The widows war, p.16
The Widow's War, page 16
‘We’d been walking for about two hours. It’s on the beach — I’d say about fifteen kilometres from where the truck stopped.’
Captain Monica spoke again into the phone: ‘Try Zones Eight to Ten.’ He looked again at Ryan: ‘What exact type of plane?’ Ryan told him; and the Captain’s next words were not reassuring: ‘L-19, American military spy-plane. Two-seater. Used mostly for low reconnaissance operations. Check the fuel capacity.’ He sat listening for a moment, then said: ‘Very good. Yes. Yes. Thank you, Compañero. Saludos!’ He put down the phone and stubbed out his cigarette. Ryan quickly offered him another, but he shook his head. ‘Gentlemen, you will both be staying here tonight. We will discuss your situation again tomorrow.’
Ryan’s face assumed an expression of bogus anxiety. ‘Captain, I must remind you that I have colleagues who are expecting me in Jamaica. I was due there nearly three hours ago. I also promised to telephone my wife in Barranquilla as soon as I arrived. Unless I contact them, they’ll start sending out search-parties for us — and I particularly don’t want to have people worrying on my account more than is absolutely necessary.’
‘I understand. But I regret that we have no facilities here to contact either Jamaica or Colombia.’
‘Can’t you send a telegram, or radio them?’
The captain hesitated. ‘I am sorry, Mr Broakes. But first there are certain matters which must be clarified.’
‘You mean, you’re holding us incommunicado?’ This time, Ryan simulated a righteous anger. ‘Then I demand that you contact whichever foreign embassies in your capital represent the interests of Great Britain and Puerto Rico.’
Captain Monica shook his head. ‘At this hour, the only Western Missions in Montecristo will be closed. But that is another matter which we will discuss tomorrow.’ The young man’s voice was suddenly hard, official. ‘Mr Broakes, you are staying in which hotel in Barranquilla?’
Ryan thought rapidly. He knew nothing of the city except its profile of dirty shacks, a few skyscrapers, and a glimpse of the port. ‘We’re staying with friends in a villa just outside.’
‘In what area is that?’
‘Oh, some Spanish name — I forget it now. We only arrived yesterday.’
‘And who are these friends who have this villa?’
‘An American couple. The man’s a business colleague. He’s got a damn pretty wife, I tell you.’ And again he smiled at the young man without effect.
‘Perhaps Mr Jones knows where you are staying?’
The captain’s eyes moved again towards No-Entry, who nodded and said, ‘Sure. Bajo de Caja — nice place! About the only place where you can swim along that whole goddam coast — and it’s got good fishin’, even a golf course.’
‘I am happy that you are able to afford such pleasures, Mr Jones. I do not expect that such luxuries are available to the local population.’ Captain Monica looked slowly back at Ryan, and his eyes now seemed many years older than his face. ‘You will understand, Mr Broakes, that I am obliged to make certain investigations into your story.’ He paused. ‘When were you last in England?’
Ryan glanced across at his passport, still lying closed on the table in front of Captain Monica. It would contain his Colombian entry-stamp, dated only yesterday; but it had not been stamped in either Jersey or St Malo. And he was not sure about Funchal. Madeira would have sounded a conveniently innocent spot in which to have started his winter holiday; but he remembered again that he did not have a suntan, and decided to play safe. ‘Two days ago.’ He gave a deferential smile. ‘I’m afraid I don’t seem to have got off to a very good start, do I? First a car accident, then a forced landing.’
‘You have certainly not been fortunate, Mr Broakes.’ The young man rather pointedly took out a packet of local cigarettes, lit one, then leant over and whispered something to the mestizo beside him, who merely nodded. He turned again to No-Entry. ‘How long had you been in Colombia, Mr Jones?’
‘It’s all there in my passport,’ No-Entry said easily. ‘Eleven days.’
‘And what had you been doing for the nine days before you met Mr Broakes?’
‘Havin’ mahself a ball, Capt’n. Sunshine, cheap booze, plenty o’ flesh on the beach. You ought to try it sometime — Colombia’s a fine place!’
