The black Packard roared out of the subterranean garage of the Presidencia, shot out to the Avenida de la Liberacion. Hall and Jerry, in the back seat, looked behind them at the second Packard which carried their convoy of guards. "They have enough tommy guns back there to blow up anyone who makes a pass at us," he said. "And the two boys in the front seat can throw plenty of lead."

"It's like a gangster movie," Jerry said.

"That shooting in your room this morning was no movie. I've never seen a deader Nazi than the late Wilhelm Androtten, alias X."

"What's going to happen to us now, Matt?"

"Don't worry."

"I am worried. I want to know."

The two cars pulled up at the doctor's house. Maria Luisa, Gonzales' fourteen-year-old daughter, met them at the door. "I am preparing some sandwiches," she said. "Father said you were famished."

They waited in the living room while the girl worked in the kitchen. "You're too hot in San Hermano," Hall said.

"Not yet. They don't know what happened to Androtten. I can just go on being Ansaldo's nurse until ..."

"Forget it," he snapped. "This isn't for amateurs any longer. And you're still an amateur, baby."

"Then what do you suggest I do?"

"You're going back to the States with a bodyguard on the next plane out of here. You're waiting for me in Miami. I'll give you a letter to one of the chiefs of Military Intelligence there. You'll be safe."

"How about you?"

"I'll meet you in two weeks. Three weeks at the outside."

"I won't do it, Matt. I'm staying here with you."

"But I won't be here all the time."

"Then I'll wait here for you."

"Baby, listen." He took out a package of American cigarettes, put one in her mouth, lit it. "Ladies don't smoke in San Hermano. You can smoke until you hear anyone coming. Then hand it to me. Now, sit down like a good girl, and for God's sake, listen carefully. There's a job I've got to do. It's my job alone. I've got to do it alone. I had an idea that before I was through here I'd have to do it. But Tabio's last words were spoken in English and they were to me, and baby, as soon as he stopped talking I knew what I had to do."

Hall quoted the President's words about the power of Truth. "And he was right," he said. "I remember what happened when I got out of the can in Spain. I went back to Paris to get some rest. Tabio was in Geneva, packing his things to go home. I found out he was still there and I went to see him before he left. He was going home to run for President so that this country shouldn't become a second Spain.

"I remember telling him that the thing which kept me alive in Franco's prison was my feeling that a miracle would happen—that the little guys in England and France would force the appeasers to sell guns to the Republic, or that Russia would be able to fly some heavy bombers across France for Madrid, or that Roosevelt would open his eyes and lift the damned embargo, or anything. Any good miracle like these, even a tiny one, would have saved the day. And I went to sleep every day sure that each morning I'd wake up closer to the day this miracle would happen, and that some morning I'd wake up and find that the people somewhere outside of Spain had performed this miracle.

"I remember the way Tabio listened to me speak, and how when I was done he said that the miracle I wanted all that time was that the truth should get to the people. It was that simple. And he was dead right. It's exactly what he did in his own country, and you know how the people love him for it."

Jerry looked puzzled. "But what do you propose to do?"

"Look," he said. "It's a matter of days at most before the whole nation will be mourning Tabio. The Constitution says that within thirty days after the President dies, there must be a general election. I have an idea that the race will be between Gamburdo and someone like Lavandero. Both will claim that they are Tabio's real choice as a successor. If I can get to Havana, I can dig up the truth about Gamburdo and Ansaldo in a matter of days. I'm sure of it. If it's anywhere at all, it's in Havana. Gamburdo is taking public credit for trying to save Tabio's life by bringing Ansaldo to San Hermano. The truth can make this boomerang in his face."

"Can't I help in any way?"

Hall stopped short. "Do you know what you're asking? That scrape in the hotel this morning was nothing compared to the things you're asking for if you stay. Even if Gamburdo is licked, it's only the beginning."

"But you're sticking it out, aren't you?"

