NEMESIS

A Mission: Impossible Story

 

He hugged her closely in greeting, his arms encircling her slim body. He buried his head amongst the strands of her long, blonde hair as she lay her head against his shoulder, then raised her face towards him for his tender kiss. He enfolded her with his love as she felt his body making a plain statement - he wanted her, now.

She had waited so long, so long for this day and now, at last, the time had come. They only had tonight, then he must be away for a long time again. She responded to him eagerly and gently he lifted her in his strong arms and carried her to the bedroom where he lay her gently down. His brown eyes were large and gentle with love. No words were spoken - none were necessary.

---oo0oo---

Afterwards he lay, propped up on an elbow, watching her sleep. Her hair fell over her face as she turned towards him, and he gently brushed it away. He kissed her closed eyelids softly, then, enjoying his task, continued on downwards.

"Mmmh." she stretched her body in response and sleepy eyes looked at him. "Hello." she said.

"Hello!" his voice was deep and gentle. "I have a surprise for you!"

"Again, my darling?" She reached out towards him.

He gasped, then laughed softly as he moved, her hand guiding his way. "No, another surprise!" Locked together, he held her in a lingering embrace. "I have - ohhh! - tickets for a show and a table at Mario's afterwards."

She wriggled in delight. "What, tonight?"

"We have to be Downtown in two hours' time."

"But I haven't a thing to wear!"

"Try this!" he said. Disengaging himself, he leaned over and produced a large box from under the bed.

She opened it and discovered a knee-length low-cut black velvet evening dress, trimmed with rhinestones.

"Oh, darling, it's beautiful!" she kissed him and scurried away to shower and put it on.

Dressed in his tux, he was straightening his bow tie when she emerged, the dress fitting her perfectly. "Oh, wow!" he crossed his arms and appraised her appreciatively.

"I'll be ready in a moment, I just have to find a necklace to go with the dress!" and she moved over to her dressing table, where her box of jewels lay. She stopped short when she opened it and saw a long, thin, gift-wrapped box inside. She looked at him, eyes wide in surprise. "Go on, open it!" he encouraged.

She gasped in amazement when she saw the string of black pearls.

"Happy anniversary, darling!" he said, helping her to put the necklace round her neck.

"But it's so expensive!" she said, breathless still from the surprise.

"You've given me five of the happiest years of my life, darling. This is my way of saying 'Thank you'. Now, come on, or we'll miss that curtain!"

---oo0oo---

"Ah, yes, Mr and Mrs Paris, a table for two. Over here, please." and the Maître de led them to a secluded, candle-lit table.

She looked up at the man walking by her side. Tall, handsome, elegant. She saw female heads turning as he went by, and again she thought how lucky she was that she was the one he had chosen, despite all the long months of waiting she had every time he went away on business.

She bided her time to give him her news, waited until the coffee and liqueurs. "I'd rather not have a liqueur, John, if you don't mind."

"But you always enjoy a creme de menthe." he replied, mildly surprised.

"I'm afraid that, for a few months at least, I'll have to call a rain-check on the creme de menthes!" she said, mysteriously.

"Oh, why?"

"John, I was at the doctor's this morning." His brown eyes flashed alarm. "No, no, nothing to worry about. In fact , just the opposite. You're going to become a daddy!"

She watched him closely, savouring his reaction. It ranged from stunned shock to realisation to the widest smile of happiness she had ever seen. It was all he could do to control himself from shouting out. "Wh-when?"

"Oh, not for another six months, they say."

"But that's wonderful! I need a drink!" and he snapped his fingers for attention.

After he had downed it, she plucked up her courage. "Jooohn?"

"My darling!" he held her tiny hands in his large ones.

"John, there's something I have to ask you, and I know it's going to upset you."

He held her hands even tighter. "How can I be upset, mama?" he laughed softly.

"John, I want you to consider changing your job." He withdrew his hands. "There, I knew you would be angry, but, John, you're away so very much, I hardly ever get to see you and, when the baby comes, I don't want to have to bring him or her up all on my own. I want the child to know and love its father just as much as I do."

"Darling, you know I have to go where the work is." He leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. "I'm lucky sometimes to get a job at all, most actors don't have a chance in the business."

"But why can't you get jobs in Hollywood? You always seem to have to go abroad or hundreds of miles away. John, I need you beside me. Promise me you'll speak to your studio about it. Promise?"

His eyes were unreadable. It's as though, she thought, he's keeping something from me.

He hated having to lie to her, but the CIA demanded complete secrecy of its special operatives. It was better she did not know. Suddenly he stood up. "Come on, let's go." he said urgently. He paid the bill and, collecting her wrap, they left the restaurant quickly without another word.

"Darling?" she asked as he sat behind the wheel of his car. "Don't be angry with me."

"I'm not." he said tersely. "It's just that ... I thought I saw someone I knew in there ... a dangerous man. I thought he was still in New York." He drew the car out sharply, causing the tyres to squeal.

"Let's go the canyon road." she suggested. "The stars are out and it's a clear night. I'd like to see the lights with you tonight."

---oo0oo---

Back at the restaurant, a black sedan with opaque windows drew out into the traffic, keeping a respectable distance behind its quarry.

---oo0oo---

He drew up the road to the Griffith Observatory and could see no sign of pursuit. He relaxed visibly, though concentrating on the twisting, bending, narrow road that led up the Hollywood Hills to the white-painted observatory. They passed numerous parked cars on the way up, their occupants either there to admire the view, or enjoy some privacy. He drew into the small car park and they walked in the darkness towards the walled edge of the observation point. An animal shape, blacker than the night, moved just in front of them. "Shhh!" he said, his sharp eyes catching the movement and holding her back. It was a small deer, standing just a few feet in front of them, but as suddenly as it had appeared it ran away down the slope in a scrabble of pebbles and stones.

---oo0oo---

In the darkness, the black sedan eased to a halt at the last turn in the road before the car park, tyres softly crunching the pebbly surface. A figure in black, face obscured by a woollen mask, got out of the back seat and ran silently up the bill to the car park, found the car he was looking for, and went to work.

One or two other couples were walking in the area, pausing to admire the panorama below them, the multicoloured fairyland of Los Angeles streetlights and searchlights. Paris stood behind his wife, his arms encircling her as they admired the view, enjoying the peace and the nearness of each other. His hands were warm on her stomach, and he caressed the place where his child was growing, his face buried in her hair. So tight was he holding her that she felt his heartbeat increase and his desire suddenly press hard against her. She looked up at him, an unspoken question in her eyes.

"Now, please ... I must love you ... now." he whispered, his voice husky with emotion. She turned and saw the desire in his face.

"Let's go home." she said, hugging him close, her own excitement rising as he pressed his yearning body's hardness repeatedly and insistently against her.

"No, can't - wait ... must be - now." he insisted, pleadingly.

"There's nowhere here ..." she protested as he smothered her face and neck with kisses.

"The car - please - quickly!" He took her hand and led her swiftly, but not reluctantly, back to the car.

---oo0oo---

"I think we should head for home." he said, much later, moving into the driving seat.

"Mmmhh." she agreed, her head leaning back on the passenger seat headrest. It had been good - very good. He was always - so gentle ...

He started the car and drew out of the car park, keeping in low gear for the steep descent. As he approached the first bend, his headlights picked out the black sedan with opaque windows. A man was standing, leaning on the car's roof. He turned to make sure Paris saw him.

"Malpas!" exclaimed Paris, slamming his foot on the brakes. But the car did not stop, did not even slow down. He saw Malpas laughing as he sped past, the corner looming in the darkness. Desperately, Paris pumped the footbrake and pulled on the handbrake, but to no avail. Malpas had bled all the brake fluid. Desperately, Paris threw the speeding car round the corner. He tried to gear down and spin-stop it, but the road was too narrow. His wife screamed as a car coming up the hill turned into their path, headlights blazing. Paris, dazzled, jerked the wheel in a vain attempt to miss the oncoming car. Instead, he sideswiped it, unbalancing his own car, which ran up an embankment, overturned and spun towards the edge of the precipice. Tortured metal screeched as the car teetered and went over. He was dimly aware of the car turning and turning in the air, his driver's door torn away at the hinges, of cold wind in his face ... Then there was nothing.

