The widows war, p.32
The Widow's War, page 32
He was just deciding whether to pull over and try to bluff his way out when two things happened, simultaneously. They were driving down a broad, half-made road lined with shacks and mud hovels. The APC, with its eight huge wheels, was gaining rapidly. Ryan could now just make out its ugly squat shape, with the long slit above the bonnet, and the two heavy machine-guns on either side. One burst from them, and the ZIL wouldn’t be worth its weight in scrap metal.
But just then a vast truck, as long and high as a pantechnicon, pulled slowly, deliberately out into the road. A second later the APC ploughed into it. Ryan could almost hear the crash and rending of metal as the armoured vehicle sliced half through the truck, then stopped. Its spotlight had gone out.
There was a single burst of small-arms fire, then the whole APC exploded in boiling flames. Ryan could only hope that the wretched crew had not yet alerted the guards at the airfield.
Then, suddenly, the road widened and was clear. A couple of miles ahead their headlamps picked out the high cantilevered wire-fence round the airport perimeter. At the gates stood two armoured cars and a line of helmeted troops with machine-pistols.
An officer stepped into the middle of the road and waved the ZIL to a halt. Ryan complied, reaching for his wad of papers; and as the officer came round his side, he touched the button to open the automatic window. The officer saluted. Ryan said, ‘I am a colonel attached to the General Staff. Open the gates.’
The man held out his hand. ‘Your documents.’ He had a hard unyielding face, and Ryan guessed that he and his men were serious. He handed him his papers, which were all countersigned by La Vuelva. The officer studied each one carefully, then gave them back, this time without saluting. ‘I am authorized to allow no one to enter the airport. Those are the personal orders of General Romolo.’
Ryan looked at him steadily and said, ‘What is your name and rank?’ The officer was wearing battle-dress, without insignia.
‘Capitano Marcos. Twelfth Infantry Battalion, Bolivar Division.’
It was one of the crack units that had recently served in Africa. Ryan nodded. ‘Capitano, you will have the courtesy to address me as “Coronel”. You will also understand that I and my colleague here have been dispatched on a vital diplomatic mission on behalf of the new Provisional Revolutionary Government. Please open the gates.’
‘I regret, Coronel, that the airport is closed to all outgoing flights until further notice.’
‘For what reason?’
‘To prevent the escape of political undesirables and criminal elements from the former regime.’ The officer recited the phrases as though he had only just learnt them.
‘Read those documents again, Capitano. Read them carefully. And read the signature.’
The captain’s expression did not alter. ‘Coronel, these documents are not in order. They must be signed by General Romolo — those are my orders. The signature of ex-Presidente La Doña Ramon is no longer valid.’
Ryan’s voice hardened. ‘Capitano Marcos, you are an officer and therefore a man of responsibility. I trust you are also one of intelligence?’
The man looked grimly back at him, but said nothing.
‘I should also remind you that not only has there been a revolution in this country, but General Romolo assumed power as head of the Provisional Government less than two hours ago. Do you expect that he should have the time to countersign every official document issued by the former president?’
One of the soldiers, who had been prowling round the back of the car, came quickly up to the officer and whispered something. Without a word the captain also went round to the back of the car. When he returned, he was holding something in his hand. He held it out to show Ryan, who flinched. On the man’s palm were three severed brown fingers.
‘These were caught between the bumper and the chassis, Coronel. There is also blood on the car.’
Ryan nodded. ‘That is quite possible. You are lucky, Capitano. The mob has not yet got here. When they do, you and your men are going to have to do more than concern yourselves with paperwork.’
The captain took out a khaki handkerchief, wrapped the three fingers inside it and put them away in his tunic pocket. ‘Coronel, I am prepared to allow you to wait in the guardhouse while I check your credentials with my superiors. What is your destination?’
‘That is classified. And your superiors will not be aware of my mission. It is top-secret.’