"I have to. I've been in it since Madrid. There's no escaping it for me. I'll never know any peace until the crime of Spain is liquidated. Fascism isn't just an ideological enemy for me, baby. It's a cancer burning in my own, my very personal guts. I'd go off my conk if mine weren't two of the billion fists that are smashing and will go on smashing back at fascism until it's deader than Willie Androtten. I've never stopped to think of what my chances are of being alive at the finish. All I know is that if I stopped fighting it I'd die."

"Let me stay," Jerry pleaded. "I'd be a liar if I said that's the way I felt, too. But the war came to me this morning at the end of Androtten's gun, darling. I can't escape it any more than you can now."

They had an early dinner with Gonzales and his daughter, avoiding all serious discussion until Lavandero arrived. The Minister of Education brought grim news: Anibal Tabio had suffered a second stroke and was dying.

"Where is Ansaldo?" Hall asked.

"He is still on the ranch of Gamburdo's brother. He is waiting for an answer to his ultimatum. Don Anibal's condition is still a secret."

"But Esteban," Gonzales said, "we cannot keep it a secret. You will be accused of murdering Don Anibal if Gamburdo finds out."

"I know. I've asked Segador to come. I wanted to bring Simon Tabio, but he refuses to leave the room while his father still breathes. What do you think, CompaÑero Hall? What is the first thing we have to do? By the way, does the seÑorita speak Spanish?"

"No. I will tell her what she should know later."

"Is she reliable?"

"I hope to marry her—if I am alive in three weeks."

Jerry looked at Hall's face and blushed. "I'll bet you just told him about us," she said.

"My felicitations," Lavandero said, in English. He gave her his hand. "But with your permission, we must speak in Spanish."

Hall told Lavandero and Gonzales his plan about Havana. "I was going to do it in any event if Duarte didn't hear from his friends in Mexico."

"But why Havana?"

"Because Havana was the base headquarters in the Western Hemisphere for all Falangist work. The boys in the Casa de la Cultura and on the staff of Ahora worked with the Batista government to break it up. They arrested the key leaders, but even though they had to let them go back to Spain, they took their confidential files away from them."

"And you think that Ansaldo will turn up in these files?"

"It is something we must not overlook."

"There is someone at the door," Gonzales said. "Wait." He slipped the safety of the automatic in his pocket, and went to the door with his hand on the gun.

"Be tranquil," Gonzales announced. "It is Diego."

The Major Diego Segador who walked into the room was quite a different creature from the mournful-visaged officer in the neat uniform Hall had met at the barracks. He wore a gray civilian suit, whose jacket was at least four sizes too small for his broad frame, yellow box-toe shoes and an incongruous striped silk shirt. The discolored flat straw hat he carried in his tremendous square hands completed the picture which immediately came to Hall's mind: a vision of Diego Segador as a tough steel-worker on a holiday in Youngstown, Ohio, during the twenties.

"You look," said Gonzales, "like a Gallego grocer on his way to High Mass."

"That's enough," Lavandero said sharply, "Don Anibal is dying."

The blood rose to Segador's head. "No!" he shouted.

"Sit down, Diego."

Gonzales opened a cabinet and took out a bottle of brandy. He shouted to the kitchen for his daughter to bring glasses.

"Major," Hall said, "this is Miss Olmstead."

"Hello," Segador said, in English. "You have close shave, no?"

All the men had brandy. Jerry merely looked at the bottle with great longing.

"Well then, Diego," Lavandero said, "minutes count now. Hall has a plan. It is a good one." He described it for the Major. "If he comes back with pictures of Ansaldo in the uniform of the Falange, we will have to flood the country with them. They will not look nice next to the pictures of Ansaldo embracing Gamburdo, no?"

"They will look very nice—for us. But how is Hall going to get to Havana?"

"By plane. Why?"

"Why? Because you are a marked man, Hall."

"Get me to the border, then. I'll get to Havana from across the border."

