by Jackson, Gil
‘He was. With the US Navy during the war. Mine clearance and all that-’
‘Well, that would account for the re-breather. But if it wasn’t your Paul taken out by Di Sotto, he might have been lost at sea. If he had you won’t find any evidence in the seas round here.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Sharks!’
‘Maybe he knew how to prevent such an attack.’
‘Might well have done. Unfortunately the shark wouldn’t have known that. He’d be breakfast.’
‘Well, I’m thinking, if he had failed to get to Spannocs and kill him at his first attempt he wouldn’t want to advertise his demise. He would want another crack at him. I’ll need to find that out. Maybe stop him.’
‘Makes sense. But Spannocs isn’t on his yacht all the time, he’s got a place inland. Your pal could be anywhere if he’s dead, or looking for him if he isn’t.’
‘Can we first check the body of the man killed by Di Sotto? Perhaps carry out a post-mortem—?’
‘Ah. Now, there’s another funny thing.... The body was cremated that same day ...’
‘Death certificate, cause of death, name ... bound to be a name?’—
‘Whoa, whoa, take it easy, I’ll check in the morning, we can’t do anything tonight.’
‘Well he didn’t return to the US, I’ve checked. There would be no reason for him to re-enter illegally, not if he was going to have another pop at Spannocs, no I’m sure if he’s still alive, he’s here.’
‘Sounds like Spannocs’s country home; but remember you’re a Gringo, and not popular and trusted in these parts.’ Ty grinned.
‘Thanks. Well I’m here to find out one way or the other. If Spannocs has a home near here, perhaps that’s where I’ll start?’
Ty shrugged. ‘Bit of a long shot, but as you say—’
‘Well, it’s all I’ve got, what’d you think?’
‘Assuming your professor knows where he lives; and still lives himself, he could have set himself up there and waiting for him. Except ...’
‘What?’
‘I was going to say that if Paul knew where Spannocs’s house was I doubt he could get to it. It’s in the middle of the jungle and Spannocs uses a helicopter to come and ago.’
‘This man’s also got military training in subversive activities, he’d get in, but I haven’t the time for that. I need a quicker way there’.
‘Helicopter? I got someone that owes me a favour.’
‘Thanks, but I don’t think Uncle Sam would run to that kind of expense. Apart from which I wouldn’t want to advertise my coming any more than Paul would. No, there’s got to be another way.’
Ty smiled. ‘There is.’
‘What?’
He winked. ‘Can you ride a dirt bike?’
* * *
David hadn’t been on a bike in years and it showed. It wasn’t so much that he was having trouble riding the Indian — he wasn’t — always providing he went where it wanted to go. Ty had borrowed it from a guy he worked with from time to time. A British fellow left over from the war that had not gone back to Northampton due to a bit of bother with the British military police over some gold that had gone missing from a surrendered German officer’s wife’s family, that he, had been having an affair with, and whom (the German officer) had wanted Tommy tried for theft; and for reasons not altogether clear had been allowed to escape to Mexico ‘incognito so to speak smart fellow’ by the British for equally unrewarding duties looking out for similar that had escaped to Argentina (with their wives) and using Mexico as a corridor to the US of A. All David had to do was reimburse the ‘Ambassador’ a few bottles of Jack Daniels and a box of Cubans that would be falling off the back of a boat in a typically bungled Mexican Customs’ raid that evening and:
He could borrow the bike for as long as it’s wanted.
* * *
The Indian trick David was finding hard to accomplish was to get the thing to go where he wanted. And that, to Ty’s frustration, and the following day or so, was the rub. If there was a straight hard surface, running between Campeche and Tekax it would not be a problem. But there wasn’t; and it was ninety miles over rough country and beat-up tracks with the onus on the rider to decide the direction the front wheel had to take and not the bike’s.
‘It is said, and well documented, “that inanimate objects have no brains”; but in a straight competition between that Indian and you it has to be said, that the latter has got much the edge,’ Ty remarked.
