by Jack Higgins
Hannah swallow it down and helped himself to more, staring morosely into the rain. 'Look at it,' he said. 'What a bloody place.'
It was one of those statements that didn't require any comment. The facts spoke for themselves. A group of men turned out from between two houses and trailed towards the hotel, heads down, in a kind of uniform of rubber poncho and straw sombrero. 'Who have we got here?' Hannah demanded.
Figueiredo leaned forward, the fan in his hand ceasing for a moment. It commenced to flutter again. 'Garimpeiros,' he said. 'Avila's bunch. Came in last night. Lost two men in a brush with the Huna.'
Hannah poured another enormous whisky. 'From what I hear of that bastard, he probably shot them himself.'
There were five of them, as unsavoury-looking a bunch as I had ever seen. Little to choose between any of them really. The same gaunt, fleshless faces, the same touch of fever in all the eyes.
Avila was the odd man out. A big man. Almost as large as Hannah, with a small, cruel mouth that was effeminate in its way although that was perhaps suggested more by the pencil-thin moustache which must have taken him considerable pains to cultivate.
He nodded to Figueiredo and Hannah, the eyes pausing fractionally on me, then continued to a table at the far end of the bar, his men trailing after him. When they took off their ponchos it became immediately obvious that they were all armed to the teeth and most of them carried a machete in a leather sheath as well as a holstered revolver.
The Indian woman went to serve them. One of them put a hand up her skirt. She didn't try to resist, simply stood there like some dumb animal while another reached up to fondle her breasts.
'Nice people,' Hannah said, although Figueiredo seemed completely unperturbed which was surprising in view of the fact that the woman, as I learned later, was his wife.
She was finally allowed to go for the drinks when Avila intervened. He lit a cigarette, produced a pack of cards and looked across at us. 'You would care to join us, gentlemen?' He spoke in quiet reasonable English. 'A few hands of poker perhaps?'
They all turned to look at us and there was a short pause. It was as if everyone waited for something to happen and there was a kind of menace in the air.
Hannah emptied his glass and stood up. 'Why not? Anything's better than nothing in this hole.'
I said, 'Not for me. I've got things to do. Another time, perhaps.'
Hannah shrugged. 'Suit yourself.'
He picked up the bottle of Bourbon and started towards the other end of the bar. Figueiredo tried to stand up, swaying so alarmingly that I moved forward quickly and took his arm.
He said softly, lips hardly moving. 'Give him an hour then come back for him on some pretence or other. He is not liked here. There could be trouble.'
The smile hooked firmly into place, he turned and went towards the others and I moved to the door. As I opened it, Avila called, 'Our company is not good enough for you, senhor?'
But I would not be drawn - not then at least, for I think that out of some strange foreknowledge, I knew that enough would come later.
*
When I ran out of the rain into the shelter of that primitive hangar, I found Mannie Sterne standing on a wooden platform which he had positioned at the front of the Bristol. The engine cowling had been removed and the engine was comletely exposed in the light of a couple of pressure lamps he had hung overhead.
He glanced over his shoulder and smiled. 'Back so soon?'
'Hannah took me to the local pub,' I said. 'I didn't like the atmosphere.'
He turned and crouched down, a frown on his face, 'What happened?'
I gave him the whole story including Figueiredo's parting words. When I was finished, he sat there for a while, staring out into the rain. There was a sort of sadness on his face. No, more than that - worry. And there was a scar running from his right eye to the corner of his mouth. I'd failed to notice that earlier.
'Poor Sam.' He sighed. 'So, we do what Figueiredo says. We go and get him in a little while.' With an abrupt change in direction, he stood up and tapped the Bristol. 'A superb engine, Rolls-Royce. Only the best. The Bristol was one of the greatest all-purpose planes on the Western Front.'
'You were there?'
'Oh, not what you are thinking. I wasn't a Richthofen or a Udet in a skin-tight grey uniform with the blue Max at my throat, but I did visit the front-line Jagdstaffels fairly often. When I first started as an engineer, I worked for Fokker.'