"Not on your passport," Segador said. "It is too risky. Tomas, you have a passport, no? Never mind. All right, then, Hall. You go on a passport made out to Vicente, but with your picture on it. I'll drive you north by car. You board a plane in San Martin Province—there's one that meets the Clipper for Miami. The mining men use it. You travel to Havana as one of our nationals, one Emilio Vicente. Then the officials of your own government in San Juan won't ..." He stopped suddenly, filled his glass with brandy, and drank it in one short gulp.

"Out with it, Major," Hall said. "What are you hiding?"

"Hiding?"

"About me and my government?"

"Nothing. It's just that you are too well known as Matthew Hall. You are known by face in San Juan. Perhaps, when you land there to refuel, someone will recognize you. And then there will be trouble about your Vicente passport. Perhaps—one cannot be too careful."

Hall knew that the Major was concealing something from him, something that had to do with himself. He thought of his low standing at the American Embassy, and of some of the fascists in high places he had offended in San Juan. "Yes," he said, "I think you are right." This, he decided, was not the time to start new trouble.

"No," Lavandero said, "it is no good. We shall need another passport for CompaÑero Hall."

"How can we get it?" Segador asked. "There is no time."

"There is time," Lavandero said, evenly. "Duarte is preparing a passport and papers for Hall. Diplomatic. He will travel as Victor Ortiz Tinoco, official courier of the Mexican Government."

"When did he start on the papers?" Hall asked.

"A few hours ago. He thought you might want to make the trip."

"Why didn't you tell me before this?"

Lavandero's face softened. "My dear friend," he said, "what you are undertaking is no minor task. The complications are enormous. If you are caught, you face much legal trouble at the very least; death by violence, if the fascists catch you first. You are under no obligations to this Republic. I had to hear it from your lips first."

"When can I start?"

"In two hours. You will have to give me your passport, so that I may have the picture copied for the Ortiz Tinoco papers. Segador's idea is the right one. He will drive you to the San Martin airport tonight. The Mexican Embassy is ordering the tickets. I will leave you with Gonzales and Segador to work out the rest of the details."

"Good. Here is my passport."

"The Republic will always be grateful to you, CompaÑero Hall." Lavandero stood up and started for the door. Hall accompanied him.

"Well," Hall said, "I'll try to get back within the week—if I'm lucky." He held out his hand to the Minister.

"Thank you, compaÑero." Lavandero raised his arms to Hall's shoulders and embraced him. "You were worthy of his trust."

"And you of his love," Hall answered. He was sorry for Lavandero, sorry for him as a friend, as a man, as a leader so intent on answering his responsibilities to his moment in history that he had to allow his own personal rages to simmer unattended within him until there again came a time when a man could walk off alone and be his own master.

"I will see you in a week, compaÑero."

Hall walked back to the living room. Segador was trying to convey to Jerry his impressions of Atlantic City in 1919. "Womans bonitas," he was shouting, "whisky bad. Much bad. I have young years, much money. Well, well. So."

"We'll listen to your memoirs when I get back," Hall said.

"When we get back," Segador said.

"You're coming with me?"

"I'm meeting you on your way back. We'll meet in Caracas. Listen to me, compaÑero. The chief of our Air Force is loyal. He will give me one of our American bombers. From the San Martin airport, a bomber can make Caracas in fifteen hours. Give me ten hours' notice, and I will meet you in time. I already have a loyal flying crew standing by for my orders."

"Where can we meet in Caracas?"

"At the airport. I can meet your plane."

"Won't you be followed?"

"Of course. By three or four of my picked men. Don't worry about that."

Gonzales interrupted to say that there would be time for them to have dinner at the house before starting on the drive north.

"Oh, while we're at it," Hall said, "I am going to ask you to be good enough to keep my novia here until I return. That is, if Segador thinks it is safe."

"It is safe," the Major grunted. "We will make it safe."

"Then it is the privilege of my daughter and myself to make this house the seÑorita's for a century." Gonzales called his daughter in from the kitchen. "It will be very good for her, amigos. Maria Luisa is studying English in high school. It will help her greatly."