David brought the bike to a halt near him and said thanks before he lost his balance.
‘DAVID!’ Ty screamed approaching him. ‘IF YOU’RE GOIN’ GO TO ALL THE TROUBLE OF PUTTING YOUR FOOT DOWN TO KEEP BALANCE STOP PUSSYFOOTING AND GET YOUR WEIGHT INTO IT AND HOLD THE FRICKING THING UPRIGHT!’
Or.
‘YOU’LL FIND IT EASIER TO PULL AWAY IN FIRST OVER FOURTH!’
Or.
‘BACKWHEEL! BACKWHEEL! Use your BACKWHEEL BRAKE THE SAME TIME AS YOUR FRONT. That things going to look fit for scrapping time you’ve finished with it.’
Or.
‘THAT’S IT! THAT’S IT! Keep the revs up ...
NOW! ... Change gear! LOOK WHERE YOU’RE GOING!’
Ty closed his eyes, and opened them to see David in a heap with the machine and some painful looking vegetation of the species Texan barrel cactus dangerously close to the region known as between your legs.
By afternoon — after several visits to the washroom to relieve his bowels from the burning of tortilla from the night before and much to Ty’s admiration: for this man was no quitter — there was an indication that he had cracked it. He could accelerate up to forty, brake hard on the back wheel and bring the bike round in the opposite direction; accelerate away again — well, nearly every time — without falling under it.
David, rather wearily and with a dirty ingrained sweaty face, bloody arms and grazed hands asked rather exhaustedly: ‘Why do I need to keep doing this?’ But he never got a reply.
By late afternoon he could drive off a hillock, fly for ten feet, and, providing he landed back wheel first and not front — stay up right. He had concussed himself when he had first tried it: the front wheel not being in line with the direction of travel Newton’s second law of motion came into play: he went one way, the bike another.
He repeated the mantra, this time with double vision from the blow to his head and what Ty took to be tears in his eyes: Why do I need to keep doing this?
By evening and looking like a lone cow-hand that had tried to stop a cattle stampede without a horse, Ty figured he was good enough to make the journey that ... Why do I need to keep doing this? ... he desired.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 13 – 1950
Director Franklin Lomax’s prestige leapt in value two floors on that one telephone call. Other than the President having not been assassinated; and J. Edgar Hoover still sitting in his seat, he could say nothing, the office knew that. It was not a general call. Whoever it was must have known that that particular piece of telephonic equipment would have not been used in eons and had probably done the rounds — he had been asked for by name; his voice pattern verified to seal his authenticity; and the line kicking into scramble.
The caller said he had the authority of J. Edgar Hoover with direct instructions from the Oval office that David Weinberg was to be recalled from Mexico immediately; forbidden to make any inquiries on the organisation known as the Order of the Most Divine Third Circle, Frederik Spannocs and Professor Angus Paul. All evidence collected by him verbally or written or taped or photographed was to be delivered as soon as possible to an administrative officer — the person would make himself known — at a precise time (also to be confirmed) to the White House.
Director Lomax didn’t need telling the office the call was being made from. The manner of direction, order, and lack of formality was all too clear. There were powers that stalked the corridors in any country in the name of national security; this was one of them. A
nymore than the voice on the other end of the telephone having the authority of Hoover; this man would give orders to him. Nevertheless, he would have to do as he was asked whoever had made that call — he would speak to Hoover in any event: his position demanded it, the caller would know that, it would be up to Hoover to pursue the details if he needed to know more; although it would be unlikely he’d get it. As for Lomax it was all a matter of covering oneself with procedures. This didn’t mean to say he liked it.
Cover-ups were nothing new to him. Charlie O’Hare often muted it; and he was turning out to be right. This would be the second time that he would’ve been asked to cover-up an operation by withdrawing an agent, but not with this kind of pressure; on a telephone that he’d expect wouldn’t normally be used for anything other than an imminent missile strike by a hostile nation.
