by Robert Stone
“This chap Cole you came into the country with—he’s dead as well.”
“Cole was just a reporter. There was no reason for anyone to kill him.”
“Think not?”
“I told him not to go up to Tapa by himself,” Holliwell said. “The guy was sort of unsound.”
“Was he?” Heath asked. “He’s sound enough now. But dead. We think someone may have mistaken him for you.”
“There isn’t,” Holliwell said, “a reason for anyone to kill me either.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Heath said. “Eh, Miguel?”
“Next to certain,” Soyer said.
“But the thing is, Holliwell—with Ocampo dead and Cole dead and you messing about with Mistress Feeney down coast—what the fuck is going on?”
“There’s no mystery,” Holliwell said. “Marty Nolan asked me to have a look at that mission when I came down here.”
“You declined. Remember?”
“I declined. But I got curious. I’m an anthropologist, after all.”
“And this was a field trip, was it, Professor? A sabbatical adventure?”
“Call it what you like,” Holliwell said.
Soyer rendered his dull smile.
“Be careful, Professor,” he said. “Be careful of what you allow us to call it. We may call it something you don’t like.”
“Ocampo also asked you to come down here,” Heath said. “Do you mean to say he didn’t tell you why?”
“He told me it was enough that I be seen to go. Those were his words. I was curious and I wanted to do him a favor to that extent.”
Heath grunted unhappily.
“Damn it,” Holliwell said, “I don’t know quite why I came.” He looked into Heath’s wine-dark face. “Come on, Heath! People do such things, you know. You may live in a world of absolute calculation but I don’t. For one thing I didn’t expect to get down here for the goddamn …” But by the time he cut the word off it was too late. He became afraid, really afraid—for the first time. It seemed to him that he had nearly talked his way out of it and then lost it all at the very last. He was drunk and he had vainly imagined that truth was on his side—but of course there was no truth. There were only circumstances.
“The goddamn revolution,” Heath said. “But you did. Sorry. And what you’ve been up to here, Holliwell—uncharitably interpreted—smacks of a double game.”
The Guardia lieutenant came forward and stood in front of Holliwell; there was a look on his face that suggested acute physical pain, manfully subdued. He lit a cigar and tossed the match, almost by accident it seemed, at Holliwell’s shirtfront. The extinguished match stayed there, resting in a crease. Holliwell did not brush it away.
“We’re not in a position to extend charity,” Soyer told him. “We interpret actions strictly. We’re trying to be serious.”
“It’s like this, Holliwell,” said Mr. Heath patiently. “While you’re observing the situ-a-shon actu-well and thinking deep thoughts, people are fighting quite desperately over things they believe in. I hope you won’t think I’m sentimental. But with you having all these moral adventures you can dine out on in the States—it’s really very difficult to wish you well.”
“But we do,” Mr. Soyer said, “because you are North American and all the world loves you. We try to understand.”
“And do we succeed?” Mr. Heath asked.
“Claro que sí,” the Cuban said. “Indeed we do. We know our good neighbors the North American people who are allied with us for progress. We know their profound concern for international morality. Their sense of brotherhood. Their dedication to human rights. Sometimes we find them difficult to understand, we who are only what we are. But understand we must.”
As Mr. Soyer concluded, he was unable to keep smiling.
“If you expected me to work with you,” Holliwell said, “you should have taken me into your confidence.”
“We couldn’t, you see.” Mr. Heath had a small metal flask half covered with worn leather. He took it from the side pocket of his dark lightweight jacket, shook it and drank from it. “We’ve had our fingers burned. They send some of you chaps down here—well honestly, it’s frustrating. You speak with two voices, frankly. Makes it very hard going for us. I mean—whose side do you think we’re on after all?”
“So,” Soyer said, “we couldn’t take you into our confidence. However, others did, am I right to think so? Sister Justin? We believe you know something about what she and her friends are doing tonight.”
“I don’t know anything about their plans,” Holliwell said.
