Choke Point, page 21
There had never been time to send a message from Hart. In less than thirty seconds she ceased to exist. There were no American ships in the area to detect her end, and there would be no record of her loss other than the confused stories of her few survivors. And those fortunate souls would not be located until search craft were deployed late that day, when Hart failed to make a position report.
Leninets dove shortly afterward and proceeded to her patrol area.
Panama City
Kitty propped herself up on an elbow, dabbing with a sheet corner at the perspiration on Ryng’s forehead. “You don’t take to the heat well, do you?” she sympathized.
“Never have.” He rolled over just enough to reach the half full beer bottle on the bedside table. “This has always been the best defense I’ve found,” he said, taking a long swallow. “That’s mighty cagy of your friend,” he said, indicating the small refrigerator that had been built neatly into the table on Ryng’s side of the bed.
“Francisco is a man who has always thought of everything.”
Ryng frowned. “How well do you know him?” He had asked the same question before.
“Only as a friend, my love.” She wrinkled her nose. “Are you just a little bit jealous?” she inquired, pursing her lips.
“I’m in no position to be, I suppose…I came into this a bit late to be a complainer.” But his eyes avoided hers just long enough.
Kitty reached over again with the corner of the sheet and patted at the perspiration above his upper lip. “There.” Then she kissed him softly. “You don’t have to worry about Francisco. He’s a business friend and a casual friend when we meet at parties, but there has never been anything between us, not the slightest.” And, as if to reassure him, she concluded, “He’s never even suggested anything like that. But you can see what a good friend he really is,” she said, her arm sweeping the huge bedroom.
The main room of Casa Rejean was at least twenty-five by thirty feet. Buttressed against the center of one of the longer walls was an imposing king size bed. On the opposite wall was a floor-to-ceiling mirror. The casa was designed for a bachelor. There was also a mini refrigerator on Kitty’s side of the bed. An instrument panel built into the headboard above contained controls for the giant TV screen to one side of the mirror and the radio, tape deck, and video recorder. To compliment this sybaritic palace, a huge bathroom, the largest Ryng was sure he’d ever seen, contained two showers, a sauna, and a whirlpool bath. Sliding glass doors from the bedroom led out to a hidden garden and swimming pool, and a door just inside the bathroom went directly to a small combination dressing room and cabana near the pool.
Francisco Rejean was a highly successful banker who lived mostly in a high-rise condominium with a beautiful view of the Pacific. In addition he owned a country estate, and this hideaway within the city, mostly bedroom, that he more often lent to friends. When Kitty Alvarez, who had never before asked a favor of him, called and expressed interest in Casa Rejean, he was pleased to be able to assist her. Such courtesy brought Francisco a long range return that would, he knew, make him even richer. He never asked questions, and it made no difference to him that it was a woman this time who had called. And Rejean was discreet enough never to inquire about the guests or the manner in which his place was used—only that a large tip be left for the cleaning woman who arrived each day at noon.
The pool and garden were so withdrawn, so well hidden by other buildings and specially placed hedges, trees, and out-buildings, that they could be seen only from the air. Even then, one would have to be searching for that particular location because of the natural cover, almost a camouflage effect. As a result, few people knew of Francisco Rejean’s casa, and only those trusted few who had used it were aware of the pool. Therefore, in the little guest booklet provided on one of the bedside tables, it was explained that bathing suits were purely a personal decision. As far as Rejean could determine, the people he selected to use his house appreciated it to the extent of never boasting about these facilities, even to their closest friends. Perhaps that was another of the reasons that Rejean’s business dealings were never questioned by outsiders.
When Kitty Alvarez called Rejean, she and Ryng likely had no more than eighteen hours left to themselves. Henry Cobb, in a rare moment of enlightenment, suggested they might make the most of that time. The suggestion that two people actually take advantage of some limited time together was something Henry Cobb would not have made a few years before. Ryng had told Kitty the story of how Cobb had fallen in love with a Polish girl, Verra, whom he had rescued during the Battle of the Mediterranean. Prior to that Cobb had always been controlled by the mission, his only constant mistress. But Verra had managed to change all of that. She countered Cobb’s hard-headedness with an audacity of her own that penetrated his defenses. Now, Henry Cobb could understand why two people might need those few hours together.
Ryng leaned over to kiss her. “We both are fortunate to have such good friends. I won’t say another word about Rejean. I’m not worried about a thing … promise,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose. Then he reclined on the pillow with his hands cupped behind his head. “Cobb never had the chance for even a few hours like this when he first met Verra. It was another assignment like this, but there was no time. With a man like Henry, it’s hard to believe he’d understand.”
Kitty rolled over on top of him. “Then we’ll call this Cobb’s time. We won’t tell him all the juicy little details.” She giggled. “But we’ll tell him he was properly honored for his understanding.” Her face hovered above Ryng’s. She rubbed noses and kissed him again. “He’d be ashamed if he knew you were wasting time.” She held his face in her hands. “The time is now, Mr. Ryng.”
He moved his arms around her back, hugging her for a moment, then rubbing them up and down as he returned her kisses gently, whispering in between, “The time is now, Miss Alvarez.”
