Adam returned to his cell a different man and, in spite of the rock-like pillow, fell happily into a dreamless sleep.
In the morning he was brought up to a small courtroom inside the Police Headquarters. Neither the Police Chief nor Ramón was present, but the trial lasted barely ten minutes and followed the lines Adam had been told to expect. Later in the day he was conveyed several miles in a closed van to a prison that lay somewhere on the outskirts of the city. There particulars of him were again taken. To his considerable relief he was then allowed to have he first bath he had had since he had left Uxmal, and afterwards was escorted to a clean cell furnished with an iron bedstead, with sheets as well as a blanket, a table and a chair.
From the warder, who seemed a decent man, he learned that his fellow prisoners were nearly all Mexicans: business men who had committed fraud or sexual offences, debtors and opponents of the government who had aired their views too loudly; also that they were given two hours’ exercise a day, one in the morning and one in the afternoon, and that he could draw three books a week from the prison library. Far more surprising, he was informed by the warder that if he was married or had a girl-friend the lady would be allowed to visit him once a week, and that rooms were provided in which for an hour they could enjoy themselves in private.
Giving the Mexican government full marks for its humanity and wise precaution against the spread of homosexuality, Adam resigned himself without anxiety to his ten days in prison.
Next day was Sunday. So much had happened to him recently that he found it almost impossible to believe that only a week had elapsed since he had spent a happy, carefree day with Chela, rambling round the ruins at Chichén Itzá.
He was thinking of her late in the afternoon when the warder came to tell him that he had a visitor. Recalling the lenient regulations regarding the prisoners and women, his heart leapt at the thought that Chela would have learned through the morning papers what had happened to him and had come to see him. For who else could it be?
On reaching a small reception room, he suffered a sharp disappointment. His visitor was not Chela, but Jeremy Hunterscombe. When they had greeted each other, they were locked in the room, and sat down on two of the hard chairs set round a bare table. The lanky Wing Commander brushed up his flowing moustache and said:
‘Well, chum, you’ve landed yourself in a fine mess. Read all about it in the paper this morning. You’ll remember I told you what was cooking and asked you to play along with these revolutionaries, then give me the lowdown on what they were up to?’
‘Yes,’ Adam admitted, ‘and I refused to spy for you on my friends.’
‘Fair enough, dear boy. But that’s one thing, and it’s quite another to have allowed them to use you as their stalking horse. Of course, Chela is quite a wench and at times we all make fools of ourselves over women. But really! To let them dress you up like a peacock, then to spout a lot of Marxist stuff to a mob of yahoos …’
‘What is done, is done,’ said Adam testily. ‘Maybe I behaved stupidly, but, anyhow, the authorities have let me off lightly.’
‘By Jove, they have. You might have been picking the old oakum or sewing mail-bags for a term of years. Someone once told me you had been nicknamed “Lucky” Gordon. Seems jolly apt to me. Still, that’s beside the point. In nine days you’ll be out of here, but persona non grata with the Mexican government. That means you’ll have to shake the dust of this country off your brogues—and pronto. At the Embassy it is part of our job to look after British subjects; even when they do behave like nuts. So I’ve dropped in to offer the old Austin Reed service: get you a reservation on an aircraft, arrange to collect you in a car and see you safely on your way to England, Home and Beauty.
‘It’s very good of you,’ Adam replied. ‘But as it happens, I shan’t be leaving Mexico.’
Hunterscombe gave a slightly superior smile. ‘Dear boy, I hate to disillusion you, but you certainly will. The Mexican government apart, H.E. has expressed his desire for your absence. Strange as it may sound to your evidently Marxist ears, we don’t want British subjects here who are likely to embarrass us by advocating the overthrow of the régime; and your passport will in future be endorsed “not valid” for entry into Mexico. Believe me, chum, the skids are under you and, like it or not, you’ve got to quit.’
