The Adventurers

by Harold Robbins

  The State Department merely wanted to talk about what provisions had been made for the safety of Americans in Corteguay. They had a destroyer standing off the coast ready to take out such Americans if necessary, and I assured them that all possible precautions were being taken, and that they would be advised if any further action was necessary.

  The Latin American countries were all sympathetic but had similar problems. And Europe was only curious to the extent that they would be in any power play; they regarded it simply as a struggle between Western and Eastern spheres of influence. While I sensed they favored us, I felt they were willing to go along with the rebels should it become necessary. The only thing that was certain was that they did not want to become involved in any conflict. And to the emerging nations of Africa and Asia ours was a familiar story, and reminiscent of the very same problems they themselves were facing.

  I finally got down the list to the senator, who came right to the point. “I’d like to see you tomorrow. Can you come down here?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m expecting to address the General Assembly at the UN tomorrow afternoon.”

  The senator hesitated a moment. “Have you spoken to either of the congressmen?”

  “No. I haven’t had time to return all the calls.”

  “You don’t need to,” he said, “we’ll come up there tomorrow. Do you think you could slip over to my sister’s apartment without being observed?”

  “I can try.”

  “What time?”

  “Make it as early in the morning as you can,” I said. “There’s less chance of the reporters being wide awake.”

  “How about breakfast at six?”

  “Good. I’ll be there.”

  And I put down the telephone and thought for a moment. I wondered what the senator had on his mind. What more could he do when his government had turned me down cold? There seemed to be no immediate answers so I picked up the telephone again.

  Fat Cat came in while I was waiting for the next call. “Why do I have to go with Giraldo? You know I know nothing about planes.”

  “But you could keep an eye on it.”

  Fat Cat was silent for a moment. “Don’t you trust him?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m taking no chances. That plane is the only way we have of getting home if we have to. So I don’t want anything to happen to it.”

  “What do I do if he decides to sabotage it while we’re in the air?”

  I eyed him grimly. “Start praying,” I said as the telephone began to ring. “Vaya con Dios.”

  28

  I made it without being observed by going out the basement door of the consulate and through the alleyway to the apartment next door. From there it was only a few minutes to the apartment of the senator’s sister, so I walked over to Madison Avenue and hailed a taxi.

  I had spoken twice during the night to el Presidente. The news had not been promising. The bandoleros in the north had pushed to within forty miles of Curatu and captured the gateway city to the road south. El Presidente had sent reserves to Santa Clara with orders to make a stand there or die. And Santa Clara was only eighteen miles from Curatu, just beyond the airport.

  The only news that was good was by virtue of its not being bad. The defecting regiments in the south were stalled, apparently more by confusion than by any opposition they faced. Already several colonels were squabbling among themselves, yet despite this no great successes had been achieved by loyal troops. But at least this served to keep the rebels from going around Curatu and joining up with their comrades to the north. Once they achieved this Curatu would be cut off and the war would be as good as over.

  The senator’s sister let me in. Her face was serious. Like her brother she wasted no time on the amenities. “They’re waiting in the dining room.”

  The senator was seated at the head of the table, the others grouped around him. There was one among them I had not expected. George Baldwin, from the American consulate in Curatu. I wondered how he came to be there.

  The question was answered soon enough. He had been in Washington for the past week furnishing them his latest information. “We’ve been expecting something like this for a long time,” he said, “but none of us knew exactly when.”

  “May I?” I asked, reaching for the percolator. The senator nodded and I filled my cup. I took a big swallow. “Gentlemen, you wanted to see me. Here I am.”

  “All of us here,” the senator began without hesitation, “feel that we have done you a grave injustice. And because of it have perhaps made a very disastrous mistake.”

  I looked at him. “What brought you to that conclusion?”

  The senator glanced at Baldwin, then back at me. “We had all assumed that you were involved in the death of Dr. Guayanos. When Baldwin got here last week he set us straight.”

  “That’s right,” Baldwin said. “We had it on pretty good authority that Mendoza had killed him.”

  “Mendoza?”

  “Yes. Apparently Mendoza realized that if Guayanos took advantage of your president’s offer, his own power and influence would soon disappear. It might even lead to his own exposure as the Communist in back of the gun-running. So Mendoza made arrangements to have Guayanos gunned down, aware that everyone would assume that either you or el Presidente had ordered it. The only reason he got hit was that after he threw himself to the ground a ricocheting bullet caught him in the arm.”

