The Anaya Deceit

By Hal Williams

A choppy sea is not the only South Atlantic disturbance in February 1982. Many political analysts expect Argentina's military junta to attempt a takeover of the Falkland Islands. A shooting war with England appears to be a real possibility. But the junta also has entangling alliances and tireless enemies throughout Latin America, even in the streets and alleys of Buenos Aires itself. The military bosses hold on to power through intimidation and repression. Dissenters disappear.
U.S. State Department troubleshooter Trent Collins lands in Buenos Aires without clear instructions as to whether he should try to prevent a war or help start one. When he learns that his actual assignment is to carry out a political assassination, he faces a difficult choice. If he knocks over the first domino, the CIA will designate him a priority target. And if he doesn't, the same applies.
Hal Williams has carefully researched the Falklands War and the political intrigues inside Argentina, as well as the external forces which ultimately lead to armed conflict with Great Britain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hal Williams
• Release date: Jun 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452466224

Hal Williams

Native Texan and Vietnam veteran Hal Williams is the author of twenty four novels including foureen books of the "Persephone of the ATF" series. His writing style reflects his wealth of experiences ranging from rock-n-roll musician and racecar driver to working journalist and book manuscript editor. In addition to writing and still working around racecars, Hal enjoys playing bridge, target shooting, and collecting vintage revolvers. He lives in the Dallas area.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 1982, 11:20 a.m.

Despite air conditioning, the climate inside the office felt oppressive, pervasive Rio de la Plata humidity only partly to blame. Jorge Vargas had already rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. Now he felt an urge to loosen his tie and unbutton his collar, but he suppressed that impulse. Members of the United States Embassy staff, especially one engaged as a quasi-diplomat, must never appear slovenly.

Would you like a coffee, Señor Vargas?

Vargas glanced up at Rosa Guzman. On a more temperate day, he might not have been so annoyed by his secretary’s intrusion. You must be joking, he said. I need nothing to make me warmer than I already am. Leave me alone!

He returned his attention to the file folder open on his desk and studied the photograph affixed inside the front cover. It showed a face delineated by sharp features and hard lines, light brown hair with a noticeably receding hairline, and hazel eyes that seemed to stare back at him, eerily alive, even on paper.

The manila folder held four typewritten pages secured by a shiny metal clasp. Vargas skimmed through mundane data about the subject of the terse dossier, an American named Trent Collins.

Born 1945. Graduated University of Missouri and U.S. Navy Officer Candidate School. Navy SEAL team leader with service in Vietnam. Attended law school in Maryland. Divorced, no children. Both parents still living. Bilingual English-Spanish. Recruited in 1977.

The report also showed that Collins had spent six months in the FBI law enforcement education curriculum, a prerequisite for his current undefined position.

His concentration drifted away from the material and onto what little he knew about the individual who had sent it.

Ambassador Vincent Nichols had given Jorge little to go on. Jules Hunt has a substantial reputation as being independent and unconventional, Nichols had said. His troops are the same.

As Nichols related it, people within the U.S. government called Hunt a troubleshooter, but none mentioned his affiliation. Hunt directed a special fraternity of experts in fields ranging from criminal psychology to counter-espionage. He was known to enjoy a remarkable level of access to otherwise inaccessible people and services in and around Washington. Hunt’s operation was not designated top secret, per se, but on the other hand, his organization’s personnel vacancies never appeared in Commerce Business Daily.

The final sheet provided a condensed subjective evaluation of Collins. It included terms such as motivated, tenacious, cynical, and impetuous. Vargas wondered about the last; how would that trait affect a man’s judgment under severe stress? He hoped not to learn.

He turned back to the ID photo. The intense eyes belonged to precisely such a man—intimidating, perhaps even threatening. His appearance gave an impression of lethal skills and willingness to apply them.

Vargas could glean nothing else from the file, which left him feeling slightly uneasy. He closed the folder and locked it inside a metal cabinet, then draped his jacket over his arm. I will be working at my residence, he informed Señora Guzman on his way out.