Afterward they dozed for a few moments, but sound sleep was impossible. There would be time for that later. Ryng rolled over and took another beer from the refrigerator at his side. Reaching above his head, he pressed the button for the television set. Immediately, an immense, blurred color picture swam into view. The huge trees and lush undergrowth of jungle became clear as the focus self-adjusted. The familiar whap of helicopter rotors provided dramatic acoustic background for a speaker reporting the news. The camera swung back and forth across the green background, apparently searching for a guerilla camp. Ryng switched from channel to channel. No reason to watch such things now. It would all come too soon. He switched it off.
Next, he punched the button for the tape deck. Even before they’d gone to bed, he made sure to load it with the music he considered appropriate for the occasion. Somehow, the semi-classical sounds didn’t sit nearly as well as he’d hoped. They always seemed better beforehand.
“Are you suddenly bored?” Kitty inquired with a grin, propping herself on an elbow again. “Had too much of a good thing?”
Ryng spotted the twinkle in her eyes. “Often happens with older men, my dear. It’s just something you’ll have to get used to.” He grinned back at her, then playfully pushed her elbow from underneath. “There will never be too much of a good thing, but there are times I like to play other games before I get back to my favorite.”
“Why don’t we go for a swim?” She again patted at the perspiration on his forehead. “You look like you could stand some cooling off.”
“I can think of nothing better right now—but where?”
“I always save the special surprises for last.” She rose from the bed and moved to what Ryng assumed was simply a window, drawing back the heavy drapes to reveal the outside gardens and swimming pool. “Whatever you desire.”
The words simply wouldn’t come to him. The pool was small—just right for two people. At the far end, the top of the heart, the flowers grew right to poolside, some of them tumbling over the edge to float in the water. It was designed so that the sun would always be shining through the overhead growth on a section of the myriad-hued beds of flowers. Ryng was dazzled by a perfectly designed garden of white and purple, its geometry remarkable, planned and trimmed exactly to satisfy the human eye. At the close end of the pool a small terrace contained just the barest necessities for two people, soft couches for sunning, and a glass and wrought iron table for dining. Ryng spied another of the small refrigerators just inside the opening to the cabana. Perhaps the next session, he mused, should be dedicated to Francisco Rejean for his exquisite thoughtfulness and taste.
“And I suppose bathing suits, perfectly fitted, are available for our use?” he questioned, stretching lazily.
“You didn’t read Francisco’s little booklet. If you had, you would learn that this little pool is so well-protected that you may use it with whatever you are wearing.” Kitty pirouetted slowly, raising her arms above her head, blowing soft kisses across the space between them. “I hope you find my suit acceptable. I’ve had it for a long time…but it fits perfectly, as you can see.” She unlocked the heavy glass door, sliding it back with an effort. A warm breeze wafted into the room, heavy with the fragrance of the multi-layered flowerbeds. To Bernie Ryng this was what dreams were made of—Kitty Alvarez was what dreams were made of, he silently acknowledged as she moved languorously onto the perfectly raked white gravel. Then she turned, her feet set wide apart, and beckoned seductively for him to follow.
Ryng moved outside to the sunlight, watching appreciatively as Kitty poised on the edge, feet together, then rose on her toes and arched out into the pool. Sunlight danced in the water. He gazed with admiration as she swam near the bottom, rising to the surface when she reached the other end.
“Come on,” she called. “I was right. This is just what we both needed.” She ducked underneath, smoothing her hair back as she came up shaking her head. Then she reached backward, resting her arms on the edge of the pool while her feet gradually drifted to the surface. Her body glistened in the sunlight. Ryng was mesmerized. Ripples of water magnified her movement as she kicked her feet rhythmically. On the bottom, her shadow swayed with the motion of the water in a sensuous dance.
Ryng remained on the side, staring, committing each second to memory. He was reminded that too often his dreams had been easily shattered. The shadow of a lone cloud passed over the pool as if a thin curtain had been drawn. The picture of Kitty and the reflection darkened for a moment, and Ryng was shaken from his reverie. But Kitty was still there, her feet slowly kicking to hold her place, the come-hither smile still teasing him. He dove in.
The water was a solvent, cleansing, refreshing his mind and body. He stroked across the bottom of the pool in the same manner as Kitty, surfacing beside her. He reached out and ran his hand up and down her body. “Just checking,” he murmured. “Just making sure you’re real.”
“Does it feel like a dream?”
He shook his head in response, his eyes wandering up and down her figure. There were no words he could think of that would be an adequate response for the way he felt. He desperately hoped, as his eyes moved up to hold hers, that she could understand.
“I love you,” she whispered softly.
Ryng nodded, still unable to break his own silence.
She moved her arms around his neck, letting her body float down gradually until it was against his, the contrast of the coolness of the water and the warmth of their bodies making her skin tingle. The emotion that surged through her core was a new experience, equally as surprising to her as it had been to Ryng.
“I love you,” she repeated again, almost in a whisper, as her mouth touched his. Then they were squeezing each other, both holding on as if the dream would suddenly come to an end.
