Harrison had a pad in his lap. It was noon, and the sun was almost directly overhead, casting virtually no shadow. It was becoming hot, a little too much so, but Harrison in his gray linen suit and pale gray tie seemed cool and calm. “You will begin,” he said, reading from his pad, “with a greeting from the Mayor of the city, at the dock.”
“I know him,” grunted the General. “He’s a pig.” The General was in a bad mood, not only because of the swaying stairway he had had to descend, but also because the other dark blue uniform he had changed to was far too hot for this sunny day. Within it, and all around it, the General was sweating. He was sweating rivers, sweating lakes. Everything was sticking to him.
Harrison, unruffled by the General’s comment, continued to read from the pad: “The Mayor will escort you to a luncheon in your honor. The guests will be—”
General Pozos glowered silently through the reading of the list, until the name of a particular movie actress was mentioned, when he said, “Is that the blonde one?”
“No, sir. Redhead.”
“Perhaps I want her.”
“I believe she has just recently remarried, General, and her husband’s name is on the guest list here.”
“Por nada,” the General said, and waved a hand in a dismissing gesture. He always saved face in Spanish; he couldn’t trust English to convey quite the right careless tone with which he wanted to announce that he cared nothing for the redheaded movie actress, that she was forgotten, that she did not exist. The proper nuances required his native tongue.
Harrison meanwhile carried on undisturbed, as he always did. “After lunch,” he said, “which will be at the Hilton, there will be a brief news conference, and then you—”
“Reporters?” The General didn’t like reporters, with good cause.
“We have guarantees of cooperation. All but two are Mexican, anyway.”
“The other two?”
“One American, one British.”
“I don’t know which is worse.” The statement wasn’t irony, of which the General was incapable; it was the literal truth, announced deadpan.
“They’ll cooperate, General, it’s all been arranged.”
“Good.”
“After the news conference, you go to a suite reserved for you at the Hilton, and there you interview prospective new additions to your personal staff.”
The General smiled. That meant women, and the General loved women when they were brand-new.
“From four to seven,” Harrison went on, “there will be a cocktail party in your honor, given by an American author.” He mentioned the name, a man whose doctor novels always made the best-seller list.
The General had never heard of him. He grunted, not caring.
“Dinner at eight,” Harrison said. “The Brazilian Ambassador is the host, he has an estate outside the city.”
The General didn’t like Brazil, because it was so big. He pursed his lips, but kept quiet.
“You will return to your suite by eleven,” Harrison finished, “and be free the rest of the evening. We leave at nine in the morning.”
The General nodded. “Good,” he said.
The launch, having slowed to a crawl, was reluctantly approaching the dock now, bobbing heavily in the water. Lines were thrown and fastened, the launch bumped finally against the dock, and strong hands helped the General up and onto the solid planks, where a crowd of smiling faces and poised hands waited, all in formal attire.
For the next five minutes, the General was involved in the protocol of official greetings. There was a line of faces to smile at, hands to shake, all in particular order. The General loved such fuss and ceremony just as he loved his uniforms; they made him feel good, tall, central, important.
Most of the welcoming party were politicians, of course, mayors and governors and ambassadors and so on. There was also Luke Harrison, Bob’s father, and there was Doctor Edgar Fitzgerald, both men fairly far down the line. General Pozos was pleased to see them, particularly the doctor, who would be joining him here and staying with him indefinitely. He took the doctor’s hand in both his own, smiling broadly. The physical troubles that had been assailing the General these past few years, particularly the increasingly frequent problem of impotence, were both infuriating and frightening. To have the care and concern of such a man as Doctor Edgar Fitzgerald was a great relief, a great relief.
The General expressed his feelings as he shook the doctor’s hand, saying, “Most happy, my Doctor. Most happy. You will love your rooms on the ship, you will love them.”
The doctor seemed somewhat haggard, possibly from the change of climate or diet, but he managed an answering smile and said, “I’m looking forward to seeing them, General. And to beginning—beginning our association.”
“Most happy. Most happy.”
The General released his hand at last, and moved on. Now he allowed himself to be distracted while he watched young Harrison meeting his father. Would there be a clue now, a hint, the opening of a door into Harrison’s interior, as he shook hands with the father he hadn’t seen for nearly a year?
But it was a disappointment. The two men, father and son, shook hands and smiled at one another and murmured a few words, but so far as the General could see, it was all done with that same bland, polite good fellowship that Harrison always showed.
Yes, but this time there were two of them. The father acted the same way, precisely the same way, as he greeted his son. There were no broad smiles of pleasure, no bright eyes, no arms thrown around one another, no expression or gesture of blood relationship at all. But on the other hand, there was none of the stiff formality seen between relatives who have had a falling-out, either. There was nothing, nothing at all.
Was that where Harrison had learned it, from his father?
The General moved on to the next blankly smiling face, automatically outstretched hand. This a young man, Latin, slightly familiar, but with something vaguely like insolence in the eyes. The General shook his son’s hand without recognition, failed to see the bitter humor that came into the boy’s eyes, and moved on.