He had no intention of provoking guilt by association for the United States Embassy.

CHAPTER 2

Taxi, señor?

Collins nodded, allowing the sweating khaki-clad driver to take his bag and heave it into the open trunk of a faded black Mercedes-Benz sedan.

You go to hotel?

Las Brisas, Collins instructed.

Collins had managed just six hours of sleep in the past three days including catnaps on the commercial flights from Newark to Buenos Aires via Miami and São Paulo. He leaned back in the seat and forced himself to stay awake by concentrating on what he’d been told during intensive briefings at Fort Dix, New Jersey.

Before being inundated with minutiae concerning Argentina’s history, politics, and economics, Collins had been compelled to sign a sheaf of documents, primarily secrecy vows. One commanded in strong language that he tell no one where he had been, ludicrous in that the State Department functionaries demanding his signature had not yet revealed his destination. Even after he pledged fealty to the shadowy operation at hand, no one uttered a word about his specific assignment. You don’t need to know until you get there, they had claimed.

Translated into candor, a language rarely employed in Washington, it meant if you’re intercepted en route, you can’t reveal anything politically damaging under the influence of drugs or torture.

The cab driver interrupted his contemplation. You have business, señor?

No, I’m just a tourist.

But you go to Las Brisas? There was an undercurrent of either suspicion or disbelief. "You are americano, yes?"

Right. Why?

"Turistas most go to Sheraton or—"

The driver noticed Trent’s cold stare in the rearview mirror and did not complete his speculation.

In 1976, military officers led by General Jorge Videla ousted Isabel Perón from power. She had ascended to the position by virtue of being strongman Juan Perón’s vice-president and widow, but the responsibilities of the office overwhelmed her. Following the coup, Jorge Videla became President and set in motion one of history’s most repressive military regimes short of Hitler’s Germany. Some suggested that Argentina’s current junta had patterned itself after the Third Reich. General Roberto Viola succeeded Videla as President in March 1981. He retired from the army, giving the government at least a sham appearance of civilian control, but his tenure lasted just six months.

The event on which the analysts based their prediction of war occurred on December 21, 1981. General Leopoldo Galtieri replaced Viola as President. The new junta included Galtieri, Brigadier General Basilio Lami Dozo, and the commander of the Argentine Navy, Admiral Jorge Isaac Anaya.

As the taxi entered the city, Collins studied people on the sidewalks. They appeared to be a typical mix of businessmen, merchants, and mendicants. How many of them, he wondered, really cared if the Falklands were governed by England or Argentina? How could those rocks scattered in the ocean a thousand miles to the south have any real meaning to these people? The junta might send some of them there to die; that could engender significance of a sort.

CHAPTER 3

Collins checked in at Las Brisas and deposited his luggage in a room on the second floor, then returned to the sidewalk. He had been instructed to wait for a tan Volkswagen Rabbit. He had an appointment with an embassy staff member who occasionally provided extraordinary services, a polite phrase for covert activities that no host nation would appreciate. Collins grew more impatient by the minute before the VW pulled to the curb, its diesel engine rattling noisily.

Señor Collins?

I’m Collins, Trent answered. Where were you instructed to take me?

"I was told you would ask, señor. I am Ramón Campos. I will take you to la estáncia de Señor Vargas, el jefe del diputado de... Forgive me, señor. I forget sometimes. I take you to the estate of Señor Vargas, the chief of, uh, diplomat, who awaits on you."

Collins walked around to the passenger’s side and took the front seat. For the time being, he chose to let the embassy chauffeur think he had not understood the Spanish portion of the mixed-language response.

I regret using this auto, señor. The regular one is under repair.

Whatever works.

Without further conversation, Campos engaged first gear. The car lurched forward with a groan, accompanied by an increase in the clattering sounds from the engine compartment. With traffic, it took the driver thirty minutes to escape the urban sprawl. Then he followed a road that climbed gentle slopes and led generally west-northwest to reach the whitewashed home of Jorge Vargas.