He did not hear the car crash onto the road two hundred feet below and explode in a mushroom of flame, nor did he hear his wife's screams suddenly cease.

---oo0oo---

Consciousness returned gradually. First he was aware of sounds, and then of smells - antiseptic smells. He felt a touch on his wrist, then darkness reclaimed him.

Again, there were sounds and smells. This time he tried to speak, but it came out a groan. His head ached so and it hurt to breathe. He felt cool fingers on his brow and a feminine voice saying "Welcome back, Mr Paris - you're going to be all right!"

He tried to open his eyes, but the light hurt his brain. "Ahhhhh!" he groaned again. Then, making a superhuman effort, he formed the question "Wife?"

"Just you relax and go to sleep now." he dimly heard the nurse say, then he felt a jab in his arm, and darkness descended again.

The next time he came to, he felt stronger. His eyes focused on the nurse sitting by his bedside. "Hi!"

"Hi yourself!" she replied, the Irish brogue thick in her voice. She busied herself by taking his pulse and temperature. "Well! We are much better, aren't we?" she said reassuringly.

"My wife - how's my wife? Is she hurt bad?"

"The doctor will tell you, Mr Paris." she said, patting his shoulder.

"Oh, no. Oh, please, no!" here was no need for the doctor to tell him. "She's dead, isn't she? ISN'T SHE?" He tried to move, to grip the nurse's arm, but waves of pain hit him and he subsided with a sigh.

"Yes, Paris, I'm afraid she is dead." a man s voice replied.

Paris turned his head away and closed his eyes as the anguish, despair and grief engulfed him, unable to control the tears that coursed down his pale cheeks. "She was ... we were - going to have a baby!"

"Paris - who did this?" the man shook Paris's shoulder.

Paris saw him for the first time. "Oh, Rollin, it's you!"

Rollin Hand bent over his friend and colleague. "Tell me, Paris - who did this?"

"Malpas - Grigori Malpas - I saw him - he bled the brakes and I couldn't stop ..." the tears of weakness and anguish flowed again as he turned his head away. His voice was a whisper. "We were going to have - a baby ..."

The nurse fussed over him and a doctor arrived. "Just relax, now, Mr Paris. You've been very lucky. You were thrown out of the car before impact. The medics found you on the slope of the hill. You have concussion and a couple of broken ribs, but you should be out in a few days' time."

"Can I have a few moments alone with him, please, doctor?" asked Rollin.

"Well, just five minutes, no more - he's still very weak." and the doctor left the room.

"Paris - Paris, listen to me. This is important. I'm deeply sorry about your wife."

Paris just turned his head away, unable to speak.

"Listen - we've arranged it that the newspapers carry the story that both of you were killed last night - you understand?"

"It should've been me - it was me he wanted ..."

Rollin chose to ignore the remark. "Look, we need you out in the field. As soon as you're better ..."

"No! No more! Don't want ... to do this work ... any more ..." He drifted off into sleep, and Rollin, a Chief Superintendent in the CIA, left his friend's bedside to make arrangements for Malpas's arrest.

---oo0oo---

The tall, silver-haired man jogged along the beach at Malibu in the early morning sunshine. He reached a rocky outcrop where a man was fishing and paused. "The fish bite better at night." he commented cryptically.

"Only during the winter time." replied the fisher, who walked away, leaving his fishbox behind him.

Waiting till the man was out of earshot, Jim Phelps hunkered down and opened the fishbox, lifting out a small tape recorder and a picture of a swarthy man. He switched the tape recorder on.

"Good morning, Mr Phelps. This is Grigori Malpas. Two years ago he was arrested for subversive activities and the murder of two people, a CIA man and his wife. Despite the strictest security, a daring escape was effected before he stood trial and it is not until now that he has been located in San Salvador in the Caribbean, where he has achieved a coup d'état in favour of the Cuban/Russian alliance and has established himself as 'El Presidente', deposing President Juan Diaz. Your mission, Jim, should you choose to accept it, is to infiltrate the rebel group and remove the threat to the security of the United States. As usual, if any of your IM Force is caught or killed, the Secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions. This tape will self-destruct in five seconds. Good luck, Jim."

Jim waited till the tape had fizzled into non-existence then, placing the picture in his tracksuit pocket, he resumed his jog.

---oo0oo---

Jim had assembled the team for briefing. Present were Rollin, Cinnamon, Barney and Willy.

"This is gonna be a tricky one. We don't have much time. I would like to have another volunteer to go with us on this trip, but all the other active operatives are engaged on other projects. I need a man who is as good an impersonator as you, Rollin - voice, mannerisms, appearance. Know of anyone?"

Rollin thought for a moment, then his blue eyes lit up as a possibility occurred to him. "As a matter of fact, I think I do, Jim. In your briefing it said that a CIA man and his wife were killed by Malpas. In fact, it was only the wife who died that night. The man was seriously injured but recovered. I was at his bedside when he came to - he used to work in my unit, but after the crash that killed his wife he left the CIA and reverted to his previous career of actor/entertainer. He doesn't get all that much work, keeps in practice by doing amateur shows, children's parties and the like. His name is Paris."

"What does he look like, Rollin?"

"I'll get you his picture, but he's about 6 feet tall, dark and very slim. Failed actors never get fat!" quipped Rollin, and the rest of the team chuckled with him. Rollin found his picture in a theatrical reference book, showed it to Jim.

"Hm. If he's in town, do you think you can get him to join us?" asked Jim.

"I'll try, Jim."

"Right. Get him along here at 7 o'clock and I'll resume the briefing."

---oo0oo---

The apartment block in Hill Street, downtown LA, was not the most salubrious. In fact, thought Rollin as he went up in the lift, it stank. Paris's flat was on the 15th floor. Cooking smells of every nationality in the block assailed him as he walked along the corridor. He found the number and paused, remembering. *The last time I saw Paris , * he recalled, *was the day he handed in his badge. I told him then it was a mistake - he was a good officer, it was just that - he let his love for his dead wife and his feeling of guilt that she had been the one to die stand in his way. Well, we'll see ...* He could hear music, a radio or TV, coming from inside the flat. *At least he's in.* thought Rollin. Taking a deep breath, he knocked the door.

A few moments later Rollin heard the radio noise stop, the door being unlocked and the chain being latched, then Paris opened the door enough to see who it was. Rollin started to say "Hi, Paris! I..." but when Paris recognised who it was, he slammed the door in Rollin's face. Rollin knocked, and knocked again. "Paris! Paris, let me talk to you!"

"Get the hell outta here!" came the sharp reply from behind the closed door.

"Paris, please, open the door, I want to talk to you!"

"But I don't wanna talk to you, so get lost, willya!" His speech was slurred.

"Paris, listen to me. I've got a proposition to make, and I'm not leaving till you've heard me out, so come on, open up!" He pounded on the door, attracting the curiosity of Paris's neighbours.

"Okay, okay, shaddup with the noise." and Paris abruptly opened the door and waved Rollin in with a mocking, sweeping, half-bowing gesture.

Rollin was shocked at the state of the place, and shocked by Paris's unkempt appearance. Always hitherto immaculately dressed, Paris was now wearing dirty blue jeans and an even dirtier ex-white undershirt. He had a bottle of beer in his hand and a cigarette hanging from his lips. Long brown hair was falling over his dark, hooded eyes and he was unshaven. The flat was strewn with empty cans, bottles and food tins. Very little light came in from the tiny window, the single bed was unmade and pots and pans filled the tiny sink. All this Rollin took in at a glance as Paris pointed to a wooden-backed chair for Rollin to sit on. Paris threw a pile of dirty shirts off another seat and sat down, too. "Well? What the hell do ya want?" Paris's eyes were glazed. He drank the rest of the bottle in one, then threw it towards the sink. It missed, clattered to the floor. It stayed there.

