by Len Deighton
Lucas looked back. The track up which they had climbed was a tangled thread of white cotton draped across mossy stones. But each mossy stone was a thousand feet high. To the north a pink horizon might have been the Sombras. According to the map they rose to fifteen thousand feet and bisected the land, making these southern provinces a wilderness of jungle with little else separating them from the immense desolation of Brazil.
Maestro made his way up the trail to where Lucas had seated himself at the highest part of the hill. When he arrived his greeting was admonitory: ‘From here you are in sight of the Yankees.’
‘From here I am not in sight of the Yankees,’ said Lucas, who had carefully selected the spot for that reason. This was the summit of the ridge. Not far away the Americans had their white box containing all the mumbo-jumbo for measuring temperatures and humidity and rainfall. Farther down the slope, in a carefully chosen sheltered site, there was the survey camp.
‘Comrade Ramón will speak to you.’
‘I’m delighted,’ said Lucas. He got to his feet and smacked the dust from his trousers and then stubbed out the end of his cigar, making quite sure there was no fire danger. Maestro led the way down. ‘Eduardo died,’ said Maestro bitterly.
‘Yes, he died,’ Lucas said. ‘The other will probably die too. Why did you tell Eduardo that the bullet had removed his eye?’
‘He asked me.’
‘He was in shock. He couldn’t handle such truth. He lost the will to live.’
‘A man does not lie to his comrade,’ said Maestro stubbornly. When Lucas didn’t respond he added, ‘Our revolution is a struggle for truth.’
Lucas said nothing. They went to where Paz and Ramón were talking. Both men were wearing unusual clothes. Ramón was wearing the uniform of a captain of the Federalistas. Inez was with them but standing back as if not a part of their conversation. Ramón said, ‘Señor Lucas, what do you think of this?’
Lucas sensed that Inez was watching him closely but he did not look at her. He looked at Angel Paz, who was dressed in American khakis. ‘What is he supposed to be?’ Lucas asked.
Paz scowled. Until Maestro and his men had arrived the revolution had been a cosy affair in which Angel had been able to talk to the MAMista leader about the strategy of the revolutionary movement. Ramón, believing that one day Angel Paz might write it all down and have it published, played his role. Paz felt that on many aspects of the struggle Ramón was entirely right, and had demonstrated a sophisticated grasp of his fight in relation to world affairs. Now however Maestro was monopolizing Ramón’s time, and what was outrageous, the Englishman was being consulted too.
‘It’s a ruse to get through the gate,’ Ramón explained patiently. Self-consciously he put on the cap of his Federalista uniform. Ramón looked convincing. Why shouldn’t he be convincing? In only slightly differing circumstances Ramón could well have become a Federalista captain.
Lucas looked at Paz. He stepped back and looked at him again. ‘What can I say? He looks …’ Lucas raised his arms and then let them fall to slap against his sides in a gesture of despair.
‘What is wrong?’ Ramón asked.
Lucas looked at Paz. There were all sorts of specific things wrong: his shaved head and the belt drawn tight around his waist instead of resting upon his hips in the American style. Surely he didn’t intend to wear those white cotton gloves. And Paz did not have the poise or the manner of the men of the American survey team. The overall effect was totally unconvincing. ‘I don’t know,’ said Lucas.
Paz was angry but, determined to show his restraint, said nothing. For years he’d been going around, telling people that he wasn’t an American; now he was trapped into declaring himself to be recognizably one.
‘Can you make him right?’ Ramón asked.
‘Never in a million years,’ Lucas said.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Paz blurted, unable to contain his anger. ‘I lived in Los Angeles.’
‘I don’t care if you were born in the White House,’ said Lucas, speaking in English. ‘I was watching them this morning. The survey team are not simply Americans. They are all drawn from one narrow band of society: white, Anglo-Saxon, middle-class, college-educated men.’
‘There is a black man with them,’ Ramón said.
‘One individual. That makes no difference to the overall appearance of these men.’
‘How can you say I don’t look American? I am American, you dumb bastard!’ Paz snapped. It wasn’t true in every respect but he was indignant.
