by Morris West
‘What matter?’
‘Inside the car, please. We don’t want to talk our business up and down the street.’
They squeezed him into the middle of the back seat with Spada on one side and the Scarecrow Man on the other. The Scarecrow Man held a gun at his belly. Sancho sat in the driver’s seat and announced calmly:
‘Now, Colonel, sit quiet and you’ll be fine. Make one silly move or a single noise and you’re dead.’
He gunned the motor and they moved off, threading a careful course through the alleys towards the northern highway. It was at least a minute before Colonel Juarez found voice or words:
‘What is all this? Where are you taking me?’
‘This is a security operation,’ said the Scarecrow Man. ‘Please co-operate.’
‘Then why do you have to threaten me?’
‘People do silly things in the heat of the moment; we can’t afford to take chances, even with reliable folk like you, Colonel. Now, just relax. If we’re stopped at any point, say nothing.’
‘You still haven’t said where you’re taking me?’
‘Back to Martín Garcia.’
‘I’m on leave.’
‘We know, Colonel; but a good soldier is always on call, isn’t he? Now listen carefully . . . We’re taking in two of your prisoners for further questioning. Their names are Pablo Maria Chavez and Rodolfo Vallenilla. You’re going to telephone the prison and instruct your deputy to have the prisoners delivered to us at the ferry dock up-river.’
‘I could have done that from Rosita’s. Anyway, Vallenilla’s sick.’
‘We’d like it done our way, Colonel.’
‘I need documents, authorisations.’
‘We have them, as you will see.’
‘Then what?’
‘We’ll drive you back with the prisoners.’
‘This is most irregular.’
‘We live in irregular times,’ said the Scarecrow Man mildly.
‘You’re not from security!’
‘No? Our documents say we are. Why don’t you just play along? Much safer, I promise you.’
‘Mother of God!’
‘Lean back, Colonel. Put your hands on your knees. That’s better. Now tell me, who is the Officer-in-Charge during your absence?’
‘Major Gutierrez. But he’ll be asleep now. There’s a night duty officer.’
‘You’ll have the Major wakened and pass your instructions direct.’
‘He’ll want identification and confirmation.’
‘We’ll provide it. The number of the documents. The originals will be handed over at the landing stage . . .’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘O man of little faith!’ The Scarecrow Man admonished him amiably. ‘Please try to believe. Otherwise you’ll never see the girls at Rosita’s again. Now, you said Vallenilla is sick. How bad is he?’
‘He’s in the infirmary.’
‘That means he’s damned near dying,’ said Sancho from the front seat. ‘We heard you kept him chained in the exercise yard, and beat him like a dog.’
‘That’s a lie.’
‘We’ll soon know, won’t we?’
During all the talk Spada remained silent, trying to read the body chemistry of the man pressed against his flank. The Colonel was tense, but he was far from panic. He was still functioning logically, weighing the contradictory information that was being fed to him, observing the route they were driving, alert to any possible chance of escape. Spada decided to push him harder.
‘Save yourself some labour, Colonel. The route is perfectly straightforward. You’re not gagged or blindfolded . . . You can ever memorise our faces. That must tell you something, surely?’
‘I don’t understand any of this.’
‘You’ve been under observation for some time, Colonel.’
‘Observation? For what?’
‘You have a nice comfortable job. We’d like to be sure you haven’t abused its privileges.’
‘A bused… ? I have no idea what you’re talking about! My record demonstrates . . .’
‘Ah yes! The record! Who writes the record, Colonel? Who files the reports?’
‘I do.’
‘Quite. Of course, if the facts conform with the record, there’s nothing to worry about, is there? The Army protects its own. Tell me about Vallenilla.’
‘The man was a recalcitrant, a trouble-maker. He had to be disciplined . . .’
‘By you, personally?’
‘In exemplary situations, sometimes…’
‘Not now, Colonel. Later you can explain these “exemplary situations”. Tell me, have you ever thought about defection?’
‘Defection? To whom? Where? The idea’s preposterous.’
