Chapter sixteen
Don Anibal Tabio died at ten o'clock the next morning. He died on the operating table, under Ansaldo's knife.
Hall was in Santiago's office when Eduardo Sanchez called at eleven to say that an AP flash had just come through in the newspaper's wire room.
"Call me when the next bulletin comes through," he said, slowly. "We have to know what Gamburdo and Lavandero are planning." Somehow, although he had known for days that Tabio's hours were numbered, it was hard to swallow his friend's dying on Ansaldo's terms. He was too stunned to wonder how Gamburdo had finally won out. For a moment, there was a sensation of sudden emptiness; this gave way to a sense of horror and rage.
"Poor Anibal," he said. "Charging the arrows of the Falange with only the white plume of Truth in his thin hands."
"He was your friend, wasn't he?" Santiago said. "He was a very great man."
"Yes."
"Would you like a drink, Mateo?"
"No, later. Call de Sola again. Tell him to hurry up. I'm going to the Mexican Embassy. I have to leave an envelope with the secretary. I'll be back in less than an hour."