At that moment, he felt No-Entry lean across him. The Negro had discreetly laid his AK-47 down under the dashboard, and was holding out a soft-covered green passport with rounded edges and the gilt emblem of the spread-eagle, with the inscription UNITED STATES OF AMERICA — E PLURIBUS UNUM. He passed it through the window. ‘Speak English — Inglés — Capitano?’
The captain frowned and shook his head; then he took the passport tentatively, as though it were some illicit gift. As he stood looking at it, No-Entry turned to Ryan. ‘Translate for the son-of-a-bitch, will you?’ Then he looked out again at the officer and spoke slowly and deliberately in his Southern drawl.
‘Captain, ah’m engaged on a highly confidential mission on behalf of the US State Department to arrange diplomatic recognition and foreign aid for your new Government. Ah’m actin’ personally —’ and Ryan translated with suitable authority — ‘on behalf of your new Head of State, General Romolo.’ He paused, and for the first time the officer looked uneasy.
‘Captain Marcos — Twelfth Battalion, Bolivar Division?’ No-Entry repeated, and gave a slow nod, without moving his eyes from the officer’s face. ‘I got no wish to threaten you, Captain, but if mah mission is impeded in any way, ah shall be obliged to explain the reasons not only to mah own superiors, but to yours too, ah guess.’
Ryan spoke the Spanish words in a flat, menacing monotone. The officer hesitated, glanced at the passport again, then handed it back, saluted, and shouted an order. The gates were opened. Ryan saluted back, then closed the window and drove through, out onto the dark deserted airfield.
‘That was fast thinking, Major.’
No-Entry grinned in the dashboard light. ‘I told yah — there’s some advantages in bein’ black and possessin’ one o’ Uncle Sam’s passports!’
Ryan was heading for the corner of the field where they had left the Tupolev transport plane on that damp yesterday morning. It had been refuelled in Santiago y Maria and therefore offered them a wide range of destinations, though Ryan had already decided on Jamaica, since it had the closest links to Britain, and he knew — wearing the uniform of a colonel in a foreign army, and flying in without clearance in a Soviet aircraft — that he would have some explaining to do.
The plane had not been moved. They drew up close to the tail of the fat grey fuselage, and No-Entry leapt out and climbed nimbly up through the cockpit door. As Ryan followed, he sniffed the warm northerly breeze and, from the direction of the volcano, caught the faint sickly stench of sulphur.
They landed at Kingston’s Michael Manley Airport, Jamaica, shortly before midnight; and, as Ryan had anticipated, were immediately detained.
At this hour, there was no one on duty senior enough to deal with their case. After a chaotic fifteen minutes — at the end of which the local officials gave up in complete bewilderment — they were both consigned to a detention-room with two camp-beds and a lavatory.
It was not until after eleven next morning that Ryan was visited by an official from the British High Commission — a cheerful, beery-faced little man called Walter Beecham — ‘Call me Wally, Mr Ryan!’ — who arrived with a fresh set of clothes, including a brand-new ill-fitting tropical suit. He seemed highly entertained both by Ryan’s outfit and by his whole story, and was able to expedite his release before lunchtime. ‘Mind you, you’ll have to be on the next plane back to the UK. I expect those hush-hush wallahs in Whitehall are going to have a few questions for you!’
The American Consul was more suspicious; and although No-Entry — unlike Ryan — still carried a genuine passport, the official still regarded with grave doubts any US citizen who visited the Island, especially one wearing the uniform of the national army. But since he was evidently unaware of No-Entry’s past record, and after some subtle prompting from Ryan, he too finally arranged the Negro’s release.
At the airport bar, Ryan and No-Entry had a last drink together. The Negro had booked himself on the next flight to Mexico City, which was due to be called in twenty minutes. He was drinking orange juice, and seemed unexpectedly morose.
‘Come on, what’s biting you?’ Ryan said, sucking at a large daiquiri.
No-Entry sank his head down over his glass. ‘Jus’ that ah ain’t got paid, that’s all. She promised me the money as soon as she got settled into the Palace.’
‘You bloody idiot. And you didn’t even ask for a down-payment?’