As he continued along the line, smiling, bowing his head, murmuring his words in either Spanish or English, shaking hands, he saw from the corner of his eye that the senior Harrison had stepped back from the line, was moving away from the rest. The young man with the vaguely insolent eyes moved off with him.
A minute later the younger Harrison reached the General’s side and murmured, “Dad couldn’t stay. He wanted to be here long enough to greet you, but now he has to hurry away. He asked me to express his apologies, and tell you he hopes to see you in Santo Stefano next month.”
The General nodded. He failed to understand, but he nodded. And moved along the line, bowing and shaking hands.
Finally the initial meeting was done, this first ceremony over, and the entire party moved toward the row of limousines waiting at the other end of the dock. The General was now flanked by Bob Harrison on one side and on the other by the Mayor of the city, who was his official host for the day. After a few paces, Harrison dropped back to make room for the Brazilian Ambassador.
They had just reached the limousines when the General’s attention was caught by a disturbance far down the street. He looked in that direction, and was amazed to see two people thundering this way on horseback, rushing along as though at the steeplechase. And there were the sound of shots, and people chasing people, and great confusion, all hurtling this way.
A voice said, very loudly, “Oh, my God!” and the General was amazed to realize it was young Harrison, thrust at last out of his pale cocoon. He turned his head to see the expression on Harrison’s face when all at once a fist struck him very hard on the chest, and the sun went out.
PART FOUR
1
WHEN THEY WENT around the first curve and could no longer see the red glow of the burning automobile back there, when there was unrelieved blackness all around them except for the light thrown off by their own car, El
ly turned around in the seat, stared at Grofield’s profile, and said, “What in God’s name did you do back there?”
“Guerrilla tactics. I unhorsed them.”
Grofield was feeling very good, very pleased with himself. He’d stranded that crowd so they were pretty much out of the picture for good. There would be another crowd waiting at the Acapulco end, but Grofield was feeling cocky now, certain he’d be able to take care of them, too, when the time came.
He also had a strong Richard Conte or George Raft feeling right now. Having wrecked the heavy’s vehicle, he was bringing the load of oranges into Frisco on time after all, which meant the shipping contract would go to his infant company, which in turn meant Martha could get that operation on her foot. Crouched over the wheel, Grofield heard the kind of staccato background music this scene always got, and he knew the only thing missing was the cigarette dangling from a corner of his mouth.
The left corner.
He said, “Gimme a butt.”
“What?”
“A cigarette. Please.”
“Oh. I didn’t hear you.”
Grofield chuckled and settled back more comfortably in the seat, letting the bit go. There was no point keeping your shoulders tense all the time. The background music faded, and he said, “You get some sleep if you can. Maybe I’ll have you drive later on.”
She handed him a lit cigarette and said, “Don’t look now, but you’re being noble and clever at the same time. You won’t want me to drive later on and you know it.”
Grofield looked at her, and back at the curving, climbing roadway. “All right,” he said. “But when we get to Acapulco, you’re the one in charge, you’re the one who finds this General and gets us in to see him. You ought to be bright and alert for it.”
“I ought to stay awake,” she said, “to keep you company. You didn’t have much sleep either.”
“I’m doing fine,” he told her. “I’m a natural driver, I could drive all night, I’ve done it lots of times.”
“Besides,” she said, “I couldn’t possibly go to sleep, I’m too keyed up.”
Grofield shrugged and said, “Fine by me. It’s up to you.”
But then she didn’t say anything else, and when Grofield glanced at her again five minutes later she was sleeping, her head tilted to the side and resting against the window.
He had told her the truth about being a natural driver, about enjoying time spent at the wheel, but this highway was a strain on anyone. It curved and climbed and dipped and reversed itself, all poorly marked with signs and all in total darkness and all two lanes wide. The only item on the plus side was that there was absolutely no traffic, in either direction. Grofield kept the high beams on constantly, picking his way with wearying caution over the road, rarely able to get above thirty miles an hour. His shoulders kept tensing up despite him, until the first twinge of ache would call his attention, beginning in the area of the wound. Then he’d force himself to relax again, to sit easily and comfortably, holding the steering wheel with moderate grip. The wound had been all right the last day or so, he didn’t want it to start acting up again. But soon he’d be hunched forward once more, squinting into the darkness ahead, fingers clamped around the wheel, body tense and shoulders rigid.
A man’s best friend when driving alone at night is his car radio, but in these mountains there was no radio reception, and no nearby stations. Grofield tried it every once in a while and got only rasping static, which made Elly moan and shift position.
Dawn came around five-thirty, after he’d been driving two hours and had covered forty-seven miles. He was getting weary, as worn as if he’d driven ten hours, and his left shoulder ached constantly now, around the wound. He was also getting hungry, and visions of coffee danced in his head.
Driving was a bit easier in daylight, and he made better time. Half an hour later, having covered another twenty-one miles, he came to a flat section and a town, Chilpancingo. There was a big Pemex gas station on the right, with a restaurant on the second floor. Grofield pulled the car off the road and stopped next to the station.
