The widows war, p.15
The Widow's War, page 15
‘I’d settle for a large carafe of iced water.’
The plane’s white airstream had almost disappeared now, the wisps of cloud dissipating themselves into the smoke from the volcanoes. No-Entry shook his head. ‘Looks like we may be in the shit, Colonel. No plane at that height’s gonna spot us two lil’ people down here. Y’know, ah’ll be right glad to see Gallo’s boys turn up and take us in.’
Ryan trudged on in silence a few paces behind No-Entry. Their shadows were growing long and the sun hung low over the green sea, and the air became fresh, almost cool. The mountains now seemed very close, their flanks the colour of rust, and ribbed with long purple lava-flows that reached down from the snow-line to just above the plain.
They had walked several miles along the road, and the only living creatures they had seen were a couple of lizards. Then No-Entry turned. ‘That map you got — it shows a place called Carrudas? About fifteen miles from where we landed?’
‘That’s right.’ Ryan watched the still shadows of the cacti growing longer, blacker. Then he spoke, quite casually. ‘You were in a pretty big hurry to get me away from the camp at Guajira, weren’t you, Major? You’d have done better to have given the plane a thorough check-out and flown over tomorrow. What was so pressing?’
‘Weather, mainly. As ah said, this sea blows up quick and funny. Unless the weather’s real still and sluggish, you can get storms come up in minutes, and planes disappear and boats sink.’
‘The weather was the only reason?’
‘Sure. This afternoon was perfect flyin’ conditions.’
There was a long silence. ‘What were you doing before you got in on this junket, Major?’ Ryan said at last. ‘Were you regular?’
‘Yes an’ no. After Vietnam ah did a spell as a disc-jockey in Miami, but ah got bored bein’ served last in every bar, or told the joint was closed. When mah guts got healed ah went back to Indo-China, but not to the front-line. I chose Laos. Nice and peaceful, then. I was co-pilot for an outfit called Air America. Ever heard of it?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Used to be the only registered civil airline in the world that carried no passengers. Its motto was, “We fly anywhere — drop anythin’.” Mostly it was rice, to the mountain tribesmen. Sometimes, ah guess, it was other things. We didn’t ask. We collected five hundred a week, no tax, so why make problems?’
‘Then what happened?’
‘I got in with some bad boys, and we tried the biggest heist in history — one point five billion in greenbacks. Five tons o’ the stuff. It was the end o’ the war. They was shiftin’ all the loose change out o’ Nam before the final curtain. We hijacked one of the planes.’
‘Just like that? So why aren’t you basking on a yacht somewhere out there in the blue? Or did something go wrong?’
No-Entry laughed — a strange rippling sound in the evening stillness. ‘Yeah, it went wrong. We finished up in North Vietnam. I only got out last year.’
For some time the only sound was the scuffing of their feet on the dusty road. Ryan said at last, ‘And how do the authorities feel about you back home? I mean, they not only lost the bloody war out there, but — if I’m to believe you — it seems they also lost one thousand, five hundred million dollars — and to the enemy at that. They can’t be too happy about you, Major. And you still say you got an honourable discharge?’
‘They never did prove it. Officially, I was posted missing. And the plane just disappeared. Ah’m still a US citizen, and ah’ve got a passport to prove it.’ He hesitated. ‘Matter o’ fact, Colonel, I got two passports — both for real. You might say, ah’m jus’ one o’ Nature’s born bet hedgers. Fact is, mah job as a freelance pilot takes me all kinds o’ places and ’mong all kinds o’ people. In some o’ those places, a US passport is like a ringside ticket to Madison Square Gardens. In others, it’s like walkin’ round with a dose of syph. I jus’ like to be flexible.’
‘And the second passport?’ said Ryan.
‘Puerto Rican. That’s for when ah go slummin’.’
Ryan gave a long slow nod. ‘With your record, Major Jones, I’d say you needed half a dozen passports. It must also give your former employers in the CIA a pretty good hold over you. Nobody likes living the rest of their lives with a criminal charge hanging over them. Believe me, I know.’
The Negro slowed his step. ‘Excuse me, Colonel. I thought we’d been over this territory before, when we first met? I told you then, and I’m telling you now — I don’t work for any government, or any government agency. I’m self-employed.’