"I see you - have a financial problem." began Rollin, uncertain now how to approach Paris.

"Hah! Yeah, you noticed!" There was bitter irony in Paris' deep voice.

"No work?"

"Failure begets failure - failed actor, failed agent, failed ..." he stopped himself before he said it. Failed husband. In a whisper he continued "I failed her ... failed to protect her. I was too busy - loving her ..."

"Paris, you were never a failure - you were good - the best man in the field I ever had. Remember the drugs ring you busted in Hawaii? And how about ..."

"Enough with the reminiscences!" Paris stood abruptly, throwing down the cigarette and stamping on it. "Whaddaya want?"

"I told you - I have a proposition to make. My boss needs an impersonator for a job we're doing ..."

"CIA work? Forget it." and he turned his back on Rollin.

"No, not CIA work - IMF work."

"IMF? What the hell's that?" He turned, his curiosity pricked.

"I was transferred into the Impossible Mission Force just after you quit. If you're interested, I can tell you more. If not, I'll go." he rose to leave.

"No, no, no. Siddown, siddown. Why's it called the 'Impossible Mission Force'?"

"The Defence Secretary gets certain information about suspected trouble spots and trouble makers that are a threat to the Nation's security. It's our job to see that they do not succeed." he stated, as simply as possible.

"Is it dangerous?"

"It can be."

"Good. I've already lived two years longer than I should have ..."

"Don't talk like that, Paris. We want no recklessness, no death-wish." emphasised Rollin.

"Yeah, sure, sure. It's just that ... it should've been me - it should've been me. Ah, God, I still miss her so ..." He sat down abruptly and held his head in anguish.

"Paris, I'm sure your wife would want you to live a full and rewarding life. Just now, you merely - exist. Be of use to the community - join us!"

Paris suddenly looked up, intelligence in his eyes. "The money good?"

"You will be a Government employee ..."

Paris laughed drily. "Poorly paid, high-risk and no backing, right?"

"That's about it. And, Paris, there s - something else ..."

"Yeah?"

"The mission we want you to come on - Malpas is involved." he said quickly, anticipating the reaction he would get. He got it.

"WHAT?" Paris was on his feet and in a stride he grasped Rollin's lapels. "The bastard who murdered my wife! Let me get at him, I'll ..."

"You'll what, Paris?" said Rollin, calmly.

Paris was gasping, face flushed with anger and emotion, his eyes staring. Rollin wondered if it was wise that the team should take him on, but Paris suddenly controlled himself, unhanded Rollin and sat back down. "Yeah, you're right. It won't bring - her - back to me - nothing will ..."

"If this mission is successful, then he will be brought back to this country to face the justice he escaped - and that includes the murder of your wife and, as far as history is concerned, yourself as well."

"Yeah. Yeah - he thinks I'm dead, don't he? Now ain't that convenient." He paced, smiling, rubbing the stubble on his chin, then stopped, facing Rollin. "I'm interested - real interested."

"Good, good. Look, here's $100 - go and get yourself cleaned up, a haircut, a new smart outfit, then be at this address at seven." He gave Paris a card. "You'll meet the rest of the team then, and Jim will tell you all about the mission. OK?"

"Yeah, OK." he said, quietly, thoughtfully, before closing the door behind Rollin.

---oo0oo---

The rest of the IMF team had assembled half an hour earlier to discuss using Paris. Jim Phelps' blue eyes were troubled. "Are you sure he'll react well under pressure, Rollin? I can't afford to take risks with the rest of the team."

"Yes, Jim, I know him well. He's gone through a rough time, his life has totally changed for the worse. He needs a raison d'être, if you like, something to bring him back into the mainstream of life. When he worked with me in the CIA he was a multi-talented man. That talent is still there, and we can exploit it to the full. Here's his CIA file."

Jim read quickly through it. "Hm. Okay, Rollin, I accept your appraisal of him. Barney, how's the equipment progressing?"

"Should be ready by tonight, Jim." assured the tall, coloured man.

"Cinnamon? Willy?"

"All ready to go, Jim." Cinnamon said, and Willy nodded agreement.

Jim's doorchime sounded and he opened it to the tall, elegantly suited figure of Paris. Jim shook hands, pleased at Paris's firm, confident grip, and ushered him in, introduced him to the rest of the team, then got down to business. He pulled down a screen from the ceiling and lit up a projector.

"This is the island of San Salvador in the Caribbean. The President, Juan Diaz, has been overthrown by a rebel movement led by Grigori Malpas." Paris shifted his position, but remained silent as Jim put Malpas's picture up on the screen. Jim continued "Malpas is pro-Castro and has offered his allegiance to Cuba, thus giving the Russians a further foothold in the Caribbean. Our mission is to infiltrate the rebels and dissolve the revolution, restoring the Presidency to Diaz within one week from now. Owing to the unpredictable political and military situation, this mission will not be without unplanned risks and dangers, but the plan, as far as I can anticipate, is as follows ...

---oo0oo---

Under cover of darkness, the large rubber dinghy, pulled by Willy and inhabited by Barney, Cinnamon and Rollin, who were all clad in simple peasant clothing, slipped into a rocky bay on the seaward side of the island. They had been transported to Key West by military plane, then had hired a small, high-powered fishing boat to approach within three miles of the island. A patrol boat from San Salvador had inspected the fishing boat and its inhabitants but found nothing suspicious. All the equipment was safely stowed where it would not be discovered. When the coast was clear the IMF team transferred the equipment, and themselves, into the dinghy. The boat's crew and two other civilians, who appeared to be enjoying a fishing holiday, remained on board and waited. The tiny radar blip of the hand-rowed craft went undetected by the radar crew on the island.

Swiftly they unloaded the craft of its cargo of automatic rifles, pistols and explosive equipment. They found a large cave nearby and hurriedly moved the equipment there. A narrow dirt road encircled the island and there was a small village nearby. Rollin walked alone to the village, found a small garage and, as dawn was breaking, made arrangements with the sleepy garage owner to hire his ancient van for a few days. He drove it back to the rendezvous point and Willy loaded the van.

---oo0oo---

"El Presidente! El Presidente!"

Malpas grunted awake and pushed the dusky woman away from him. He grabbed a dressing gown and opened the bedroom door.

"What's the meaning of this intrusion? Do you know what time it is, Sanchez?"

"Si, Presidente, but it is important! Look!" and he handed Malpas a cable message. It read:

"El Gaucho arriving airport noon for affiliation discussions. Castro. "El Gaucho? I thought El Gaucho was killed in a rebellion recently."

"Apparently not, El Presidente." replied the General.

"Very well. Make preparations - I will meet him personally. Oh, and call Bonito and Cristobal. I want them there, too."

"Si, Presidente." The soldier saluted and left.

---oo0oo---

The tattered, battered truck trundled into the town of San Salvador, driven by two sleepy-looking soldiers. Also in the truck was a woman in a white doctor's overcoat. They were stopped at the roadblock. "Papers." demanded the guard, rifle in hand. Another guard investigated the load.

''Supplies for the hospital and guns for our soldiers." explained Barney, lighting a cigarette nonchalantly, although his pulse was racing.

"And the woman?" The young guard was alert.

"A new doctor."

"You are American." he said to Cinnamon. "You may not enter."

"I am a doctor, I work wherever I am needed. Do you have a sick relative?"

"Well ..." the guard was reluctant to reveal it, but his young son was ill. "My son - if I let you past, will you visit him, doctor?" and he scribbled down an address.

"Yes, I will visit him." she agreed, and the young guard waved them past the barrier.

"Damn!" exclaimed Cinnamon. "I'll have to make a housecall."

"But you're not qualified." protested Rollin.

"I am a qualified nurse." replied Cinnamon. "The child may just need simple medication. Take me there first - if you don't the military will become suspicious."

"OK, OK."

When she examined him, Cinnamon realised the boy merely had diarrhoea. She gave the mother some of the tablets that she had brought with her for the team, just in case. Barney then drove her to the military hospital, where she offered her services at Reception. The senior Registrar interviewed her then, satisfied, accepted her as a member of staff.

