The widows war, p.12
The Widow's War, page 12
On their second game, Ryan said, ‘You and I, Commandant — we’re going to have to have a little talk.’
‘Yes?’
‘I insist that I know my men — particularly my officers. I want to know more about you — everything about you.’
The Frenchman drew back his lips over his half-drunk coffee. ‘You will be disappointed, Colonel. It is not a sensational story. I was merely involved, some years ago, in an attempt to kill de Gaulle. It was a fiasco, like all the others. I was able to get away to Sicily, then to Rome, and later Madrid, where I met Madame. Does that satisfy you?’
‘You are not a crack shot, Commandant?’
‘I am not a bad shot.’
‘But you prefer to delegate that sort of thing to others? Just as in this operation you’re happy to be the middle-man — you have the ear of La Vuelva, but you accept me as your commanding officer. You will transmit my orders to whatever riffraff La Vuelva has lined up on that beach in Colombia, but you will conveniently avoid any ultimate responsibility. Perhaps that’s why you never made it higher than commandant?’
The Frenchman’s face had grown stiff and his knuckles white round his coffee cup. ‘Perhaps,’ he said at last, ‘I should also tell you that I won the Médaille Militaire at Dien Bien Phu. That was while you, Colonel, were making money out of sauna baths and diets for rich women. You have no right to criticize me. You do not know what it was like in those last two weeks in that valley — with twelve thousand dead, whom we could not bury, and the last parachute reinforcements falling behind the Viet-Minh lines. No one can have any idea. No one.’ His voice had sunk to a whisper, and Ryan noticed, with some misgiving, a nerve tugging at the edge of the man’s eye.
There was a pause, broken by the monotonous roar of wind and sea. The Frenchman made no move to lay out another game of chess. Ryan said: ‘The operation we’re heading for won’t be quite as glorious, but it may be just as bloody — on a smaller scale. It may also end just as badly. Why are you doing it, Commandant? You don’t look the mercenary-type. And you don’t look like one of La Vuelva’s political disciples. What are you?’
Moulins gave a short harsh laugh. ‘You’re wrong. I am a mercenary. I’m also a soldier. But what can a soldier do without an army? I fight for whoever pays me. Like you.’
Ryan nodded. ‘There are worse ways of making one’s fortune. Not many, but some. How much is she paying you?’
The Frenchman tasted his coffee, which was now cold. ‘That is an impertinent question. I decline to answer it.’ He stood up. ‘We shall meet for dinner, perhaps?’
Ryan nodded, and the two of them returned to their cabins. Ryan took a salt-water shower, then dozed on his bunk till eight. When he returned to the wardroom for dinner, La Vuelva again did not appear.
Between his regular prowls round the windswept deck, Ryan spent his time wedged in his narrow bunk against the queasy heave and pitch of the ship, treating his stomach with a diet of coarse Spanish brandy.
He felt suspended between reality and responsibility — his senses numbed, his emotions detached and relaxed.
His original diagnosis of the situation still seemed valid. If they had gone to these lengths to recruit him, they would not eliminate him now. Nor did the crude violence of his initial treatment at their hands greatly trouble him: they were crude, violent people, and Ryan’s own experience of the Caribbean had taught him that even in the highest political circles you do not expect subtlety. Whether they had killed poor Miles Merton in order to silence him, or merely to prove to Ryan that they were serious, was something upon which he could only speculate.
If there was one thing that did worry him, it was the fate of his Lagonda; as well as a nagging concern about how — back at The Hermitage — they would treat his unexplained disappearance. But then the ineffably competent Miss McKinley would have the establishment under control: and it was even with some chagrin that Ryan realized that his absence would mean little or nothing to the smooth clinical process of removing several pounds of surplus cellulite fat from the buttocks and thighs of his affluent clientele. In fact, he had made himself professionally so efficient as to have become dispensable.