‘That’s just it. But you say you’re also employed by Señora La Vuelva and her gang.’
The Negro had halted. His dark face was grave in the fading light. ‘Just what does that mean, Colonel? I’m stupid — I didn’t get the kind of schooling you white boys got.’
‘You know what I’m talking about. You used to fly for the CIA in South-East Asia — and don’t give me all that innocent crap about the Yanks not being interested in this island anymore. They’re like the Russkies — they’re interested in everything, everybody, everywhere.’
No-Entry let his breath out in a low hiss. ‘So you figure that if ah once worked for the Company back in Asia, ah’m still on the payroll? You’re crazy, Colonel. You’re also wrong.’
‘You know what they say about Intelligence work? It’s like the Communist Party and the Catholic Church. Once you’re in, you’re booked for the duration.’
No-Entry nodded. ‘Well, that makes two of us. From what ah heard, Colonel, you were in much the same racket in World War Two. In fact, you were pretty big.’
‘I was in a different league. I was a double-agent. But I also worked for myself.’
‘Are you suggesting I might be double too?’ The Negro’s hands hung loosely at his sides, curling into fists, his feet widely spaced. ‘You’ve got a dirty mind, Colonel.’
‘Dirty and suspicious. This afternoon we’ve hardly arrived at the camp at Guajira when you insist we fuck off in that bloody little string bag of a plane, and hey-presto! — we run out of petrol, do a beautiful landing, and are stuck like a pair of rabbits in the middle of a cut cornfield. And after a bit, I get to wondering if you and I are playing the same game. I mean, I’m wondering if the cards are marked.’
The Negro opened his fists and gave a sudden shout of laughter, shattering the silence round them. ‘Man, you really are crazy! First you say ah work for the Company — now you think ah work for that bearded bum, Gallo? And what do you suppose ah’d get out o’ him? A few million People’s Democratic escudos? And what would ah do with ’em? Use ’em to wipe mah ass for the next twenty years?’ His face became serious again. ‘Colonel, we’re two lonely people out in a very lonely place. Haven’t we got enough trouble, without fighting each other?’
Ryan relaxed. ‘All right. I apologize. But I had to be sure.’ Solemnly they shook hands in the empty darkness. ‘So you’re strictly freelance — in it just for yourself, and for the money? Like me. But how did you get involved in the first place?’
‘That bum Rodriguez hired me, in Mexico City. He said he had a good outfit goin’ — and that the person behind it was someone who was guaranteed to lead a revolution against Gallo. He made it all sound mighty tempting.
‘Anyway, ah wasn’t going to argue. As ah said, ah don’t give a goddamn about politics — or a sweet fuck if this dirty little island is run by a bearded thug with a hot-line to Moscow, or by a rich bitch like La Vuelva and her so-called Ramonista Movement. Jus’ so long as ah get paid. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
They began to walk again. ‘One last thing,’ said Ryan. ‘When we get picked up, we’ve got to have some sort of story ready. You’re my hired pilot out of Barranquilla and we were making for Jamaica when we had to put down here. I’m just an English businessman holidaying in Colombia. You know that much — and that’s all you know.’
He looked up. No-Entry’s hand had closed round Ryan’s wrist. ‘Hey, wait a minute!’ — his hold tightened — ‘hear somethin’?’
They had both stopped again, listening. At first Ryan thought it was the sound of wind, or sea, or perhaps a swarm of insects. He swung round. Two pricks of light had appeared on the dark flat horizon behind them. ‘Here we go,’ said No-Entry. ‘Do we lie low, or stop them? You’re the boss.’
‘We stay put. It doesn’t matter if they’re friendly or not — we get them to take us to the nearest authorities. There we tell our story. How’s your Spanish?’
‘It works.’
‘Don’t let it work too hard. Leave the talking to me. If we’re too fluent, they’ll get suspicious. They’ll be suspicious anyway, but we don’t want to encourage them.’
‘Sorry, Colonel, but ah gotta speak Spanish. On this ride, ah’m a Puerto Rican.’ And he tapped the top pocket of his tracksuit.
‘Well, just as long as you make it convincing,’ said Ryan.