Barney drove the truck into a disused barn on the outskirts of town and it re-emerged a short time later with the legend 'Maintenencio' on its sides. It was nearing noon when Barney and Rollin approached the first installation on their list - the radar tracking station.

---oo0oo---

The plane's turbo engines droned in the sky, approached the airstrip and made a perfect landing. The doors were not opened until the red carpet had been laid. Jim Phelps, who had piloted the plane, watched the proceedings amusedly. "Hey, Paris, they're bringing out the red carpet for you!"

Paris was putting the final touches to his disguise. His wig was long and unwashed, his false beard thick and matted with grease from his last meal, intentionally eaten by hand. His khaki military uniform was carelessly worn and the brown beret was sloped over the wig at a rakish angle. El Gaucho was every inch the pro-Castro Cuban rebel. A large, strong-smelling Cuban cigar, clenched between his teeth, completed the disguise.

At length the welcoming party was ready for its honoured guest. The plane's door was opened. El Gaucho stepped confidently into the sunlight and walked down the steps. A small guard of honour presented arms and El Presidente Malpas walked up to greet his esteemed visitor. Paris felt an upsurge of cold hatred as, after two grief-filled years, he looked again on the man who had caused his beloved wife's death, but he forced himself to smile a greeting and grasp the man s arm.

"Welcome, welcome, El Gaucho." gushed Malpas. "We are deeply honoured at your presence. Please, come with me to the Presidential Palace where I would like to introduce you to the rest of my men - ah, staff. In the meantime, may I introduce you to Generals Sanchez and Bonito, and Colonel Cristobal." Paris dutifully greeted them in a similar manner, then introduced Jim as "Captain Novotny of the Russian Air Force." Jim eyed Malpas closely as he saluted him.

Before being driven to the Presidential Palace in another car with Sanchez, Cristobal and Bonito in attendance, Jim off-loaded what appeared to be El Gaucho's luggage, but was actually a caseful of equipment, and stowed it into the boot. After checking that the plane was safe he threw a switch and left the plane ready for a quick take-off, should the need arise. The cars moved off.

Paris was whisked off in a large black sedan with opaque windows to the Presidential Palace. As he sat in the back seat, Paris had grim memories of another black sedan - one of the last things his wife had ever seen ...

"You must be tired after your journey, El Gaucho!" commented Malpas, jarring Paris out of his reverie.

"No, no, no." replied Paris in a heavily-accented voice. "I am well used to all this travelling - it does not bother me."

"Permit me, though, to give you a meal before we get down to business."

"A meal - I would not refuse!" Paris's laugh was smooth and his smile wide. He 'accidentally' blew cigar smoke in Malpas's face.

As the cavalcade of cars drove towards the Palace, Paris noted that the ordinary people in the town either glared with hostility towards the passing vehicles, turned their backs or else simply ignored them. Obviously, he deduced, the islanders had no wish for a pro-Castro ruler.

The Presidential Palace was located on the waterfront. It was a square-shaped, four-storey building with approximately 60 rooms luxuriously furnished and upholstered. It was encircled by an electrically-wired fence and patrolled by gun-toting, dog-handling guards, noted Paris as the car slid through the gates and they were swung shut behind them by the gate guards. A road separated it from the beach. It had been the residence of a former Spanish Grandee and had lost none of its Castilian atmosphere.

Paris and Jim were shown to neighbouring luxuriously furnished rooms, where they freshened up. Because of the heat, Paris's false beard and wig were extremely itchy but, though he could not take them off, he enjoyed in privacy the bliss of a scratch. Bearing in mind that he may be being observed, he quickly cased the room for a TV camera or a radio bug. There were no cameras, but the two bugs were easily spotted -one in a bowl of flowers and the other in the overhead light. There were no others, despite his rigorous examination. Jim similarly de-bugged his room.

Feigning extreme anger, Paris stormed downstairs into the presence of Malpas. "What is the meaning of this?" he raged, the two bugs in the palm of his hand.

"A thousand apologies, El Gaucho. They must have been installed by the - ah - previous owner, no?"

"Hm." Paris appeared assuaged. "Well, perhaps. Otherwise, the indiscretion would have been intolerable and I would be forced to leave immediately."

"No, no, please do not do that, El Gaucho. You are welcome here, most welcome. Here, a drink?"

Paris settled down and allowed himself the luxury of a Spanish sherry.

"Forgive me, El Gaucho ..."started Malpas uncertainly.

"Well?"

"There has been much publicity that you had been killed ..."

Paris laughed quietly. "Shall we say - 'Reports of my death have been exaggerated?" He looked piercingly at Malpas to observe his reaction.

Then - what happened?"

Paris took a drag on his cigar before giving his prepared answer. "The Americanos captured me during a skirmish. I was sentenced to be shot by firing squad the next dawn. Luckily for me I had friends in the camp. Rather than have to admit that I escaped, the Americanos took a man who looked like me and shot him instead."

"I see." Malpas pondered, then walked round behind Paris. "Ah - it's strange ..."

Paris did not like him at his back, so he turned in his seat and looked up at him. "What is?"

"You - ah - resemble someone I once knew. But that's impossible, of course - he died in a car crash some time ago."

Paris's laugh was dry, his eyes raking the back of Malpas as he walked to the table.

A dinner gong sounded and Sanchez, Cristobal and Bonito walked in, followed by Jim and a dark complexioned, beautiful woman, dressed in a figure-hugging red evening gown. Paris's right eyebrow rose in surprise but he said nothing. The woman was called Conchita and was Malpas's, obviously merely the one he favoured for the moment. She sat beside him and flirted unashamedly throughout the meal. When the Brazilian coffee was being served, Paris leaned back and lit a cigar. "Well, Presidente, to business, hey?" Malpas dismissed Conchita with a wink. When she had gone, Paris continued. "The deal is simple - we supply you with arms and finance and you allow the Russians a safe harbour to develop the island as a nuclear missile site. Captain Novotny and I - " Paris indicated Jim "will tour the island tomorrow to choose the sites."

"Will I have to concede the Presidency to Mr Castro?" There was reluctance in Malpas's voice and calculating look.

"No, no, no - that will not be necessary. You may still have the name of being El Presidente and rule the island."

Sanchez rose from the table and whispered something in Malpas's ear. "My comrade here has suggested, and I agree with him, that we are in need of more money to fund our soldiers."

"Your soldiers!" Paris laughed dryly. "How much would your soldiers like?"

Malpas saw there was no need for pretext. "Two million dollars."

"That can be arranged - say - one week's time?"

Malpas and his men nodded agreement - soon they were going to be very rich men indeed - or so they thought.

"Excellent. Well, gentlemen, if you will excuse me, the hour grows late." Paris rose, as did Jim, and they walked out of the dining room, Paris leading by a step. As Paris came to his bedroom door, Jim said "Midnight." and walked on to his adjoining room.

Paris' s room was dark, for which he was grateful. He was desperate for a shower. In the darkness, he took off his shirt, threw it on the bed and went into the bathroom, turning on the low-powered light as he did so. There was a bathtub. Perfect. He pulled the water and then stood, preparing to ease his discomfort before bathing. As he waited he distinctly heard a noise in his bedroom. He froze, every muscle taut, adrenaline pumping. Swiftly he redressed, put out the light and paused. His pistol lay on a cabinet in the bedroom. Damn! Nothing else for it but to open the bathroom door quickly, dive low into the room and roll for where he had left the gun. He took a deep breath and went into action, coming up at the end of the bed, gun in hand, pistol cocked. "Good evening, señor!" came a sultry feminine voice.

He groped for the light switch, found it. Malpas's woman was lying seductively on his bed, but this time she was not wearing the red dress. The only thing she was wearing was a smile. Paris had never had, nor wanted, another woman since his wife's death. He did not want one now, but he still felt his body reacting at the sight of her nudity.

"What the hell do you want?" he asked, striding over to her and pulling her off the bed by her wrist.