Mr. Soyer’s jaw seemed to tighten with a little tremor. He turned to Heath. Heath sniffed and drummed his fingers on the desk top.
“Really, Holliwell, that’s very difficult to believe.”
Soyer moved closer to where Holliwell stood.
“Because we’re so ready to understand, Professor—that’s why we don’t believe you. But I assure you, sir, that you’ll tell us what you know.”
The Guardia lieutenant spoke for the first time.
“We have to know where the nun will be,” he said in Spanish. His air of stolid resolution was impressive, even daunting.
“I can’t give you the answers you want,” Holliwell said. “I don’t know them.”
Heath’s eyes went out of focus and he looked away. Soyer was tapping his knuckles against his own forehead.
“Holliwell,” he said, “not everyone will be alive in the morning. In Yanquiland it’s true that no one dies. Here life is sordid.”
“Sorry,” Holliwell said.
“Sorry,” Mr. Soyer repeated. “Sorry?” His pistol was out and he put the barrel gently against Holliwell’s lips. “The next thing out of your mouth, you overfed son of seven tits, will be God’s truth or I’m going to tear it out of your throat.”
When Soyer withdrew the pistol, Holliwell took a cigarette out of his pocket and put it in his mouth. He realized from the taste that the cigarette was in backwards, filtered end out.
“Don’t be a bloody fool, Holliwell,” Heath shouted at him. “Get that fag out!”
Holliwell was glad to oblige as though that were the only problem.
“He thinks he’s a hero,” Heath said. “He thinks he’s at the fucking matinee.” He shook his head in disappointment. “Leave us together, Miguel, there’s a good fella.”
“He’s going to tell me about that hole he puts it into,” Soyer said.
“In the interests of time,” Heath said to Soyer. “As a favor.”
Soyer wiped his forehead, swallowed hard and went out of the peculiar room. The lieutenant followed him.
When he was alone with Holliwell, Heath took out his flask, shook it and put it on the desk with the phone.
“Give it up, chum,” he said. “Everybody talks.”
“Do you really think I’m party to all the other side’s secrets?” Holliwell asked. “Do you think she gave me their order of battle?”
“You don’t understand the situation,” Heath said, “so I’ll explain. I’ll do it clearly if I can but I’ll only do it once. Soyer is going to kill you if you don’t help him. The only reason he hasn’t already is that he’s afraid he’ll get in trouble with his higher-ups and his higher-ups are basically your government. Plus he doesn’t trust me not to tell what I see—but he’s wrong about that. I’d cover for him absolutely. Clear so far?”
“Yes,” Holliwell said.
“Good. You, Holliwell—so far as we’re concerned—are a source. Soyer is for practical purposes your case agent. He has a request from the authorities of the host country—namely Lieutenant Campos—concerning the activities of Sister Whatsit and he wants to comply with it. Understand, please, that no one is in any doubt about what she’s up to or the people she’s tied in with. Nor are we wondering where to find her—I’m sure she’ll be at the mission wrapping bandages for the boyos and looking marvelous. However, since she and the priest are U.S. citizens and the mission i
s an American entity, Soyer is involved directly and so are you. With all you Yankees involved we have to approach the situation in a rather cumbersome bureaucratic fashion. You are paying attention, aren’t you, Holliwell?”
“I’m paying attention.”
“War is hell as I’m sure you know. Things have their own momentum. In the face of all this promiscuity we need a coherent version of events that may someday find its way into someone’s files. Some bloody politician or other asks what happened in Tecan at such and such a time. We say what happened is this—blah blah blah. We say what happened is: Soyer debriefed Holliwell. Holliwell fingered Justin and her mission. Soyer passed the information as requested to the friendly service of the host country. Follow? Soyer needs this chain of circumstance. He wants, as you say, to be seen to do it this way. Appearances if you like. It’s part of his job.”
“It’s supposed to be me that tells him what he already knows, is that it?”
“That’s it. To his mind that’s what you’re here for, and as we know, he hates your guts. He wants to see you shop her.”