Collins had expected to see fluted red tiles on the roof, just like in the movies. Instead, what appeared to be gray slate shakes covered the shallow pitches. Ramón pulled into a graveled circular driveway and stopped at the entry.

Thank you, Trent said as he opened the door and stepped out.

"De nada, señor. You’re welcome."

A man who could only be Vargas, no doubt alerted by the clamor of the Rabbit’s engine, stood on the front porch. He was as tall as Collins and equally as lean. A full head of dark hair showed traces of silver at the temples. The white golf shirt he wore accentuated the darker hue of his skin. Many women would call him handsome.

Welcome to Argentina, Mister Collins. Vargas shook his hand firmly.

Thank you. I’m not entirely sure why I’m here, though.

Perhaps I can enlighten you. Please come inside.

Six tall windows provided a view of low hills to the northwest and admitted an abundance of light, making the main room appear larger than its actual size. The house seemed comfortable but not sumptuous. Collins suspected that Vargas’ position as chief administrator at the Embassy rather than a full-fledged diplomat accounted for the somewhat modest residence.

May I offer you some wine, Mister Collins?

Well, it’s early... Collins saw mild offense on his host’s face. In South America, wine consumption constituted a social obligation. He would have to adapt. ...but I would enjoy that, he said, trying to sound more enthusiastic than he felt.

Vargas poured rich vermilion liquid into each of two glasses, then held his own aloft. To your success, Mister Collins.

Trent joined in the toast, though he remained uncertain of the reason for it.

Something came for you in the diplomatic pouch yesterday, Vargas said. He went to the mahogany sideboard and brought back a padded manila envelope. It bore no address other than Trent’s name. Collins ripped open the sealed end and withdrew the 9mm Browning pistol he had carried on every mission since his first one in Vietnam. Bubble wrap encased a spare magazine, but it was empty.

You will need ammunition. He led the way downstairs to an arsenal closet and handed over a box of fifty nine-millimeter cartridges. "The policía take a dim view of foreigners carrying guns, so be discreet with it," he cautioned.

The tone conveyed far more than the words; Vargas expected him to carry the gun.

I see you’re ready for a siege.

Vargas dismissed the observation with a shrug. It is always a possibility. This country is not known for stable governments, much less pro-American ones. Here we can maintain a secondary operations center if the embassy is ever taken. You probably could not see it, but an area behind this house has been cleared for helicopter operations.

When they returned to the main room, Vargas directed Collins to a chair. You know that Argentina will probably go to war with England?

Trent nodded. That’s what I was told in my briefing, but I thought they were still negotiating.

They are, but they have been negotiating unsuccessfully for many years. One is left to wonder if either side bargains in good faith. Vargas glanced out the windows before continuing. Do you know what an Exocet is, Mister Collins?

Yeah, Trent said. I read a lot.

The Exocet, a sea-skimming anti-ship missile designed and built in France, was superior to the Norwegian-designed Penguin and better in some respects than the American Harpoon. The French sold military weapons abroad without being overly discriminating, so they had many Exocet customers including both England and Argentina.

Argentina has Exocets, and she will use them, Vargas said with apparent certainty. "The junta is trying to purchase more on the world market, but so far they have met with no success."

I take it that’s a good thing.

Vargas either missed the sarcasm or ignored it. "Argentina has no realistic chance to defeat the British in combat. General Galtieri’s only hope is to draw out the conflict, making it a test of will and determination, not to mention attrition. To do that, he must inflict significant losses on the British. He will attempt to determine what his enemy considers acceptable losses. When the Royal Navy arrives, he will order an attack with the missiles.

The British know this, Vargas continued. If Exocets are used against Royal Navy ships, some hard-liners within the Ministry of Defense and among Conservatives in Parliament will pressure Prime Minister Thatcher to widen the war. Escalation would allow the British to annihilate Argentina’s military capability, at least in terms of sea and air assets.