"Oh, señor, you are hurting me. Please ... El Presidente, he give me to you tonight!" she struggled to be free. He looked around, saw her robe, lifted it quickly and threw it at her.

"Here, put that on and get out." He wondered how long the girl had been in the room before him. Had she searched his belongings? After she had covered up, he opened the door and pushed her out. "And don't come back!" He watched her flounce off down the corridor and disappear into her own room, then he slammed the door shut, his pulse racing. He sagged against the door. A few moments later, another knock came from outside. "Go away!"

"El Gaucho - it is I!" It was Jim's voice. Quickly Paris opened the door and let Jim in. "A visitor?"

"Yeah. Just when I didn't want one. Conchita - making herself - ah -available to me ..."

Jim laughed softly. "Some folk have all the luck! I've had a visitor, too." said Jim, showing Paris a detonator.

"Yeah - I thought of that. Where was it?" asked Paris.

"Under the bed." They found a similar device under Paris' bed, set to go off in two hours' time, when he would be asleep. Who had planted the bombs? Was there therefore an underground movement of islanders loyal to Diaz? Highly likely, reasoned Jim. Meanwhile, the bomb was counting. Paris's sure hands defused it and they both breathed easily.

With the release of tension, Paris was suddenly conscious again of his now pressing discomfort. "Ah, excuse me, I was just about to go when she ..." he pointed to the bathroom. Jim chuckled.

---oo0oo---

"This changes things a bit." commented Jim as they sat together on the bed. "We'll have to find out if the girl is connected with a rebel group. Any suggestions?" The look in Jim's eye was suggestion enough.

"What - attempt to seduce her?"

"Tell her you've changed your mind. If she shies away from going back to your bed, then she's the one who planted the bombs and is a rebel."

"Hm. Should we trust her?"

"If there is an underground movement here, we can use them in the overthrow. Invite her to your room just before the bomb was due to explode."

Paris waited till the house was silent, just fifteen minutes before the bomb was due to go off. With a bathrobe tied tightly around him, he padded along towards the girl's room. All was silent. Malpas had not come to investigate. Good. He knocked softly. "Senorita?" He heard movement from inside, the door was unlocked and she stood before him. He smiled widely, white teeth flashing. "I - uh - was a little hasty before, señorita."

She looked up at him with sultry brown eyes, saying nothing.

"Come with me." He took her hand to lead her, but she pulled away from him. "N-no." she stammered.

"In here, then?" He roughly pushed his way in and she backed off, just a little frightened. He reached into the pocket of his bathrobe and brought out the detonator. Her eyes widened as she recognised what he held in his hand. She tried to escape, but Paris gripped her firmly by the arm, his other hand covering her mouth to stop the inevitable scream. She subsided, unsure what to do next. Paris pushed her into a chair. "Now, little lady, s'pose you tell me what you know about this."

"Señor, you speak differently - you talk American, not Cuban."

"Things don't always appear as they seem, señorita. You wanted rid of me and my colleague tonight. Why? You do not like Malpas?"

"I spit in his face. He is an animal. We ..." she stopped herself before she said too much.

"As we thought. You are a member of an underground movement to depose Malpas?"

Reluctantly she replied "Si."

"We are here to do the same job, señorita. Will you take me to your leaders?"

"You are not El Gaucho?"

"No," he replied, patiently, "I am not El Gaucho. More like El Gringo. We are American agents."

She considered for a moment, then said "Wait. Let me dress. I will come in ten minutes. Be ready."

At her soft knock Jim and Paris slipped out of their rooms, both dressed all in black. She led them downstairs, then towards the cellar. There were guards patrolling the house, but, dodging them, they reached the cellar undetected. Conchita lit an oil lamp. Paris could see that the cellar stretched all the way under the house, terminating in brick walls. At one end there was a trapdoor in the ceiling, presumably where the barrels of wine were rolled into the cellar. Giant wine barrels lined the walls and Conchita went to one and opened it. A cold draught of wind blew out of its darkness. Jim and Paris looked at each other - a secret tunnel! "Follow me!" said Conchita and climbed nimbly into the barrel. Paris, with his slim physique, had no difficulty in following her into the narrow passage, but Jim, with his broader physique, found it a bit of a tight squeeze. Five minutes later the three emerged from the secret tunnel's exit in bushes outside the Palace's electrified perimeter fence. As they paused to rest in the cool night air, Jim asked "How did you find that out?"

"When you are children, there are no secrets, no barriers. Children are explorers, señor, and sometimes they find something exciting ..." She led them swiftly to the old township and to an apparently disused old shack on the outskirts. She paused again, and gave three owlhoots. A man with a rifle appeared from the darkness within. "I want to see Carlos." The armed man eyed the two strange men with her, then went to wake up Carlos.

He was a small but powerfully built man in his mid-30s, dark, curly hair and piercing brown eyes. "Conchita - who are these men? Why are you here?"

"Carlos, they come to help our Cause. They are Americanos."

---oo0oo---

Under the cover of darkness, Rollin and Barney went to work. Barney's alloted task was to disable, but not completely destroy, the radar tracking station located at the airstrip, and Rollin had to silence the communications building, which included radio and telegraph lines and the power supply.

In the night Barney, dressed in black, was a shadow amongst the shadows as he dodged amongst the silent airport buildings. The radar dish swished round and round in interminable sweeps, monitoring the airspace for fifty miles around. It was necessary to disable the radar in order that peace-keeping troops could be landed on the island after the successful completion of the IMF's mission. However, the installation was heavily guarded, with men in the conning tower and patrolling the landing strip. It would be necessary, Barney realised, to acquire another uniform. He hid in the depths of the darkest shadows, observing the guards' movements, timing them and picking out the man he would have to attack. As it was IMF policy not to unnecessarily take life, Barney had come prepared with phials of nerve gas that would knock out the victim for at least six hours.

At midnight a change of guard took place. Barney discerned the electricity power generator building from the cables running from it and the low hum coming from the spinning turbines. He chose a guard of similar height and appearance to himself, standing alone at the rear of the building. Perfect. Stealthily he approached, watching all the time lest some unexpected guardsman came near. All was quiet. The targeted guard leaned lazily against the building, then, turning his back, he brought an illicit cigarette out of his breast pocket and, as he was lighting up, Barney pounced. The sweet smell of the nerve gas was the first the guard knew of Barney's existence. The man crumpled. Barney caught him, and his rifle, before it could clatter noisily to the ground. He pulled the man into the shadows, stripped him and donned the uniform himself. Swiftly, he bound the man s arms and legs, a handkerchief as a makeshift gag in his mouth. Then he spied what appeared to be a fuel receiving bay in a wall of the building. He tried it - it opened. He bundled the guard's inert body into the darkness.

The now unguarded fuel bay offered an easy entry into the generator building. If he could fuse the electricity generator the radar operators would be blind ... He slid into the darkness, bumping into the unconscious guard's body. He waited for a moment to ensure he was alone, then, taking a box of matches from his pocket, he struck one. It flared, revealing, as he had suspected, a dump for fuel and other seldom-used items of equipment. His eyes scanned the room before the flickering flame guttered and died, almost burning his fingers.

A ventilator shaft ran along the ceiling and out into the night air. Using the shaft would keep him totally hidden from all the building's occupants whilst he searched for the hail containing the main generator. He prised open a grille duct and eased his tall form in. It was dirty and very dusty, but he was able to endure the discomfort as he snaked along the narrow metal corridor. At the third grille he looked out of, he found what he was looking for. The massive turbine hummed. The area was lit but apparently empty. He paused, watching and listening for footsteps. It was, however, the early hours of the morning. If there was a guard, he would be on the other side of the door, Barney reasoned. He pushed the grille but it would not open. He felt for nuts, bolts and screws and found them. He reached down to the pouch of tools he carried and went to work. A few minutes later, he removed the grille, dropped to the floor in a lithe movement and, as an added precaution, zig-zagged towards the control panel. Noiselessly he opened it, inserted the explosive charge, set the timer and swiftly retreated the way he had come, the darkness enveloping him. He returned to the guard's position just in time. A lieutenant and a sergeant approached him. "All quiet, Garrido?" the man asked, giving Barney a cursory glance.

