The widows war, p.25
The Widow's War, page 25
The people in the square below were now linking arms and singing. Ryan caught the obscene phrases of some ballad in which Gallo’s name occurred in every verse. Others had set up a slow hand-clap and were chanting, ‘Tomorrow we march on Montecristo! Death to the Moscow Puppet!’
There were few women or girls in the crowd. Most of them filled the windows and balconies round the square. Occasionally one of them would wave a handkerchief, or a red and green flag with the starred emblem of the Gallo regime cut out of the corner. But most were content to watch, silent and wary.
Ryan’s own supporters, who formed the central mass below, were not an altogether encouraging sight. From time to time, one of them would fire a pistol or a burst from an automatic rifle above the heads of the crowd, and send the old women scuttling back from the windows and off the balconies.
Ryan looked at his watch. In half an hour’s time, he had an appointment to receive a number of middle-ranking officials and civil servants who had either decided, or been obliged, to remain behind when his armoured column had broken into the city in mid-afternoon.
He had also arranged, an hour later, to meet with all local Army officers who had stayed, as well as with his own immediate staff. This was headed by No-Entry Jones, who — while they awaited the arrival of Commandant Moulins from the south — was the most senior officer after Ryan.
He had also picked the inscrutable Sebastian McIntyre Hausmann, together with six members of the tank crews who had all impressed him during the day with their enthusiasm and loyalty; and had retained, with some doubts, the services of Cabo Fisco, whose fervour, Ryan hoped, might compensate for his ill-discipline.
He had drunk all the coffee and half the rum when there was a knock on the door. He looked at his watch. The city officials were not due for another ten minutes. He tucked the rum bottle behind the curtain, stood up and called for them to enter. The tall mahogany door opened. No-Entry Jones stood just inside, dressed in a freshly-laundered uniform, his head bound up in a white bandage like a turban. There was something faintly comic about his appearance which Ryan hoped would not be contagious.
‘Colonel, there’s a young guy downstairs who claims he’s a close friend o’ yours. Won’t give his name, but says it’s important. And he ain’t armed.’
‘Show him up.’
No-Entry withdrew. A moment later Pedro came in. He was wearing rubber-soled moccasins and a bright blue suit that matched his blue-tinted glasses, and carried a briefcase.
‘Felicitaciones, mi Coronel! Today you have written a page in the history books. Perhaps several pages.’ He stood with his manicured hand held out. Ryan refused to take it.
‘Hello, Pedro. And when did you come crawling back? In time to choose which way it goes, eh, before you jump?’
The young man sat down on a Louis Quinze sofa, crossed his legs and lit a French cigarette. ‘I am sorry you do not understand, Colonel —’ he now spoke in English, like Ryan — ‘but whatever the fashionable theorists may say, revolutions do not come uniquely out of the barrel of a gun. What you and your colleagues have achieved in the last few days — particularly today — has been remarkable. But while you, Colonel, win all the glory and take all the prizes, there must be others who work in the background. There are many things still to be done — to prepare for La Vuelva’s return, for instance.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘In her hotel in Barranquilla.’ Pedro looked at his watch. ‘Precisely forty minutes ago she received a telephone call from one of her agents in Colombia. This man also happens to work for me. He informs me that she plans to fly from Barranquilla early tomorrow morning to the military airfield outside here. I trust I can rely on you, Colonel, to see that all security measures are taken, and that full preparations are made for her arrival? She will speak, naturally, from the main balcony of this building. Her speech will be relayed over the radio, so that it cannot only be heard throughout the Island, but by the whole world.’
He was interrupted by a huge howl from outside, drowning even the chaotic booming of bells. Ryan saw against the darkening sky the walls of the square lit up by burning torches and bonfires, around which a circle of men were leaping and dancing, holding on to each other’s sashes or belts with one hand, waving their rifles in the air with the other. A voice was booming through a loudspeaker, the words echoing inarticulately off the houses. Then the chanting began again — this time with the steady beat of the words: ‘Ra-mon, La Vuel-va!’