Director Lomax did speak to Hoover’s office who confirmed that he was to follow the caller’s instructions. He didn’t argue — it was not his place, unlike the latter with the unmarried parents.
* * *
At the same time that Director Lomax was trying to recall David Weinberg from Mexico, Charlie called him to say that he’d received another death threat against someone dear to him. He was devastated, and to Lomax’s embarrassment he listened to him showering an Angel and the Lord with a tirade of obscenities. Director Lomax let him get it all off his chest before saying: ‘I suppose you want me to recall David’.
‘Well you’d better had. They know who he is and what he’s doing there—’
‘Well they know more than I do, Charlie, and as usual less than you. What have you heard that I haven’t?’
‘It’s nothing to do with anything that you may know Franklin, this is personal, and the same people that killed Frank; had threatened to do the same to his widow unless David finishes all inquiries of Frederik Spannocs.’
‘Don’t you go getting yourself all het up, Charlie. Bring in the letter and I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime I’ll get David back as soon as I get in touch with him, all right?’
Director Lomax breathed a sigh again and put the phone down. He knew two groups wanted David out of Mexico and knew the personal interests of only one of them.
* * *
Director Lomax in his eagerness to contact David had discovered a fundamental problem with the FBI’s latest communication system: when there’s no one at the other end to receive the call it falls down badly; he became seriously worried that he would be held to account if he could not contact David. His gut reaction was to send in the Marines; but this was another country, and liable to cause a diplomatic storm with no guarantees of a back-up from Hoover’s office. The CIA was the proper option; they had to be the last resort though. They’d make a great deal out of one of his agents going missing, if he was with one of theirs and had not been able to contact him. He’d never be able to live it down. The fact that a directive had been given him: that greater cooperation was expected between them in the continuing security of the country. But that was all so much lip-service and all three parties knew it. Tax payers’ money being wasted by the same people that were operating cover-ups against he’d know idea whom or what and not even the President daring to question them. Well. I’ll wait a little longer before calling them for help he decided. If David Weinberg and Ty Colsson have taken themselves off without proper communication links it’s going to have to be life and death before I get anyone else involved. And that I’ll have to sweat out. The fact that the caller had put other conditions on his return told him that it was not so much a matter of life and death as politics to stop David Weinberg finding out something that could be embarrassing to someone somewhere. And in any case, he figured, if they were in that much danger they’d probably have called in themselves. The threat to Sarah Weinberg would not be an immediate issue that he would have to deal, so long as Charlie thought he was treating it seriously.
***
Charlie called a second time. Franklin closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath and shook his head when his secretary told him.
‘He’s on the red phone, chief.’
He bit the bullet and snatched it up. ‘Charlie! How’s Sarah?’ He clenched his teeth wondering what to expect. He didn’t wonder for long and was not surprised by the man’s Irish brusqueness and liberal peppering of expletives. He swallowed hard; the bloody man was a lunatic.
‘What’d you mean? “I called to warn you of a death threat to Sarah Weinberg”. I did no such thing!’
* * *
David now knew what Ty Colsson had always known. The last two bone-shattering miles down a rough hewn track that passed for a road was coming to an end. The agony of riding the 90 miles to Spannocs’s residence in the jungle had been unrelenting he dreaded to think what it would have been like were it not for Ty’s training of him, he never realised he knew so little about bike riding until now.
His arms and leg nerves felt as if they had been stretched down a violin and played with a blunt razor blade. His spine from his neck to the small of his back was painful to straighten and as far as he was aware he never knew arse bones existed. Whichever way he moved on the saddle of that bike he could get no relief.
There was the dust and the heat from the sun as well as the engine. Two red marks on the inside of his knees where he was gripping the petrol tank were testament to his ordeal. His enthusiasm for bikes was not what it was; yet, there was a masochistic satisfaction on this last part of the journey. Riding side by side, the two engines reverberating through the vacuum of warm air they had created between them exhilarated him. He wished it could go on forever.