"Yes, Sir!" he replied, keeping his face in the shadows and praying his voice was near enough Garrido's. It wasn't.

"You are unwell, Garrido? Your voice sounds - different."

Suddenly, explosively, Barney sneezed repeatedly, the dust and dirt from the ventilator shaft playing its part.

"Hm. You are unwell. An ill man is not an alert man. Sergeant, take over his watch. Dismissed, Garrido!"

Barney saluted, gave the sergeant his rifle, and walked, still sneezing loudly, towards a parked jeep. He turned the ignition and drove swiftly away to the township and safety, his part of the mission almost complete.

---oo0oo---

Rollin Hand, on a similar mission of sabotage in the Communications Building, was having problems. He had fast-talked his way in, saying he was a maintenance man come to check out a fault on the telegraph wires. Those on duty did not even give him a cursory glance as he made his way to the telegraph office. He saw a direction board indicating the way to the radio studios. Looking to ensure that no-one was observing him, he ran quickly through the swing doors into the darkness there. He found the technician's booth facing the small transmission studio. Following Jim's instructions, he tuned into 152 Mega Hertz and sent a single signal bleep to the other side of the island where Willy was waiting.

Willy, picking up the signal, jumped into a battered old van he had bought and had just finished converting into a strong armoured truck able to withstand gunfire and which would be used as a safe getaway vehicle for Diaz. He started to drive round the island towards the township to join the rest of the team.

Swiftly Rollin planted his explosive device at a strategic point. Satisfied, he was making his way back to the main corridor when he heard a shout.

"Hey, you, where do you think you're going?"

He stopped, turned slowly, casually, not to rouse suspicion. "Who, me, señor?"

"Yes, you, señor." replied the soldier with a pistol in his hand.

"I go to repair the telegraph, señor." he smiled, his blue eyes watching the man closely.

"I am the telegraph operator - there is no fault on the line." Now the guard was walking towards him.

"When did you last receive a message, señor?" Rollin persisted, despite the guard's approaching threat.

''Two hours ago."

"I was told by General Bonito only twenty minutes ago to come - the fault has arisen only recently." He saw the guard waver in indecision and knew he had gained a foothold. "Please, señor, permit me to look at the equipment, then I can tell you immediately whether or not anything is wrong." The tone of his voice was reasonable, plausible. The guard swallowed it.

"Come this way." and he led Rollin into a small room. The telegraph was chattering. "See, there is no fault, no fault at all." said the guard. But Rollin was not listening to him. He was listening intently to the message coming through in Morse Code. It repeated itself twice more, and Rollin felt a pang of fear thrill through him. The message read:

CONFIRM EL GAUCHO KILLED IN ACTION LAST YEAR. CASTRO.

He had to get to Jim and Paris, fast, before the message was delivered to Malpas. But how? He could see from the telegraph board that the message was relayed automatically directly to the Palace. If an operator was on the board, Paris was in real danger. Realising he had to act immediately, he moved over behind the guard, who was reading the message. At the last moment the guard sensed danger and turned to meet his assailant, but Rollin was too fast for him, and a numbing blow to the side of the neck felled the unprepared man. Swiftly, Rollin stripped him and donned the khaki coloured military uniform. From a Venetian blind covering the window he cut a piece of cord and bound the unconscious guard hand and foot and used a rag from the pocket of his maintenance boiler suit as a gag. He then dragged the limp body into a broom cupboard and closed the door. He had to get into the Palace to warn Paris and Jim.

---oo0oo---

Meanwhile, Jim had organised Carlos, the rebel leader and his men, loyal to the deposed President Diaz, into a coherent fighting force, ready to attack the key installations and Palace at the given signal - the explosions planted by Barney and Rollin, timed to go off at noon that day. Jim decided to stay with Carlos to co-ordinate the attack, but Paris had to return to the Presidential Palace with Conchita whilst it was still dark. Jim drew Paris aside. "You know what you have to do, Paris."

"Yes, Jim."

"I don't need to tell you how dangerous it could become but, just in case, take this ..." He gave Paris a bullet-shaped tablet, coloured red at one end and white at the other. Paris's eyebrow rose in enquiry. "Curare. Acts fast. The white end contains the curare, which will paralyse you and give the appearance of death. The red end is a blood pellet."

"Hm." He looked at the tablet, holding it between his index finger and thumb, then he carefully placed it in his shirt's breast pocket. "Anything else, Jim?"

"I want Malpas - alive." Jim's blue eyes were steady and commanding as he looked at Paris.

"Are you suggesting that - " flared Paris. "I haven't forgotten that he killed your wife, Paris. Just - don't let vengeance rule your actions in there."

Paris's eyes flashed anger at Jim's implication but he quickly controlled his emotions and said, quietly "Malpas will not die by my hand, Jim."

"Good luck, Paris."

"Quick, señor, we must return!" Conchita was impatient, as sunrise was approaching.

They returned to the Palace via the secret tunnel without incident and Paris and Conchita slipped into their rooms unnoticed. Time was of the essence now, and Paris had to find where Diaz was being held. Conchita had told them that she was forbidden to go to the top floor of the Palace, so she guessed that that was where Diaz was imprisoned. El Gaucho would have to find out.

---oo0oo---

However, as Rollin approached the Palace gates, the officer who was the Palace's resident telegraph operator knocked urgently on General Sanchez's bedroom door. "El General! El General! Por favor, it is most urgent! El General!"

Sanchez grunted, removed himself from the woman he was with and, covering himself, opened the door to the young officer. "Well?"

"I have a note, El General." and he handed it over. It read:

CONFIRM EL GAUCHO KILLED IN ACTION LAST YEAR. CASTRO.

Sanchez hurriedly dressed and, wakening Malpas, delivered the cable.

Malpas felt a shiver run up his spine as he read and re-read the single line. "So - we have an impostor. Hah! Get him - bring him to me, now!"

When Sanchez and two of his troops burst unannounced into Paris's room they found what appeared to be his sleeping form on the bed, but when they went to rouse him, they discovered it was a bolster laid to deceive them. "Search the Palace - but do not kill him - yet!" Sanchez smiled with uneven, dirty teeth, anticipating a duty he always enjoyed.

Paris, meantime, was stealthily climbing the stairs to the top floor of the Palace. He heard a floorboard creak and stopped. He then heard booted feet pacing above him. Diaz was being well guarded with two, possibly three men up there. He fingered the tube of nerve gas he had concealed in an inner pocket of his trousers. Yes, he decided, that would be the quickest and quietest way of disposing of them. He was preparing to release the gas when he heard other pairs of booted feet pounding towards him. Something was wrong! He was caught, there was no way back but downstairs and no way up. He turned to meet the approaching guards, mind racing.

"Arrest him!" Sanchez commanded.

"But why arrest me?" Paris bluffed, with his El Gaucho accent intact.

"El Gaucho is dead - you are an impostor!"

Paris, surrounded, had no chance of escape. The guards bundled him down the stairs and into Malpas's office, where he was waiting.

The guards roughly frisked Paris, revealing his gun and the tube of nerve gas. They held his arms behind his back, but he stood tall, his brown eyes flashing defiance.

"So, 'El Gaucho', you come to rescue Diaz, eh? Pah!" and he spat in Paris' face. Paris did not flinch. "I believe, 'El Gaucho', that we have met before ..." said Malpas malevolently as he approached Paris and stood very close to him. Malpas reached up to touch Paris's face, felt the stickiness of spirit gum on his 'beard', and tore off the beard and wig. "So! We have met before - John Paris! I thought I had successfully killed you some time ago."

"It was my wife you killed, you bastard!" Paris struggled to be free, but Malpas reacted by beating Paris up where he stood, firmly held by two guards. "Hah!" gloated Malpas as he struck Paris repeatedly till he fell semi-conscious to the floor. "A pity - such a pretty lady, as I recall. I was so sure I had got rid of you - but it must have been you who informed on me and had me arrested. This time I will make sure myself ... Stand him up!" Malpas took Sanchez's pistol and put it against Paris's temple.

