by Jack Higgins
'The understatement of the age.' Orlov sighed and shook his head. 'I shall never understand why we had to become involved with these miserable people in the first place. One of Nikita's more inspired blunders.'
'I'll second that.'
'And you?' Orlov asked. 'Why are you here?'
Under the circumstances there seemed no reason to make a secret of it and Manning told him the whole story.
When he had finished, Orlov shook his head. 'Rojas is obviously determined to have his way with both of us and I should imagine his methods leave a lot to be desired.'
Manning got to his feet, went to the door and peered out into the dark corridor. He could just see the iron-barred gate that led into the gallery and light splashed under the door of Cienaga's room.
'What's the chicken wire for?'
'A prisoner jumped into the hall a couple of months ago when he was being taken for questioning. Rojas wasn't too pleased. Flogged the soldiers concerned.'
'I noticed a similar gallery on the other side of the hall. There was no wire up there.'
'That's the officers' quarters. They kept me in a room there at first. Treated me quite well until I turned awkward.'
'And this is supposed to make you see the light?'
'That's the general idea, but I'm afraid he's picked on the wrong man. My parents were killed in the war and I was a partisan fighter at fifteen. Colonel Rojas may well break his teeth on me.'
'Ever thought of getting out?'
Orlov laughed softly. 'Frequently, but it's impossible. Even if one got out of the cell there are at least four more gates to pass through, each one locked and guarded.'
'But what if one could bypass the gates?'
'I don't understand.'
Manning moved back to the bed and sat down. 'The main roof out there is held up by huge beams which are supported by a stone ledge at either end and running the full width of the hall.'
'So?'
'An active man could cross that ledge to the officers' quarters.'
'A desperate man, you mean. The ledge is perhaps nine inches wide and it's eighty feet down to those flags.'
'Would you be willing to try?'
'Certainly, but you've forgotten one small point. It would first be necessary to get out of the cell and onto the gallery. How do you suggest we accomplish this?'
'By getting Cienaga in here and relieving him of his keys.'
'But I have already told you,' Orlov said patiently. 'Cienaga never enters the cells without an armed guard and at night he is on his own. Even if we created a disturbance or started a fight to attract him, he would simply stand outside the door enjoying himself.'
'What do you think would happen to him if one of his prisoners committed suicide? One of his special prisoners?'
'Rojas would have his hide?'
'Exactly.' Manning stood up, flicked on his lighter and held it to the ceiling. 'So what would Cienaga do if he looked through that grille and saw one of us hanging from a hook up there?'
'He would come in,' the Russian answered automatically and then the implication of his words seemed to hit him and he jumped to his feet excitedly. 'By God, you've got it, Manning. As long as there was a chance of cutting the body down in time, he'd have to come in. His fear of what Rojas might do to him would drive every other thought from his head.'
'That's what I thought,' Manning said. 'I'm only worried about one thing. The noise when we jump him. He's certain to put up a fight.'
'No one will take any notice. As I said before, there are rows up here every night.'
'Okay, then,' Manning said. 'All we need now is a way of faking the thing.'
That shouldn't be too difficult. As I am smaller than you, I shall take the post of honour while you scream hysterically at the door. Let me have your belt.'
Manning gave it to him and then held up his lighter so that the Russian could work in its glow. He fastened his own belt around his waist under the armpits and then buckled Manning's through it, forming a loop which he pushed round to the back.
He grinned gaily. 'I hope to God I'm not too heavy.'
Manning grinned back. In spite of the short time they had known each other, a well-defined personality had already emerged. It was that of a brave and aggressive, physically tough man, highly intelligent and with a strong vein of humour never far below the surface. A man it was impossible not to like.
'And now your back,' he said.
Manning braced himself and Orlov climbed up quickly and then very carefully balanced on his shoulders. Manning held the lighter at arm's length and then the weight was removed from his shoulders and he turned.