The few doubts he did have usually came at night, in the small dead hours when the creaking and groaning of his tiny cabin seemed even louder than the boom of the sea outside. These doubts did not so much centre on the operation itself as on its leader. In La Vuelva Ryan thought he recognized the type: a rich, spoilt South American slut — clothes a little too chic, voice a little too shrill; who always travelled first-class and treated the stewards and hostesses like dirt.
But with this woman there was something else. As well as her immense wealth, she still obviously had power, and an appetite for even greater power. Yet beneath that well-bred exterior, purchased by money and sustained by toadies and sycophants, lay a dangerously vulnerable, neurotic creature striving desperately to live up to the memory of her dead husband. A coarse lonely woman with a weakness for drink, for casual sex, and probably for gratuitous violence.
And it was to this woman that Ryan had been hoaxed, forced, and finally bribed to entrust his very existence.
On the third night, he was lying in the hot humming darkness when he became aware that the sheet and blankets had been pulled down below his waist, and that two sets of cool fingertips were touching his belly and thigh; that his pyjama trousers had been peeled down to his knees, and that his erect penis was being softly, skilfully licked and sucked by some invisible creature in the dark.
His first reaction, beyond his physical response, was suspicion. He had not locked the door, and now reached down and felt the smooth face over his groin, the hair hanging loose over his fingers. His heart was beating hard. He took her face in his hands and pulled it towards him, kissing her aggressively on the mouth. Her body came down towards him. She was wearing only a thin nightdress. He pulled it up to above her breasts, and dragged her body against his, wedging it underneath him in the narrow bunk. She said nothing. He entered her gently, but she was already moist and let out a shrill moan; and together their bodies moved to the throbbing vibration of the ship.
Three times she screamed, and Ryan feared — even above the roar of the sea — that Commandant Moulins, in the next cabin, must hear. Five minutes later they lay still, and he could feel the pain in his back where her fingernails had scraped deep into the skin.
He felt pleasantly exhausted, still keeping the weight off her with his elbows, kissing the lobes of her ears and the corners of her mouth. She suddenly kicked away the sheet and blankets and slid to the floor. He felt he ought to say something but at the same time wanted her to speak first. She said nothing. He heard the faint rustle of her nightdress in the dark, then the door opened and closed behind her.
He lay for some moments, sated but not at ease. And again he realized that this was hardly the kind of relationship he should have chosen with his future Supreme Commander. Either he was to be a casual stud — which certainly flattered him, considering his age — or he was to carry out a specified military operation. But liaison like this was likely to have only two results. He might become indispensable to La Vuelva, in which case he would find himself playing a surrogate General Ramon; or she would tire of him, and that could easily mean a bullet in the neck.
Above all, he liked to be master of events, particularly in matters of sex. La Vuelva had recruited him, by a series of eccentric and brutal means, and was now indulging herself with his body as though he had no choice in the matter. His pride was hurt, while all his professional instincts warned him against becoming further involved.
For the next two days he did not see her; and at night he lay awake, uneasily expecting another visit.
Next day they docked at Funchal. On the quay-side Ryan saw a large hoarding in English, advertising tea-bags.
They left the ship last, separately, with La Vuelva and Commandant Moulins taking the lead: the Frenchman in his white polo-necked sweater, she in a smart fawn suit. There were no problems with the officials: the young man who examined Ryan’s new passport smiled and wished him a happy stay in Madeira. He ignored his black eye and cut lip.
Outside the dock a large car was waiting. Ryan got into the front, with La Vuelva and Commandant Moulins in the back. The Frenchman gave a brisk order in Portuguese to the driver, who skirted the town, along the coast-road towards the airport.
The plane was a twin-jet Executive, with tables set between the seats, and an air of spacious extravagance. When Ryan inquired what the fuel consumption was, Moulins assured him that the plane carried enough to reach the Caribbean and land anywhere it pleased.
They both sat near the front, with La Vuelva alone at the back. They did not see the pilot or navigator. The jets gave a low howl; they turned, lined up for the take-off, and with a long smooth scream were airborne. Ryan dozed off.
Four hours later, he saw the sprinkle of lights below him and fastened his belt. The Jamaican authorities were all white-teethed and white-shirted, gleaming with hospitality at the arrival of a private jet.
