coffee he'd ordered earlier. We were sitting at a small booth by the window. The small restaurant was busy, and there was a buzz of Spanish around us.
"When does the Vice-President make his first public appearance here?" I asked.
Hawk flicked an ash off his cigar and looked out onto the dark, narrow street. "Tomorrow night he's scheduled for a gala reception dinner in his honor at the Palacio de Miraflores. After the dinner there will be dancing."
"I'd like to attend that reception, sir," I said.
"I already have invitations for us," Hawk said, chewing on the cigar. "In fact, we have clearance to attend every function that the Vice-President is scheduled for. I don't think well need to attend all of them, since the threat was to the conference itself and since the Secret Service boys will be on the job around the clock, tied to the Vice-President's coattails. But we ought to be there at the first function, if just to meet the Secret Service fellows personally."
"We'll go separately?"
"Yes. Everybody but security people will think we're members of the ambassadorial staff here in Caracas. The Vice-President knows our cover and will play along with it."
I could see the worry lines around Hawk's piercing eyes. "You know," I said, "it's just possible that the authors of that warning note aren't planning anything more violent than a demonstration in front of the White Palace."
"Or maybe it really is just a big joke, with somebody sitting back and laughing up his sleeve at us."
I shrugged my shoulders. "Maybe." But I didn't believe it for a moment.
"You're trying to comfort me, Nick. I must be getting older than I thought."
I grinned. "I just want you to relax, sir."
Hawk took the cigar out of his mouth again and snubbed it out in a small ashtray. "I just wish I could get rid of the awful feeling that something deadly is going to happen and take us by complete surprise."
He was staring at the table again. I wanted to say something to break the mood, but I couldn't think of anything. The feeling had gotten to me, too.
Early the next morning I took a taxi to the Palacio de Miraflores. It was an enormous building with about a thousand rooms. The conference was to be held in the Grand Reception Room. The reception dinner and party would take place in the Banquet Room and the Grand Ballroom.
I flashed my credentials at the front entrance and had no difficulty getting in. In fact, it was too easy. The Venezuelan police on duty seemed all too eager to please. The palace had been closed to the public because of the conference, but inside it was crowded with people who had special passes or were in some way connected with the conference.
It was quite a place inside. I was impressed. They'd even left tour guides on duty to help official visitors find their way around. A guide came up to me as I stood looking at a large oil canvas by an unknown Latin American artist.
"Perdóneme, señor. Siento molestarle.
"It's all right," I answered in Spanish. "You're not disturbing me."
"I merely wish to point out there is a Picasso farther down the corridor," the man smiled. He wore a gray uniform and cap and reminded me of a Latin version of Hawk.
"Gracias,"
I said. "'I'll be sure to see it before I leave. Have the police set up headquarters in the palace?"
"Yes," he said. "In the state apartments. Follow this corridor and you will come to it."
I thanked him and made my way to the large room that was being used as security headquarters. The atmosphere was hectic, yet casual, if that's possible. Telephones were ringing, and officials were engaged in serious conversations, but other men were joking and laughing and talking about the festival or the
corrida
on Sunday. There seemed to be a good deal of confusion. The Vice-President was expected soon, and the security men were trying to round up a party to go to the airport.
I spoke to a couple of CIA men I knew, but they didn't seem to have much interest in the conference. One of them
"When does the Vice-President make his first public appearance here?" I asked.
Hawk flicked an ash off his cigar and looked out onto the dark, narrow street. "Tomorrow night he's scheduled for a gala reception dinner in his honor at the Palacio de Miraflores. After the dinner there will be dancing."
"I'd like to attend that reception, sir," I said.
"I already have invitations for us," Hawk said, chewing on the cigar. "In fact, we have clearance to attend every function that the Vice-President is scheduled for. I don't think well need to attend all of them, since the threat was to the conference itself and since the Secret Service boys will be on the job around the clock, tied to the Vice-President's coattails. But we ought to be there at the first function, if just to meet the Secret Service fellows personally."
"We'll go separately?"
"Yes. Everybody but security people will think we're members of the ambassadorial staff here in Caracas. The Vice-President knows our cover and will play along with it."
I could see the worry lines around Hawk's piercing eyes. "You know," I said, "it's just possible that the authors of that warning note aren't planning anything more violent than a demonstration in front of the White Palace."
"Or maybe it really is just a big joke, with somebody sitting back and laughing up his sleeve at us."
I shrugged my shoulders. "Maybe." But I didn't believe it for a moment.
"You're trying to comfort me, Nick. I must be getting older than I thought."
I grinned. "I just want you to relax, sir."
Hawk took the cigar out of his mouth again and snubbed it out in a small ashtray. "I just wish I could get rid of the awful feeling that something deadly is going to happen and take us by complete surprise."
He was staring at the table again. I wanted to say something to break the mood, but I couldn't think of anything. The feeling had gotten to me, too.
Early the next morning I took a taxi to the Palacio de Miraflores. It was an enormous building with about a thousand rooms. The conference was to be held in the Grand Reception Room. The reception dinner and party would take place in the Banquet Room and the Grand Ballroom.
I flashed my credentials at the front entrance and had no difficulty getting in. In fact, it was too easy. The Venezuelan police on duty seemed all too eager to please. The palace had been closed to the public because of the conference, but inside it was crowded with people who had special passes or were in some way connected with the conference.
It was quite a place inside. I was impressed. They'd even left tour guides on duty to help official visitors find their way around. A guide came up to me as I stood looking at a large oil canvas by an unknown Latin American artist.
"Perdóneme, señor. Siento molestarle.
"It's all right," I answered in Spanish. "You're not disturbing me."
"I merely wish to point out there is a Picasso farther down the corridor," the man smiled. He wore a gray uniform and cap and reminded me of a Latin version of Hawk.
"Gracias,"
I said. "'I'll be sure to see it before I leave. Have the police set up headquarters in the palace?"
"Yes," he said. "In the state apartments. Follow this corridor and you will come to it."
I thanked him and made my way to the large room that was being used as security headquarters. The atmosphere was hectic, yet casual, if that's possible. Telephones were ringing, and officials were engaged in serious conversations, but other men were joking and laughing and talking about the festival or the
corrida
on Sunday. There seemed to be a good deal of confusion. The Vice-President was expected soon, and the security men were trying to round up a party to go to the airport.
I spoke to a couple of CIA men I knew, but they didn't seem to have much interest in the conference. One of them
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