Orlov had one arm around the beam and hung there as he reached for the loop of leather with his free hand. He was obviously immensely strong. He slid the loop over a hook, took a deep breath and gently lowered himself. His body swung with a slight eerie creaking and when he dropped his head to one side, the illusion was complete.
'How do I look?'
'Bloody marvellous,' Manning said. 'Now hold it like that.'
He slipped his lighter into his pocket, turned and started to batter against the door with his clenched fist. As the sound echoed along the corridor, he put his face to the grille and cried out in Spanish, 'Cienaga, for God's sake, help. He's killing himself.'
A moment later, the door at the end of the corridor was flung open and a band of yellow light cut through the darkness. As Cienaga emerged, a flashlight in his hand, Manning redoubled his efforts.
'For God's sake, hurry! He's killing himself.'
Cienaga laughed harshly. 'Killing himself, eh? That's a new one.'
As the brutal face appeared at the grille, Manning drew back slightly. A second later, the beam of the powerful flashlight pierced the darkness and settled upon the figure of the Russian. His body swayed rhythmically from side-to-side, eyes wide and staring and his tongue protruded between his teeth.
Cienaga gave a cry of dismay and the light was withdrawn. A moment later, the key rattled in the door and it was thrown open. He rushed forward into the room and Orlov reached up, grasped the beam firmly and kicked him in the face with both feet held together.
The Cuban lurched back against the wall and the flashlight fell from his hand and rolled across the floor. He started to get to his feet and Manning moved in to finish him off. He lifted his knee into the smashed and bleeding face and then the great arms fastened around him and started to squeeze.
Manning struggled desperately to free himself as the air was driven from his lungs and then Orlov arrived on the scene. He directed the flashlight onto Cienaga's face then carefully struck him under the right ear with all his force. Cienaga's eyes rolled until only the whites were showing and he released his grip. He keeled over onto his face and Orlov kicked him on the side of the head.
The key was still in the lock, the rest of the bunch hanging from it and they locked the door quickly. They stood listening for a moment or two, but nothing stirred. The gallery was dimly lit and the whole block wrapped in quiet as Manning worked his way through the bunch of keys until he found the right one. They moved outside quickly and locked the gate after them.
Only a single light illuminated the hall below and the roof was shrouded in darkness. The chicken wire presented no problem. Pulling on it between them, they forced it away from the wall, making a large enough gap for them to squeeze through.
The first beam lifted from the ledge about three feet to the left. Manning took a deep breath and stepped gingerly across. It was surprisingly easy. He waited until Orlov joined him and then turned his face to the wall, spread out his arms and started to inch his way across.
Time seemed to have no meaning as he moved steadily to the left and it was with a sense of surprise that his fingers touched the next beam. He rested a moment, waiting for Orlov. When the Russian joined him, there was sweat on his face, but he managed a grin.
'Keep moving. We haven't got all night.'
There were three more beams to by
pass and Manning moved on, his breathing unnaturally loud in his ears and then a door clanged. He froze to the wall and glanced down in time to see a soldier pass through the pool of light in the hall below. He paused to light a cigarette and then disappeared through a door. Manning started to inch sideways again. A couple of minutes later, he scrambled over the balustrade and stood on the other gallery.
Orlov joined him and they paused in the shadows listening. Somewhere there was laughter as a door opened, silence as it closed again.
'I know my way about on this side of the fortress,' Orlov said. 'They've installed a service lift at the end of this corridor which goes down to the ground floor where the orderlies have their quarters. We'll stand a better chance of getting out that way. It's at the rear.'
Manning nodded and the Russian led the way along the corridor. The lift doors were new and shining and looked strangely out of place. As he pressed the button, Manning noticed with amusement that the manufacturer's plate said Made in Detroit, which proved something, though he couldn't think what.
When the lift arrived, they stepped inside quickly and started down. He was conscious of a strange, hollow feeling in his stomach as they came to a halt, but the doors opened into a large, quiet basement. There was no one about.
