research Institute in downtown Halvados City. She gave him the number and he dialed it.

  “Bancroft Research Institute,” said the sleepy voice of a young woman.

  “Hello, my name’s Butler. I’m calling about the security job that the Institute has offered me.”

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Butler.”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Butler. We’ve been told that you might call, but we didn’t realize you’d call at this time of night. Can it wait until morning?”

  “No,”

  “Oh my goodness. But I’m the only one on duty. We have just a small office here.”

  “This is the only time that I can see you, I’m afraid.”

  “Do you know where you are?”

  “In a bar someplace near some factories.”

  “Ah yes, it sounds like the Sajama District. Okay, you just continue downtown to the Halvados Hilton on the Calle Rosario. I’ll be in the office building across the street, in room seventeen-twenty.”

  “May I know your name?”

  “I’m Nora C. Morrissey.”

  “What was that again?”

  “Nora C. Morrissey.”

  “Are you any relation to Wilma B. Willoughby by any chance?”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “How long will it take me to get to where you are?”

  “A half hour.”

  “See you then.”

  “Bye.”

  Butler hung up the phone and walked out of the bar, waving to the bartender. He got in the Corvette and drove in the direction of the bright lights, assuming that was where downtown Halvados City was. It was a clear warm night with a full moon shining on palm trees and bushes of tropical flowers. The air was filled with exotic perfumes. He came to a neighborhood of modern high-rise buildings with balconies and television antennae growing out of the roofs. Expensive cars were parked along the streets. Butler realized that this was where the upper-middle class lived—the doctors and engineers, scientists and professors, who earned a decent living because they were considered more important than workers and peasants.

  Finally Butler came to downtown Halvados City. He saw hotels, nightclubs and fashionable department stores, the latter closed for the night. Lots of cars were on the streets and the sidewalks were thick with pedestrians. On a busy street corner Butler asked a policeman for directions to the Halvados Hilton and was told that it was only four blocks away. He steered in that direction and soon saw the entrance of the hotel nestled in green lawns and bright tropical flowers. Across the street was a tall white office building, very modern in design. Butler made a U-turn and parked in front of the office building, then got out of the car. A guard was at the entrance; he nodded as he admitted Butler to the building. Butler took the elevator to the 17th floor and finally located room 1720, which had stenciled on it: THE BANCROFT RESEARCH INSTITUTE. He turned the knob but the door was locked. Pressing the button, he heard chimes go off inside, then he heard footsteps, and finally the door was opened.

  A tall slender redhead stood before him. She had long silky eyelashes and there was a pale shade of lipstick on her petulant mouth. She wore a white blouse with a black skirt. “Mr. Butler, I presume?”

  “The one and only.”

  “I’m Nora C. Morrissey. Please come in.”

  He entered a neat modern office area that was indistinguishable from any other neat modern office area in the world, and followed Nora C. Morrissey down a corridor covered with green carpet. They entered a small office and she sat behind the desk, motioning for him to sit in the chair in front of her.

  “I apologize for the size of my office,” she said, “but I’m not a very high official in the Institute, I’m afraid. If I were I wouldn’t be pulling night duty. Cigarette?”

  “No thank you. I don’t smoke. You know, I can’t help remarking that the Institute seems to hire the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said modestly. She lit a cigarette and took a puff. “What brings you here?”

  Butler leaned forward and spoke fast. “I arrived in Halvados only a few hours ago with Phillip Noble, who’s a high-ranking member of Hydra, as I’m sure you know. I attended a meeting at the air force base with Noble and the various officials of this government. To make a long story short, the new president of the republic is General Santiago del Pisco, they’re going to arrest all members of the Opposition Party and the various other parties that’re fighting for reform, and they’re going to declare martial law. There’s a military coup in the works even as I speak, and we’ve got to do something about it.”

  She looked at her watch. “When will it start?”

  “Daybreak.”

  “That gives us an hour and a half. I’ll have to make some calls; you can help me.”

  “I don’t have time. I’d better get back to the air base.”

  She stared at him. “You can’t go back there. They must know you’ve been away, and when they can’t find anybody to arrest in the morning, they’ll put two and two together and come up with you. They’re liable to shoot you. In fact, it’ll be a miracle if they don’t shoot you.”

  Butler smiled confidently. “I think I can talk my way out of anything. Besides, Noble likes me.”

  “I don’t think you should take the chance.”

  “Somebody has to go back there to see what their next move will be when they find out that all their political enemies have fled to the mountains.”

  She shrugged. “There’s not much they can do.”

  “They can torture the families of those who fled.”

  “The families will leave also. We’ve been expecting something like this for a long time and we’ve made contingency plans.”

  “Somebody’s got to keep an eye on those lunatics from Hydra, and it looks like that somebody is me. I think I can get away with it.”

  She blew smoke out the corner of her mouth. “I think you’re crazy. I’d like to order you to stay right here, but I don’t have the authority.”

  Butler stood up. “Well, goodbye, Ms. Morrissey.”

  “Watch your step, Mr. Butler.”

  “I’d rather watch your step, Ms. Morrissey, but unfortunately I don’t have time.”

 
Chapter Twenty-Six

  Butler left the office building, ran across the street to the Hilton, got a package of cigarettes and returned to the Corvette. He got in, started it up, and headed back to the air base. As he made his way out of the city, he thought of Nora C. Morrissey at her desk, making phone call after phone call. He hoped she could alert everybody before the military forces swept across the country at dawn.

  He looked at his watch. It was four-thirty and he could see a faint tinge of red on the horizon. Soon it would be morning. When he was past the city limits he stepped on the accelerator and sped over the countryside to the air base. He arrived at five o’clock and slowed down at the first gate. There were two sentries; one moved in front of the car, the other approached his window.

  “Your pass?” the soldier asked.

  Butler touched his shirt pocket. “Oh my word, I seem to have misplaced it.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t let you in without a pass.”

  “Oh come on, sergeant. I have to report to my unit right away. Surely you know of the emergency operation that’s under way right now.”

  “Yes sir, but...”

  “Well let me through, man. My battalion needs me.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The sentries opened the gate and Butler drove onto the base. He saw tanks rolling down streets and formations of troops standing in ranks beside barracks. Jet planes were streaking through the sky overhead. It reminded him of the morning that the military forces of Chile moved against the Allende government.

  Trucks loaded with armed soldiers passed him on their way to the front gate, and it occurred to Butler that one of those officers might be the owner of the Corvette he was driving. Therefore it was time to ditch it. He steered onto a quiet street and parked behind a row of barracks. Wiping his fingerprints off the surfaces of the car that he might have touched, he got out and walked away quickly.