'And Hannah was on the other side of the line?'
'I suppose so.'
He had returned to the engine, examining it carefully with a hand-lamp. 'This is really in excellent condition.'
I said, 'What's wrong with him? Do you know?'
'Sam?' He shrugged. 'It's simple enough. He was too good too soon. Ace-of-aces at twenty-three. All the medals in the world - all the adulation.' He leaned down for another spanner. 'But for such a man, what happens when it is all over?'
I considered the point for a while. 'I suppose in a way, the rest of his life would tend to be something of an anti-climax.'
'An understatement as far as he is concerned. Twenty years of flying mail, of barnstorming, sky-diving to provide a momentary thrill for the mindless at state fairs who hope to see his parachute fail to open, of risking his life in a hundred different ways and at the end, what does he have to show for it?' He swept his arms out in a gesture which took in everything. 'This, my friend - this is all he has and three months from now, when his contract ends, a government bonus of five thousand dollars.'
He looked down at me for several seconds, then turned and went back to tinkering with the engine. I didn't know what to say, but he solved the situation for me.
'You know, I'm a great believer in hunches. I go by what I think of people, instantly, in the very first moment. Now you interest me. You are your own man, a rare thing in this day and age. Tell me about yourself.'
So I did for he was the easiest man to talk to I'd ever known. He spoke only briefly himself, the odd question thrown in casually now and then, yet at the end of things, he had squeezed me dry.
He said, 'A good thing Sam was able to help you when he did, but then I'm also a great believer in fate. A man has to exist in the present moment. Accept what turns up. It's impossible to live any other way. I have a book at the house which you should read. Kant's Critique of Pure Reason.'
'I have done,' I said.
He turned, eyebrows raised in some surprise. 'You agree with his general thesis?'
'Not really. I don't think anything in this life is certain enough for fixed rules to apply. You have to take what comes and do the best you can.'
'Then Heidegger is your man. I have a book of his which would interest you in which he argues that for authentic living what is necessary is the resolute confrontation of death. Tell me, were you afraid yesterday when you were attempting to land that Vega of yours?'
'Only afterwards.' I grinned. 'The rest of the time, I was too busy trying to hold the damned thing together.'
'You and Heidegger would get on famously.'
'And what would he think of Hannah?'
'Not very much, I'm afraid. Sam exists in two worlds only. The past and the future. He has never succeded in coming to terms with the present. That is his tragedy.'
'So what's left for him?'
He turned and looked at me gravely, the spanner in his right hand dripping oil. 'I only know one thing with certainty. He should have died in combat at the height of his career like so many others. At the last possible moment of the war. November 1918, for preference.'
It was a terrible thing to have to say and yet he meant it. I knew that. We stood staring at each other, the only sound the rain rushing into the ground. He wiped the oil from his hands with a piece of cotton waste and smiled sadly.
'Now I think we had better go and get him while there is still time.'
*
I could hear the laughter from the hotel long before we got there and it was entirely th
e wrong sort. I knew then we were in for trouble and so did Mannie. His face beneath the old sou'wester he wore against the rain was very pale.
As we approached the hotel steps I said, 'This man, Avila? What's he like?'
He paused in the middle of the street. There's a story I'm fond of about an old Hassidic Rabbi who, having no money around the house, gave one of his wife's rings to a beggar. When he told her what he'd done she went into hysterics because the ring was a family heirloom and very valuable. On hearing this, the Rabbi ran through the streets looking for the beggar.'
'To get his ring back?'
'No, to warn him of its true value in case anyone tried to cheat him when he sold it.'
I laughed out loud, puzzled. 'What's that got to do with Avila?'
'Nothing much, I suppose.' He grinned wryly. 'Except that he isn't like that.'
We turned into the alley at the side of the hotel and paused again. 'You'll find the kitchen door just round the corner as I described,' he said. 'Straight through to the bar. You can't miss it.'