“It’s foolish of him to push people that far,” Holliwell said.
“That may be, cock, but don’t tell me. And for Christ’s sake don’t tell him.” Heath shook the flask again and, this time, drank.
“What happens to her then?”
“She’ll be expelled. At least she will if we can get to her before Campos does. She’s better off with us, you know.”
“Are you telling me you’ll protect her from Campos?”
“Why not? Soyer works for your government. I should think they’d rather not have a dead nun on their hands after the fact. And from our point of view we’d be well pleased to talk to her. We’re trying to get the big picture pieced together and it’s not easy from here. We don’t have to tell the Tecs everything we find out.”
“What if she doesn’t want to talk to you? I don’t think it’s likely she will.”
“Think I’m going to put a sister of mercy to the third degree at the risk of my immortal soul? Why, Holliwell, I wouldn’t know how to start.”
“I think you would. So would your friend.”
“We won’t harm her, Holliwell. Come on, man, it’s her best bet. And it’s your only bet because you won’t leave here alive if you don’t do it. You’re ours now.”
“How do I know you won’t feed her to the lieutenant?”
“It would be more convenient not to. Anyhow it won’t matter much to you if you’re pushing up daisies. Look, Holliwell,” Heath said, “we’re just asking you to do a little more of what you’ve been doing all along. Preserve the forms, eh?”
“Will you give me your word that she won’t be harmed?”
“My word?” Mr. Heath asked. He laughed a little but he looked rather sad. “No one’s ever asked me for my word before. But if you want to put it like that—sure, Holliwell. We’ll look after her.”
“All right,” Holliwell said.
“Ah,” Heath said. “Good lad.”
He offered Holliwell a drink from his flask and Holliwell was happy to have it.
Then Heath summoned Soyer and Campos back into the room and Holliwell explained to Soyer that he had discussed local political issues with Sister Justin Feeney of the Devotionist mission at Las Ruinas and that she had admitted to him her involvement in a conspiracy against the stability and integrity of the Republic.
Soyer listened cheerfully; his eyes were moist and his questions were soft and polite. He translated the answers for Lieutenant Campos, who listened impatiently.
“What else can you tell me, Professor?” Soyer asked after Holliwell had made his deposition. “Surely she’s told you her hopes and dreams? What does she understand will happen in the country as a whole?”
“She doesn’t know any of that,” Holliwell said. “She’s only a nurse. She wants to be where she’s needed.”
Having said that much, he glanced uneasily at Campos. The lieutenant’s lips were rolled back over his white teeth.
“Pure,” Soyer said. “Eh, Holliwell?”
“Yes,” Holliwell said.
Soyer smiled broadly.
“That’s good, Professor. And it’s very good of you to share with us. I think your only problem in life is that you can’t recognize your friends. We are your friends here—and you betray us.”
Holliwell took a cigarette from the pack and put it in his mouth, correctly this time. Soyer lit it for him.
“We do your dirty work here, gringo. When you go through attacks of cowardice and remorse, it’s we who pay, not you. One day if you keep up this way your enemies will put your entire fatuous country to sleep and there won’t be many tears, believe me.”
Holliwell looked at the cigarette between his fingers.
“Rest assured,” Soyer said, “that it’s not for you I’m fighting. I’m not such a fool as that. It’s for my country—and the bad of it is that we have to depend on you. A nation of betrayers,” he said to Heath. “Without pride. Whiners. I hate them all.”
Heath finished off the contents of his flask. He winced afterwards as though the liquor hurt him inside.
“I don’t know about that,” he said. “All kinds in every country. All the same, I do remember that a chap I knew in the army used to say—When you’ve heard what a Yank has to say in the first five minutes, you’ve heard everything he’ll say the rest of his life.”
Soyer was only half listening; he snorted happily.