They went to the bar, where Ryan was relieved to see La Vuelva share a bottle of mineral water with the Frenchman. Ryan drank Scotch. Their conversation was oblique, with no suggestion of conspiracy. La Vuelva hardly joined in.
It was nearly midnight when their connecting flight was called — commercial this time, Colombia Air, destination Bogota. There were only a couple of other first-class passengers: the usual dark, well-fed figures in business suits with rings on their fingers and a contented look which took for granted the instant attention of the stewardesses. There was mock caviar, pâté de foie gras, and a not very good champagne. Ryan again asked for whisky. He noted that La Vuelva was not drinking.
The dawn was coming up as they circled in over Bogota: a tall narrow city which looked from the air like a long graveyard, its skyscrapers jutting up from a high ridge between dim, rolling mountains.
There seemed to be only one official on duty at the airport — a man in uniform with a gun, and sleep-dirt in his eyes. He glanced at their visas and stamped them, then waved the three of them through. Outside, a long black American limousine was waiting, with a chauffeur in cap and leggings standing at the kerb. They were driven away through miles of steaming shantytown into the neon-lit splendour of the new city. The hotel was a heavy edifice, whose marble exterior dated from the twenties. Inside was the deep-carpeted, air-conditioned luxury of any modern first-class hotel in the world.
While La Vuelva and Commandant Moulins were checking in, Ryan confirmed that the hotel had an international telex. He also knew that Bogota was six hours behind Geneva, which gave him a comfortable hour in which to settle in and have breakfast while his Swiss bankers finished their lunches.
She and Moulins had disappeared when he reached Reception and checked in under his new alias as Robert Broakes. While the boy carried his case to the lift, he bought the morning papers from the lobby kiosk. They were all in Spanish — the two American papers, from Panama, only arrived in the evening — and he glanced through blaring headlines in which the Government congratulated itself on a new highway, an irrigation works, a dam in the south of the country. The rest of them were devoted to sport. There was almost no foreign news.
Looking out of the picture-window of his room, Ryan had no sensation of being in a strange city, except for a slight giddiness caused by the fact that this was the highest capital city in the world — standing at 8,700 feet above sea-level. The weather was grey, and cloud hid the tops of the surrounding mountains like clumps of fungi. The streets below were wide, moving with modern traffic, the buildings tall and uniform, like rows of upturned mouth-organs.
After a shower, shave, and an American breakfast, he rode down again to the lobby. There was piped music and a stream of short, sleek-haired men with briefcases who paid no attention to him. He was just another ordinary well-dressed gringo tourist.
He went to the telex bureau and sent his message to Geneva, identifying himself only by the seven-figure number of his secret account. He had already informed the bank, in his covering letter from St Malo, that they were to address any messages to his new name of Broakes.
The reply came twelve minutes later. His numbered account had been credited with US $250,000 — minus the usual charges, and what the Swiss so charmingly call ‘negative interest’.
Feeling braced and relaxed, he went to the bar. It was empty except for a slim long-legged Negro whose shiny complexion matched his charcoal silk suit. He was wearing wrap-around mirror-glasses that reflected the orange juice he was drinking. He seemed not to notice Ryan.
Ryan himself drank a couple of whisky-sours, then sauntered back into the lobby and stood for some time looking into a souvenir shop, full of hideous Indian artifacts. When he turned, he saw the Negro in the middle of the lobby, lighting a cigarette. Ryan was still aware of that slight giddiness; and he now felt a quick surge of adrenalin.
He began to walk towards the entrance. As he passed the Negro, the man flicked his cigarette into a marble box of sand. His inscrutable glasses made it impossible to tell whether he were watching Ryan or not. Ryan walked on, out through the revolving doors.
A tepid rain was falling. Along the pavements umbrellas were sprouting like mushrooms; but few people seemed to be hurrying or seeking shelter. The poorer women were bent double under black shawls, their teeth stained blood-red with betel-juice.