Ryng pulled back just enough to whisper with even a softer voice than her own had been, “I love you, Kitty.” They sank together below the surface momentarily as they kissed.
The explosion that followed a split second later shattered Casa Rejean. Under the water there was no difference between the sound and the blast as the shock wave thudded through their bodies. Debris rained down on the surface above them, heavier pieces dropping like rocks.
Kitty jerked away in fear, breathing out in surprise and shock. Instinctively she looked up to the surface, seeking the precious air expelled from her lungs. Ryng went to hold her tighter, struggling against her frantic need to breathe. Now his years of training took effect, forcing him to wait, terrified she would drown, anticipating the possibility of a secondary blast.
Believing she would drown, she clawed at his face in desperation, her body writhing in fear; and finally he released her.
Peering cautiously over the pool edge toward the cottage, he saw only traces of the building they had been using such a short time before. The narrow walls at either end were partially upright. The longer ones facing the pool had disappeared. In the distance Ryng could see the street through the trees lining the long driveway. He considered the fact that the bedroom they had recently vacated no longer existed. There was no sign of the huge bed, or the mirror, or any of the amenities that had seemed a dream only moments before.
Whoever had bombed Casa Rejean was unfamiliar with it. The bomb had been designed for a larger building with many rooms, one that would require excess force to destroy any partition that might protect the inhabitants. They had been unaware that this one had been designed with only comfort in mind. Francisco Rejean was sure there was little need for anything more than a combination drawing room and kitchen, for the large bedroom and its appliances had been intended as the center of activity.
The blast had been so tremendous that the house simply disintegrated, rather than crumbling into the ensuing fire that normally occurred. It had blown the casa into small pieces that shot up and outward in every direction. If either of them had been out of the water at the time, the flying debris would have killed them outright.
Ryng held Kitty close to him as she gasped for air, choking violently on the water that had invaded her lungs.
Was there anyone still out there? Any expert would have had it timed to insure his escape. But Ryng waited cautiously, alert for the slightest indication that there was life where there should have been nothing moving. Satisfied, he lifted himself out of the pool, keeping low. He whispered quietly to Kitty to remain where she was. One wall of the cabana remained perfectly intact, the mirror still in place, a small shelf of toiletries untouched and terry-cloth robes hanging on hooks as if intended only for the two to them.
Ryng remained in position for another moment, crouched near the pool edge. Then he reached down and took Kitty’s hand, lifting her gently and quickly from the pool without ever touching the edge. He removed two of the robes from their hooks and helped her into one of them. “It might be a good idea to wrap this around you,” he remarked quietly. “I imagine we’re going to be overrun by the Guardia in a few minutes.” He inhaled deeply, then let his breath out in a long sigh. “I guess this is where the dream ends,” he muttered quietly.
Horacio Ramos was not an easily discouraged man. Well before he had ever considered the presidency, he had seen just about everything imaginable in the chaotic, riddled fabric that was Central American government. More than a “school of hard knocks,” it was an education in reality in a world where the average family scrimped a living out of a couple hundred dollars or less; where a small select group of families controlled ninety-five percent of the wealth; and where these families ruled, in conjunction with an equally select military educated at the School of the Americas, a government that was merely a mouthpiece for the United States.
A few American companies, with the benign approval of Washington, controlled an economy based on agriculture. These companies dictated the crops, the prices, the ownership of the land, and the methods used to crush any unions. Whenever the people became so fed up with the system that the terror of revolution overcame even basic survival, the aristocracy called in their military and the peasants were then educated, generally through a policy of slaughter and scorched earth, in the realities of life. On rare occasions when the military failed to quickly put down a revolt, the United States generally sent Marines to reinforce the power structure. The Marines departed when the old system was reestablished.
Most liberal leaders, such as Ramos, were either dead or exiled to the mountains and jungles at that stage of maturity when people began to listen to them. But this had never been the case with the current president. His moderation, coupled with an inherent ability to soothe the fanaticism of both right and left, appealed to both the peasants and the emerging middle class as a changing world forced Central America to come to terms with reality. Ramos envisioned a policy whereby moderation would bring together all of the countries of the Americas—-which would in turn create a new spirit of cooperation between the United States and Cuba, a spirit of goodwill engendering mutual support by the United States and the Soviet Union for the poor countries of Central America. In a word, he was the ideal leader to emerge at the crucial moment. Unfortunately, he was also naive.
The man who now sat across from him in the President’s office, Esteban Alvarez, was the opposite. He was a man ruled by emotion, and Alvarez hid that passion deep within himself. He was not so much a communist as just plain anti-government. If the communists ruled the country, it was quite possible Alvarez would have been working in opposition to them. As it was, the times were ripe for men such as him, men who could offer a respectable front for the PRA. Men of education were still revered, especially academics like Alvarez who became government advisors; eventually many were exalted to an even higher position as they developed international reputations. Alvarez himself became a cult hero of sorts to the generation he helped educate at the university, when he was seen in news photos standing beside Fidel Castro or when he spoke before the Organization of American States relating starvation to imperialism.