That sounds like a lame excuse for reprisal attacks, but how does it affect me?

Because Argentina has so few Exocets in inventory, their use requires the express consent of Admiral Jorge Anaya. If he were no longer around...

The unspoken suggestion stunned Collins for a moment. It sounds to me as though you’re talking about assassination.

Not necessarily.

Not necessarily? Vargas surely knew that both neutrality laws and official policy proscribed political assassinations. Even so, absence of an unconditional denial caused Trent to pause again, collecting his thoughts. Killing the man probably wouldn’t do any good, he said finally. The authority to use the missiles would simply pass to another individual.

Undoubtedly, Vargas conceded.

And you may be better off with the devil you know.

Excuse me?

Sorry. Just a figure of speech. If Anaya is eliminated, who takes his place?

I believe I see your point.

Let’s say that Anaya is incapacitated by whatever means, and another admiral looking to make a name for himself takes his place. Wouldn’t the new man be even more likely to use Exocets against the British?

That is possible, said Vargas.

I’d say probable, Collins countered. Why is Anaya the key? Would killing him avert the war?

Vargas shook his head. "Perhaps, but I doubt it. Anaya only took the position last December, but he has been around for quite a while. Our information portrays him as the most militant member of the current junta. The Islas Malvinas campaign is his special program, but the others are enamored of it now. He has seduced them.

As for the other, the Exocets belong to the Navy. That makes them Anaya’s. There is no real unity of command here. However, as president, General Galtieri could force him to use the missiles.

So Anaya isn’t the only one who needs to know about England’s proposed retaliation.

Anaya might advise him of it, but that depends on egos and arrogance. They are reputed to be close personal friends, but how far does that go? If Anaya is told to use the missiles, then his hands will be clean. He will merely be a good soldier following orders, will he not?

Yeah, I’ve heard that one before, Trent said. None of this was in my briefing. Do you think Anaya knows anything about it?

Impossible to say. All internal discussions have been kept absolutely secret. Still, Argentina does not exist in a vacuum, nor is she trapped in the Stone Age. The Argentines have significant intelligence resources. Governments here have spied on rivals for decades. We would be foolish to assume that Anaya does not have spies in England. But regardless, even if we wished to, we have no diplomatic channel by which to inform him. This information is extremely sensitive.

Are you suggesting that we get the word to him unofficially?

Vargas seemed to appraise him for a moment before speaking. An Argentina able to defend itself is essential to the status quo in Latin America. So, we would discourage aggressive action by the British. Still, that would be awkward because the United States is officially neutral in this dispute. The presence of British combat troops in the Falkland Islands is acceptable, to a point. The presence of British troops in Buenos Aires would not be. Better to prevent the situation from arising.

Another evasive answer. Señor Vargas, I’m curious why I’m talking to you instead of to Ambassador Nichols?

One of the vagaries of diplomacy, Mister Collins. There are things that policy would not permit him to tell you.

But you can? Silence implied affirmation. Assuming one could let Anaya know about the consequences, how would he react?

That is a question no one can answer. First, there is the issue of whether or not he would believe it. He may doubt that the British are capable of carrying out such an extensive operation in the South Atlantic. The logistics would be formidable. But even if he accepts the possibility, he might take a chance on using his missiles anyway and rely on intervention by the United Nations to save Argentina’s armed forces from total decimation.

And he would probably be right, Trent said. He stood and walked to the windows. From what you’ve told me, trying to convince Anaya that using his missiles would be counterproductive in the long run may make sense, but I wonder if we wouldn’t be backing him into a corner. That would make us the bullies.

He may not be concerned with the sense of it, Vargas said. When the generals go to war with England and lose, which I think is inevitable on both points, there might not be much of a future for them. No long run, as you put it.

Collins turned to face his host. What you’re saying is that there is no leverage.