‘Strange! We’ve talked to your driver. He seemed to think you maintain a very expensive lifestyle on a Colonel’s pay. A private room at the Formosa . . . and Rosita’s girls aren’t cheap. Of course, we know you don’t have high living expenses on Martín Garcia; but still . . . you do see there are questions to be answered.’
‘Then I’ll answer them at the proper tribunal.’
‘After you’ve made your depositions to us.’
‘Look! I’ve nothing to hide. I’m perfectly happy to cooperate.’
He was confused now. The first smell of fear began to exude from him. Spada drew away and looked out of the window at the traffic and the sprawling lights of the suburbs. The habitations had thinned out now and they were passing from the outer suburbs into the first fringes of the small-holdings and the truck farmers. Suddenly, Sancho swung the car hard left on to a rutted track, at the end of which was a large, barn-like structure, with fruit crates and vegetable boxes stacked in front of it. He switched off the engine and the lights and turned his head to address the Colonel.
‘Now listen carefully. There’s a telephone inside. You’ll call the prison and have Major Gutierrez brought to the phone. You’ll instruct him to send the two prisoners, Vallenilla and Chavez, immediately to the ferry dock on the mainland. You’ll quote him the numbers of the documents we’ll give you. Tell him you’ll be there with us to take delivery. Clear so far?’
‘Clear.’
‘How many escorts would he send normally?’
‘Three. A boatman and two officers.’
‘Is your radio working?’
Not at this hour. We close down at ten, unless there’s an emergency.’
‘Which this is not. Now, when you’ve given your instructions, pass the phone to me.’
‘Very well.’
‘One last word, Colonel. Say only what I’ve told you. Otherwise you end like a Martinmas pig with an apple in your mouth.’
‘I don’t understand why you have to threaten me like this. I’ve told you I’ll co-operate.’
‘But you’re bluffing, Colonel,’ said the Scarecrow Man gently. ‘You think we’re not security; so you’re playing the game they taught you in Staff School. Be calm. Placate the captors. Try to establish a personal relationship . . . This time it won’t work, because we’ve got different rules. There are only two. Get clever and you die inside that shed. Co-operate and you stay alive a while longer . . . That’s all. Let’s go inside.’
The barn was a single large hangar with a tiny cubbyhole office at one end. They sat Colonel Juarez at the table and stood up about him with pistols drawn. Sancho laid the security document in front of him and pointed to the serial number. Then he handed him the telephone.
‘Make sure you get it right, Colonel.’
Juarez dialled the number with an unsteady hand. On the first round his finger slipped and he had to begin the series again. Spada winked at the Scarecrow Man who nodded assent: Colonel Juarez was no hero. They heard the ringing of the telephone, then the voice of the prison operator, distant and crackly. Sancho bent dose to listen. The Colonel spoke, a trifle unsteadily.
‘This is Colonel Juarez. I want to speak to Major Gutierrez . . . Of course, you fool; I know he’s in
bed. Wake him up! . . .’
There was a long pause, the sound of a switchboard transfer and then a grumpish slurred voice.
‘Gutierrez!’
‘Major! Rub the sleep out of your eyes. This is Colonel Juarez.’
‘Yes sir! Yes Colonel!’
‘Listen to me and listen carefully. I am with the security people. They want immediate delivery of two prisoners : Chavez and Vallenilla. Get them ready as quickly as you can . . . Tonight? Of course, tonight! We’ll be waiting at the ferry dock. Yes, I know Vallenilla’s sick. Put him on a stretcher! . . . No, don’t go yet! Make a note of the custody order number. Write it in the log. You’ll get the original document at the hand-over. Here it is: OS 759 stroke 8635 stroke 4126. Got it? . . . Hold on a moment…’
Sancho took the receiver out of his hand and continued the call.