‘Perhaps you do look American but you don’t look like them,’ Lucas said. ‘Surely you can see that … Good grief, I look more like them than you do.’ He stopped suddenly, regretting his words the moment he’d spoken them.
Although Lucas had said it in English the meaning of his words was quite clear to Ramón and to Maestro too.
‘Señor Lucas,’ said Ramón gently.
‘I know what you are going to ask, Ramón, and the answer is no.’
Paz also guessed what was in Ramón’s mind. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘I know more about Americans than this English creep.’
‘Be quiet a moment,’ said Ramón. Paz looked as if he was about to explode with rage but did no more than bite his lips and snort loudly.
‘This is to avoid bloodshed, Colonel Lucas.’
‘It’s not possible. I am a foreigner, a neutral.’
‘We must force the gate to get gasoline and another truck. Using Paz was just a way of doing it without shooting. Otherwise, I am afraid that they will suspect a trick and open fire on the jeep before opening the gate. Then we will have to take the camp by direct attack.’
‘Look at them; those clothes will not fit me.’
‘Shirts and pants. We have more such clothes.’
Lucas did not agree lightly. He felt very uneasy about the whole undertaking. And yet he could see no other sensible, honourable course. What would he do if Ramón attacked the camp? What would happen to the American wounded if Ramón insisted upon moving off with his stolen truck and gas? ‘If I had your word that there would be no shooting …’ said Lucas.
‘You have it,’ said Ramón solemnly.
Lucas rubbed his chin. Now he regretted saying it. He was here representing the Foundation. If news of his cooperation in this criminal endeavour ever got out, the Foundation would be pilloried, and rightly so. Before him came the faces of all those self-seeking half-wits with whom he sat at the meetings. He shook his head and they were gone. For if Ramón was helped in simply grabbing a truck and fuel and making off, Lucas could sleep easy tonight. ‘Tell me your plan,’ Lucas said.
‘No,’ said Paz before he could stop himself. He kept fiddling with the clothes that were at the centre of the argument. He ran his thumbs around the belt and tugged at the shirt pockets in a pantomime of agitation.
Ramón looked at him but did not reprimand him. He felt sorry for him. Ramón had been such a short-fused youngster not so long ago. To Lucas Ramón said, ‘I will be interested to hear your view, Colonel.’
‘Very well.’
‘Come and look at my plan of the camp.’ He turned to Angel Paz: ‘Go and fetch for me the list of Yankee vehicles. Change out of those clothes. After that go with Novillo and learn how to strip down the heavy machine gun.’ He indicated Novillo, a big fellow who had been assigned to the machine gun more because he was strong enough to carry it than because of his mechanical aptitude. Paz didn’t move. He wanted to stay and participate, and hear the plan again. ‘Go,’ said Ramón. ‘I want the list.’
Lucas did not show the reverence for Ramón that Paz thought was his due. Despite any shortcomings he might have perceived, Paz’s feeling for this revolutionary hero bordered upon love. Angel Paz loved Ramón, just as he loved the idea of violent revolution and his own violent participation in it. Paz was young and so had an almost limitless capacity for love and for hate. It wasn’t entirely his youth that made him like that. Such men remained passionate lovers and pitiless
haters all their lives, but it was his youth that made Angel Paz believe that it mattered so much. Ramón seemed to understand this, for he watched with a sad face as Paz went off to do his errand. Then he sighed. The young man’s impossible expectations were already a burden that Ramón did not want to bear.
Ramón turned to Lucas and smiled. When he explained his plan, he spoke to Lucas as an equal. The ‘Englishman’s’ age, his declared political apathy and military experience all contributed to this decision. He did not speak with Lucas as if he was a member of the revolutionary army. Lucas was granted a position of temporary privilege and limited confidence. Ramón spoke to him as an embattled tycoon might speak to a financial journalist, or an illustrious parent to his errant son’s headmaster.
Lucas was briefed and changed into khakis by the time Angel Paz brought back a list of the vehicles in the compound. Four jeeps, two pick-ups, three walk-through vans, two Toyota Land-Cruisers and three Volvo trucks.