"Galtieri is Argentina’s third military junta president in the past six years. Unless you count the Peróns, this country has not had a stable government for fifty years, but Juan and Eva nearly ruined it financially. Isabel for her part was merely inept. However, all of the governments here have had one thing in common. They deal with their political rivals through kidnapping and murder. Everyone knows that his life may be cut short."

And that makes it okay for everybody else?

I do not suggest that it is okay. I merely point out that it common here. Anaya certainly knows it.

I think we’re right back where we started, Señor Vargas.

Perhaps, but I feel sure you can appreciate the gravity of the situation. Please give it further thought.

CHAPTER 4

Collins declined Vargas’ invitation for an eight-o’clock dinner as decorously as possible. He could easily wait that late to eat; he simply had not felt any inclination to like the man after observing a verbal ballet routine to rival Swan Lake. Vargas might be caught in the middle, under official pressure to make something happen but denied access to officially sanctioned processes.

Not so different from his own status, he mused. His daily retainer and expenses came from federal funds channeled through an off-the-books section of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, he could expect no assistance if something went sour while he was on a clandestine mission. On the contrary, top echelon government officials would deny knowing his name and probably enjoy doing it.

Working for Jules Hunt did have its good points, however.

ATF activities are domestic. Trent considered that part good.

Jules did not always remember part one, and sometimes that could be bad.

If someone picked up a telephone and called Hunt inquiring if he had a Spanish-speaking operative within his cadre, where and why might be appropriate prerequisite questions. Trent realized that Jules might neglect to ask them. Hunt did not intentionally expose his people to excessive risk, but neither did he sidestep tough assignments. That made him unpopular with some chair-warmers at FBI, NSC, and other bloated alphabet soup agencies; he sometimes left divots in their neatly manicured bureaucratic turf.

Assuming Vargas’ information to be correct, deployment of the Exocets could cost many thousands of lives on both sides. Did that justify assassination as a political expedient?

Vargas might think so; Collins did not.

He also realized with some consternation that Washington had posted his own life as the ante in a high-stakes poker game. Regardless of how he proceeded, someone would have ample reason to want him dead. He had never considered himself a spy, and he certainly was neither diplomat nor assassin.

Broaching the subject with Jules Hunt at this point in the operation might be touchy, but he saw no other alternative.

Collins had followed Hunt’s advice in his selection of accommodations. Las Brisas was old, but clean and comfortable and situated away from most tourist attractions. It provided all the essential services and amenities, including telephones in guest rooms. Overseas calls could not be placed by dialing the hotel operator, however. For that, he had to go to the lobby.

"Los Estados Unidos, por favor." He gave the number, and the desk clerk directed him to a phone enclosure. Three minutes passed before the raucous buzzer sounded.

It’s me. Basic security procedure precluded using names on non-secure telephones, and in any case, it was not necessary. In an organization as small as theirs, Collins knew that Hunt would recognize his voice.

How’s the weather there this time of year? Hunt asked.

Hot, Collins answered. And the gentleman I met today expects it to get much hotter. Did you know he expects swift, permanent solutions?

The ensuing silence lasted entirely too long.

They didn’t tell me until after you were on your way, Hunt finally responded. I’m not pleased with this deception, and there will be some future discussions about it, I assure you. I admit that I’m not surprised you don’t agree with the proposed action.

You knew damned well I wouldn’t.

Yes, Hunt admitted. What are you planning to do?

Try to talk to the other individual, Collins told him.

You really think talking will do any good?

Hard to say. Better than the first alternative, though.

Maybe, Hunt said, but that could be a hard sell here.

Then let them get their own expert. They shouldn’t have any trouble finding somebody else willing to take a crack at it.

Well, for now, I’d say you know more about the situation on the ground than I do, so just follow your instincts. Meanwhile, I’ll delve a little deeper into things on my end.

Collins opened the box of ammunition Vargas had given him. JHP on the Winchester label meant that the bullets were 147-grain jacketed hollow-points. Perfect.