They waited another few minutes in silence. The noise behind them had risen to a steady growl. They stood and watched the lights approach. It was a medium-sized truck with a canvas hood over the rear, all painted drab green. The headlamps were dipped and they could not see how many people were in the cabin. They moved into the middle of the road and Ryan waved his jacket.
The truck let out two shattering honks and its lights came on full-beam, dazzling them both. It was doing about twenty miles an hour, its engine rising to a crescendo, and for several seconds Ryan thought that they would have to jump aside or be run down. Then it braked noisily and a voice shouted at them. Ryan walked towards it, and the truck stopped. A grizzled mestizo head above a grey vest peered down at him from the high cabin window. Behind him was a man in olive-green uniform with a soft peaked cap. The mestizo said in Spanish: ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ He glanced beside him at the man in uniform, then added, ‘You know this is a prohibited zone?’
‘You go Carrudas?’ Ryan asked, in halting Spanish.
The man shouted again, above the throb of the engine: ‘What are you doing here?’
Ryan replied with a preposterous charade of waving his arms in the motion of a plane landing. ‘We go Jamaica! Aeroplano kaput!’ — he crouched down, his outstretched hands almost touching the ground. ‘Polizia!’ — and he pointed to the road ahead.
The driver was talking again to the man in uniform. The other nodded, opened his door and climbed down. ‘Documents,’ he said, coming towards them. He had a fierce Spanish face. Ryan took out his new British passport and handed it to him. No-Entry Jones did the same with his, issued by the Government of Puerto Rico. The soldier stood studying them both, frowning.
‘Habla ingles?’ Ryan asked.
The man looked at him and shook his head. ‘Here is prohibited.’ Then he jerked his thumb towards the back of the truck. He did not give the passports back. ‘Accompany us!’ He followed them both round and unhitched the tailboard, watching carefully as they both climbed aboard; then slammed the tailboard shut, leaving Ryan and No-Entry in total darkness. A moment later, the truck started.
Ryan got out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to No-Entry, who shook his head. ‘I don’t smoke. I got no vices, Colonel.’ He spoke without humour.
Ryan sat back against the hard wall of the truck. There seemed to be nothing in the back except themselves; but there was a strong smell of coffee.
They drove for three-quarters of an hour. After about half of this the road became smoother and several times they slowed down, as though for other traffic. Ryan crawled to the back and looked through the canvas flaps.
It was quite dark now, and they were driving through a small town with a little square with white houses and a row of arcades hung with guttering lamps. Otherwise there were no lights, no sign of any people, although it was barely seven-thirty in the evening: an hour when the pavements of most Caribbean towns are at their most crowded. Once a car drove past — a dusty grey humpbacked Moskvitch with four men inside.
The truck passed round a square with more arcades, mimosa trees and a dry stone fountain. There was also a plinth with what looked like a pair of amputated bronze boots — the relic of some hero of the Island’s history, some great liberator turned tyrant? A slogan had been neatly sprayed onto the base with a red aerosol: VIVA LA REVOLUCION!
The truck swung sideways, slowed to walking pace, and Ryan had a glimpse of a sentry standing beside an open gate under a bunch of red flags. He heard voices — harsh shouts in the dark, and the distant blaring of some martial song on a gramophone or radio. The truck stopped and the canvas flaps were stripped back. A torch shone in their faces and a voice asked them in Spanish to step down.
They were in what looked like a low barrack-square with under-powered electric lights in each corner. The men wore the same green uniforms as the man in the truck. They looked very young, and their long hair stuck out from under their soft peaked caps. Several had scrawny black beards. Ryan noticed them enviously eyeing his filter-tipped cigarette.
After a long wait in a corridor, guarded by two armed men, he and No-Entry were led into a large white-washed room, lit by a strip of bluish neon which fizzed and blinked from the ceiling. On the wall was a framed photograph of President Fulgencio Gallo, his black beard almost covering the open neck of his khaki jacket. Two red banners were draped round the frame, and formed the only decoration in the room. There was a row of steel-backed chairs along one wall, facing a cheap wooden table. Behind it sat two men.