There was another burst of laughter from inside. 'They seem to be enjoying themselves.'
'I've heard laughter like that before. I didn't like it then and I don't like it now. Good luck,' he added briefly and went round to the front of the hotel.
The kitchen door he had mentioned stood open and Figueiredo's wife was seated on a chair slicing vegetables into a bowl on her knee. I stepped past her, ignoring her look of astonishment and walked across the kitchen to the opposite door.
There was a short passage with the entrance to the bar at the far end and Figueiredo was standing on this side of the bead curtain peering through presumably keeping out of the way.
He glanced over his shoulder at my approach. I motioned him to silence and peered through. They were still grouped around the table, Hannah in the chair next to Avila. He was face-down across the table, quite obviously hopelessly drunk. As I watched, Avila pulled him upright by the hair, jerking the head back so that the mouth gaped.
He picked up a jug of cachaca and poured in about a pint. 'You like that, senhor? The wine of the country, eh?'
Hannah started to choke and Avila released him so that he fell back across the table. The rest of them seemed to find this enormously funny and one of them emptied a glass over the American's head.
There was a sudden silence as Mannie moved into view from the right. In the old sou'wester and yellow oilskin he could easily have looked ridiculous, yet didn't, which was a strange thing. He walked towards the group at the same steady pace and paused.
Avila said, 'Go away, there is nothing for you here.'
Mannie's face was paler than ever. 'Not without Captain Hannah.'
Avila's hand came up holding a revolver. He cocked it very deliberately so I produced the automatic shotgun I had been holding under my oilskin coat and shoved Figueriedo out of the way. There was a wooden post on the far side of Avila, one of several set into the floor to help support the plank ceiling. It was the kind of target that even I couldn't miss. I took careful aim and fired. The post disintegrated in the centre and part of the ceiling sagged.
I have seldom seen men scatter faster than they did and when I stepped through the bead curtain, shotgun ready, they were all flat on the floor except for Avila who crouched on one knee beside Hannah, revolver ready.
'I'd put it down if I were you,' I told him. 'This is a six-shot automatic and I'm using steel ball cartridges.'
He placed his gun very carefully on the table and stood back, eyeing me balefully. I went round the end of the bar and handed the shotgun to Mannie. Then I dropped to one knee beside Hannah, heaved him over my shoulder and stood up.
Avila said, 'I will remember this, senhors. My turn will come.'
I didn't bother to answer, simply turned and walked out and Mannie followed, the shotgun under one arm.
*
Hannah started to vomit halfway down the street and by the time we reached the house, there couldn't have been much left him him. We stripped him between us and got him into the shower which revived him a little, but the truth was that he was saturated with alcohol and partly out of his mind, I think, as we put him to bed.
He thrashed about for a while, hands plucking at himself. As I leaned over him, his eyes opened. He stared up at me, a slight frown on his face and smiled.
'You new, Kid? Just out from England?'
'Something like that,' I glanced at Mannie who made no sign.
'If you last a week you've got a chance.' He grabbed me by the front of my flying jacket. 'I'll give you a tip. Never cross the line alone under ten thousand feet, that's lesson number one.'
'I'll remember that,' I said.
'And the sun - watch the sun.'
I think he was trying to say more but his head fell to one side and he passed out again.
I said, 'He thought he was back on the Western Front.'
Mannie nodded. 'Always the same. Hopelessly trapped by the past.'
He tucked the blankets in around Hannah's shoulders very carefully and I went into the living-room. It had stopped raining and moisture, drawn by the heat, rose from the ground outside like smoke.
It was still cool in the bedroom and I lay down and stared up at the ceiling, thinking about Sam Hannah, the man who had once had everything and now had nothing. And after a while, I drifted into sleep.
FIVE
The Killing Ground
Forte Franco must have been the sort of posting which to any career officer was equivalent of a sentence of death. A sign that he was finished. That there was no more to come. Because of this I had expected the kind of second-rater one usually found in command of up-river military posts, incapable of realizing his own inadequacies and permanently soured by his present misfortunes.
