The Adventurers

by Harold Robbins

  “Bueno.” The sergeant looked at him, his face cold and impassive, then down at the sheet of paper on the desk. “You are prisoner 10,614, otherwise known as José Montez?”

  “Sí, excelencia,” he mumbled.

  The sergeant major pushed the paper toward him. “Sign this.”

  He tried to pick up the pen. But the fingers of his right hand were of no use to him. He looked at the sergeant major questioningly.

  “Use your left hand, make a mark. You probably can’t write anyway.”

  Silently José picked up the pen and made a cross at the bottom. The sergeant major picked up the sheet of paper and studied it. He nodded and cleared his throat. The short speech sounded as if it had been learned by rote.

  “In accordance with the wishes and the kindly beneficence of el Presidente, you hereby are granted amnesty for your political crimes in honor of the occasion of our acceptance this day into the United Nations. You are hereby released on your honor upon signing a written pledge of loyalty to the government. You hereby solemnly swear that you will no longer indulge in acts against the government under the penalty of the forfeit of your life.”

  The sergeant major looked at the guard. “Escort him to the front gate.”

  He stood there dully, uncomprehending, until one of the other guards shoved him. Then he began to understand. He was being freed.

  “Gracias, excelencia.” Unexpectedly the tears began to come to his eyes and he tried to blink them away. “Gracias.”

  The guard shoved him again, and he followed him down the corridor and out into the huge courtyard. The harsh sun burned into his eyes. Not until then did he remember the hat he still had in his hand and he jammed it down on his head so the brim would shield his eyes.

  They crossed the courtyard and stopped in front of the huge steel gate. “This is the last,” the guard yelled up to the man in the tower.

  “It is about time. It is not easy opening and closing this fucking gate.”

  Slowly and with much creaking, it rose up into the tower. José stood there watching, but even when the gate was completely open he did not move.

  The guard pushed him again. “Vaya!”

  He turned to look at the guard.

  The guard laughed. “He doesn’t want to leave us. He likes us,” he called up to the tower.

  The man in the tower laughed. The guard gave José another shove and spun him halfway through the gate. “Vaya! I have not got all day.”

  He stood there on the outer side of the opening, staring as the huge gate lowered. Finally it settled into the ground with a loud clang, but still he stood there.

  “Vaya!” the guard shouted. “Vaya!” He made a threatening gesture with his carbine.

  José turned suddenly and broke into an awkward run. He moved desperately, clumsily, the sudden fear of a bullet in his back almost choking him. The burst of laughter from the guards followed along behind him.

  He ran until he could no longer hear their laughter, until the breath was rasping in his throat and he was spent. Then he sank into the shade at the base of a building, slumped against the cool stone. There was nothing but the frightened beating of his heart sounding in his ears. He closed his eyes and rested. After a while he got to his feet and began to walk.

  There was an air of gay fiesta about the city. Everywhere flags were flying. Corteguayan flags and the banners of the United Nations, side by side. And in every other window was a picture of el Presidente, smiling and resplendent in his bemedaled uniform. But José felt no part of it. He merely drifted with the flow of the crowd. Soon they were in the great square in the center of the city in front of the Palacio del Presidente.

  The people were screaming as he came to an abrupt stop. There was no longer room for him to move. He looked up and a sudden cold chill came into him. He could taste the bitter bile of hatred rising up into his throat. The two of them were there on the balcony in front of him.

  El Presidente, his medals glistening in the sun, and his whore-bitch daughter, her blond hair giving the lie to her birth. Next to her stood a man he did not know, a Negro but a gringo by the cut of his clothes. Beside him stood Amparo’s smiling, deceitful fiancé, awkward in the new uniform tunic of a colonel.

  I should have killed them when I had the chance, he thought bitterly. Now, if I had the gun… but even now what good would it do me? The hand that cannot grasp even a pen could not hold a gun, much less aim it and pull the trigger.

  He turned and began to push his way through the crowd. Someday he would kill them, though. He would learn to use his left hand. To write. And to shoot a pistol. But first he must get home to the mountains. There he could find shelter and rest and regain his strength. There he would find friends and sympathizers.

  Then a cold realization ran through his mind. By now they must know of his betrayal, that he had screamed their names when his fingers were crushed in the press. He had tried to still his tongue, but the pain had opened his mouth.

  He stopped and leaned against a building, trembling, but after a moment he regained control over himself. They would not know of his betrayal. By now they must all be dead. If any of them were still alive, he would not have been let out of prison.

  Slowly he began to walk again. A sense of relief flooded through him. Better they were all dead. This way no one would know. He would have another chance. And this time he would not fail.

  BOOK 5

  FASHION and POLITICS

  1

  When Dax came out the doors of American Supreme Headquarters in Tokyo the two soldiers saluted him smartly. Negligently he returned their salute and walked down the steps. A boy passed him carrying a bundle of the latest edition of Stars and Stripes. The headline shouted of another major battle in Korea. Dax was standing there on the sidewalk, looking across the busy street at the Emperor’s palace, when Fat Cat came up.

  “We go home?” Fat Cat asked.