Ramón looked at the list and said, ‘The best two Volvos, the best Toyota and the two best jeeps. We must disable all the other vehicles. When the helicopter comes in, some lunatic might decide to pursue us.’
‘They are CIA,’ said Paz. ‘If they are just doing a geological survey what do they need all that transport for?’ He stood arms folded. It was a physical stance that none of the others would have adopted in Ramón’s immediate presence, for to their mind it looked insubordinate and offensive.
Ramón said, ‘They hold it all here for the teams that go along the valley. They store food in freezers here and take it out as needed. It could be just a survey.’
Paz said, ‘The Volvo four-by-four looks like it has an articulated chassis. It would climb a wall. Take that.’
‘Not many walls where we are going,’ said Ramón. ‘The Toyota is narrow; better suited to the jungle tracks.’
Lucas said, ‘Do you know if they remove the rotor arms, or immobilize them in some other way?’
Before anyone spoke Maestro arrived. He said, ‘There is no one checking the main gate now. The sentry is sitting in the box out of the sun … And the picket is unarmed. The radio shack is closed down. The jeep is cleaned and on the way up here.’
Ramón said, ‘They will probably have guns locked away somewhere.’ He turned to Lucas. ‘If they hide the rotor arms we will find them. Once inside there will be no hurry.’ He touched his face with his fingertips, brushing every wrinkle and scar as if his was the hand of a blind man discovering the face of a stranger.
They had done a remarkable job of cleaning the jeep. It was difficult to believe that this was the same vehicle that had delivered Dr Guizot’s body to the riverside hut. How long ago was that, thought Lucas. He had already forgotten his life in London. Some of this revolutionary dedication and determination had rubbed off on him. No matter that their cause was anachronistic and futile. Lucas recognized in himself traces of the young, insubordinate and sometimes ruthless soldier he’d once been. He was not sure it was a change for the better.
‘As long as they look at you,’ Ramón told Lucas for the umpteenth time. ‘As long as you get their attention everything else will go smoothly.’
‘If it’s just a matter of getting their attention, let Inez go,’ Lucas said.
The men laughed but Inez did not.
Maestro smacked her on the rear. ‘Laugh, comrade,’ he told her. But she didn’t laugh.
Paz spat into the dust.
Lucas climbed into the driver’s seat of the jeep. Ramón put on his hat and sat behind him.
‘Take care, Lucas,’ Inez said. He looked at her, surprised by the tenderness in her voice.
‘I’ll do that all right,’ he said grimly, and started the engine.
‘Take care, comrade Ramón.’
Lucas let in the clutch and let the jeep climb up on to the track. He drove carefully all the way down to the narrow surfaced road that the Americans had built to connect their camp to the highway.
10
THE SURVEY CAMP. ‘I’ll be okay, Belle.’
The jeep’s engine was not running smoothly, and that worried Lucas. Even if it didn’t stall on him it would attract attention in a way that he didn’t want. As they came up to the tall chain-link fence that surrounded the camp, a khaki-clad sentry in his rooftop tower leaned over the rail to see them better. Now that they were closer, Lucas saw that the sentry positions each had a mounted machine gun. From his position the one leaning over the rail would have a panoramic field of fire. And he had a modern gun, clean and shiny. Whoever had sited it knew what he was doing. The sentry rested one hand on the breech. It was a casual attitude, perhaps just another example of Latin American letargo, but perhaps not.
The gate was open. The gateman was standing in the doorway of the guard hut to be out of the sun. Lucas changed down and turned in through the entrance. He gave a perfunctory wave to the gateman but didn’t stop. Countless tyre tracks had churned the soil at the entrance so the car disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Which way? Which way? There would be only one or two directions in which such a vehicle would go at such a time. The fellow in the tower had moved round it to watch them. His machine gun shone in the sunlight. So did the belt of bullets. Suddenly memories of Vietnam came flooding into his mind: an M-60 with a 100-round belt of disintegrating link 7.62mm. It would not be much fun to be on the wrong end of that.
