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walkie talkies and revolver hulges at the waists of their plain dark suits. They station themselves around the hotel entrance and oven in the lower bels. They have the place surrounded. There have been no phone calls-or at least that is the word from the desk. Branch paces nervously around the roost, He thinks that something he already knows about C.I.A. Cubans and terrorism must be the key to what's happening, but he doesn't know what it is. He tells everything he knows to Rothchild, going all the way back through Prio and the pre-Castro student movement Rothchild thinks Branch has lost his mind. It is fear, he figures. Branch realizes that Rothchild is lying down on the bed pretending not to be awake, that he has fallen into a stupor. It is fear, Branch figures.Then a call comes through, but it is not the contact Branch awaits. It is Inclán, who has been denied a room at the Hilton (even though she had a reservation) and she can't reach anybody at the U.S. Embassy. She wonders what the hell is going on. Branch tells her the situation at the Avila, but she decides to come over; there are lots of rooms and at least the reporters can show some solidarity.It takes a long time, too long, for Inclán to show up. Branch wanders downstairs; Rothchild waits by the phone for calls that never come. There is an uproar at the desk. The clerk is telling Inclán there are no rooms available even though the bank of keys is behind him in full view. He holds that position for about five minutes, then retreats to "there is some problem with you people. I can't give you a room." He seems scared. Everybody. seems scared. Denying a woman a room at three am. in Venezuela is a serious violation of the chivalric code. The three reporters talk about it, but they can't sit down or move around without being followed, almost mimicked, by cops. There are now at least six of them in the lobby at all times. Inclán decides she will sleep on a couch in the lobby, and she wonders if she should put on her nightgown for the goons. Sho sets her bags beside one couch, and the bellhop directs her over to a better one will a gracious flourish: he could have been opening the door to the wedding suite.After va.nly scouring the lobby for pay phones, the reporters agree that they have to make a move for the room so they can talk near a phone. The three make their way up the stairs like Cary Grant tiptoring between bedrooms. To their relief, no one stops Inclán.Branch offers Inclán his bed, saying he will sleep on the floor. Rothchild doesn't say anything, but lis paranoia tells him it is foolish to give the Venezuelans a chance to arrest them under the pretext of immoral conduct. Rothchild keeps opening the door because of his paranoia; Branch keeps closing it because of his. He doesn't want to be listened in on. Branch and Rothchild are not communicating much with each other by now. Each is worried that whatever he says the other will think it is crazy.Inclán tries to phone her editor in Miami, but it becomes clear after about an hour of excuses that the desk clerk isn't going to put through her call. Local lines still seem to be available, but whom to call? Branch has his list of connections, but these people are in their own delicate situations and Branch doesn't want to blow their covers by calling at four a.m. on what is certainly a tapped line. Inclán can't get an answer at the U.S. Embassy. Roth child has nobody to call, and that is one of his problems. Since he is so unconnected with the story, he is sure that the police will figure he is the heavy-a deep-cover C.I.A. man out of retirement from the Everglades.By elimination, the reporters can think of only one person in Venezuela that they could contact. Inclán has fir d out, from her visit to the A. Hilton, what floor Ricardo Morales is staying on and she thinks she knows what his room number is. Her plan is to call him directly. It is clearly a desperation move. Inclán rings up Morales at the Anauco Hilton, apologizes for the hour and begins to explain her predicament, but it is clear things are not going well. Morales apparently is denying that he is Morales. "You aren't Rica.do Morales?" Inclin asks incredulously. "You know me and I know you. I talked to your nephew in Miami yesterday. His family is fine and he sends his warmest regards."There is a pause and Inclán begins to sound like a panelist on What's My Line?. "You've never heard of a Morales? Who are you then? Your voice sounds familiar. You're not a Venezuelan. You sound Cubaa. Are you a Cuban?" Morales says he is tired of being interrupted in his sleep; he hangs up the phone.An air of resignation has settled over the room. It is almost morning and the goons are still standing by the bushes. The reporters are under some kind of house arrest and they feel caged. They wonder why Morales has just denied being himself. Maybe all this is happening because they know who he is and Morales fears they will ruin his cover identity. Or maybe Morales doesn't want Branch to reveal his background to anybody in Venezuela. The reporters kick this notion around, but it doesn't fit. It seems preposterous that the Venezuelans don't know about Morales previous lives, which are talked about all the time in the Miami rumor mill.Branch paces around the room, trying to make his mind catch up with his fears. He even asks Inclán whether she is guarding some secret that might have caused the trouble.. Inclán says no and politely doesn't return the question. The reporters already trust each other instinctively, but the spy world threatens to swallow them up, too. They decide there is nothing to do except try anything to reach the outside world in the morning before getting shuttled off to the DISIP.Inclán goes off to the lobby for some sleep on her couch. Branch tells Rothchild the rumor about the rapprochement between Morales and Bosch, saying he'd even heard Bosch had been staying in Morales' apartment. But it doesn't make any sense. Nothing does. Branch babbles on until he finally runs out of nervous energy. "Well, John," he says, smiling thinly as he sinks onto the bed, "I was right about one thing. I told you it wouldn't be a boring weekend."Morales Takes OverIt is five-thirty a.m. and somebody is pounding on the door. Rothchild, a light sleeper, jumps out of bed. He opens the door just a crack, and then the door is thrown back so hard it bangs against the wall like a gunshet. A man in a green suit with a long walkietalkie hanging from his belt bursts past Rothchild, throwing on all the lightscontinued> [Figure] Cartoon of a person standing with their arms out wide.