‘Major Gutierrez, this is Major Borja, security. Have you got any civilian clothes for these men? . . . Good, so long as they’re half-way decent. They’re not going to a dinner party. Oh . . . and no chains. We’ve got enough troops to keep ’em quiet. How long will it take to have them at the mainland? . . . Forty minutes? Christ, that’s running it fine. This is part of a bigger operation. If you can do it in thirty minutes you’d help us a lot . . . One more thing. As of now we want complete radio silence. No transmissions at all from Martín Garcia. If you want to contact me or the Colonel, don’t go through Central Office; use this number: 758-9563. We’re working out of town and we’re busy as hell… So, if we’re engaged, just keep trying; but don’t hold up the despatch of the prisoners. That’s absolutely vital. Any more questions for the Colonel? . . . No, he won’t be coming to the prison. He’ll be returning to town with us . . . Thank you, Major. Goodnight!’ He put down the receiver and patted Colonel Juarez on the shoulder. ‘Nicely done, my friend! Just keep going like that and you’ll live to lay a lot more girls.’ He lifted the receiver off the hook and laid it on the table. Then he laid the barrel of his pistol along the Colonel’s cheek. ‘And remember, from here on, you’re walking through a minefield. One false step and . . . boom-boom! Vamos amigo!’
The truck was parked in the open space by the ferry dock. The driver sat at the wheel, smoking one cigarette after another. The mercenaries were dispersed along the edges of the orange grove, sweating in the still, dank air of the river flats. Henson himself made the rounds continuously, checking the entrance to the highway, passing from tree to tree, whispering commands in bad Spanish supplemented by hand-signs, a pointing finger, a touch on the shoulder, a signal indicating the line of fire if the police should come.
The river itself was empty, grey under the pallid moon, with yellow lights pricking out from the estuary islands. The only sounds were the distant drone of the traffic along the highway, the occasional cry of a night bird and the slurring sigh of the river around the piles of the jetty. When he reached the truck, Henson snatched the cigarette from the driver’s mouth and ground it out under his heel. The fellow protested in voluble Spanish, but Henson drew a hand across his throat in a meaning gesture and walked away towards the jetty. He looked at his watch and cursed quietly. Spada was ten minutes late. If the boat arrived before the reception committee . . . Then he heard the car, swung round and saw the headlights shining down the track. The headlights went out and the car rolled into the parking space, turned to face back to the road and stopped. Sancho got out, opened the rear door and shepherded three men on to the circle of gravel. Henson hurried across to offer an anxious greeting.
‘Thank Christ you’re here. I was beginning to get worried.’
‘No sweat,’ said John Spada. ‘There’s plenty of time.’
Sancho, the stage manager, asked a single question.
‘Where are your men posted?’
‘Two at the entrance to the highway. Two half-way down. Two at the edge of the parking area.’
‘Good.’ He turned back to the Colonel and the Scarecrow Man. ‘When the boat arrives, we three walk along the jetty to meet it. You, Colonel, will present the documents. You Major, and you, Mr Spada, follow behind. We don’t want Vallenilla to recognise you immediately. The prison guards will hand the prisoners on to the jetty. Then you, Colonel, send them back. Understood?’
‘I understand.’
‘Major, as soon as you hear the boat, move your men out into the open. We want a show of strength.’
‘Right.’
‘And Colonel…’
‘Yes?’
‘Think like a soldier now. We are ten on the land against three guards in a boat. That’s bad odds – and you’ll be the first man dead.’
‘Mother of God, do you think I’m stupid?’
‘You have been,’ said the Scarecrow Man. ‘This is your last chance to use your brains.’
From far across the river they heard the sound of the engine; then, a few moments later they saw the lights, red and green, heading towards the landing stage. Sancho and the Scarecrow Man pushed the Colonel ahead of them and strode along the jetty. Major Henson gave a low whistle and six men emerged from the orange grove and came running to join him. He ranged them in a circle, four facing the jetty, two facing back to the roadway; then, with Spada at his side, he stood watching the small tense drama at the landing stage. First the boatman tied up, then one of the guards addressed the Colonel.
‘Two prisoners as requested. Chavez and Vallenilla. This one . . .’ He pointed to Vallenilla lying on the stretcher. ‘He’s unconscious. They gave him a sedative before he left.’
‘Lift him on to the jetty,’ said Sancho curtly.
The two guards hoisted the stretcher out of the boat, climbed the steps from the landing stage to the deck of the pier, laid down the stretcher, then looked to the Colonel for instructions. Sancho intervened again. He called to the other prisoner:
‘You, Chavez!’