He loaded a dozen rounds into each magazine, then inserted a full one into the grip and slapped it home. He chambered a round and carefully lowered the hammer to half cock, then placed the gun on the nightstand within easy reach and turned out the lamp.

In an upstairs apartment a few kilometers from Las Brisas, a man answered his telephone.

He’s here, announced the caller. Varig flight from São Paulo. Staying at Las Brisas.

Thank you. The recipient of the information hung up and raised a brandy glass to his lips. Action outlined in Directive 507 could now go forward; the specialist’s arrival implied final approval from Washington.

No such instruction existed in writing, however. Not a Presidential Directive, not an Executive Order. It was simply a code number understood by certain individuals within the State Department and the Central Intelligence Agency, the only ones who needed to know. The few who could be permitted to know.

CHAPTER 5

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1982, 7:45 a.m.

Argentineans seemed to harbor a pervasive resentment toward outsiders who spoke English, and understandably so. Collins sensed it through such innocuous activities as ordering dinner in the hotel restaurant and buying a morning newspaper at the lobby kiosk. The mood was subtle and not without justification but no less a threat for that. His ability to recognize and respond to such things had helped him stay alive on more than one occasion.

To deflect any prejudicial backlash, he decided to conduct his day-to-day transactions only in Spanish. His necessary conversations would blend more readily with those of others. He had better than adequate skill in the language, and it would improve with practice.

He could not pass for an Argentine, however. To do that required something beyond fluency in Spanish. Every culture introduces unique slang phrases and idiomatic expressions into its language, and the only way to learn them is by living in the environment that produces them.

You wish a table for breakfast, señor?

Yes, please, Collins replied to the white-jacketed waiter.

Certainly, señor. It is a buffet. Please serve yourself. Do you care for coffee?

A carafe.

Yes, sir. Right away. The waiter led him to a small table draped with a white linen cloth. Please sit here.

Collins dropped his newspaper on the table and surveyed the buffet counters. Glass jugs held tepid milk and orange juice; clear plastic bins contained assorted dry cereals. Trays of white bread sat beside an electric toaster. Ecru wicker baskets displayed a variety of fresh in-season fruits.

Trent enjoyed the robust South American coffee and lingered over a third cup while reading his copy of La Prensa. He could have bought the English-language Buenos Aires Herald, but it had decidedly pro-British editorial content and might or might not tell him anything useful. During Peronismo, La Prensa had stood as one of Eva Perón’s harshest critics before she managed to have it closed, then expropriated.

Stories included some words that he did not know, but the context allowed him to understand most of the content. A few articles mentioned President Galtieri, but Admiral Jorge Anaya remained conspicuously absent from the news columns.

Collins knew little more about the admiral than his name. If Anaya were like most men in positions of power within a military dictatorship, he would be looking over his shoulder constantly. Or have others doing so for him. Any overt attempt at contact would be met with extreme suspicion if not outright hostility. The only other option would involve stalking him, studying his movements, eluding his bodyguards, avoiding his alarms—all in a strange country and virtually under the noses of paranoid policemen and soldiers carrying automatic weapons.

Even locating Anaya would be difficult without help, which meant contacting Vargas again. Presumably, he would have an idea where Collins might start looking.

Or perhaps his driver would.

Collins placed his call; the embassy receptionist connected him to Jorge Vargas.

How may I help you, Señor Collins?

I called to ask a favor of you. I was hoping I could use your driver for a little while this morning.

Have you reconsidered the situation we reviewed yesterday?

Yes, I have, Trent answered, figuring any other response would guarantee a refusal.

Good. Let me look at the schedule for a moment.

Collins wondered absently what kind of punishment he might face for utilizing an embassy chauffeur’s services under false pretenses. Not completely false, he rationalized; Vargas wanted him to find Anaya.

Vargas wanted him to kill Anaya.

Ramón has nothing on his manifest, and I’m sure he would prefer driving to pruning the shrubs around the building. What time would you like for him to meet you?