They moved to the door and turned into a long brightly lit corridor. Voices came from a room to their left and the door was slightly ajar. Manning caught a glimpse of soldiers sitting round a table eating and moved on quickly after Orlov.
The Russian stood listening at one of the doors farther on and opened it as Manning arrived. It looked like the quarters of half a dozen men. The beds were ranged around the room, blankets neatly folded. Submachine guns and automatic rifles stood in a rack in one corner and there was a selection of uniforms and other items of equipment in the tin lockers by each bed.
'How good is your Spanish?' Orlov asked.
'Pretty fluent.'
'Then this is the obvious way out for us.'
They dressed quickly in military greatcoats and peaked caps and took a submachine gun each. They went back into the corridor and moved on quickly, mounted several stone steps and came into a narrow corridor that opened into a small hall.
There was a tiny glass office in the entrance and a guard casually leafed through a magazine, a cigarette in his mouth. Manning and Orlov walked out casually, submachine guns slung from their shoulders. As they passed the office, Manning half-raised a hand and the guard waved carelessly in reply.
It was raining outside and they went down some stone steps into a wide courtyard and walked into the darkness. 'All the trucks come in here,' Orlov said. 'We still have to walk round to the front gate. It's the only way out.'
Manning touched his arm and pointed. A few yards away, a jeep stood outside a lighted doorway. 'The Officers' Mess,' the Russian whispered.
'Couldn't be better, Manning said. 'Less chance of being questioned.'
They moved across the wet cobbles quickly. He climbed behind the wheel and pressed the starter. As the Russian scrambled into the other seat, they moved away.
He waited for the sound to come from behind him, for the sudden cries of alarm, but all was quiet. He turned into the front yard and approached the gate. It was ridiculously easy. When they were still twenty yards away, the guard raised the swing bar. A few moments later, they were driving rapidly through the night, down into San Juan.
13
From the Jaws of the Tyrant
As they turned onto the waterfront, a thin fog rolled in from the harbour, pushed by the wind. Although there were lights in many windows, the streets were deserted and when Manning braked to a halt a few yards from Bayo's place, he was conscious of the extreme quiet.
'Are you sure your friends will be here?' Orlov asked.
'They'd better be. I don't know where else to start looking,' Manning said. 'You stay here. I'll see how things are.'
He approached the hotel and peered in through the window. Bayo stood behind the bar reading a newspaper and three old men played cards in the corner. Otherwise, the place was deserted.
He moved back to Orlov who waited beside the jeep. 'No sign of them. Let's hope they're here somewhere.'
They moved along a narrow alley at the side of the building and turned into a cobbled yard. The back door wasn't locked and they stepped into a large, whitewashed kitchen. A small black-and-white puppy who had been sleeping in a basket in the corner rushed forward and started yapping furiously. As Manning bent to down to pat him, the door to the bar opened and Bayo came in.
'Here, what do you want?' he demanded angrily and then he recognized Manning.
He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, crossing himself hurriedly. 'Holy Mother aid me.'
'You've got nothing to worry about,' Manning said in English. 'I only want to know what's happened to Papa Melos and Anna.'
Bayo was quite obviously terrified. 'If Rojas finds I've helped you, he'll take a week over killing me.'
'If you're smart, he won't need to know.'
The Cuban made an obvious effort to pull himself together, crossed the room and opened another door. 'In here.'
Papa Melos lay on a bed against the wall, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. There was an empty bottle of rum on the bed, and another had spilled half its contents across the floor so that the whole place stank of liquor.
Orlov bent down, rolled back one of the old man's eyelids and felt his pulse. He turned and shook his head. 'He'll be like this for hours.'
Manning kicked the empty rum bottle across the floor and turned to Bayo. 'How long's he been like this?'
'Several hours. He tried to see Colonel Rojas again about his boat, but they wouldn't let him through the gates. Then he found they'd moved it out into the harbour and put a guard on board. That was when he came back and started on the rum.'