Pedro sat watching Ryan through a haze of cigarette smoke. ‘The military perspective is a very narrow one, Colonel, while the scope and traditions of Latin American politics are very wide. May I be permitted to give you a piece of advice? Stick to military matters — that is where your talent lies, not in politics. If you try and involve yourself in the affairs of this Island, things will not end happily for you.’
Perhaps it was Ryan’s empty stomach, his lack of sleep, or those bells; but for a second he had a mad urge to draw his Stechkin 9mm pistol and blow a great hole in the plumb complacent body in front of him. His jaw muscles stiffened. ‘I am due in a few minutes to meet a delegation. Our aim is to draw up some plan to restore essential services and maintain law and order. But I don’t suppose such details interest you? As you say, I am not concerned with your politics.
‘You go and play whatever games you like. I shall attend to more mundane matters, like feeding the people, and seeing the sewers are working, and that the hospitals have electric light. I shall also try to win the war.’ Ryan nodded briskly. ‘Now I have an appointment.’
Pedro did not move. ‘Colonel, you have not asked me why I came here.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because your time is valuable. So is mine.’
‘Come to the point.’
‘I have come to ask, Colonel, that a broadcast be made over the city radio. I have prepared the speech myself — it is quite short —’ Pedro had produced a sheet of paper from inside his jacket — ‘though I do not propose to read it myself. My Brazilian accent, you understand? It would sound better coming from an official newsreader.’ He stood up and handed the paper to Ryan.
It was a long typed text, full of technical details about the volcano, Monto Xatu. Ryan skimmed through it and gathered that it was a grave warning to the entire population of Montecristo, together with all outlying towns, that they were in imminent peril of being destroyed by burning gas which had been building up for days under the dormant crater. He noted that there was no reference to the invasion, no mention of politics of any kind. He handed it back to Pedro. ‘Is this authentic?’
‘Of course not. I wrote it myself.’
‘What guarantee do you have that anyone will take a blind bit of notice?’
‘I have no guarantee. But as you know, several volcanoes have already erupted. And Monte Xatu has a terrible history. Besides, the people are ready to believe anything. Why should they not believe this?’
‘And what’s the purpose behind it? To spread gloom and despondency?’
The young man gave Ryan a half-sad, half-mocking smile. ‘You are tired, Colonel, after your exertions.’
‘Don’t be impertinent.’
The smile remained on Pedro’s smooth round features. ‘The purpose is to have the capital evacuated. Drained of its lifeblood, like Moscow before Napoleon.’
Another great howl came from the square below, and Ryan had to raise his voice: ‘It is just that life-blood that we need! What chance do you think I would have stood today if it had not been for the collaboration of the local people? The officials and police would never have fled if they had thought the population was on their side. For Christ’s sake, that’s the whole point of having La Vuelva arrive tomorrow. So that we can provoke — in advance, if possible — a spontaneous uprising in the capital itself.’
Pedro put his head slightly to one side; his expression was serious again. ‘Colonel, I fear that you do not understand the mood and sentiment of the Island’s people.’
‘I’m learning.’
‘You do not understand that the people here — in the south — are poor, primitive. They are also very superstitious. It was from this area that Ramon drew his greatest support. His first wife, La Consuelita, came from this city, and the people still think of her as a saint. Many of them think the same of La Vuelva. But the people from Montecristo are different. They are better educated, more sophisticated, far more disciplined. They are also more prepared to listen to the Socialist doctrines of Gallo.’
Ryan nodded. ‘I’ve always thought Socialism was a middle-class vice.’
Pedro ignored the remark. ‘You would be making a serious mistake, Colonel, if you really believe you can take the capital with a single column of tanks and a few hundred ill-equipped troops. In Montecristo, Gallo’s Army and Police — above all, his Internal Security Troops, SACA — will stand and fight.’