Ryan soon found that the effort of walking left him slightly breathless: a combination of alcohol and altitude. He turned into a cheap supermarket, mostly full of Indians and mestizos; made several rounds of the poorly-stocked shelves, and saw the tall Negro waiting near the entrance. Either the man was new to this game, or was deliberately waiting for Ryan to make the first move.
Ryan walked out again into the rain. At the corner he turned into a narrow street where a gang of children were playing some complicated game on the pavement. He continued another few hundred yards, between steep ugly tenement blocks, paused at a cigarette kiosk, bought a packet of king-size filter-tips and a box of cheap wax matches. He put the cigarettes in his pocket, kept the matches in his right hand, swung round and lifted both fists, one aimed at the Negro’s jaw, the other at his belly. In the same moment, the Negro also raised both hands, in a defensive stance, moving with the speed and grace of a dancer, or a boxer.
Ryan said, ‘All right, hold it! Who are you? And don’t play dumb — you’ve been following me for the past half-hour. Just about the worst tail-job I ever saw.’
‘Name’s Jones,’ the Negro said, in a rich Southern accent. ‘You’re Ryan, ain’t yah? That’s an Irish name, if ah’m right?’ He grinned. ‘That makes us kinda brothers — both Celts. Me, ah’m from an ole Welsh family — Robert Jones, o’ Mississippi, in the USA. When mah daddy first saw me, he said, “Son, you’re a lil’ on the dark side!”’ He grinned again, and Ryan found himself staring at a distorted double image of himself in the pair of mirror lenses. The Negro added: ‘Shall we stroll up the block and have a drink?’
‘I think it’s time we did. But no tricks — I’m not in the mood.’
‘Ah’m a peaceable man, Mr —’ he hesitated — ‘Mr Broakes. Or maybe ah should be callin’ you Colonel?’
‘Please yourself. But what the hell was all that play for just now? Trying to pretend you’re some kind of spook? Because if you are, forget it. You wouldn’t make grade one.’
The Negro shook his head, looking serious now. ‘I just wanted to see how good you were. Sometimes you can tail a guy for a whole day and he don’t notice.’
‘You must have rated me pretty low, Mr Jones.’ They were walking together now towards the end of the street. ‘Anyway, let’s have that quiet drink, and then you’re going to tell me exactly what your game is.’
They stepped into a shabby little café with a marble-topped counter and youths playing pin-table machines. Ryan ordered a rum-and-Coke. The Negro chose plain Coke. ‘You wanna go easy on the booze when you first get up here,’ he said. ‘At this height it can take you kinda funny. Me, ah’m strictly TT. Don’t get me wrong, though. I got nothin’ against booze. Just that ah got a bad gut.’
When the mestizo waiter had put down their drinks, Ryan said, ‘I take it you’re working for the Company?’
The Negro gave a shout of laughter and smacked both hands down on the counter. ‘Shit, man, ah should take that as an insult! You better get this straight — you and me, we’re on the same side. All that CIA crap — forget it! Hell, ah got a certain pride.’
‘So what’s it all about, Jones?’
‘You can call me No-Entry — No-Entry Jones, that’s what everyone calls me.’
‘So?’
‘I got the name back in Vietnam. Used to fly spotter-planes. One day ah took a round through the floor and up mah asshole — wasn’t wearing a groin-protector. It came out through my stomach. I managed to get the plane down, then passed out. When ah comes to in the hospital, ah had a whole lot o’ puzzled medics round me. They’d stitched up the exit-wound in mah gut, but goddam it! they just couldn’t find no entry-wound. After that, the name No-Entry stuck. Major Robert No-Entry Jones, US Army, Purple Heart, and an honourable discharge, all on account of one Commie bullet up the ass.’
‘Do you still fly planes, Major?’
‘When ah’m paid to.’
‘Is someone paying you now?’
‘They might be. Ah’m a good pilot, Colonel. And mah services don’t come cheap.’
‘Still on spotter-planes?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What sort?’
‘L-19. She’s tied up with string, but if she gets a bullet through her, you just tape it over with Elastoplast. She’s a good plane.’