As he released the safety catch, Paris exploded into action. "No! You will not kill me!" he shouted and, wrenching free of his captors, he knocked the pistol from Malpas's hand, reached into his breast pocket and, allowing Malpas a glimpse of the curare tablet, bit into the white end. As he felt the cool, bitter liquid slide down his throat, he put the rest of the tablet in his mouth. The curare worked immediately and Paris felt numbness in his legs. He gasped, choked and bit open the rest of the tablet. Coughing 'blood', he sank to his knees, then, gagging, he plunged like a felled tree to the floor, where, hands at his throat, he writhed in apparent agony for a moment, then lay still, face down, a grimace of pain frozen on his face, his unseeing eyes still open.

Malpas stood frozen with shock at the scene he had just experienced. Sanchez was the first to recover. He knelt by Paris and felt his neck for a pulse. Finding none, he looked up at his surprised chief. "Esta muerto, El Presidente."

"Muerto?!"

"Si, El Presidente. Mucho muerto."

Malpas approached the body and turned him over with his boot. Sickened, Malpas said "Get him out of here!" and the two guards complied, one lifting him by the armpits, the other by his feet.

As the two guards carried their inert burden towards the nearby barracks hospital, the gate guards stopped Rollin. "Papers!" the officer demanded. Rollin reached into his shirt pocket, handed the stolen papers over. The guard gave them a cursory glance, then allowed Rollin past. He walked towards the main entrance, but stopped short when the guards carrying Paris's body trudged past. He turned and ran after the two men, stopped them and asked "What happened?"

"He was an impostor and he killed himself." came the gruff explanation, then they continued their journey across the compound to the hospital. Rollin paused, dismayed. He was too late, Paris was dead. Or was he?

"Hey, you!" Rollin looked round. A guard with a rifle was walking towards him. "What is your business here?"

Thinking fast, Rollin said "I was sent to assist in the hospital, señor, but I do not know the way."

''Then follow these two men with the corpse."

Good, thought Rollin. Cinnamon is in the hospital, too. He ran to catch up with the two guards carrying Paris. "Here, let me carry him - I have been sent for guard duty to the hospital."

The two gladly relinquished their unpleasant load to Rollin, who slung Paris over his shoulder. As Rollin approached the barracks hospital he thought he felt Paris move. He pushed open the swing doors to Reception. Cinnamon stood behind the desk. Her eyes widened when she saw Rollin carrying Paris. "What happened?" she hissed.

"Don't know. He looks dead, but I'm sure I felt him move as I carried him."

"In here." and Cinnamon ushered Rollin into a booth with a bed. Rollin gently laid Paris down. Cinnamon felt his wrist for a pulse. Yes, there it was - feeble, but there. She leaned over him and smelled his breath. She recognised the bitter aroma of curare and the trickle of theatrical 'blood' at the side of his mouth. Knowing of the curare tablet ruse, she quickly found a syringe and a phial of stimulant. A few minutes later, Paris, somewhat groggily, swung his long legs over the side of the bed.

"Hi !" he said, giving a watery smile and shaking his head to clear it.

"What happened?" asked Rollin, and Paris quickly summarised events, ending with "... so we have to get Diaz out of there before the attack begins at noon."

"Now waaait a minute." said Rollin, a restraining hand on Paris's arm as he stood, a little unsteadily. "You cannot go back in - they'll kill you for sure."

"I must, Rollin. I know the layout of the Palace - ohhh!" he staggered and fell to his knees when he tried to walk. Rollin helped him back to his feet. "Rollin, Jim is with Carlos, co-ordinating the frontal attack. We're gonna need some equipment for in there - gas canisters, arms, that kind of thing. Get back to Jim and I'll follow you. Leave me - for a few minutes - I'll be fine - get going without me, go on!"

Just as Rollin moved to leave Paris, a detachment of soldiers marched imperiously into the Reception area. Cinnamon went to meet them. It was General Sanchez and six other troopers. "We are looking for a man - tall, white-haired, blue eyes, Russian. Have you seen him?"

"N-no." stammered Cinnamon. "Why, what has he done?"

"He is a spy - he was with an American agent - that one ..." he pointed, as he saw Paris, who had had to move quickly and was now lying on the bed again, playing dead. "He has disappeared and must be found - immediately!" and he strode on to search the whole hospital.

"I'll have to wait till they've gone - you stay here, we may need you later." whispered Rollin to Cinnamon, within Paris's hearing. They heard booted feet on the floor above, opening and slamming doors, searching unsuccessfully everywhere they could for Jim. Frustrated, Sanchez and his men stamped their way back out of the hospital to continue their fruitless search.

"Here." Cinnamon supplied Paris with fresh khaki clothing, which he quickly changed into whilst Rollin headed towards Carlos's hideout.

Paris caught up with Rollin and they rejoined Jim for further briefing.

---oo0oo---

Rollin crawled along the tunnel. When he reached the tunnel's entrance inside the Palace he lit the oil lamp Conchita had left there, then brought out a timer, fuse and plastic explosive which he had concealed in his uniform and set it to explode just after noon in order to seal off the escape route. Paris joined him as he completed his task and raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Blow the tunnel behind us once we get Diaz out and prevent others following us." he explained. Paris nodded approval.

They made a final check of the equipment which Jim had issued - a pistol each and six small gas canisters, three each, which they tucked into their belts, plus small gas masks to protect them against the noxious fumes. They synchronised their watches at 11.30 am - they had 30 minutes before the outside attack, mounted by Jim, commenced. They had decided on a pincer movement - Paris to go up the interior fire escape on the east wing, Rollin to ascend the west wing's fire escape. The top floor room in which Diaz was being kept captive was at the top of the main staircase and permanently guarded by two men. Its windows opened onto the back courtyard, which was a square surrounded by the Palace buildings. Malpas's Presidential suite was immediately below Diaz's prison room. The main danger zones were when they had to leave the cellar and run along the corridors to the fire escapes and, of course, breaking into Diaz's room. It was time to go.

A guard was patrolling the corridor just outside the cellar entrance. He walked back and forward a few times, then, to Paris and Rollin's relief, moved on down the corridor and climbed the staircase. "Go!" said Rollin, and they sprinted along the wide corridors, reaching the fire escapes undetected. They ascended the flights of stairs two at a time and reached the top, slightly breathless. In synchronised timing, they reached the bend in the corridor around which was the prisoner's room. Cautiously, Paris looked round it. Conchita was with the guards, chatting them up, flirting outrageously to distract their attention. When Paris boldly walked round the corner towards the guards, they did not notice the man with the gas mask on his face until it was too late. The canister of gas hissed as Conchita turned and ran away, and the two guards folded at the knees. One of the guards had the door key on his belt and Paris unhitched it, opened the door and, with Rollin right behind him, they entered Diaz's room, setting off an unexpected alarm, which rang shrilly in their ears. Paris cursed.

Diaz, a tall, well built, elegant man with a black moustache, rose from his desk in surprise at the unexpected intrusion. "Who ..." he began to say. Rollin put a silencing finger up to his lips.

"Come with us - quickly - there's little time!"

They ran out into the corridor and heard booted feet racing up the staircase towards them. Both Paris and Rollin opened and threw gas canisters, which rolled down the stairs towards the oncoming men, releasing a cloud of white, sleep-inducing vapour. As they fled, Paris, Rollin and Diaz heard the clatter of falling firearms and the thump of bodies as men toppled back down the stairs. They ran towards the West Wing fire escape and ran down it, but Diaz, an older man, was not as fit and slowed them down. Rollin led them down, and Paris brought up the rear, both men protecting their valuable charge. Guns in hand, they approached the door leading to the ground floor corridor. Rollin flattened himself against the wall for protection, and then pushed open the door. A hail of bullets sprayed through the open door, ricocheting or embedding themselves in the plaster. Paris felt a tug of pain in his side and swayed. A ricocheting bullet had grazed him. He held his hand against the wound to staunch the blood.