‘Maybe they will. Nor am I fool enough to risk taking on the hard-core of Gallo’s Army in a deserted city where he’d have a free hand to wipe us out with superior weapons, and without the danger of harming the local population. Besides, I still believe we can draw support from that population. Gallo might have been a conquering hero once, but I certainly haven’t got the impression that he’s much loved anymore.’
Pedro stood for a moment with his head tilted to one side, and waved the sheet of typed paper in front of him like a small fan. ‘You forget one thing, Colonel. You forget that we have the ultimate weapon. We have enough poison bacilli with which to destroy Gallo’s Army and Police five times over.’
There was a long pause, filled with the steady roaring and cheering and singing from outside, and again Ryan had an overwhelming urge to empty his pistol into the young man there and then. ‘Where is it?’ he said at last.
Pedro nodded at the briefcase on the floor. ‘Do you want to see the stuff, Colonel?’
‘How did you get hold of it?’
‘I was given it — to give to you.’
‘By La Vuelva?’
‘But who else? She trusts me. She trusts us both.’ He smiled. ‘Do you want to have a look for yourself?’ he repeated.
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Ryan said quietly. ‘Do you know how to use it?’
‘There should be no problems. A small time-bomb would be enough to destroy the casings. After that, it will simply be a matter of judging the direction of the wind.’
‘And if the stuff blows back in our faces? What happens then, Pedro? Do we just lie down and watch our skins turn to scales, and die?’
‘No, Colonel. You will take six of your best men, each with a capsule wired to a stick of plastique, with a sufficient time fuse, and send them into different areas of the capital. When they go off, your own troops need be nowhere near Montecristo.’
Ryan felt a sudden chill, although the room was still warm. He shivered. ‘Leave them here, and also give me that radio text. I’ll decide later whether it should go out or not.’
As he spoke, he was aware that the noise from outside had changed. Instead of the singing and chanting, there again came that ugly swelling sound, louder this time, rising like a furious sea beneath the windows of the Ayuntamiento, swamping even the clang of church bells. Then a sharp rattle of gunfire: screams; more shots, single ones this time; and the howl again, rising to a crescendo.
Ryan leant out between the shutters. Below, under the light of the torches and the bonfire, a broad space had been cleared in front of the steps. A number of troops were beating back the crowd with rifle-butts; while more troops, this time among the crowd, waved their rifles in the air and tried to press forward to break the cordon. In the space below the window lay three bodies. From what Ryan could see, they were all civilians.
He took out his Stechkin pistol, strode past Pedro and through the door, and ran towards the wide marble staircase, now lit by hurricane-lamps. He went down four steps at a time, waving the guards aside, reaching the mezzanine from where he saw a huge crowd gathered in the entrance hall. They swirled under the white glare of the lamps — some trying to get out, others fighting to get in.
Ryan noticed several men in dark suits, carrying briefcases, and obviously terrified. Through the entrance, between two stout marble pillars, there now appeared the ferocious face of Cabo Fisco; and behind him a gang of long-haired youths, some in grubby tunics, others in sweatshirts, some bare to the waist with scarves knotted round their throats and tattered trousers rolled up to the knees. Some wore boots, some sandals, the rest had nothing on their feet at all.
They reminded Ryan of some awful animated painting of the French Revolution. With the time-table of history interrupted by this schism of national and political loyalties, the abscess, which had been growing in the body of the Island during the ten years of Gallo’s bleak reign, had now burst; and what Ryan was seeing was the pus flowing out, in the guise of this traditional and terrible mob.
He guessed at once what had happened. While he had been in closed session with Pedro, the delegation of civic dignitaries had arrived. Ryan had no doubt that some, if not all, had thrown in their lot with the Gallo regime, or had at least passively complied with it. Cabo Fisco, who seemed to have already appointed himself unofficial witch-hunter for the rebellion, either knew the men by reputation or perhaps just by instinct. And men like Fisco did not believe in the balance of reasonable doubt.
Ryan reached the hallway a couple of seconds too late. The noise from the square was sliced by two bursts of machine-gun fire, and he saw the face of one of the civic officials disintegrate like a crushed fruit. Chips of marble flew off the pillars and balustrades up the stairs. More bullets flattened the dark suit of a second official who was knocked backwards, his spectacles falling off his nose as he sat down on the stairs, rolled over and died.