Colonel Alberto was not at all like that. I was helping Mannie get the Hayley ready to go when the launch came into the jetty and he disembarked. He was every inch the soldier in a well-tailored drill uniform, shining boots, black polished holster on his right thigh. Parade-ground smart and the face beneath the peaked cap was intelligent and firm although tinged with yellow as if he'd had jaundice which was a common enough complaint in the climate.
There were half a dozen soldiers in the boat, but only one accompanied him, a young sergeant as smartly turned-out as his colonel with a briefcase in one hand and a couple of machine-guns slung over one shoulder.
Alberto smiled pleasantly and spoke in quite excellent English. 'A fine morning, Senhor Sterne. Is everything ready?'
'Just about,' Mannie told him.
'And Captain Hannah?'
'Will be down shortly.'
'I see.' Alberto turned to me. 'And this gentleman?'
'Neil Mallory,' I said. 'I'm Hannah's new pilot. I'm going up with you, just to get the feel of things.'
'Excellent.' He shook hands rather formally then glanced at his watch. 'I have things to discuss with Figueiredo. I'll be back in half an hour. I'll leave Sergeant Lima here. He'll be going with us.'
He moved away, a brisk, competent figure and the sergeant opened the cabin door and got rid of the machine-guns and the briefcase.
I said to Mannie, 'What's his story? He doesn't look the type for up-country work.'
'Political influence as far as I understand it,' Mannie said. 'Said the wrong thing to some government minister or other in front of people. Something like that, anyway.'
'He looks a good man to me.'
'Oh, he's that all right. At least as far as the job is concerned, but I've never cared for the professional soldier as a type. They made the end justify the means too often for my liking.' He wiped his hands on a rag and stood back. 'Well, she's ready as she'll ever be. Better get Hannah.'
*
I found him in the shower, leaning in the corner for support, head turned up into the spray. When he turned it off and stepped out, he tried to smile and only succeeded in looking worse than ever.
'I feel as if they've just dug me up. What happe
ned last night?'
'You got drunk,' I said.
'What on - wood alcohol? I haven't felt like this since Prohibition.'
He wandered off to his bedroom like a very old man and I went into the kitchen and made some coffee. When it was ready, I took it out on a tray and found him on the veranda dressed for flying.
He wrapped a white scarf around his throat and took one of the mugs. 'Smells good enough to drink. I thought you Limeys could only make tea?' He sipped a little, eyeing me speculatively. 'What really happened last night?'
'Can't you remember anything?'
'I won a little money at poker, that's for sure. More than my share and Avila and his boys weren't too happy. Was there trouble?'
'I suppose you could say that.'
'Tell me.'
So I did. There was little point in holding anything back for he was certain to hear it for himself one way or the other.
When I was finished, he sat there on the rail holding the mug in both hands, his face very white, those pale eyes of his opaque, lifeless. As I have said, the appearance of things was of primary importance to him. His standing in other men's eyes, the image he protrayed to the world, and these men had treated him like dirt - publicly humiliated him.
He smiled suddenly and unexpectedly, a slow burn as if what I had said had touched a fuse inside. I don't know what it would have done for Avila, but it certainly frightened me. He didn't say another word about the matter, didn't have to and I could only hope Avila would be long gone when we returned. He emptied what was left of his coffee over the rail and stood up. 'Okay, let's get moving. We've got a schedule to keep.'
*
Flying the Hayley was like driving a car after what I'd been used to and the truth is, there wasn't much enjoyment in it. Everything worked to perfection, it was the last word in comfort and engine noise was reduced to a minimum. Hannah was beside me and Colonel Alberto sat in one of the front passenger seats, his sergeant behind to preserve, I suppose, the niceties of military rank.
Hannah opened a Thermos flask, poured coffee into two cups and passed one back. 'Still hoping to get the nuns to move on, Colonel?' he asked.