‘I do not like Fascist countries. But we are diverting from the central matter. Where were you staying during your visit?’
‘Bogota, Medellín, Barranquilla — but mostly Bajo de Caja. That’s where the action is, Capt’n, sir! And that’s where I ran into Mr Broakes here.’
‘You said “action”, Mister Jones? You did not perhaps, during your stay in Bajo de Caja, hear any stories, any reports, of soldiers training in the area?’
The Negro wrinkled his smooth brow for a moment, then gave a peal of laughter. ‘D’you mean, did ah see a whole gang o’ CIA spooks trainin’ on the beach? Hell no! I meant girls, Capt’n — and ah tell you, out there they come in every size and shape an’ colour. And ah’m not choosy! As for the men, all ah seen is the usual bunch o’ Yankee tourists in Bermuda shorts, practisin’ their bum golf-shots and payin’ through the nose to try and catch a barracuda.’
Captain Monica nodded, murmured again to the mestizo, and stood up. ‘Gentlemen, you will now be shown to your quarters. Food will be brought to you, and you can sleep.’
‘Does that mean we’re under arrest?’ said Ryan.
‘It means that you are under temporary detention until further investigations are made. Good evening, gentlemen.’ The captain collected up both passports, saluted and walked smartly out of the room, while the mestizo stood up too and jerked his thumb at the side-door.
Ryan and No-Entry walked in front of him, out into a dim corridor, down a flight of concrete steps, and were shown into two separate rooms. As Ryan’s door closed, he heard the lock turn.
The room was not exactly a cell. There was a high window with glass reinforced with wire-mesh, a camp-bed, table and chair, and a door leading into a second, windowless room with a lavatory and a basin with a single tap and a towel. It was more like the temporary quarters of an officer on manoeuvres.
The first thing Ryan did was to relieve himself; he then took off his shirt and vest and filled the basin from a trickle of rusty water from the tap. He had begun to sluice down his face and shoulders and the back of his neck, washing off the dust and dried sweat, when he found himself swaying. He grabbed the side of the basin and steadied himself, placing one hand against the concrete wall. There was no mirror.
He had touched no alcohol since leaving the train at noon, yet his immediate sensation was that of being drunk. Then he noticed two things. The water in the basin had begun to slop from one side to the other, and the towel was gently swaying from its nail.
The next instant, he heard a low grumbling, like a distant artillery barrage. This was followed by other sounds, closer, louder — a crashing and bumping of metal and wood, then shouts from all round, rising to yells of panic. The next moment, the light went out. The whole room was shuddering, and every loose object was either rattling or jumping or had fallen to the floor.
It went on for twenty seconds, then there was a dead hush, broken by more shouts, then the howl of a siren. Ryan, who was used to all manner of danger, stood in the dark, half-naked, fascinated and terrified.
He was creeping across the room on all fours when he felt the second tremor. This time, it came with a roar like an express train racing towards and past him at less than a few feet.
The whole room was rocking; his eyes and nostrils were clogged with dust; and he could hear the sound of concrete being split open. The siren cut out, and he felt the iron bed edging against his legs. The yelling outside grew louder, and continued well after the earth had grown still again.
He finally picked himself up, groped about for his clothes, carried them to the bed and dressed sitting down, ready to throw himself to the floor at the next quake.
He heard the lock turn and a hurricane lamp glared into the room. A voice in Spanish yelled: ‘Out! Immediately!’ Ryan could not see the man. He ran for the door, into the corridor and up the concrete steps. At the top there were men running in all directions: some had torches, others were just bumping into each other in the dark. Nobody seemed to be giving any orders.
Ryan reached the square, where — surprisingly — the floodlights were on. He heard several engines start, saw the headlamps of trucks light up and begin to move towards the gates. He ran with them.
There was a smell of dust everywhere, which grew stronger when he reached the street. Under the moving lights he saw that several of the darkened white houses and arcades had collapsed; others were sagging, cracked open, leaning into the street as though they had been pummelled by giant hammers. Nobody seemed to be running out of them. The only movement came from the panic-stricken militia.