Ryan grabbed Cabo Fisco and spun him round, wrenching his long arm up behind his back until he yelled with pain. The young man was holding his AK-47 with his other arm, and now tried to swing it backwards, to hit Ryan over the head. Ryan held him locked with his left hand, raised the Stechkin and shot him at point-blank range through the back of the neck. He felt the boy’s warm blood splash over his hand and face: the neck had been almost severed from the body. Ryan let him drop in an untidy heap at his feet, where he lay in a thick spreading pool that was almost black under the hurricane-lamps.
The rest of the gang had stopped in the doorway. Ryan shot the leading man in the stomach, and he went down screaming like a wounded dog. Only one of them made a move, swinging up his rifle from the waist, and Ryan shot his arm through at the elbow, where it dangled, blood-soaked and useless, in the sleeve of his olive-green shirt.
Ryan yelled: ‘Drop all your guns!’ They had already begun to back away, gaping, wide-eyed. There followed a clatter as they let their weapons fall on the steps.
Ryan blinked round him. He could feel Cabo Fisco’s blood congealing in sticky trickles down his face and hands. His new colonel’s tunic, with the red stars cut out of the epaulettes, was a mess. The three men in dark suits stared back at him, white-faced, shaking; one of them was muttering prayers over a crucifix.
Ryan nodded to them and gestured towards the stairs. This was not the time to offer condolences over their five dead colleagues. But at least he could offer them some rum before they got down to business.
Halfway up the stairs, he met Pedro padding down. For all the young man’s flair and audacity, there were clearly some situations which he preferred discreetly to avoid.
He stopped beside Ryan. ‘Colonel,’ he said softly in English, so the guards could not understand, ‘I have left a copy of the broadcast and the six capsules on the desk in your room. Be careful with the capsules. It would be unfortunate if they fell into the wrong hands.’
‘Don’t tell me what to do! As for that poisonous shit up there, I’ll decide what’s done with it. And I alone. Now get out. Get out before I put a soft-nosed bullet through that psychotic brain of yours and do the whole world a service.’
Pedro shrugged, turned and walked on down the stairs. He did not look back and he did not hurry.
At 8.55 p.m. on the night following that of the invasion, President Fulgencio Gallo arrived at the National Radio and Television Centre in the modern grey-block suburb of Costelano, near the coast outside Montecristo.
As usual, he rode in his old mud-coloured Land-Rover. It had been a present to him from a leading European ambassador during those first heady days after he had seized power from General Ramon, when he was still the bearded political pin-up boy of the Western world — particularly among the chic intelligentsia, in permanent need of a radical hero without too much blood on his hands.
In the early months of his reign, Gallo had seemed perfectly cast for such a role: the popular revolutionary who had purged his people of the base, corrupt and increasingly oppressive regime of Ramon and his gang, which had included the old general’s second wife, La Vuelva.
But just as the experts and political analysts had never been able to decide whether Ramon himself had been a Fascist or a Socialist, so the same experts, who often advised Western governments, were still not agreed as to whether Gallo was a Marxist, Maoist, Agrarian Reformer, or red-blooded Stalinist.
It was indeed probable that Gallo himself did not know, or that he aspired to all four creeds at once, or alternatively, as the mood took him. He was a vainglorious and obstinate man; but he was not stupid, and in a crude immature way he was honest.
He had mortgaged his country’s economy, his political independence, his own reputation to the whims and devices of the Kremlin. He had done it not only to buy insurance against the ring of potential enemies which surrounded the Island, but because he believed, with the unquestioning passion of a zealot, in the Soviet Socialist experiment. When tame critics inquired whether the Russian system of government was entirely appropriate to the needs of the Island, Gallo would slap his knee and say, ‘My country has chosen its own Road to Socialism! The Soviet Union is simply supplying us with a means to travel that road.’