One was a mestizo with broad flat nostrils and a mouthful of metal teeth. The man beside him looked scarcely out of his teens: a sleek handsome youth with large eyes and tabs on his shoulders. There was an old-fashioned telephone at his elbow, while in front of him lay Ryan’s and No-Entry’s passports. He spoke polite, rather pedantic English with a slight American accent: ‘I am Captain Monica, of Field Intelligence for the Carrudas area. It is necessary that I ask you some questions. Will you please explain why you are here?’
Ryan said: ‘If you don’t mind, Captain, first I’d like a glass of water.’
‘Certainly.’ The boy turned to the mestizo and muttered an order, and the man rose and loped away through a side-door. No one spoke until he returned, bringing two mugs and a plastic canteen. Both men at the table watched as Ryan and No-Entry drank greedily until the canteen was empty.
Ryan got out his American cigarettes and offered them to the two men. They both hesitated, the mestizo looking at the young captain as though awaiting his decision. The officer finally accepted — out of curiosity, Ryan thought, as well as a guilty desire. ‘Thank you. We have not seen American cigarettes for nearly ten years — since the Americans imposed their embargo on us.’ He lit the cigarette and puffed at it tentatively. ‘Now, you will answer my question, please, Mister —’ he glanced down at Ryan’s passport — ‘Brox.’
‘Well, my friend here, Mr Jones, was flying me to Jamaica from Barranquilla, in Colombia, when we ran out of fuel and only just managed to make a crash-landing. Your friends in the truck fortunately came by and picked us up.’
There was a pause. When he spoke, the young man seemed almost embarrassed. ‘You are no doubt aware that Jamaica is some distance from the direct route between Colombia and the Island?’
Ryan shrugged. ‘We had trouble with the compass. It’s easy to get lost in those little planes. The nearest other place we might have been able to land was Haiti — and quite frankly, Captain, I’ve heard a few nasty stories about that country. We decided we’d get more hospitality from you.’
The young man gave a little nod. ‘I understand. But you also must understand that we have to be very careful in this country. Socialism has many enemies, and here we are surrounded by enemies. It is necessary to be vigilant at all times.’ He paused again. ‘Your passport, Mister Broakes, says that you are a business executive. Do you have business interests in Colombia or Jamaica?’
‘Neither. I’m supposed to be on holiday — in Barranquilla. But you know what we capitalists are! We’re like you soldiers — always on duty.’ He smiled, and to his relief the captain smiled back.
‘How long have you been on holiday, Mr Broakes?’
Ryan knew what the other was thinking. He had no suntan, and the side of his face still bore the puffed bluish traces of his recent pistol-whipping, while the cut over his eye was obviously only a few days old. ‘I’d only just arrived. Then I got this damn call from Jamaica.’ He smiled again, but this time it was not returned. The young officer was looking at him with a steady stare.
‘You have had an accident on your holiday?’
‘Yes. One of those crazy Colombian taxi-drivers. I was lucky it wasn’t worse.’
Captain Monica now turned to No-Entry’s passport. ‘Mr Jones —’ his eyes looked slowly up at No-Entry, and for a moment Ryan thought he detected in them an expression of incipient contempt for the black skin — ‘you are a citizen of Puerto Rico, and you have a residence visa for Mexico? What where you doing in Colombia?’
Ryan noted that the officer had made no effort to address No-Entry in Spanish, and the Negro replied in his deepest drawl: ‘Workin’. I take work wherever ah can get it, Capt’n.’
‘You speak English like an American. You do not, perhaps, also work in the United States? I hear that there are many immigrants from your country?’
No-Entry gave him a wide grin. ‘Well, ah’ll tell you somethin’, Capt’n. I actually emigrated from the US of A. If you was a professional pilot and had my skin, where would you choose to work — Puerto Rico, or Yazoo, Mississippi?’ He paused, and with perfect timing his face grew serious again. ‘You people are lucky here. You got free.’
The young man nodded ambiguously. Just then the telephone rang on the table. Captain Monica answered it, in rapid Spanish: ‘I know, I have them both here.’ Ryan was careful to look as though he did not understand. ‘Their papers seem to be in order. But look for the plane. And make a thorough search of the area.’ He broke off and looked up at Ryan. ‘How far did you land from where you were picked up?’
