A bandaged O’Halloran sat alone at the CIA Communications Centrale console. The rest of the workers still had not come back from their coffee break.
His eye was swollen with what would certainly turn into a spectacular shiner. He gripped the microphone, speaking very respectfully with a quavering voice. “No, sir,” he said. “You can tell the President I don’t know who placed the call. It didn’t come from this secret base. It could have been a prank, sir, or a wrong number.” He drew in a deep breath. “Pedrito Miraflores? That bandit’s not within a thousand miles of here, I guarantee it! But I’ll keep looking.”
* * *
At last back in his hotel room, Smith took a long, hot shower. The pipes rattled and clanked, surrendering their water reluctantly. He emerged with a towel wrapped around hims