The track came to an end. Ty pointed ahead and David followed his line of sight. Through a clearing and there it was: the Pyramid of the Magician Ty had called it and David could see why — it was pointed like a wizard’s hat with breaks in its greenery that was growing up its walls sent a cold shudder through him.
Set on three levels its concrete verandas supported by huge porticoes running horizontally for a hundred feet was spectacular. Covered in a trailing growth of creepers with large leaves, it resembled pictures of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon he had once seen, except the latter didn’t have a fence of range wire surrounding it.
On the inside guards slowly walked towards each other. A ragged bunch of Mexican guerrillas, toting automatic weapons and smoking cheroots. They looked up at the sound from the two bikes, but they were too far away for them to make anything of it.
David and Ty brought the bikes to a standstill and switched off their engines. The silence was overwhelming and excepting for the whispering sound of insects, disorientating. David eyes squinted at the quietness.
‘Cicadas.’ Ty said anticipating David’s question. ‘They’re trying to attract mates.’
‘Must be worn out when they find one making that row all day.’ He looked into the distance with his field glasses. ‘He’s got security.’
‘That won’t be a problem. Mexican bandits: sell their mother’s favours for a peso and charge you to watch the sport.’
‘How will that get us past them?’
‘We’ll wait till nightfall. There’s something you need to know about Mexican low-life, my fliend. If it doesn’t see a need to do a job it’ll sleep through it.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘Well let me spell it out for you. Those guards are Mexican and certainly related, friendly or known to any other bandits in the area.’
‘So why do they do it?’
‘Employment, my fliend.’ Ty said, liking the mock accent first time round and using it again for effect. ‘Any Gringo or outsider wouldn’t know that. Your average Gringo with illicit money to hand doesn’t need guards — he thinks he’s getting them — but what he’s getting is insurance. No one’s going to break in as long as local people are employed to guard the place.’
‘Providing they are locals.’
Ty looked at him puzzled.
‘This Spannocs’s is no fool he’d know that.
He’d also know that they would have to give the impression they were a raggedy-arsed bunch of Cisco Kid look-alikes to make his presence here seem as normal as possible.’
Ty smiled. ‘That’s perceptive of you David. You’ve got a devious mind; you could be spying on the Russians with me. Except, you’re wrong.’
‘What makes you say that? Have you been here before?’
‘No. They’re the Ramirez and that’s their leader: the self-styled General Pablo Wilhelm Balsal. Wanted by us for gun-running, drug smuggling, rape, murder, extortion, the torching of villages that don’t pay him taxes, and double-dealing with the CIA to mention nothing of his not paying his cheroots bill. I wondered where he’d got to.’
‘That last bill must have got someone really mad. What would this Balsal be doing working for Spannocs seeing he’s doing so well for himself?’
‘I don’t know, but he’ll be a dead man before we’ve finished business here.’
David looked at the coolness in Ty Colsson’s eyes and saw the look of an assassin.
* * *
Director Lomax had reluctantly called and resigned himself to having to wait for Ty Colsson’s operational director to pass his message of recall to David. In the event of Ty Colsson being ‘out of the office’ longer than twelve hours his standing order was to contact the American embassy in Mexico City. Failure to do so would mean a holding team being sent to secure Tyson Colsson’s ‘workshop’ — but not look for him. They were not, after all, supposed to be in Mexico. Although their interests were being served by people like Tyson Colsson in controlling ‘unruly patriots’ that President Benito Pablo Juarez was trying to deal in his attempts to improve Mexican kudos on the world stage. The director of CIA thanked him; they did, after all, have both their boys in the same soup. Director Lomax was relieved at his understanding.
* * *
Ty Colsson had been right over his assessment of Frederik Spannocs’s security arrangements. The bandits’ attitude and devotion to duty was a shining example of what an utter shambles should look like when a concentrated effort is employed by so many dedicated to its art.