Elly woke up as soon as the car stopped moving. She sat up bleary-eyed, saying, “Are we here?”
“No. This is a place called Chilpancingo. Rest stop.”
“Oh.” Rubbing her eyes with her knuckles she said, “I fell asleep.”
“Sure. That’s what I wanted.”
“What time is it?”
“Little after six.”
“My God! I slept almost three hours.”
“Come on, let’s go get some coffee.”
They went into the rest rooms first and washed their faces, then went upstairs to the restaurant. There were no other customers this early, but three employees were already on the job. A short and serious young man perched on a stool at the cashier’s desk, a heavy-set woman mopped the floor with a red rag which she pushed back and forth with a stick, and a waitress in a white uniform worked at a table in the corner, filling sugar jars.
The waitress came over as soon as Grofield and Elly settled at a table. She brought with her a smile, two glasses of water, and a pair of menus.
Grofield said, “We can’t take much time, you know.”
Elly nodded. “I know.” She ordered melon and black coffee, and Grofield said he’d have the same.
Grofield lit a cigarette while waiting, but saw Elly’s wrinkled look of distaste and put it out again. She said, “I’m sorry, it’s just when I first get up.”
“It’s okay. It tasted bad anyway.”
“I’ll drive for a while, if you want.”
“No. All I need is a few minutes’ rest and a cup of coffee.”
When the waitress came back with their order, Grofield asked her how much farther it was to Acapulco and she said, “One hundred forty kilometers.”
He worked that out in his head and it came to eighty-seven and a half miles. At least another two hours at the rate they were going, and probably more. He said, “There’s just the one road to Acapulco, isn’t there?”
“Oh, yes.”
“No other way to get there.”
“Fly,” she said, and smiled broadly, and pointed out the window.
Frowning, Grofield looked where she pointed and saw a couple of small airplanes in a field out there. And a runway, extending away to the right.
For just a second he considered it. Honner and the others expected them to arrive by car, so if they showed up instead by airplane . . .
No. Honner and his men must know themselves about this airfield, and in any case they wouldn’t be easing up their watch anywhere, because how could they be sure Grofield wasn’t working some sort of fake to throw them off guard? Besides, if he and Elly took a plane, they’d have to leave the car here, and Honner would be coming along in a while and would surely see the car and know what it meant.
So that was that. Grofield thanked the waitress and reached for his coffee.
Talking around a mouthful of melon, Elly said, “I’ve been thinking.”
“About what?”
“The men in Acapulco. You know.”
“Honner’s friends.”
“Yes. They won’t just wait there for us, you know, at the city line. They’ll come looking for us on the road, that’s the best place to capture us. They’ll be coming up and Honner’ll be coming down, and we’re in the middle drinking coffee and eating melon.”
“I know,” Grofield admitted. “I’ve been avoiding the thought, but I know that’s what they’ll do, they’ll come for us.”
“So what will we do?”
“You got me, honey.” Grofield glanced at the planes again, standing out there with morning dew on them, and felt a longing.
“It’s daytime now,” she said. “You won’t be able to sneak up on them this time, or crash by them. Or outrace them.”
“I know, I know. Don’t nag.”
“Nag? That’s a funny word.”
“It’s a funny life. You finished with the melon?”
/>
“What are we going to do, Alan?”
“Think. But we’ll travel while we think, it’ll save time.”
They paid for their breakfast and went back downstairs to the car, where Elly said, “I really ought to drive for a while. That way, you can think without being distracted.”
Grofield felt it was cheating to allow himself to be talked into it this way, but his shoulder was still aching and he truly didn’t want to drive, so he merely said, “It’s a hell of a road, you know.”
“I can drive. Give me the keys.”
“Okay.” He gave her the keys. They got into the car, Elly behind the wheel, and headed south again. Just past town, the road began to climb once more and to wind like a snake amid the mountains.
Grofield, on the passenger side, gazed moodily out the windshield, watching the sky turn a lighter and lighter blue, watching the cream-white hood of the Datsun turn this way and that, nosing along the corkscrew road. He wasn’t getting much thinking done, but he was relaxing, and the pain in the shoulder was lessening.
All at once Elly hit the brakes hard, startling Grofield out of a reverie that was at least half nap. He looked up, expecting to see the road blocked by men with guns, and saw a whole lot of black goats instead. They were coming down a steep, overgrown hill on the left, crossing the road, and disappearing down another steep slope on the right. Two young men on horseback, wearing white shirts and trousers and dark-colored serapes and straw hats, like sombreros but with narrower brims, moved restlessly back and forth on the roadway to either side of the herd of goats, keeping them together, preventing strays.
Grofield looked at them, looked at the goats, looked at the almost invisible path the goats were following, and snapped his fingers. “Elly,” he said, “if you speak Spanish, we’re saved.”
“High school Spanish,” she said. “Why?”
“Ask them how much money they want for the horses.”
“What?”
“The horses, the horses. Hurry, before they leave us here.”
“But what do we want with—”
The Damsel Page 14