‘Yes?’
‘Come up here.’
Chavez mounted the steps and stood facing Sancho. A faint flicker of recognition showed in his eyes; but he said nothing. The guard turned to the Colonel.
‘Are you coming back with us, Colonel?’
‘No . . . I have business here. Tell Major Gutierrez . . .’
‘Tell him nothing! This is security business,’ said Sancho sharply. ‘You can telephone later, Colonel, when this operation is over. Dismiss your men, please.’
‘Dismiss!’ said Colonel Ildefonso Juarez.
The guard stood his ground.
‘We need the order, sir, and a receipt for the bodies.’
‘Oh, of course.’
Sancho stood close as the documents were exchanged. Then, with obvious relief, the guards saluted and climbed back into the boat. The handler cast off, started the motor and headed back at full speed towards the island. Sancho threw his arms around Chavez and embraced him.
‘Welcome back, comrade!’
John Spada came at a run and turned back the greasy blanket from Vallenilla’s face. He looked so tiny and Waxen that, for a moment, Spada thought he was dead. Chavez said harshly:
‘You’d better get him some good medical attention. He’s damn near dead – and this bastard did it.’ He spat in the Colonel’s face.
‘Enough!’ said John Spada harshly. ‘Get Vallenilla into the truck.’
Sancho and Chavez picked up the stretcher. Spada and the Scarecrow Man followed, with the Colonel two paces in front of them. As the small procession moved along the jetty to the vehicles, the Colonel turned and asked plaintively:
‘Who are you? What are you going to do with me?’
Spada was silent. The Scarecrow Man answered for him.
‘We? Nothing. You don’t belong to us. Your own people will take care of you. But don’t worry. They’re very careful about protocol. When they bury you, there’ll always be someone to spit on your grave.’
It was an hour after dawn when they dropped the pilot and headed, north by east, across the gulf into the long Atlantic swell. Spada and his companions emerged from
the hold; and, while the others climbed on deck to refresh themselves in the cool morning air, Spada went to the mate’s cabin to see Vallenilla. He was still comatose. Sister Martha had rigged a drip bottle and an oxygen mask, and was taking his pulse count. Spada asked:
‘How is he, Sister?’
‘He’s holding; that’s all I can say just now. I’ve pumped him full of penicillin and I’m drip-feeding him. His pulse is weak but steady.’ She handed Spada a gauze mask. ‘Wear this whenever you come to see him. All the symptoms indicate he’s got TB: nummular sputum, bloody at times, the chest full of rales and ronchi. The rest of him . . . God knows – he must have suffered terribly.’
‘Can you keep him alive until we get him home?’
‘With luck, yes.’
‘I’ll help you nurse him,’ said Spada. ‘Just show me what to do.’
‘It’s simple enough. Regular injections, change the drip bottle, keep him clean and comfortable. Most important, make him want to stay alive.’
‘I want to thank you for agreeing to come, Sister.’
‘Not Sister any more. Just plain Martha – Martha Moorhouse. I’m happy to help.’
Vallenilla stirred and groaned and opened his eyes. They were glazed and unfocused. Spada bent towards him. Martha held him back.
‘The mask first.’
Spada slipped the gauze pad over his mouth and nostrils. His voice came out muffled and strange.
‘Rodo, this is John . . . John Spada. Can you hear me? If you can, squeeze my hand.’
He felt a faint answering pressure from the thin, clammy fingers. He talked on soothingly:
‘Don’t try to answer. You’re safe now. Understand that. You’re safe. We’re taking you home to Teresa.’
‘Teresa!’ Through the transparent plastic of the oxygen mask they saw his lips form the word; then he closed his eyes again and his hand went slack in Spada’s grip.
‘That’s enough,’ said Martha. ‘Let him rest.’
‘I have to see the Captain,’ said John Spada. ‘I’ll relieve you in an hour. Where will you sleep?’
‘The second officer has lent me his cabin. It’s just across the companionway. Oh, Mr Spada . . .’