  “Who told you?” I asked.

  “We have our sources of information. And in New York ours are better than yours.”

  I didn’t argue that. It was ironic that all the time Beatriz had been blaming me for her father’s death she was helping his real murderer escape. I turned back to the senator.

  “This is to the good. I am most grateful to know of your change of attitude.”

  But they were aware that what I did not say was more important than what I had said. The important thing was what were they prepared to do. The senator took it upon himself to answer that. “All of us, including George, are willing to urge immediate consideration of a Corteguayan loan.”

  I looked at him steadily. “Thank you. I’m in no position to refuse but my own feelings are that as usual your government is too late to be of any significant help.”

  The senator looked at me. “What could we do that might help?”

  I met his eyes. “You could ask your government to send in troops to restore order. Not to ensure el Presidente’s continuation but to give the people a chance to elect their own government in an objective election.”

  The senator’s voice was shocked. “You know we couldn’t do that! The whole world would censure us for interference.”

  I finished my coffee in silence. “Ask yourselves this one question, gentlemen. What have you been doing all these years if not interfering? By doing nothing, by not recognizing our government until it was virtually impossible to ignore it, and by offering a loan only if I usurped power. Don’t you consider that interference, or is it merely good politics?”

  I didn’t wait for them to answer. I got to my feet. “My own feeling, gentlemen, is that the great powers of this world—and this includes you as well as Russia and China—are constantly interfering in the affairs of their smaller neighbors. Despite the nobility of your motives, which I am quite willing to concede, it is nothing more than that. Interference.”

  They were silent for a moment. Then George looked up. “What’s the situation this morning?”

  “Not good,” I replied. “Government troops are taking up a stand at Santa Clara, just beyond the airport. Eighteen miles to the south lies Curatu. Thank you, gentlemen, for your consideration.”

  The senator walked me to the door. “I’m sorry, Dax. But what you are asking is impossible, and you know it. We wouldn’t dare send troops into your country, even if requested to do so by your government. The whole world would damn us for an imperialistic action.”

  “Someday you will,” I said, looking at him directly. “You�
��ll have to face up to the fact that you really are responsible for what happens in your sphere of influence. You won’t do it this time, perhaps not even the next time. But let one country fall to the Communists and you’ll have to.”

  “I hope not,” the senator replied seriously. “I wouldn’t like to have to make a decision like that.”

  “One of the responsibilities of power is the obligation to make decisions.”

  An embarrassed look came into his eyes. “I personally made a mistake, Dax. I’m sorry for it.”

  “My father said to me once that mistakes were the beginnings of experience, and that experience was the beginning of wisdom.”

  We shook hands silently and I went back to the turmoil of the consulate. When I got there I found a message on my desk. The plane had arrived safely in Florida.

  ***

  There was a faint polite smattering of applause after my speech but it seemed to be coming from the public galleries overhead rather than from the delegates gathered on the floor. Slowly I came down from the podium and walked down the long aisle to my desk. Behind me I heard the crisp rap of the gavel announcing the close of the assembly.

  I looked neither to the right nor to the left as I took my seat. I had no desire to embarrass any of the delegates by seeming to seek their approval. Already many of them were on their way out of the great chamber. There was a strange silence in place of the normal chatter that usually attended their departure. Occasionally one or another of them would stop at my desk for a moment and murmur a kind word. But most went by silently, avoiding my eyes. I sank wearily into my chair. It was no good, nothing was. I had failed again.

  What could I have told these men who already knew so much that would have altered the opinions they already had formed? I was not a speechmaker, a man of glib phrases and flaming oratory. Half the time I spoke words that were not even convincing to my own ears. Slowly I began to gather my papers together and put them into my attaché case.

  The news that afternoon before I came to the assembly had not been good. That is, what news I could get, which was mostly from radio or television bulletins. I had not been able to get through to el Presidente all day. And just before I had left the consulate, the networks had reported that heavy fighting was taking place around Santa Clara, and that the government forces were falling back.

  “It was a good speech,” a voice said.

  I looked up. It was Jeremy Hadley. There was an expression of sympathy in his eyes.

  “You heard it?”