Which way? Then he saw it. ‘Office’ and an arrow. God bless the Americans, they always make things simple and sensible. He drove past a solid little building, adorned with the skull and crossbones warning sign that said it was the generator, and then he spotted on the roadway a neatly painted rectangle marked visita. Dear, hospitable, gregarious Americans. Even in the middle of the jungle there must be provision for callers, and a space allotted for their cars. Lucas parked in the space. It was conveniently close to a wooden balcony and a door marked ‘Reception’.
Lucas dabbed the accelerator and switched off the engine. It was very quiet. Lucas got out. For a moment Ramón remained in the back seat. He carefully looked all round. At his feet there was the ‘grease gun’. He had it resting across his foot so that he could kick it up into his hands. Satisfied that there were no unforeseen dangers, he picked it up gently and followed Lucas.
Lucas rapped upon the door and pushed it open. Ramón stood on the balcony behind him, holding the gun in a casual manner. Inside the office Lucas found four Americans. One sat at a desk typing, two faced each other at another table and the fourth – a barrel-chested black – was cranking the handle of an ancient phone. He put the phone down.
The man typing stopped. He was in his mid-thirties with prematurely greying hair. His name, John Charrington, was inscribed upon a black plastic nameplate on his desk. He wore rimless glasses that his wife said made him look ten years older than his true age. That’s why he snatched them off before speaking to Lucas.
‘What can I do for you?’ Charrington asked.
Lucas had a pistol on his belt, a .45 Colt automatic. Ramón had insisted upon it. Lucas felt uneasy. His soldier’s instinct was to draw the gun and continue the conversation at pistol-point, but it was a long time since he’d been a soldier and it seemed too theatrical for such a cosy domestic atmosphere. What would he do if they just smiled at the sight of the drawn gun? He couldn’t shoot any man down like that. Lucas said, ‘I need a couple of gallons of petrol.’
Petrol. The word amused the Americans. And where would anyone go from here on just two gallons of it? For a moment words eluded him: ‘Esencia … gasolina.’ His words came hoarsely for he was a little afraid. Were they laughing at him?
‘Gas,’ said Charrington. ‘Are you out of gas?’
‘Gas,’ Lucas agreed. ‘Yes, gas.’ He laughed nervously.
‘Is that so?’ said Charrington. He tossed his glasses into the drawer of his desk, slammed it and then ran a hand back through his hair. He looked quizzically at Singer and wondered what regulations there were about supplying gas to stran
gers.
When Charrington gave no sign of doing anything, Lucas said, ‘These men are MAMista.’ In spite of his determination it sounded like an apology. If he didn’t get them to comply immediately, Ramón was likely to come smashing through the door, firing his gun. ‘Please do as I ask,’ Lucas said.
The guerrillas distinguished even the smallest skirmish with a name. This one, la captura del marido, was remembered not only because of the captive husband after whom it was named, but because the opening shots were fired by a woman. In the ballad they called her Maria for the sake of the rhyme.
Inez Cassidy was crouched behind a rock, trying to remember the words of the Cuban instructor at the training camp. There Inez had earned a marksmanship certificate for the highest scores in her class. In fact she had the highest score they’d seen for many classes. Some of the men resented her ability with the rifle, but they all respected it, and when this task had to be done Inez was assigned to it. She did not follow everything the school taught. The Lee Enfield rifle was heavy and she rested it upon a rock, a method strictly forbidden at the training school. She grasped its battered wooden stock and wondered if it had been used to kill other men. The old British army rifle had been adapted to become a sniper’s weapon: calibrated and fitted with an expensive modern scope.
She watched the jeep raising dust as it turned in through the gate. The top was folded down, so she saw Lucas raise his hand in greeting to the gateman and Ramón sitting stiffly in the back in his Federalista uniform, not deigning to acknowledge the sentry’s existence.
It was all as it should be. As the dust settled Inez spotted the second man. He’d come out from the hut at the gate. He wore a white shirt, with an identity tag hanging from his belt. He was probably some sort of supervisor. He turned to watch the car pass the generator building. The supervisor felt in his back pocket. Was he reaching for a gun, a whistle, a handkerchief or perhaps a comb to slick back his greasy hair?