‘Ah’m not good at money matters, Colonel. But ah was told that if ah waited, they would fix me up with some fancy deal through the Cayman Islands or some such place — to avoid the Revenue boys, if y’understand.’
‘I understand. How much were you promised?’
No-Entry told him. Ryan nodded and ordered himself another drink; then he scribbled out a promissory note, guaranteeing to pay Major Robert Jones the sum of US $50,000, to be drawn on Ryan’s numbered Swiss account, and passed it along the bar. ‘You’ll have to put a stamp on that before it’s valid. What are you going to do, then?’ he added.
‘I guess ah’ll buy meself a piece o’ action in a golf club — one where they allow us dark boys in.’ He looked up and his eyes were moist.
It was a black wet night at London Airport when Ryan landed and passed through Immigration. The man at the desk took his passport away, returned a moment later and said, ‘Would you come this way, please, sir?’
He was held for nearly five hours. There were four of them altogether. They were very polite, very interested; and between the relays of coffee and sandwiches they did not object to his drinking three-quarters of a bottle of duty-free Chivas Regal, although they touched none themselves.
Ryan was fairly truthful about almost everything. The only details he omitted were his part in the death of the two men on Alderney, and the existence of his Swiss bank account. Officially he had agreed to the operation out of an infatuation for La Vuelva, as well as a latent sense of adventure. He knew they did not entirely believe him, but he also knew that with his record they were unlikely to risk digging too deep.
Towards 3.00 a.m. a snappily-dressed blond man joined them. ‘Good morning, Mr Ryan.’
‘Good morning, Detective-Sergeant. Sorry about Oxford — afraid I rather lost my way.’
The Special Branch man took off his coat and sat down. ‘I hear you’ve been having rather an exciting time, organizing one of these little Latin American revolutions. Pity it went sour on you. Personally, I’ve never trusted those Latins — too hot-blooded for my taste.’ He declined Ryan’s offer of whisky. ‘Seems you got out in the nick of time,’ he added. ‘This new fellow — General Romolo, isn’t it? — sounds a rather nasty piece of work. I wouldn’t fancy that woman’s chances much.’
‘Is that all you came to tell me, Sharp?’
‘Not quite. I’m here to try and tie up a few loose ends. The Jersey police have been onto us about a couple of murders on Alderney. Two boys with Colombian passports who are supposed to have been on your lady-friend’s payroll. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it, would you?’
‘Sorry. I’ve killed rather a lot of people in the last week, but fortunately they were all well outside your manor, Detective-Sergeant. As for Alderney, I’d hazard a guess that La Vuelva had a little disagreement with her hired help, and had them quietly knocked off.’
Sharp sat looking at him, saying nothing.
‘What’s the next item, Sharp?’
‘I also wanted to clear up that little matter of the break-in at the Rushdale Research Centre. It was all a lot or fuss about nothing. The stuff our friend Pedro stole turns out to have been a new experimental vaccine against whooping-cough.’
Ryan chuckled and slopped more whisky into his glass. ‘Any news of young Pedro? The last I heard of him, he’d broadcast some crazy warning about a volcano about to erupt. Funny thing is, the damn thing did erupt after all. Seems he’s not only a genius at doing a vanishing trick, but he’s a bloody clairvoyant as well.’
The detective said, in his flat toneless voice: ‘According to our latest information, Señor Fraga de Sanchez, alias Pedro, has formed his own guerrilla group on the Island and has declared war on the new Government. Unofficially, we’re delighted. At least it’ll keep him out of our hair — for the time being, at any rate.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, there is just one thing. About your chum, Miles Merton. We haven’t been able to track down who killed him yet. Which is embarrassing, because there’s a lot of official heat being turned on. Fortunately, it’s not my case. But if I had to make a guess, I’d say that whoever did it also had a hand in the murder of the Mayfair doctor.’ He paused, but his eyes did not move from Ryan’s face. ‘Unless it was those two Colombians they found on Alderney. But then, of course, you don’t know anything about that, do you, Mr Ryan?’
