But now, at the news of Irena's death, he knew. At last, his grief under firm control, he stood up, straightened his tie, put his jacket back on, and walked forward, out of his cabin and into the Press por- tion of the plane. The area was in a state of hubbub as the reporters tried to digest the implications of the report from El Monte.

"With Irena Varga dead, will you even bother to land?” was the first question thrown at Ward by an earnest, long- haired, young reporter.

Ward gave him one of his renowned glacial stares, but the young man stared back, smiling and unabashed.

"If Irena Varga is dead, said the Envoy stiffly, "then I shall wish to pay my respects to one of the most dynamic political figures this country has ever known."

Joe Lipper, older, portly, and a contemporary of Ward's, had elbowed to the front of the reportorial pack. “If?" his deep brass reverberated in the narrow cabin. "Is there doubt as to the authenticity of this?" He waved the copy of the radio message that Ward's eager aides had already xeroxed and passed around. "Is it still possible that Irena Varga is not dead?" boom- ed Lipper, his eyes hooded, his expression sour.

As always, thought Ward wryly. Joe Lipper was perhaps the most suspicious and cynical man he'd ever met.

"I didn't mean that, Joe," he said, giving the heavy figure a sardonic smile.

Lipper nodded and rolled up one shirt sleeve as he poised a notebook and pencil ready for Ward's statement.

"I just meant to tell our friend here," Ward nodded at the grinning youngster, "that we'd be landing no matter what. We have to, he said raising his tone so that all the reporters got the message clearly. "To try to end this threat to peace

,,

and stability of the Western Hemisphere, we must be pre- pared to talk to all sides in the dispute."

"Even to murderers?" Lipper's question was just a murmur, but such was the natural depth to his voice that every curiosity-heightened face turned to Ward to watch him

answer.

Louis Ward brushed a hand across his forehead, sweeping away an imaginary, wayward lock of white hair. But he already knew his answer to that one. "We shall try," he said slowly and emphatically, "to impress upon whoever it is who controls El Monte that there is more to be lost than to be gained by continuing the war in El Chaco, and particularly by launching any kind of offen- sive against Boca and the states that have supported him."

the reason for the man's out- sized appearance. The serious- faced Francisco Fuentes was wearing something beneath his shirt, almost certainly a bullet- proof vest. Ward did a fast cal- culation. The death of Irena, plus the elimination of Fig- ueroa's Interior Police, would mean the seizure of power by the Army---but that wasn't ex- pected until later. Perhaps, it was the Army behind the assassi- nation and that was why 'moderate' leader, Fuentes, a

was so clearly upset.

streets.

Ward's unease grew as the limousine sped silently along almost empty Yet, Regular Army troops were in control of the major inter- sections. There were de- at tachments in parks and large, obviously governmental buildings.

erican

At the Hotel Lorenzo, these were supplemented by a large number of plainclothed guards, who regarded the Am- party with great sus- Fuentes conveyed Ward immediately and alone to the elevator, thence to the Third Floor and the Presiden- tial Suite.

It was Francisco Fuentes, grim-faced, who picion. was waiting for Ward on on the tarmac in front of the plane. Ward knew the Foreign Minister slightly. Yet, he knew that Fuentes, by reputation, was a fun-loving, affable enough gadfly. But there

at

the airport, Fuentes was curt, serious, wary with an eye on every rooftop as if watching for snipers.

"I have been asked to convey you and your party to the Hotel Lorenzo,' Fuentes had said formally, without, Ward noted, reference to whom the request had been made by.

car.

Ward had walked with the bulky man to the waiting limou- sine, noting with surprise the number of Regular Army men in position about the Usually, that was a task re- served for the infamous In- terior Police, but they were notably conspicuous by their absence.

As the Foreign Secretary ducked to get into the auto- mobile, Ward suddenly realized

-26-

In the antechamber, Fuentes and Ward were frisked without comment by a quick and expert plainclothes man. A small pistol was removed from Fuentes' inside pocket and stored in the belt of the searcher. Ward knew he could have successfully protested the search, but that would have taken time. Better to submit with good grace and get on with his mission.

The searcher nodded to the far door. the guard at Sullenly and still with great caution, the guard opened the door and beckoned Ward and Fuentes forward.

"Mr. Ward," Irena Varga was seated on a long sofa, the plush greenness of which accentuated the slim blackness of her long skirt. There was a glass coffee table in front of