“Garrulous. Like this professor.” He stood in front of Holliwell; he was about an inch shorter, a tall man. “So, Professor, want to give me an abrazo now? The Americans,” he told Heath, “love most of all to give abrazos. They—” Holliwell threw his cigarette in Soyer’s face and struck him above the mouth with a straight-armed right. In a second, Heath and the lieutenant had pinned him. The lieutenant had the strength of a weight lifter; Holliwell’s arm went numb in his grasp but the shoulder to which it was joined hurt quite a lot.
He was pleased to see that Mr. Soyer had stopped smiling. Mr. Soyer was several feet away now, his lip bloody and his face pale. But he held a gun in his hand that was pointed at Holliwell.
“Steady on, Miguel,” Heath said.
Holliwell immediately regretted his rashness. He watched the gun in the Cuban’s hand as the man walked toward him again. If he was not shot, he thought, he would be struck across the face with the gun, and hitting Soyer was not nearly satisfying enough to buy that. But Soyer did not hit him.
“He wants to act like a man,” the Cuban explained. “Too late, Holliwell,” he said, putting the gun away. He touched his swollen lip. “Too late for that.”
“By Christ,” Heath said disgustedly, “you’re a bloody fool, Prof. You’re asking for it, you know.” They let go of him.
“I’m not offended by his bad temper,” Soyer said. “He’s going to take a ride with me. That’s right, Holliwell,” he said. “We’re going out to the mission, you and I together, and we’ll bring in Sister Justin. Then you can explain yourself to her as you have to me.”
Soyer and Campos went out again—Campos to communicate with his force at the mission, Soyer to clean up. Mr. Heath looked morose.
“Very foolish of you, Holliwell. Mind you, he was provoking. But very foolish all the same.”
“Of course,” Holliwell said.
“You’re in luck, you know. We may get your friend out of the shit. Suppose you hadn’t run into us?”
“Then who knows,” Holliwell said.
“The evening’s business won’t be pleasant for either of you. But you’ll really be better off.”
“Maybe I should be grateful.”
“You should,” Heath said. “One day you will be.”
There was a small dry food stain on the sleeve of his dark cotton jacket. He began to chip it away with his fingernail.
“Miguel can’t help feeling the way he does, you know. He’s lived out some bad history and he’s bitter. Actually he’s not bad as the
se fellas go.”
“What about you?”
Heath smiled.
“Oh me. I’m just standing my lonely vigil. The watch on the Rhine.”
“This is a bit far-flung for Six, isn’t it?”
“Six? I’m not Six, Holliwell. Well, not really. Not that I mind making my services available to the British taxpayer. Or the U.S. taxpayer. But I work for Investors Security International. We in turn work for the corporations that own land here. It’s a very large investment that’s under consideration on this coast, converting to tourism and so forth. Lot of money’s been paid out. They want to know what’s going on, eh? If we can help them maintain a favorable environment for their business, we do it. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“You enjoy it so much,” Holliwell said, “it must be all right.”
“That’s exactly the way I see it. I do like my work, you know. Now and again I can right a few wrongs. Make a little dent in our far from perfect old world.”
“Tell me about your friends Buddy and Olga. Are they helping you straighten things out?”
Heath laughed silently, in the way of someone caught out in guilty pleasure.
“Oh, they’re a project of mine. My next project—after you and the sister. They’re in the way of business for me because they’ve got themselves a local partner and bought a thousand hectares just north of here. That sort of people always has money, eh, Holliwell?” He shook his head and his faded flannel blue eyes came alive slightly. “But I’d go after them on my own time, if I had to. They’ll come to grief with me, don’t worry. I won’t have people like that about, chum—not in my bailiwick. Not running free.”
“It’s an interesting life you lead.”
Heath slipped away from the desk where he had been leaning and walked toward the door to the outer office. “I was never for the quiet life,” he said. “Life in the stockbroker belt was not for the likes of me. But never mind.” He stood in the open doorway looking out; the noise of cartridge clips being loaded and the cackle of a shortwave sounded from the adjoining space. “They’ll want you shortly,” he told Holliwell.
Holliwell stayed by the desk looking down at the black unmarked telephone that rested on it.