Although at their last meeting Adam had assured Ramón and General Gómez of his co-operation, the willingness he had shown had been mainly inspired by his relief at escaping a long prison sentence. Since then, he had had ample time to contemplate the matter in a more sober light. Reluctant as he was to forgo any prospect of renewing his affaire with Chela, he would have given a great deal to be freed from his dangerous obligation. But he realised that he had no choice, so he said:
‘I wish to goodness that when I am released from prison I could go straight on board an aircraft and get out of this bloody country. But His Excellency’s desire to be rid of me will cut no ice. The Mexicans wouldn’t let me go.’
‘Why shouldn’t they?’
‘Because they’ve got me on a hook. They’re blackmailing me.’
‘The devil they are!’ Hunterscombe frowned; then, after a moment, he said:
‘Now look, Gordon. I don’t care what you’ve done and you had better come clean with me. As I said, it is up to us to do what we can for you, and there is no-one else to whom you can turn for help; so tell all.’
Adam gave an unhappy nod. ‘Yes, you’re right. Well, this is what happened. Although I refused to spy on my friends for you, I was later persuaded by Ramón Enriquez to find out what I could about this revolutionary movement What followed we need not go into until we come to my arrest down at Uxmal. That would never have taken place if the Police Chief at Mérida had been put in the picture. But he wasn’t, and being an eager-beaver type, he had me pulled in. The big boys here have been pretty smart, though. They could treat me either as a criminal or a practical joker, and I was given the choice. Naturally, I preferred ten days to ten years, but the price was that, when I came out, I should work for them again.’
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ The Wing Commander’s lean face broke into a grin. ‘So you are now Richard Hannay, Gregory Sallust and Uncle Tom Cobley and all.’ His face suddenly became serious. ‘But this is a dangerous game you’re playing, and your pals in the Mexican Security set-up won’t equip you against all emergencies. I mean, real secret agents don’t have daggers that spring out of the toes of their shoes, cars that eject flame and tintacks in the path of their pursuers, and all those other silly, amusing gadgets that one reads about in the Bond books. It is only in countries such as this, where it is not illegal to tote a gun, that a chap can even do that without risk of getting himself pinched.’
‘I see no reason why anything I do should lead to a gun battle,’ Adam replied. ‘All I mean to do is to turn in anything I pick up; but I’m damned if I’ll stick my neck out for Enriquez and Co.’
‘That’s what you think. But you’re in this thing now and, like it or not, you’ll have to. That is, unless you want to be framed on some other charge and popped back into prison for keeps. Gun battles apart, if the plotters tumble to it that you are double-crossing them they will have hoodlums around who, at a nod, would stick a knife into you quicker than you could take the first sip of a dry Martini. Look, chum, this is your show and your old Uncle Jeremy has no wish to cramp your style. But you are an amateur: a Babe in the Wood going in against a pack of wolves. I’d bet the Crown Jewels against a handful of peanuts that, before you are much older, you are going to land yourself in real trouble. Your Mexican pals are only putting you in on the off-chance that you’ll pull the chestnuts out of the fire for them. They won’t lose a wink of sleep if this ends in your kicking the bucket. But you’re one of us; so I will. If you do find yourself in a spot, get on to me. I’m used to nasty situations and if anything can be done to pull you out I’ll do it.’
‘Thanks,’ Adam smiled. ‘That’s very good of you. If I do ne
ed help, how do I bring my “Uncle Jeremy” racing to the rescue?’
Hunterscombe fished a small notebook out of his pocket, wrote in it, tore the page out and handed it to Adam. ‘There is the address of my flat and my telephone number. Below it is the Embassy number. For most of the twenty-four hours you’ll be able to get me at one or the other. If you can’t, leave a message for me; but don’t use your own name. Let’s see. Who was that bloodthirsty character in your last book? I’ve got it. Ord the Red-handed. Use Red. That’s more common than Ord. Lots of people nicknamed Red. Don’t give any details unless you’re quite certain the line isn’t likely to be tapped. Just say where you are and I’ll be along as soon as I can make it.’
As Adam thanked him again, he added, ‘Better memorise the info’ on that slip of paper, then destroy it. No need to swallow it, though, as they do in thrillers. Just give it a good chew, then spit it out into your slop bucket.’