  Dax nodded absently, still looking at the palace. “We go home. They do not need us any more.”

  “They never needed us, they didn’t want us to begin with.”

  “El Presidente promised them a battalion. Perhaps if he had kept his promise—”

  “El Presidente makes many promises. Now the war in Korea is almost over. The new American President will make the peace and we still will not have fought.”

  Dax turned to look at him. “Have there not been enough wars for you already?”

  Fat Cat shrugged. “What else is there for a man to do? He fucks or he fights. Each makes him better for the other.”

  Dax turned and looked back at the palace. “I wonder what he thinks about in there. It must seem more a prison than a palace to him.”

  “He is lucky, they let him live. But I am sure if he does think he has only one regret. That he did not win.” Fat Cat took a package out of his pocket and began to roll a cigarette. “Now he is a god only to his flowers and butterflies.”

  “Come on, let’s go back to the hotel. I want to get out of this uniform. I am tired of playing soldier in an army that does not exist.”

  The army existed. Dax had realized that on the day of his marriage to Amparo. But not for export.

  The soldiers had lined the streets in front of his house that morning—the streets leading to the cathedral in which the ceremony took place; the streets through which they drove in the big black armor-plated car of el Presidente to his palace, where the reception was held, and then along the new highway out to the airport. They even stood along the airstrip where the specially chartered American plane was waiting to take Dax and Amparo on their honeymoon.

  What had been the first-class section was completely redecorated as a living room. There were several comfortable armchairs spread about and two banquettes that could serve as beds curved around the dividing wall that separated them from the other passengers. There was a card table, small coffee tables next to the chairs, and a bar set up in the forward section just aft of the galley. And on the opposite side was a small cu
rtained dressing room, complete with vanity table and chair and a private door into the lavatory.

  When they reached fifteen thousand feet, the seat-belt sign went off and the hostess in her neat blue uniform came into their compartment. “We will be in Mexico City in approximately four hours. If there is anything you want please ring for me.”

  “Would you have my maid come up forward?”

  “Of course.”

  Amparo looked at Dax. “I’ve got to get out of these clothes. I’m dying. The heat has stuck them to me like glue.”

  Dax nodded. He got to his feet. “I will present my compliments to the captain while you’re changing.”

  When he returned about a half hour later the compartment was dark, the curtains drawn. In the dim light he saw Amparo lying on the banquette wrapped in a silk robe. Her eyes were closed, and a half-empty bottle of champagne stood in a nearby ice bucket.

  Dax stood for a moment looking down at her. The silk clung to her body; obviously there was nothing under it. Quietly he took off his jacket and threw it into a chair, then pulled at his tie and began to open his shirt. Then he noticed that her eyes had opened and she was looking up at him.

  “I was beginning to wonder if you would ever come back. I thought I might have to fly to Mexico City alone.”

  It was then that he noticed her hand, moving slowly under the robe between her legs. “What are you doing?”

  Amparo smiled, moving sensuously. “I am making myself ready for you.”

  Angrily he pushed her hand away with his own and sank two strong fingers within her. “Have you not yet learned that when I want you I will make you ready?”

  A choked cry of pain rose in her throat and she thrust herself forward violently, seeming to climb. With his other hand he held her away until her eyes opened again and looked up into his own.

  “With me you are not la princesa,” he said harshly, “you are my wife.”

  “Yes, yes,” Amparo said quickly, her arms reaching up for him. “You are my husband and I am your slave. Without you I am nothing, not even a woman.”

  He stood very still, his eyes searching her face. “Remember that.”

  “I will,” she cried wildly, “I will! Now give me your cock before I die of the distance between us!”

  ***

  Mexico City. Miami. New York. Rome. London. Paris. Lisbon. Then home. For three months it was the most public honeymoon of the year. Everywhere they went the reporters and photographers besieged them. There was scarcely a newspaper or magazine in the world which did not feature their pictures.

  From Rome came the famous picture of Amparo, kneeling to kiss the Pope’s ring, her blond hair falling forward from beneath the black lace veil, her eyes turned up as he smiled gently down at her.

  Afterward, in their suite at the Hassler, Dax teased her. “I didn’t know you were such a religious.”

  “I’m not.”

  He tossed the evening paper before her. The picture was on the front page. “You look as if you were in a rapture.”

  She laughed suddenly. “I was.”

  “What?”

  “He was so pure it was the most exciting thing I ever experienced.”

  Dax stared at her, shaking his head. “I’ll never understand women.”

  Amparo came over and threw her arms around him. She kissed his cheek. “Don’t try, it’s better that way.”

  Dax turned her face up to his and looked into her eyes. “You haven’t changed much from the little girl I once knew.”

  Amparo kissed him lightly on the lips. “It’s so wonderful. I wish we never had to go home.”

  But it was Paris where Amparo really came into her own. All the other cities were exciting, but they were cities masculine in concept and merely tolerant of women. Paris was a woman’s city. The very air seemed to contain the perfume of woman, which even the stench of the automobiles could not erase. The grace, the beauty, the style, the very tempo was feminine.

