Savage Rule. Don Pendleton
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of what the soldier had done. It was clear that the invader couldn’t be working alone, not given the extent of the carnage. He would likely be a leader, however. He had that look. Even in his brief contact with the big foreigner, Del Valle had felt something like fear tickling his guts. He had brushed against death and escaped, this man whose clothes were stained with blood, who smelled of smoke and of gunfire. This man with the two large knives mounted on his combat harness.
It was only after escaping the ruins of the base camp that Del Valle had learned of the true fury of the invading onslaught. His raiding party, massing on the border for another strike into Guatemalan territory, had been wiped out utterly. No doubt the American soldiers, if that was what they were, had brought a sizable team into the country. They were perhaps Marines, or SEALs…. It didn’t matter. He would have to make inquiries, once he returned to his own offices, in order to perform damage control.
The lesson they hoped to impart was clear enough: leave Guatemala alone. In truth, Del Valle hadn’t credited them with the courage to make a minor show of force, much less this. They were fools if they thought a bloody nose would be enough to dissuade him. He would find their forces, if they hadn’t already fled, and he would make lessons of them. But first there was Orieza….
Del Valle finished his useless attempts to clean himself up and turned to the door. He gestured to the woman, who pressed the buzzer beneath her desk. The door opened automatically, the locks releasing. That door was bulletproof, of course, the walls of Orieza’s office reinforced against explosives. The general himself sat within, looking far older and more tired than his troops would ever be permitted to see him.
“Roderigo,” he said weakly in Spanish, looking up from his ornate chair behind his equally ornate desk. “I am glad you are here.” He looked pale and sallow, his white hair flat against his skull. The elaborately gilded white uniform he wore hung limply on his frame, as if a size too large. He was staring at the phone on his desk, with its faux-antique receiver and engraved casing. It was ringing.
“Is that…?”
“Castillo.” Orieza nodded. “He has been calling all morning. I thought it best you be here before I spoke with him.”
Thank heavens, Del Valle thought, that the old fool can be trusted to follow my instructions at least that far.
“Of course, General,” he said, bowing smartly at the waist. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting. I will be honored to assist you.”
Orieza looked relieved. Del Valle took up a position perched on Orieza’s desk, where he would be able to listen to the call and quietly offer suggestions to the general out of range of the telephone.
After Orieza’s secretary and the operator on the other end traded formalities, the leaden voice of Mexico’s president blared from the device. “General Orieza,” Castillo said. “I have heard disturbing things.”
Del Valle whispered, and Orieza repeated his words verbatim. “I know full well what you have heard,” he said, the steel in his voice an act, but the role one he was quite accustomed to playing. It was as if the simple fact that Del Valle was there to think for him liberated him from whatever had turned him into such a shriveled shell of himself. He was free to be the powerful general, the macho hero of the new Honduran regime, as long as Del Valle did the heavy lifting—in this case, by telling him what to say.
“Then you know that I’ve learned your forces have been dealt a defeat on the Guatemalan border,” Castillo stated smoothly. “I don’t know how bad it is, but it worries me. Tell me, my friend, how bad is it?”
Worse than I will permit your spies to learn, useful idiot, Del Valle thought. Through Orieza, he said, “A small matter only. We believe the Guatemalans have called on their allies for assistance. It may have been the American directly, or some international force, which amounts to roughly the same thing.”
“And?” Castillo demanded.
“And they obviously seek to send us a message,” Del Valle said through the general. “One that, clearly, will have no effect. You know the Americans. They are gutless.”
“This I agree with,” the Mexican said. “But you are guessing. You do not know that it was the United States.”
“No,” Orieza repeated obediently. “But then, I do not know that it wasn’t, and in either case, it does not matter. Only a few men were killed. The operation will not be significantly slowed. The pipeline will be completed on schedule.”
“I have my doubts,” Castillo murmured. “Though, in truth, I owe you a debt of gratitude.”
“In what way?” Orieza asked, sounding genuinely as curious as Del Valle was.
“When you first came to me,” the Mexican president said, “telling me of your…shall we call it newfound wealth, and suggested the pipeline, I thought the plan insane. Waging war through your neighbors and mine in order to bring us the oil directly… Why, yes, the resulting wealth is most welcome, and with wealth comes power. But I got to thinking. You were dreaming big. I should do no less, I thought, and so I started to dream bigger.”
“We discussed this,” Orieza said, his cautious tone mirroring Del Valle’s. “You will use your money, your power, to accomplish your own goals in your upcoming battle with the Americans. We provided you significant material assistance in exchange for your cooperation with this plan, which is very detailed and has a specific schedule.”
“Assistance? You speak, no doubt, of your fine little helicopter. Yes, well,” Castillo said, “do not fear. We shall be putting it and the missiles to good use.”
“The time for your incursions is soon to be reached in that schedule—”
“That’s just it,” Castillo interrupted. “There is no ‘soon to be.’ My operatives are already in position. The first moves are already being made. Soon I shall bring those weaklings north of the border to their very knees, and we, the proud people of Mexico, will take what belongs to us.”
“But this is not what we agreed,” Orieza repeated for Del Valle.
“I do not give a damn for schedules any longer,” Castillo said. “I will take what I wish from the Americans, with or without your oil money. I will gladly take that, of course. Do not count it against me. But you have inspired me, General. I am taking what I want with or without your help. I shall gladly use the toy you have sent us to do it, too.”
“Is that wise?” Orieza asked, and this time he spoke before being prompted. Del Valle let it go, for he was about to ask the very same thing. He whispered, and Orieza repeated his next words: “If you alert the forces of the West too early, they may respond with greater force than they have already done.”
“Ramon, Ramon, Ramon.” Castillo tsked into the phone, setting Del Valle’s nerves on edge. “You refuse to acknowledge with whom you are dealing. These Americans are a fundamentally inferior race. We have discussed this.”
“Please do not ply me with your racial theories,” Orieza said, unbidden, and Del Valle had to admit that he felt much the same. “I am aware of your notions, and we agree that the territory you will seize rightfully belongs to you. But if you move too far too fast, before we have filled our coffers and purchased more weapons and equipment, they will crush you.”
“We have been eating them alive for years now, from within,” Castillo said with a sneer. “But perhaps I misunderstand. I am informed that you have suffered material damages. That someone has interfered with your operation on the border.”
“And I,” Orieza said, his tone mirroring the venom in Del Valle’s, “would very much like to know how you are aware of this.”
“We are all friends,” Castillo said. “Friends talk among themselves.”
“Indeed,” Orieza dutifully repeated. “We will not discuss that for now. As we—” He stopped abruptly as Del Valle shot him a look. “As I said, everything is under control. Pipeline construction continues on