"Let her teach Jerry Spanish in a week," Hall said.

The girl seemed pleased when her father told her about Jerry. "Oh, nice," she said, trying out her English immediately. "You are very welcome, Aunt. The pleasure it is all of mine."

"You are very kind," Jerry said.

"Please. May I show you the room? There are five rooms upstairs in my father's house. Your room faces the ..." She paused, flustered, turned to Hall. "CÓmo se dice, por favor, frente con vista al mar?"

"Tell her that her room faces the ocean front, Maria Luisa. And teach her two words of Spanish for every word you learn from her."

"Let's go," Jerry said to the girl. "Vamoose arriba, sÍ?"

"Under no circumstances," Segador said when the girls were gone, "must you attempt to come back by regular routes. If anything happens to me, wait at the border. Get to Santiago by plane, and wait in the big hotel for word from us."

"How bad is it for me?"

"Who knows? The fascists are mother-raping bastards, but they are no donkeys. Today they must be looking for you in San Hermano. In a few hours, they will begin to worry. Tomorrow they will become upset because you are gone, and by tomorrow night they will turn the whole Cross and Sword gang loose to look for you. But by tomorrow night, if all goes well, and if that madman of a Duarte doesn't try to drive the car himself but brings his driver along, you will be in Havana.

"Of course," Segador said, "we will do everything we can to end the hunt. But we can only do the usual things. Perhaps we will identify the body of some poor Hermanito who gets killed by a car as Matthew Hall. Give me some papers, by the way; we'll need them if we can get the right body."

"Lavandero has my American passport. And here's my wallet. That's good enough." Hall took the three photos out of the wallet. "The pictures are for her—if I don't come back."

"And the money?"

Hall flipped his fingers through the eight hundred-odd dollars worth of travelers' checks. "I'd better sign these, just in case," he said. "I want you to split it between Pepe Delgado and Emilio Vicente."

"I understand," Segador said. "Duarte is bringing some money for you to travel on."

"I'll repay him when I return. Is there anything else I should know? I have to write a letter. Have you any paper, doctor?"

"In a moment."

"Just a few things," Segador said. "A simple code for sending messages to us." He explained the code system in a few minutes. "And one other thing. I have the pictures we took of that Nazi Vicente shot; pictures of his face and his fingerprints. We will seal them in the pouch you are carrying. Perhaps you can identify it in Havana somehow."

"I will try. Ah, thanks for the paper. This will take me only a few minutes." Hall propped the writing pad on his lap and wrote a short note to his attorney in New York.

"Well, this is it," he wrote, "and I'll be more surprised than you are if you ever receive this letter. I'm about to leave this country on what might turn out to be a one-way trip to the grave. If I don't come back, this letter is to be sent to you. It's about my will. I still want the dough to go to the Spanish refugees and the veterans of the International Brigades, but I want to lop off about a quarter of the total in the bank and due me from Bird and leave it for Miss Geraldine Olmstead. She is an American citizen and, if you hadn't received this note, would by now be Mrs. H. When you meet her, introduce her to my friends and take her around to the Committee; she wants to help the Spanish Republicans. If I really thought this was my last trip, I guess I'd close this letter with some appropriate and high-sounding last lines—you know, the kind of crap a guy would write as the lead for his own obit. But we'll skip the farewell address. This letter is being witnessed by two good friends, one a doctor and the other a major in this country. I guess that makes it legal."

Hall signed the letter, told Gonzales and Segador what he wanted done with it, and handed them the pen. "How much time do we have?" he asked.

"You will have to leave in less than two hours," Segador said. "Duarte will be here long before then."

"Good." Hall looked at his watch. "I would like to see the girl alone in her room for a while. There is much that I must tell her before I go."

"I understand," Segador said.

"Are you making the trip to San Martin with me?"

"No. I will only ride the first twenty miles with you. I have a car waiting for me at Marao."

Hall waited for Gonzales to call his daughter, and then he went up to Jerry's room.