"For three years I am waiting for him to learn a new word, any word.

_Si. No. Pan. Mantequilla._ Right now, I'd settle for just one new word.

"In the beginning, when I was green in the business of diplomacy, I was younger and more optimistic. Then I would not have settled for a word. I wanted a whole new phrase. Nothing complicated, you understand. Any simple phrase would have satisfied me. _Tiene usted un fosforo?_ Or even--_Donde esta la sala de caballeros?_ But no. Tennyson's brook burbles forever, and unto eternity J. Burton Skidmore will not learn more than his three words, and d.a.m.n it, he won't even learn how to speak them correctly."

"And you're still betting on him?" Hall asked.

"What can I do?" Duarte said. "We stupid Mexican peons have such a deep faith in mankind that we are always betrayed."

"Here comes the Amba.s.sador now."

"_Oiga!_" Duarte stopped Skidmore, took his hand, and let loose a stream of Mexican obscenities, spoken in dulcet, smiling tones. When he paused for breath, Skidmore smiled genially, bowed slightly from the hips, and said, "_Con mucho gusto_."

Hall nearly collapsed with laughter when he and Duarte reached the street. "You b.a.s.t.a.r.d," he said, "you'll kill me before my time."

"Let's have a drink before you die."

"Sure. But let's run over to the Bolivar first. I want to see if there's a message. Besides, we could stand some fresh air."

Duarte agreed. "I saw Fernandez and Vardieno trying to gas you," he said. "You could use some air."

"You're not kidding, Felipe."

"How do you like the Falange in San Hermano?"

"You mean Fernandez and his friends?"

"Of course. That Pepito Fernandez, there is an _hijo de la chingada_ for you, Mateo. Once, when he was keeping a woman in Paris ..." and Duarte was off on a long hilarious story about the publisher and his lady of the hour. He was still telling the story when they reached the darkened Plaza de la Republica and Hall suggested that they cut across the cobbles rather than walk two-thirds of the way around the square.

Hall stepped off the sidewalk and took three steps before he noticed the large Rolls-Royce bearing down on them with her throttle wide open and her lights off. "Jump!" he shouted, but Duarte, who saw it first, had already yanked Hall back to the sidewalk.

"Get behind this pillar, quick!" Duarte had a small pistol in his hand.

He stood watching the Rolls roar across the Plaza and disappear into the alley leading to the Avenida de la Liberacion.

"It's almost like old times," Hall said.

"He tried to kill you, Mateo."

"Better put your gun away. And we'll have that drink first, I think."

"I'm going to phone for a car from the Mexican Emba.s.sy from the next phone, _chico_. Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds weren't playing."

"Put the gun away. It was a bluff."

"You mean you expected it?"

"h.e.l.l, no! I didn't think it would take so soon. But they had no intention of killing me tonight."

"The Arrows?"

"I think so."

Duarte put the gun in his pocket. "I don't understand. It seems a little too subtle for the Falange. Are you working for your government now?"

"No. They turned me down. They said I was pro-Loyalist during the war.

Right now that makes you a Red in Washington. I'm traveling on my own."

"On your own?"

"I'm well-heeled. My last book sold like h.e.l.l. So now I'm young Don Quixote."

"And your Sancho Panza?"

"I have none. Or rather, I have thousands of them. Exiles. Taxi drivers.

Union leaders. Communists. First Secretaries of Mexican Emba.s.sies."

"What are you after?"

"The Falange."

"Good. I can help you, _chico_."

"You'll have to. Wait, I'm going into the hotel for a minute. Come on along. I'll only be a second."

Duarte took a seat in the lobby while Hall talked to Souza. There was still no letter from Havana, but Souza had some information about the Renault Androtten had used. "It is a for-hire car owned by the Phoenix Garage on Reyes Street."

"Can you find out who hired it the other night?"

"That will not be so easy, _Companero_ Hall. The mechanics in the Phoenix are not union members. But we are trying to reach someone there.

Perhaps by tomorrow we will know."

"There's something else you can find out. Perhaps from the Mechanics Union. Find out how many Rolls-Royce roadsters there are in San Hermano.

I know it will be hard, but it's important."

"I will try. Must you know soon?"

"Very soon, Fernando. A Rolls-Royce roadster, it was painted black or dark blue, I think, and just tried to run down Duarte and me in the Plaza."

Souza made some notes on a slip of paper. "Maybe we can find out tonight," he said.

"Good. I'll be back in an hour. Is Androtten in his room?"

"No. He's been out all evening."

Duarte knew a quiet little bar a few blocks from the Bolivar. "They call it a lover's retreat," he said when they got there. "You can see why."

Most of the tables were surrounded with lattice walls, and those tables which were occupied were monopolized by couples who looked into one another's eyes and said little.

"There's Ansaldo's _maricon_," Duarte laughed. "In the table at the back. I know the boy who's with him, too. He's a blue blood from the Vichy Emba.s.sy."