Ryan looked around for No-Entry Jones — not because he was greatly concerned for his welfare, but because he needed an ally. But there was no sign of No-Entry, or of Captain Monica. Trucks were roaring past him now, with the choking stench of dust and the fumes of low-grade Soviet petrol. Several of them had their tailboards still down, crowded with troops. One of them had slowed down at the gates, and Ryan grabbed at the back and hauled himself aboard. No one around seemed to take the least notice of him.
The only lights in the rubble-clogged streets were the careering white beams of the trucks’ headlamps, in which the dust rose and swirled like smoke. On the edge of the town came a thundering roar and a massive gong boomed through the darkness. Several of the men round him wailed and sank their faces into their hands, even made the Sign of the Cross. From the muttered cries around him, Ryan gathered that the church tower had collapsed. It was the first indication that the revolutionary zeal of the Island’s people might not be so pervasive after all, nor the loyalty of its militia to Gallo’s regime quite as firm as young Captain Monica’s manner had suggested.
Ryan was trying to work out an immediate plan. Technically he had not escaped from custody, since he had neither been formally arrested nor charged, but whether these niceties of law would be appreciated or respected on the Island was another matter.
He could not tell in which direction they were driving. Instead, he considered the implications of Captain Monica’s last words, before he had dismissed them both. Why had he questioned No-Entry about possible military manoeuvres along the coast near Barranquilla? For it is one of the basic rules in interrogation that you do not disclose what you already know. Either Captain Monica was very inexperienced, or the authorities behind him — advised by their Moscow-trained technicians — had heard rumours about La Vuelva’s plans.
He was again wondering about what had happened to No-Entry, when the floor of the truck tipped up almost at right angles, the engine howled, there was a crash and grinding of metal, and the darkness was full of screams of pain, bodies toppling over each other as they were heaped up against the side of the canvas hood which was now lying where the floor had been.
Ryan was lucky. Because he had been at the back of the truck, he was able to grab the tailboard and break his fall. The engine had stopped. There was a strong smell of petrol, and the yelling now subsided to moans and cries for help.
A man was lying across him, his leg bent at an ugly angle, and Ryan could feel his warm blood seeping over his own trousers and into his expensive shoes. He moved to disengage himself, careful not to disturb the man’s shattered leg, and his hand closed round the metal stock of an assault-rifle. The strap must have broken or come unclipped from the man’s belt: it came free in Ryan’s hand.
The confusion around him was still total, while the stench of petrol was becoming ominous. Holding the assault-rifle in one hand, he clambered up over the tailboard, leapt into the darkness and fell painfully into a pile of rocks and rubble. The headlamps of the truck had gone out; but behind him other pairs of lights were bouncing towards him. He stumbled over the rubble and reached soft earth.
The next truck behind had come to a halt. Ryan began to crawl forward on his hands and knees, feeling in the dark the mechanism of the gun — which he guessed was an AK-47 — until he was well-hidden under some bushes.
A siren wailed, and a flashing red light came racing down the road, causing the following trucks to pull over. A second siren started, and this time a blue light appeared. In the swaying beam Ryan could just make out what had happened. At first he had thought the truck must have hit a rock and gone over into the ditch; then he saw, with horror, that a long black crevice, like an enormous wound in the earth’s surface, had opened down the whole side of the road.
The other trucks, police car and ambulance had slowed to a crawl; but Ryan was still able to rely on their lights to see where he was going. He seemed to be in an orange-grove. He began running, dodging, crouching between the trees, keeping well in the shadows. It was a technique he knew well, though the last time he had practised it had been over a generation ago.
It was almost 9.15, and behind him he saw the glow of fires back in the town. He still had no idea where he was — although he still had his map — and knew that his options were severely limited. He might find a hacienda, or a lonely peasant house, and either hope that the people were not Government sympathizers, or hold them at gunpoint, and perhaps steal some truck or jalopy. What he really needed was a boat.
