Agent Counter-Agent Read Free Page A

Express office at nine that evening. That gave me a few hours on my own, so I went to a kiosk at the corner and bought a newspaper and a bullfight sheet. I took the papers with me to a nearby sidewalk cafe, but I decided to sit inside because of the wind. I ordered a Campari and drank it while I read all the stories on the conference, wondering if that forum would be making real headlines before this was all over.
    After I'd finished with the paper, I studied the bullfight news. I'd always enjoyed a good
corrida.
When you're in the business of killing and trying to keep from being killed and you five with death — violent death — the bullfight has a special fascination for you. You go, pay your money, and sit in the
barrera —
front row — seats. And you know that there will be a death in the ring, maybe even the death of a man. But whether death strikes the bull or the man, you know that — at least this time — you'll walk out alive. No matter who dies, it isn't you or an enemy you've had to kill. So you sit in your paid seat and take it all in with a sense of detachment you know you'll have to shed as soon as you step back into the world outside the arena. But during the spectacle you can actually enjoy death, smug and aloof from the death that stalks you on the streets.
    While I was reading the bullfight paper, I glanced up and noticed a man watching me.
    I looked quickly back to the paper. I didn't want the man to know that I'd seen him. I held my eyes on the page and sipped the Campari, watching the man out of the corner of my eye. He was sitting at a table outside, looking at me through the window. I'd never seen his face before, but it occurred to me that his general build was like that of the man with the gun who'd attacked me back at the training center. It might just be the same man.
    But there are probably a thousand men in Caracas built like that one. I picked up a movement and glanced up again. The man was dropping some coins on the table, getting ready to leave. As he got up, he looked very quickly at me again.
    After the man had gone, I threw some coins onto the table, tucked the paper under my arm, and started out after him. By the time I reached the street, the heavy traffic had blocked him from view. When the traffic cleared, he was nowhere in sight.
    Later, at the restaurant near the American Express office, I told Hawk about the incident. As usual, he was chewing on a long cigar. Hawk is a real patriot, but when he has a legal chance to get a hold of a good Cuban cigar, he really can't pass it up.
    "Very interesting," he said, thoughtfully, blowing a smoke ring toward me. "It might not mean anything, of course, but I think that we had better proceed with extreme caution."
    "Have you been to the White Palace, sir?" I asked.
    "I stopped by earlier today. There are a lot of people there, Nick, but there is very little organization. The security people seem more excited about the festival than the conference. I have a bad feeling about it."
    "I got the feeling without even going there," I admitted.
    "I want you to go to the palace tomorrow and have a long, unobstrusive look around. You have a keen nose for trouble. Use it and report back to me here tomorrow afternoon."
    "When does our Vice-President arrive with his party?" I asked.
    "Late tomorrow. Our Secret Service boys will be with him. The chief was going to come himself, but he had to go to Hawaii with the President."
    "What does the Vice-President have scheduled?"
    "There will be several days of sightseeing in and around Caracas with the President and other officials. There will also be banquets and receptions and private talks with the Venezuelan President. Then, at the conference there will be public talks with the Venezuelan President's administrators. The press will be there, of course. The conference will have a morning and an afternoon session. I wish it were shorter."
    Hawk ran a hand through his gray hair and stared at the cup of thick