Rollin had one more gas canister and he used it. Guards fell like ninepins and suddenly the passage was clear. Rollin turned to see Paris leaning against the wall, head bowed as he clutched his side. "Paris?"

"Uuuuh." Paris groaned. "Rollin, I'm hit ..."

"Come on - we gotta get outta here - fast!" and Rollin took Paris under the armpit and helped him along the corridor to the cellar door. As Rollin opened it, they heard the crump of exploding bombs as the radar station, communications and power supplies were blown up. It was noon. The electricity supply was cut off, thus enabling Jim and Carlos's men to enter the grounds of the Palace, but, in the cellar, the oil lamp was still burning. Paris pulled himself up and led Diaz towards the secret tunnel. He checked his watch. They had just five minutes to escape before Rollin's planted bomb went off, destroying their escape route. Diaz was breathless, but they pushed him on. Paris's head was spinning so badly from the loss of blood from the wound that he stumbled and fell. As Rollin turned to help him a shot rang out. Rollin grunted in surprise and tumbled to the floor. Paris, still lying on the floor, recognised Sanchez hiding behind a barrel and unholstered his gun.

"So, 'El Gaucho', now you will die!" Sanchez leaned out to fire his next round, which missed Paris by centimetres and ricocheted away. Paris took careful aim at the one opportunity offered him, fired and saw Sanchez being thrown back against the wall, fall and lie still. Paris got shakily to his feet and warily inspected the body, but Sanchez was dead, a bullet in his brain. He then went over to where Rollin lay, trying unsuccessfully to get up.

"Rollin! How bad is it?" asked Paris. He could see a dark stain in the centre of Rollin's back and a pool of blood was already forming on the floor where he lay. Paris realised with a shock that the bullet had gone straight through him, severing his spinal cord.

"Real bad - can't - move - my legs!" His voice was strained with pain and he was gasping for breath. "You - go on - get Diaz out!"

"No! I'm not leaving you behind, Rollin, I'll defuse the bomb!"

Rollin coughed blood. "No time, Paris - listen - guards coming. I'll hold them off. GET DIAZ OUT!"

Paris knew that Rollin was right. He found Sanchez's gun, gave it to Rollin, and pushed Diaz into the tunnel entrance. He looked back one last time at Rollin, saluted him, then followed Diaz into the tunnel. Pulling himself painfully along, he was nearing the other end of the tunnel when he heard the staccato noise of automatic gunfire as Rollin and the troops exchanged fire then, as Jim was pulling Diaz out of the other end of the tunnel, Paris heard the deep roar of the explosion Rollin himself had set and felt the powerful shockwave as it hit him, knocking him unconscious, its reverberations causing the tunnel to collapse around him. Strong hands pulled Paris out of the rubble.

Someone was smacking his cheek, forcing him back to consciousness. "Paris! PARIS! Where's Rollin? Where's Rollin, Paris?" demanded Jim.

Paris's eyes focused on the man standing over him. "No, oh, no." he groaned, pulling himself together, hand over his eyes. "He - he stopped a bullet. It - paralysed him. He covered our escape. He's dead, Jim - he died - bravely."

Jim Phelps was stunned in disbelief. He had never lost an operative before - but to lose Rollin Hand ... Time enough to grieve later, he realised - too much work still to be done.

Jim inspected Paris's wound. He had lost a lot of blood, but it had just grazed his side. "Can you move, Paris?" Jim helped him shakily to his feet.

Diaz lay on the ground, gasping for breath. Willy still had not arrived with the armoured truck and Jim feared that he had been stopped along the way. He had to get Diaz to the waiting fishing boat, where he would remain until it was safe for him to return as President to the island. The maintenance truck Rollin had used was parked nearby. "Come on!" Jim roused Diaz and pulled him to his feet, then led him towards the van.

In the melee of overthrowing the Palace, Malpas escaped by shooting his way out of a side door and reaching his black opaque-windowed sedan. The Palace gates lay open since the loss of electrical power. Heedless of those in his path, Malpas accelerated through them and away down the coast road, passing near Jim, Diaz and Paris.

Paris saw the black sedan, being driven by his adversary, escaping. Summoning all his remaining strength, he sprinted towards the van, reaching it before Jim and Diaz. He jumped in and turned the ignition. Jim reached the van as its engine coughed into life. "What do you think you're doing, Paris?"

"Malpas - in that black car, Jim. Gotta stop him - quick, get in!"

"You're in no fit state to drive, Paris!" objected Jim, but there was no time for argument, Malpas was escaping. Jim and Diaz jumped in beside Paris, who, with tyres spinning, gunned the engine up the gears in pursuit.

Malpas was heading for the airport, tyres screaming round the corners. The road rose steeply towards the airstrip in a series of hairpin bends. As Paris started to negotiate the gradient he suddenly felt faint and pulled in. "Can't - go on, Jim. I've failed ..."

Jim saw what appeared to be a makeshift armoured van coming down the hill towards the speeding car.

"Willy! That's Willy in that truck, Paris!" exclaimed Jim.

Paris could see that there was no other traffic on the hill road. In a sudden flash of inspiration, he flashed the van's headlights in Morse Code 'IMF - IMF - stop car.' The three men saw Willy pull the truck across the road, barring the way immediately after a blind corner, then jump clear. Malpas could not see the obstruction until the last moment. He swerved to avoid a collision but the big car skidded. Malpas fought for control but lost, and the car's engine roared in complaint as it lost traction and flew in a graceful arc off the road and crashed, exploding in flames, down the hillside.

Paris closed his eyes and laid his head against the driving wheel, cutting off the sight of his beloved wife's killer meeting the same fate he had so callously dealt to her, and intended for him, two long years ago. The pain in his side soared. He clutched the wound, a soft groan coming from his lips as he slipped into unconsciousness.

"Paris! PARIS!" Jim gently lifted him out of the driving seat and laid him in the back of the van. When Willy drove down to meet Jim, he transferred Diaz to Willy's truck before carefully driving Paris back to the hospital.

He did not relish the thought of having to tell Cinnamon that Rollin was dead.

---oo0oo---

The battle was over, the true President of San Salvador was reinstated in his position at the Presidential Palace. The sadly depleted IMF had just returned to Jim's flat after attending Rollin's funeral. Cinnamon was there, dressed in black, a veil covering her face. Paris, still not fully recovered from his injuries, sat quietly, legs crossed, hands clasped, conserving his energy. Barney and Willy were sombre faced and silent.

Jim waited till everyone had settled, then said "Cinnamon, I believe you have something to say to us.

"Yes, Jim, I have." Her voice was soft with tears, but grew in strength as she spoke. "For personal reasons we never revealed to anyone, but now I can tell you - Rollin was my husband."

"Oh, no." Paris turned his head away, his own grief raw within him. Jim was at Cinnamon's side, holding her hand compassionately. Barney and Willy murmured their condolences.

"He - he said to me, that if anything ever happened to him, I should tell you this. He said he loved the work, that he was honoured to have been one of the IMF team, and that he was proud to serve his country. Paris said - a bullet paralysed him before he died. He would not have wished to live the rest of his life a helpless cripple. He chose his own death, and he died in the service of his country." Cinnamon lapsed into silence for a moment, then resumed. "There's just one more thing, Jim, gentlemen. I have no wish to continue in the IMF without Rollin."

"I understand, Cinnamon. We share your grief. He was a brave man."

"Thank you, Jim." Cinnamon rose from her seat, Jim embraced her gently, then with dignity she walked out of the flat, never to return.

There was a further moment of silence after her departure, when no words were appropriate. Then, breaking the spell, Jim turned to Paris. "I know this can only sound callous at this time but, Paris, there's a job for you here, if you would like to join us."

Paris took off the dark glasses he was wearing and looked up at Jim, allowing them all to see the tears coursing unashamedly down his cheeks. Huskily he said "Rollin was my friend - my mentor when I was a rookie in the CIA - he taught me all I know. I will be - proud - to follow in his footsteps, Jim."

"Welcome to the IMF, Paris."

---oo0oo---

CONTENTS