He was still heading into the orange-grove when a loud whisper reached him out of the dark. His hands tightened round the AK-47, his thumb felt for the safety-catch and slipped it off, as the voice whispered again, ‘What is happening, Compañero?’
‘Who are you?’ Ryan growled back in Spanish.
‘I am Coronel Macho de Rivera. What unit are you from?’
It was too dark for them to see each other properly: all Ryan could make out was a man of about his own build, with broad epaulettes and a peaked cap with some gold braid. He did not seem to be armed, unless he had a concealed hand-gun.
‘I am Field Security, Coronel,’ Ryan replied. ‘Two foreigners have been apprehended in the area under suspicious circumstances. They were being interrogated when the earthquake occurred. In the confusion, it appears they have escaped. We believe they may have got aboard one of the forward trucks. Now, tell me what you’re doing here, Coronel?’
The man was either suffering from slight shock, or was so impressed by Ryan’s air of authority that he replied simply, ‘My villa is just down the road. Fortunately, my family is in Montecristo.’
Ryan made some suitable remark of comradely thanks, then added, ‘I am obliged to ask for your credentials, Coronel.’
The colonel recovered some of his dignity. ‘I am not in the habit of submitting to random checks, even by Security. You will identify yourself first.’
Ryan was aware that even in the darkness his smart Western suit — blood-spattered from the injured man in the truck and mud-caked from the swamp, together with the fact that he was holding a Kalashnikov assault-rifle — must have looked odd, even in the aftermath of an earthquake.
Colonel Macho de Rivera was obviously beginning to think so too. ‘I request again that you prove your identity, Compañero! You will also drop your gun.’ As he spoke, he made the one mistake that Ryan had been waiting for: he drew a heavy automatic from a holster under his tunic.
Ryan kicked the colonel’s knee-cap from under him, and as the heavy body toppled forward he swung the skeleton-butt of the AK-47 into the man’s face. He went down with a thud, dropping the pistol onto the ground.
Ryan made sure that the colonel was senseless — and would remain so for some time — then dragged him into the cover of the orange-trees, where he rapidly removed his uniform: a long, smock-like tunic and flared riding breeches, above high calf-skin boots, in the Russian style. He also retrieved the pistol and peaked cap.
When Ryan was fully dressed as Colonel Macho de Rivera, he was pleased that the uniform, particularly the boots, fitted him reasonably well; and the inside pocket of the tunic bulged with a promising wad of documents.
He then performed the awkward task of dressing the unconscious colonel in his own clothes — noticing, with a twinge of conscience, that the man was wearing a truss. His grey hair was also not dissimilar from his own, while the face had become temporarily unrecognizable from the blow with the gun-butt. Then he examined the heavy automatic — a Soviet 9mm Stechkin, fully loaded with twenty rounds — and returned it to the holster under his tunic.
With luck the orange-grove might be part of an estate attached to Colonel Macho de Rivera’s villa. For even under this ruthlessly egalitarian regime, senior Army officers would no doubt be granted the privileges of an elite, if only in order to purchase their loyalty. Ryan now turned in the direction from which the colonel had appeared, hoping to reach the temporary sanctuary of the man’s villa.
A moment later, he saw the building. It was in total darkness; the only sign of life was the terrified yelping of a dog. Ryan’s eyes were now becoming accustomed to the dark, which was broken by the moving beams of heavy vehicles on the road and by the flames from the town which were growing brighter.
There was no garage, but he found a car parked under a lean-to roof. It was a black Skoda. He extracted a large bunch of keys from his tunic pocket, and after fiddling with several of the smaller ones he opened the door on the driver’s side. He groped for the interior light, decided to risk turning it on, and spent a moment examining Colonel Macho de Rivera’s documents.
They were impressive. Apart from his Party membership card, in its stiff red cover with the emblem of a red-and-black star bracketed by two maize-leaves, there were his identity papers, and several safe-conducts, not only for the Prohibited Zone round Carrudas — including the proposed landing beach to the south — but also for the area north, including the road inland to Santiago y Maria. There was also a petrol allowance for two hundred litres a month.