  Amparo discovered Paris and Paris discovered her. She was the kind of woman who belonged there—haughty, autocratic, imperious, with the wide excited eyes of a jeune fille and the demanding sensuous mouth of a femme du monde. She was the center of attraction wherever she went. At dinner. At the theater. Even at the oldest and haughtiest of couturiers they fell all over themselves trying to please her.

  For once Dax was content to stand quietly to one side while Amparo basked in the limelight. It was at one of the receptions that a familiar voice came from behind him. “She is very beautiful.”

  He turned, smiling. It was Giselle, holding out her hands to him. He took them in his and kissed her once on each cheek, French fashion. “Thank you. You are looking quite lovely yourself.”

  Giselle shook her head slightly. “Not like her; already there are lines around my mouth, my eyes.”

  “Nonsense, you are as beautiful as ever.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Dax.” She smiled. “I am a professional. My face is my business.”

  “Then only you can see such lines. The rest of the world must be blind.”

  Giselle turned away from him and looked toward Amparo again. “Are you happy with her, Dax? Is it she you always wanted?”

  “I am happy.”

  “You did not answer all of my question.”

  He stared at her silently.

  “All right,” she said after a moment. “I had no right to ask.”

  A waiter came by with a tray full of glasses filled with champagne. Dax lifted off two and held out one to her. He raised his. “To those who care.”

  She emptied her glass quickly and put it down. “I must go.”

  “But you just arrived.”

  “I forgot,” she said, “I have another appointment.” She turned to leave, then abruptly turned back to him. There was a trace of tears in her eyes. “Before you leave Paris I would like to see you once more.”

  Dax started to answer but she stopped him with her hand.

  “Not like this; at my apartment. I know you can’t get away in the evenings but I am still in the same place. You used to know how to find your way there in the mornings.”

  Then she was gone, and he was left staring after her.

  Later Amparo broke away from her group and came over. “Who was that woman you were talking to?”

  “Giselle d’Arcy, the movie star.”

  “I know that,” she said impatiently. “What was she to you?”

  Dax stared at her. After a moment he answered, “She was my mistress during the war.”

  “You’re not thinking of seeing her again, are you?”

  He smiled. “Not seriously. But now that you mention it, it’s not such a bad idea.”

  “If you do, I’ll kill you,” she whispered fiercely. “She’s still in love with you.”

  He laughed aloud. But when they left Paris he still had not gone to see Giselle.

  Three days after they returned to Corteguay the North Koreans crossed the 38th parallel.

  2

  Amparo came storming into her father’s office, brushing aside the two soldiers at the door as if they did not exist. Slamming the door behind her, she crossed the room to el Presidente’s desk. “You’re sending him to New York!” she said angrily.

  El Presidente shrugged. “He must go there before Korea. I explained that to you.”

  “Alone?”

  He nodded.

  “I told you I wouldn’t let him go alone!”

  “He has his work to do.”

  “You know what will happen.” She began to shout. “I warned you about what kind of man he is!”

  “So?” Her father’s voice was without interest. “That is your problem, not mine.”

  “I am going with him!”

  For the first time since Amparo had come into the room el Presidente reacted. He got to his feet and walked around the desk toward her. “You will stay here and do your own job!”

  “I will not! You are trying to ruin my marriage just as you have ruined e
verything in my life! If he goes tomorrow, I go with him!”

  He moved quickly, unexpectedly. One hand caught her by the arm, spinning her around, the other came up swiftly against the side of her face, knocking her to the floor. She started to get up, but he placed a heavy boot on her chest, the toe against her neck.

  His voice was very cold. “Listen, puta, you will do exactly as you are told. I have not come this far to let some stupid girl with a hot cunt interfere with my plans. It would not bother me one bit if you were to spend the rest of your life languishing in prison.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” she whispered, but there was a trace of fear in her voice. “I am your daughter.”

  El Presidente’s teeth flashed in a smile. “Are you? By whose word? Mine and mine alone. Everybody knows that your mother was nothing but a puta. All I need say is that a mistake was made, that I had been misled all these years.”

  Amparo stared up at him silently. After a moment he lifted his foot slowly and went back to the desk. She got to her feet, still glaring at him. Then she turned and started for the door. His voice stopped her. “Not like that,” he said quietly. “First wash your face. There are people out there.”

  Without answering Amparo went into the bathroom. A few minutes later she came out. El Presidente looked at her and nodded. Amparo stared back at him, her face pale. “I need a drink.”

  “That’s more like it.” He turned in his chair and opened a small cabinet behind him. He took out a bottle of rum and a glass. He splashed a good-size shot into it, and replaced the bottle in the cabinet. He handed her the glass.

  She downed the drink and placed the glass on his desk. A little color had come back into her cheeks.

  “Now go,” he said, “and see to it that you give your husband a hero’s farewell. He may be gone for a long time.” He watched her walk to the door, and just as she opened it he spoke again. “See if you can get yourself pregnant. It will keep you busy while he is away.”

  For the first time a faint smile came to Amparo’s lips. “That is the one thing I cannot do on your orders.”

  “Is there something the matter with your husband?”