The Coup - 3

By Peter Schoenau

He watched the barman make the Mojito. Two spoonfuls of sugar, a little lime juice, mineral water and mint leaves. The barman crushed a large chunk of ice with a wood block, dropped the pieces in the glass and topped it with a liberal dose of white rum. A drop of Angostura rounded it off. The ice of the Mojito steamed.

Light faded rapidly as night approached. He looked to the old cannons. The street-lamps across the street cast their dim light on the still palm trees. The fronds pierced the night sky like sharp knives. The sky streaked in orange flames above bands in charcoal and pitch-black. In front of the palm trees, the silent mouths of the old cannons pointed toward the canal. To his right, the beacon had started blinking sequentially, four times short, twice long…

Across the canal, he could still made out the darkening outline of a circus tent. Two days earlier, a circus had set up shop, turning Malecón into a long row of lights. In the darkness he barely found the outline of the five-foot high seawall and the narrow strip of algae-covered rocks and the dark and dirty sand where the waves crash.

At exactly 11 A.M. the old Buick approached the post office, Federico behind the wheel. The engine purred smooth and quiet like a freshly oiled sewing machine.

Federico stopped at the post office and let Miguel and him out, then drove up to the green curb opposite the station, as planned. Miguel had stuffed the AK47 inside a large travel bag. Carrying the bag he appeared to be your average traveler. He looked around but saw nothing alarming. Everyone around him seemed as if they were where they were supposed to be, going about their business without a care in the world.

The two men entered the lobby and stood in line for a moment. He pulled his Beretta from his waistband and Miguel pulled the AK47 from his bag.

"Everyone against the wall," he said, pointing the weapon at the opposite wall.

"Stay calm, and you will live, compañeros."

The staff behind the unsecured stations was too bewildered to set off the alarm or resist in any way. He leaped across the counter and handed a plastic bag to a timid young woman, her whole body trembling.

"In there. All of it. And be quick about it."

The bounty amounted to a couple of thousand dollars and about fifty thousand pesos. As they stormed out of the post office and headed for the '54 Buick parked across the street, everything that could go wrong did.

A policeman, wrapped in a tight embrace with his girlfriend as they said their good-byes, had smelled a rat. He pushed the girl away. She fell to the ground as he reached for his gun. His second shot ended in Miguel's back.

He turned and returned fire. He was out of breath and the sun blinded him. The policeman continued to fire. He felt a jolt against his right upper arm. He had almost emptied his Beretta before the policeman doubled over and fell. A red stain spread against his light blue shirt.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Federico get out of the getaway car and aim, and then he heard the old Mauser bark twice. But who was Federico shooting at? He turned to his right and saw Carlos, his face covered in blood. My God, he thought, please no. No.

He turned to Federico, but Federico lay on the ground and didn't stir. Then all was quiet, and the old Buick started up right away. He took Calle Egidio to the coastal road, zigzagging around for a little while before he approached the hotel. He parked the car on Calle 21. He would be able to monitor the hotel entrance from there. He spent several hours in the car smoking one cigarette after another. Everything stayed quiet. No police, just the normal patrol on the beat. No conglomeration of cars, no one pacing up and down in front of the hotel waiting. It grew dark. No red dots in the darkness, no signs of lit cigarettes that lit up in too repetitive a pattern for passersby.

Finally he got out of the car. The lobby of the hotel seemed normal; busy, but nothing unusual. He asked for the key and once inside the elevator leaned back, exhausted. He took a couple of deep breaths. The robbery had cost Miguel's and Federico's lives. He had treated his injury, a flesh wound in his upper arm, with Añejo, and bandaged it. It hurt but it wouldn't stop his plans.

He switched on the TV to listen to the news and thought of Carlos. How did that happen?

"Three armed criminals robbed the post office near the main station this morning. They got away with a large sum of money, the exact amount still unknown. As they attempted to flee, the bandits were stopped by a patrolling officer who happened to be in the vicinity. Before the officer was killed, he managed to wound one of the criminals fatally. A second robber was killed in the ensuing exchange of fire. Capitán Carlos Mendoza, who was on duty in that area following the hint of an informer, also was killed in the fighting. A third criminal was able to get away in a car and his whereabouts are currently being investigated."

With shaky hands, he poured himself a double Añejo and gulped it down. Then he put his head in his hands and groaned, "My God." Tears trickled down beneath his fingers.

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