"Of course."

"Ah, Major, I see the stamp of the government match monopoly. Would you be from San Hermano, by any chance?"

In the darkness, Segador's hand crept toward the huge pistol in his holster. Hall held the unlighted match in his fingers. It was unbelievable; he was still unrecognized. He had been speaking to Segador in a disguised voice. "It is a very black night," he said in his normal voice.

"Yes--Colonel."

"Thank you, but it's major. Major Angel Blanco of the Cuban Army, senor." Then he struck the match, held it close to the cigar in his mouth.

"_Madre de Dios!_ It's you!"

"Who the h.e.l.l did you think it was, Diego? Wilhelm Androtten?"

"I am a fool. But the uniform, the gla.s.ses--this confounded blackness...."

"Is that the plane?"

"Yes. We can't take off until morning. I can't trust the night flying instruments. Was it worth the trip?"

"_In spades_," he said, in English.

"It was successful?"

"Very much, Diego. I found the picture. I found other things." He told him about the doc.u.ments on San Hermano which Santiago had taken from the steel boxes. "If we stand behind the plane can we be seen by anyone?"

"No. Only by my men in the cabin."

"Good." They walked farther into the blackness, put the plane between themselves and any eyes that might be watching them from the field buildings. "Quick," Hall said, "give me your belt and take mine. It is loaded with a complete set of negatives."

The exchange was completed in seconds. "I've got three duplicate sets hidden on my person," Hall said. "Now they'll have to kill both of us to stop the truth from reaching San Hermano."

"I'm sleeping in the plane," Segador said. "You had better sleep in town. Did you arrange for a hotel, Mateo?"

"Lobo arranged a room for me through the Cuban Legation. There's a diplomatic car at the gate now, waiting to take me to town. What time do we start out?"

"A minute after sunrise."

"I'll be here. Can I bring anything from the hotel? Hot coffee? Beer?"

"No. We have everything. Even," he looked up at the plane and smiled, "even machine-gun belts."

Hall followed his eyes. He found himself facing the twin barrels of the machine guns in the side panel of the Douglas. There was a young soldier at the firing end of the guns.

"You do well, Sergeant," Segador said. "At ease."

"Can he use them, Diego?"

"He is a fantastic shot, that boy. He was in Spain. But you will meet him tomorrow."

"All right. But tell me one thing, if you can. It's been bothering me for days. How did Ansaldo...?"

"Don't. I hate to think of it, Mateo. The fascists put us all in a bottle. _El Imparcial_ ran a big story on the front page--they charged that Don Anibal's only chance for life lay in an operation by Ansaldo.

They also hinted that selfish politicians were tying Ansaldo's hands.

The Cabinet had to capitulate."

"And Lavandero?"

"He didn't vote."

"Poor Anibal! What was it that finally killed him?"

Segador savagely bit the end off a cigar. "His faith in scoundrels!" he said, vehemently. "Enough, Mateo. Shut up before I--I ..."

Hall rode into town, had dinner sent up to his room. For an hour or so, he read the local papers. Then he turned out the lights, took off his tunic, opened his shirt collar, and put the Sam Browne belt with the hidden pockets on the bed beside him. It was to be a night of rest without sleep, a night of relaxing on the unmade bed with a hand never farther than six inches from one of his two guns. Twice during the long night he took benzedrine pills to keep awake. There could be no sleep until the plane was well under way.

The two-motored Douglas was warming her engines when the Cuban diplomatic car delivered Hall to the airport. "Drive right over to that bomber," he ordered. "Fast."

"Hey," he shouted before the car could skid to a stop, "taking off without me?"

Segador, freshly shaven, stepped to the doorway of the plane. "No. Get on board. We were waiting. Toss me your grip."

Hall tipped the driver of the car with a five-dollar note. "Give me a hand, Diego. I'm not an antelope." Segador and the young sergeant pulled him into the cabin.

"Meet my crew. Major Blanco--First Pilot Captain Millares, Co-Pilot Navigator Lieutenant Cuesta, Sergeant Mechanic Ruiz. They are a picked crew, and they know what is at stake in this flight."

The flying officers were at the controls. They saluted Hall, bade him welcome. "Snub Nose says we can take off," the captain told Segador.

"Then let's take off. Snub Nose, give Blanco a hand with his safety belt. His hands are stiff."

The wiry little sergeant fastened Hall's belt. "A lot of good it will do you if we ground-loop, Major," he grinned.

This one was a Spaniard. Hall knew it at once. Young, no more than twenty-five, but very dry behind the ears. "_Chico_," he said, "if we crash and I get hurt I'll murder you."

"You terrify me." Snub Nose was laughing with the animal glee of sheer happiness in being alive. "But I like you. I brought a bucket along just for you when you get air-sick."

"That's enough out of you, General Cisneros!" the first pilot yelled into the microphone in his fist. "Come on up to the office and stop bothering your betters."

"Call me when you feel sick," the boy roared at Hall, his strong-timbred voice rising above the blasts of the engines. He went up forward, stood behind the pilots as the big plane taxied into position and took off.

"I examined the negatives last night," Segador said. "They are worth all they have cost. Were they very hard to get, Mateo?"

"Two lives. But one was a doomed life. It was not hard."

"Feel like sleeping?" Segador pointed to an inflated rubber pallet in the bomb bay.