I’m ready now, Trent replied.

I will send him right away.

Thank you, Señor Vargas.

"De nada, Señor Collins. Buen suerte."

Vargas knew of Trent’s ability to speak Spanish, of course, but his use of it jarred Collins into realizing that he stood at a public telephone speaking English but with a copy of La Prensa stuck under his arm. Trent silently cursed the foolish mistake and went outside to await the noisy arrival of a tan VW.

"Buenos días, Señor Collins," Ramón said, almost chirping.

"Buenos días, Ramón. ¿Como está?"

Ramón seemed mildly surprised by Trent’s use of Spanish; Maybe Vargas had not bothered to inform him. Oversight, or did Jorge have a reason?

"So, Señor Collins, you do speak our language." It was a confirmation, not a question, stated in English.

A little. No need to give away the farm, Trent decided.

Ramón nodded toward the folded newspaper. ¿Y leas un diario en español, tambien, eh?

Yes, I can read the newspapers, but very slowly.

I think reading them is a waste of time, the driver said, continuing the conversation in Spanish.

I’m sure the newspapers overlook some things.

Maybe yes, maybe no. Our government censors them to make sure they overlook certain things that are military secrets.

Trent switched back to English. Is the location of Admiral Anaya a military secret?

Of course, señor.

But if I wanted to find him, could that be done?

"Maybe, Señor Collins. But the admiral is very—¿como se dice?—cautious."

I would imagine. Where does he live?

He has a house, Ramón said.

You know where it is?

Yes.

The reticent driver seemed uncomfortable with the topic, but Collins pressed ahead. I want to take a look at it.

We can go there, Señor Collins, but... The driver struggled with a word, then reverted to Spanish.

"¿Que es demoramos?" Collins asked.

Delay, señor. We cannot stay there for long.

Understood. We will not need to.

Campos drove south on Highway 3, then selected a secondary paved road that took them southwest. An additional fifteen minutes of driving brought them to an intersection at the crest of a low bluff. Although not more than five or six feet higher, the elevated ground offered a panoramic view of the flat, featureless valley beyond.

This is the road, señor, said the driver. It would be better to stay here. The way is narrow, and there is no spot to turn around.

You’ve been here before?

Only by invitation. I have brought the ambassador to this house. It is not wise to come here at any other time. Ramón produced a pair of binoculars. Here. These will let you see.

Collins propped his elbows on the car’s roof to steady the glasses.

The main residence loomed large in the magnifying lenses. A two-story central section had single-level adjuncts extending to either side. Two additional structures to the east could be either guesthouses or servant’s quarters. Other small buildings were not readily identifiable from his vantage point northwest of the compound.

A high stone rampart faced the road and ran the length of the north boundary. An ornate ironwork gate in its center served as the main entry. Less imposing cinder block walls enclosed the east and west sides.

I see three guards, Collins said.

One at the gate and others at each end of the wall?

Yes.

A bullet clanged against the Rabbit’s right rear fender before the dull, flat sound of the report reached them. Trent instinctively grabbed for his Browning.

I think that was our invitation to leave, Ramón said. He jerked open the driver’s door and launched himself into the seat.

Does Anaya own this road, too?

Does that make any difference to a dead man?

Collins quickly took his place on the passenger’s side.

He wondered if the round fired from Anaya’s compound had been intended to kill. An expert marksman with a scope-equipped rifle could fire at five hundred yards and hit a man in the ear if he chose to. The guards he had observed carried light weapons. It seemed unlikely that one of them would chance such a long shot. Maybe a guard on the roof?

Do they always shoot at visitors? Collins asked as the Rabbit’s diesel engine strained under full throttle.

Only at those using binoculars, I think.

Do you think it means Anaya is there now?

No, señor, I think it means they shoot at anyone looking with binoculars. It was my poor judgement. I apologize.

Trent considered the implications in silence. La Armada enforced the