'What about the girl?'
'She did her best to stop him, but he wouldn't listen.'
'Where is she now?'
'She went to Colonel Rojas to beg him to return the boat to her father.'
'He wouldn't cut his own mother down if she were hanging,' Manning said.
'Who knows, Senor?' Bayo shrugged. 'She is pretty and the colonel's weakness for young girls is well known.'
Manning's throat turned dry. He moistened his lips and said, 'Where does he live? At the fortress?'
Bayo shook his head. 'He has a hacienda about a quarter of a mile out of town. Very fine, senor. Set in a walled garden.'
'What about guards?'
'There is one on the gate, three inside. And the colonel's aide, Lieutenant Motilina, he lives at the house also. He is personally responsible for his security.'
Manning stood there thinking about it and Orlov said, 'You are thinking of paying this place a visit?'
Manning nodded. 'I'll take the jeep. If I'm not back in an hour I suggest you steal a boat from the harbour and get the hell out of here.'
'When we go, we go together,' Orlov said. 'Besides, I should enjoy meeting Rojas again.'
'Then we'd better take the old man with us,' Manning said. 'From now on, we're going to have to move fast. I wouldn't like to have to leave him behind.' He turned to Bayo. 'We have a jeep outside.'
'I will carry him for you, senor.'
Bayo hoisted the old man across his shoulders and they went out through the yard and along the alley to the front of the building. They eased him onto the floor at the rear and Manning and Orlov got in quickly.
Manning switched on the engine and held out his hand. 'My thanks, Bayo.'
'We have a proverb, senor. Have patience and you will see your enemy's funeral procession. Go with God.'
The Cuban turned and disappeared into the alley and Manning drove away quickly.
The wrought iron gates of the hacienda stood open and the lamp suspended from the archway above swayed in the wind, a pool of light constantly reaching out into the darkness and retreating again.
The sentry stepped out of his wo
oden box, raising a hand to halt them. Manning slowed, but kept on moving. 'Urgent dispatch for Colonel Rojas,' he called and the sentry waved and stepped back into his box.
The gardens were a riot of colour and palm trees lifted their heads above the wall and gently nodded in the cool breeze, leaves etched against the night sky. The drive curved suddenly and Manning braked to a halt at the front door.
They went up the steps and entered a wide hall, cool and pleasant and very quiet. They could hear voices from a door to the left and someone was singing a popular guaracha.
Fidel has arrived,
Fidel has arrived,
Now we Cubans are freed
From the jaws of the tyrant.
When Orlov opened the door, two men were sitting at a table in the centre of the room, tunics unbuttoned, playing chess. A third sat on the edge of a bunk and strummed a guitar.
'On your feet!' Manning said in Spanish.
They stood up slowly, hands clasped behind their necks. Two of them were only boys, but the guitar player was older, with a cold, hard, face.
'Where's Motilina?' Manning demanded.
No one replied and he moved forward quickly and rammed the barrel of his submachine gun into the stomach of the boy on the end.
'Where is he?'
'Don't tell him anything,' the guitar player said. 'They won't get far.'
Orlov transferred his machine gun to his left hand, took a step forward and punched the man in the face. He staggered back, blood spurting from his nose.
The boy said hurriedly, 'In the kitchen. It's at the other end of the corridor past the stairs.'
'Any servants?'
The boy shook his head. 'They have the night off.'
'A young girl called earlier. What happened to her?'
'She's with the colonel. He said he wasn't to be disturbed.'
'Did you get all that?' Manning asked Orlov.
The Russian nodded. 'Most of it. You go after the girl. I'll see to these three.'
Manning moved quickly along the hall past the stairs that curved up to the second floor and entered a narrow corridor. Light showed under a door at the far end. He stood outside, listening for a moment, and then gently turned the handle. Motilina was frying eggs at the stove, his back to the door. As he turned, reaching for a loaf of bread, he saw Manning and a frown appeared on his face.