When the Wing Commander had gone, Adam spent the best part of an hour repeating to himself over and over again the address and telephone numbers until he was quite certain that they would stick in his memory; then he got rid of the paper.
Since he had so peremptorily turned down Hunterscombe’s request for his help when they had lunched together at the Ritz, he thought it very decent of him to show such concern for his safety now that he had admitted to working for Ramón. All the same, it seemed unlikely that a situation could arise in which he would need to avail himself of the Wing Commander’s offer. Before he left prison it was certain that Ramón would furnish him with the means of communication for anything urgent; so, if he did find himself up against it, and was able to appeal for help, it would obviously be more effective to call in the police rather than the solitary secret agent of a foreign country.
On the Monday, while at exercise, he scraped acquaintance with two other prisoners and, in whispered conversations, learned that one was a defaulting lawyer and the other a rich brothel owner who had refused certain highly-placed persons free access to his houses and, as a result, had been framed. Of himself he said that he was in on a short sentence for dangerous driving. By Tuesday, the prison grapevine had picked up an account in the Sunday papers of the arrest of an Englishman caught posing for a lark as Quetzalcoatl; which explained an absurd but persistent rumour recently running round the country that the Man-God had returned and appeared to a crowd of Indians at both San Luis Caliente and Uxmal. Adam gathered that his physical characteristics, coupled with the date of his arrival at the prison, had led his fellow prisoners to conclude that he was the practical joker concerned; but their opportunities for questioning him were few, and he refused to satisfy their curiosity.
It was in the early hours of Wednesday morning that he was roused by the sound of an explosion. A few minutes later it was followed by the ringing of an alarm bell, shots and loud shouting. Sitting up in bed, he wondered what on earth could be happening.
The pandemonium continued: single shots, the rat-tat-tat of sub-machine-guns, yells and curses. Flying feet pounded down the corridor outside his cell. A shot was fired, there came a scream and the footsteps ceased abruptly. More curses, loud protests, growling voices now outside the cell. A key turned in the lock and the door swung open.
Adam’s warder was pushed inside. His face was white, his right arm hung limp at his side, dripping blood. He was followed by a huge Negro and three Indians with long, matted hair. The Negro grinned at Adam and said in a travesty of Spanish:
‘You’re free now, Lord. Jus’ you come wi’ us.’ Then, turning to one of the Indians, he waved a hand towards the warder and added, ‘Jacko, yoo know what t’do wid dis guy. Gi’e ’im de works.’
Two of the Indians pushed the wounded man down on to the bed from which Adam had just got up and the one named Jacko grasped him by the throat. Seeing that he was about to strangle him, Adam cried:
‘Hi! Stop that!’
The Negro shook his head. ‘He gotta die, Lord. Yo’se free now. Yo’ come along wid us.’
‘But damn it,’ Adam exclaimed furiously, ‘he’s already wounded. He can’t do you any harm. It’s senseless murder.’ Turning, he grabbed the collar of Jacko’s jacket in an attempt to pull him off.
As he wrenched, Jacko’s head was jerked up, but he did not release his grip on the warder’s throat. By then the wretched man’s eyes were starting from their sockets and he was turning purple in the face.
Unhappily the big Negro stood by watching for a moment, apparently reluctant to intervene. Suddenly making up his mind, he grasped Adam from behind by both arms, and wailed, ‘Forgi’ me, Lord fo’ touchin’ yo. But Ah can’t let yo. Ah gotta obey orders. Dey was ter croak de keysman an’ git yo outa here.’
A furious struggle ensued. Adam hung on to Jacko’s collar until, with a loud, rending sound, the thin cotton fabric tore. By then Adam’s pull on Jacko and the latter’s on the warder’s neck had lifted them both. With a thump they fell back on the bed. His arms being held from behind by the Negro placed Adam at a big disadvantage. The other two Indians lent a hand. Despite his efforts, the three of them succeeded in pulling him away, pushing him through the doorway, then dragging him along the corridor. At its end, realising that by now the warder must be beyond anything except medical help, he gave up trying to break free.
