"And you, Major?"
"The hell with what I think. I'll do my thinking later. If he comes through, I'll tell you what I think. If he funks out on us, I'll slit his throat."
"All right, Rivas," Santiago said. "We will give you your chance. We need your help tonight."
"Shall I come armed? I am an expert marksman, Colonel."
"No. We shall carry the arms. You shall carry the key—or the keys. We want to get into the third floor of the Embassy, and we want to get out alive—and without shooting. Can it be done?"
Rivas raised his head, stared into the faces of the three men who held open the gates of the Republic. "I am willing," he said. "It might take some planning, gentlemen, but it can be done." He held out his hand to Santiago. The colonel accepted it.
"I am glad you are with us," Santiago said. "In a sense, you are the most fortunate of the four of us. You see, Rivas, if we should all get killed tonight, yours would be the most lasting memorial."
"But why me, Colonel?"
Santiago picked a heavy manila envelope up from the floor. He took out the photographs of the memoir on Franco's Spain that Rivas had written in his own hand. "You see," he said, "if we should all die tonight, the Casa de la Cultura will publish your excellent memoir—with a postscript about your heroic sacrifice."
"But how?" Rivas gasped. "Where?"