president who fancied himself as Bolívar’s modern-day socialist successor; and, central and largest, the current holder of the office.
The general kept his contempt hidden. Suarez in person was not nearly as impressive as the artwork, his hair thinning and greying, fuller in face and body thanks to the lack of exercise and rich foods that accompanied high office. Callas made a mental note not to fall into the same trap once he occupied this room.
With Suarez was another man in fatigues: Vicente Machado, second-in-command of the militia after the president himself. He was also number two after Suarez on Callas’s long list of enemies, a problem to be eliminated as soon as possible. With its head cut off, the militia’s body, a semi-trained rabble of peasants and paupers driven by vapid propaganda or the desire to feel important because they were wearing a uniform and carrying a gun, would soon die.
That time was rapidly approaching. But not quite yet. He had to wait for Stikes.
Suarez finally looked away from Machado. ‘Salbatore! What’s going on? Who is behind this?’
‘Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer yet,’ Callas replied. ‘I’ve had reports of gangs rioting in the barrios, attacks on police stations and military personnel. But it’s definitely organised – the first incidents all took place simultaneously. Someone is behind it all.’
‘The Americans,’ said Machado. ‘It has to be. They’re trying to overthrow the revolution!’
Callas forced himself not to tut sarcastically at the idiot’s naïveté – Suarez had appointed him for his loyalty, not his brains. Instead, he took advantage of it. ‘They would be the obvious culprits, yes. And,’ he put a conspiratorial note into his voice, ‘they could have agents anywhere. For an operation this big to begin without our security forces knowing, the CIA must have corrupted people at all levels. The police – even the militia.’
‘Or the army,’ Machado said. Stupid he might be, but he still had enough cunning and survival instinct to recognise an attempt to discredit him.
Which was exactly what Callas wanted. ‘Or the army, yes. We have hundreds of thousands of soldiers – there’s no way to know how many have sold their loyalty to the Americans.’ He faced Suarez. ‘Which is why we have to get you out of Miraflores and to a secure location.’
‘No,’ said Suarez. ‘The people need to see that I am still in control. Not running away and hiding.’
‘But that’s exactly what President Chavez thought in 2002,’ Callas countered, raising a hand towards the portrait of the former leader. ‘The plotters in the coup attempt arrested him here in the palace – in this room! He only survived because his enemies overestimated their support among the people. They won’t make the same mistake twice. We have to get you to safety. I’ve already ordered a helicopter gunship to evacuate you.’
‘To where?’
‘There’s an army base at Maracay. It—’
‘Not an army base,’ Machado interrupted. ‘The Bolivarian Militia are responsible for the President’s safety. One of our facilities.’
‘It . . . is your decision,’ Callas told Suarez, making a show of seeming conflicted at the idea of deferring to Machado. ‘Your safety is my top priority. I will be at your side whatever you choose, of course.’
‘The militia base,’ said Suarez after a moment. Machado couldn’t contain a smug smile. ‘But yes, you will come with me, Salbatore. Both of you will. I need you to fight back against these bastards!’
‘The helicopter will be here soon,’ Callas told him. ‘We should go now, before the rebels move on Miraflores.’
‘I’ll get some men,’ said Machado, hurrying into the anteroom.
Suarez stood, gathering up documents. ‘Don’t worry, Tito,’ said Callas reassuringly. ‘We’ve seen days like this before. We’ll get through it together.’
Suarez gave him a faint smile. ‘I’m glad to have you behind me, Salbatore.’ He shoved the documents into a folder and snapped it shut. ‘All right. Let’s go.’
They left the room, waiting briefly for Machado as he finished issuing orders by telephone. The two militiamen outside the doors fell into step behind the group as they moved through the palace. ‘A squad will meet us at the west exit,’ Machado reported.
‘The helicopter only has eight seats,’ said Callas. ‘It can take the three of us, plus five of Vicente’s men. Everyone else will have to stay.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Suarez said dismissively, his own well-being now dominating his thoughts. They reached the outer doors, where a gaggle of armed militiamen awaited them. Machado selected five to accompany them to the helicopter, and ordered the rest to