Still held by his captors, he was hustled through the prisoners’ dining room. Another warder lay there with his throat cut. In the corridor beyond it a third warder lay sprawled on his face, while a Mestizo who had taken his keys was swiftly unlocking cell doors to release the prisoners. Out in the main hall a battle was raging. A dozen men of all shades were blazing off with pistols and sub-machine-guns at the upper floors. Prison officers on the high galleries round the staircase were exposing themselves only for the minimum of time, but long enough to return the fire of the raiders. On the stone flags lay several dead or wounded. One man had his hands clutched to his stomach and was screaming horribly.
Outside, the courtyard was a shambles. It was littered with dead or dying prison officers and Indians. Adam nearly tripped over a body; then, looking down, saw by a beam of light coming from the hall that the face was that of his new acquaintance, the brothel-keeper. A moment later, to his horror, he saw that a group was shooting down the white Mexican prisoners as they poured out from a side door of the prison believing that they had been restored to liberty.
When he reached the prison gate, one half of it was flat, the other hanging crookedly on its hinges after having been blown open. Outside, there were a dozen cars and small vans. Adam’s escort ran him over to one of the cars, he was pushed into the back, the two Indians scrambled in after him and the Negro got into the driver’s seat. There came a whirring of the self-starter, a screech of gears changed too quickly and they were off.
As far as Adam could see, the suburb in which the prison lay consisted of some rows of small, uniform, modern houses, a short row of one-storey shops and empty back lots. The blowing-in of the prison gates and subsequent shooting had roused the inhabitants. There were lights in most of the windows and people leaning out of them, calling excitedly to one another. A few had come out onto the sidewalks; but no attempt was made to stop the car.
It was driven for some miles out into the country, returned to the city by a circuitous route, ran out again through a good-class district of scattered houses, then through some narrow, twisting lanes, to swerve between gateposts set in a high wall and up a short drive.
Adam had strong suspicions why he had been ‘sprung’ from prison while the other white prisoners were being shot down, for who but Alberuque would have ordered half a hundred mixed men to attack it for the sole purpose of rescuing him? But he could not be absolutely certain of that, and he felt far from safe in the hands of his murderous captors. As they all got out of the car he had half a mind to attempt to escape. But a swift glance towards the gates showed him that another man, who had evidently been waiting there, was shutting them. That made the odds against him four to
one, and the men who had carried him off from the prison were armed. Uneasily, he resigned himself to putting as good a face as possible on the situation.
The car had pulled up in front of the porch of a rambling old house. A light went on, showing up the fanlight over the door. It was opened by a tall man in a monk’s habit. His garb at once strengthened Adam’s suspicion about the reason for his kidnapping. The lay brother, as he turned out to be, bowed and stood aside for Adam to enter. As he did so, a gabble of words behind caused him to look over his shoulder. Instead of following him in, his escort had gone down on their knees, and the big Negro was mumbling apologies for their having laid hands on his sacred person.
The hall of the house was austerely furnished. On one wall there hung a large wooden crucifix, with a holy-water stoup below it; on the other a few cheap religious prints. The stone staircase that led to the floors above was uncarpeted.
Bowing again, the lay brother waved a hand towards the stairs, then led the way up them. In the light of the hall, Adam had had his first sight of the man’s face. It was that of an ascetic who had consistently mortified his flesh and fasted for long periods. The skin was drawn so tightly over the bones that his head looked almost like a skull, and the dark eyes were sunken in their sockets.
Adam had expected that on the first floor he would be shown into a study in which he would find Don Alberuque awaiting him; but his guide went up a second flight of dimly-lit stairs to the top of the house, signed to him to wait for a moment on the landing, then went into one of the rooms and lit an oil lamp.
Following him in, Adam saw that it was a bedroom and a far from comfortable one. The single bed sagged in the middle and had no valance; there was a prie-dieu against one wall, a single, hard-bottomed chair and an old-fashioned wooden washstand carrying a china jug and basin. The only accommodation for clothes was some hooks behind a faded curtain that screened off one corner of the room.
Unholy Crusade Page 28