Ryan stood up and pushed the bottle of Chivas Regal into his pocket. ‘If they’re not your cases, Sharp, why so many questions?’
‘Routine. Habit, if you like. My job’s to clear up any diplomatic shit.’ He paused again. ‘Oh yes — you’ll be glad to know that we’ve recovered your Lagonda. Beautiful piece of work, I must say. We cleaned some vomit off the driving-seat, but apart from a few scratches you’d think it was brand-new. If you ring Oxford Central, they’ll arrange for you to collect it. And one last thing, Mr Ryan. Don’t do it again.’
‘Thanks,’ said Ryan.
CHAPTER 10: Exit
There were four men in the café. The clock on the bell tower had just struck noon with its usual eleven cracked chimes, which caused the resident vultures to raise their bald heads and stir their dusty black wings like old umbrellas.
The Plaza was otherwise deserted: the newspaper vendors were gone, because there were no longer any newspapers; and the lottery touts had turned to precarious begging and pimping, since the proceeds of La Lotería Nacional had just been paid into the late finance minister’s numbered bank account in Basel. Most of the cafés and bars had again been closed by decree of the new Revolutionary Government; and the dust lay undisturbed by the bare feet of vagrant women who used to parade their hideous, deliberately-mutilated infants — all chased away by the whips of the riot police. Even the statutory figure of the albino Creole who used to be seen every evening pushing his curious contraption under the arcades — a tricycle-like machine with two handles and a battery which, for fifty centavos used to offer the client a mild electric shock to stimulate him against the torpor of the dead hour — even he had now vanished, believed to have been yet another arbitrary victim of CUNSP, the United National Committee of Public Safety.
The four men in the bar sat listless round a bare marble table. The fan hung motionless from the ceiling; and the hot stagnant air smelt faintly of drains, and Russian petrol fumes.
When they had first come in, nearly an hour ago, the barman had approached them cautiously and begun to apologize that there was no coffee, only rum and a cheap local brandy. Coca-Cola — along with all other American drinks — was still prohibited. The four men had ordered nothing, said nothing, stared at him with their dead eyes until he retreated gratefully into the backroom behind the bar.
The eleventh chime from the belfry had died away, and one of the men yawned. He was a big bald mulatto with a complexion like burnt cork. In common with his three companions he wore a plain uniform the colour of dried mud, with no insignia, just a gun-belt and a cracked leather holster. The others carried Kalashnikov AK-47 assault-rides slung over their shoulders.
Outside, one of the vultures settled lazily in the dust and stood pecking at a green cigar-butt. The big mulatto pushed his chair back, spat fastidiously between his legs, stood up and strode out under the arcades, paused to unbutton his holster, drew his gun and blew the vulture’s head off. The report carried slowly round the square like a series of whip-cracks. He buttoned the gun back inside and squinted across the glaring emptiness of the square. He thought he detected several quick movements behind windows. Above him the vultures waited patiently for him to return to the bar before going down to enjoy their companion.
The man had reached the cool of the arcade when he heard the car. It made the loud rasping noise of a reconditioned diesel engine. It came round the Plaza fast, leaving a wake of yellow dust. The man waited for it to pull up. At the same time his three companions joined him, and together they walked towards it. The driver got out and opened both rear doors.
No words were spoken. The four men squeezed into the back seats, unslinging their weapons and holding them between their knees.
The car sped diagonally across the Plaza, under an arch in one corner which led into a steep alley of filthy festering walls plastered with layers of political posters, each carrying some violent exhortation, now torn one from another like gigantic scabs.
It took them five minutes to reach the high marble gateposts where the car slowed to walking pace, while two helmeted guards inspected them, each with his finger pressed to the trigger, safety-catch off; then on into the spacious gardens, all jaundiced and bloodshot, full of fleshy bilious leaves and the wild fauna of the rainforest which a succession of tyrants had failed to tame within the confines of the Palace gardens.
A group of soldiers waited on the forecourt. Several of them wore piping and white sashes and carried ceremonial swords. As the car drew up, they watched with the same indifference which the four men had shown since leaving the café.