  Jeremy nodded. “Every word. I was in the gallery. It was very good.”

  “But not good enough.” I gestured toward the departing delegates. “They didn’t seem to think it was much.”

  “They sensed it,” he said. “It was the first time I ever saw them leave so quietly. There isn’t one of them who doesn’t feel in his secret heart a sense of shame because of it.”

  I laughed bitterly. “Fat lot of good that will do. By tomorrow they will have forgotten all about it. It will be nothing but a few thousand words buried among the millions already stored in the archives.”

  “You’re wrong,” Jeremy said quietly. “Years from now men will remember what you said here today.”

  “But not today, and for Corteguay today is what counts. There may be no tomorrow.”

  I finished putting the last of my papers in the attaché case and closed it with a snap of finality. I got to my feet. Together we began to walk up the aisle.

  “What are your plans now?”

  I stopped and looked at him. “Go home.”

  “To Corteguay?”

  “Yes, I have done everything I could here. Now there is no place else for me to go.”

  “It will be dangerous.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “What good can you do there?” he asked in a concerned voice. “It’s almost over.”

  “I don’t know. But there is one thing I do know. I cannot remain here, or anywhere else, for that matter. I cannot live with the realization that this time, this one time, I may not have done all I could.”

  There was a strange respect in his eyes. “The better I think I know you, the less I do know you.”

  I didn’t answer for a moment. Instead I turned and looked around the great empty chamber. So many hopes of men had been born here. And so many, like mine, would die.

  Something of what I thought must have been in Jeremy’s mind too, because when I turned back to him his face was sad. He held out his hand and I took it.

  “In your own words, Dax,” he said earnestly, “vaya con Dios.”

  29

  It was about four in the morning and still dark when we swung in over the shores of Corteguay. We were a little over four hours out of Panama City. I looked down, straining my eyes to pierce the darkness, but I could see nothing. Whatever lights there usually were were not on tonight.

  I glanced down at the fuel gauge. It registered slightly more than half full, and the reserve tank had not been touched. I nodded in satisfaction. At least we had enough gas to get back if we had to.

  “Turn on the radio,” I said to Giraldo. “Let’s see if we can pick up anything.”

  He nodded, his face an odd green from the cockpit lighting. He reached over and flipped the toggle switch. Samba music flooded the cabin.

  “You’ve got Brazil.”

  Giraldo began to turn the dial. He stopped it at 120 megacycles. “That’s Curatu,” he said. “They’re not on the air.”

  I waited a moment. Usually Curatu was on all night. But there was nothing. “Try the military and police bands.”

  Quickly Giraldo whirled the dial. First one, then the other. Still nothing.

  “If I had some light,” I said, “I’d try for a landing in a field. But I can’t see.”

  “We could circle a little,” Giraldo said. “It will not be long until dawn.”

  “No, we can’t spare the fuel. We have to reserve enough to get back on.”

  “What are you going to do then?” Fat Cat asked from behind me.

  I thought for a moment. “Try for the airport.”

  “And if Santa Clara has fallen? The airport is probably in their hands.”

  “We don’t know that,” I said. “Maybe we’ll be able to tell when we come down. I won’t cut the engines and if anything looks suspicious we’ll cut out.”

  “Sweet Mother of God!” Fat Cat murmured.

  I swung north over the sea. We wouldn’t come inland until the last possible moment. “Turn to the air band.”

  Giraldo leaned forward and spun the dial. “All set.”

  Three minutes later I turned west toward land. The voice coming over the radio seemed suddenly to roar through the cabin. Whoever it was was speaking English but he seemed very nervous. His accent was so pronounced as to be almost unintelligible.

  “Let me answer,” I said quickly. My English was good enough to convince the average Corteguayan that I was foreign. At least over the telephone or radio.

  I pressed down the button on the microphone. “This is private aircraft United States license number C310395 requesting permission to land at Curatu Airport. Please give us landing instructions. Over.”

  The voice was still nervous. “Would you identify yourself again, please?”

  I repeated my request, speaking more slowly this time.

  There was a second’s silence, then a question: “How many on board your aircraft? Please state the purpose of your visit.”

  “Three aboard. Pilot, co-pilot, and one passenger. Aircraft chartered by American news service.”

  This time there was almost a full minute’s wait. “You are on our radar screen about five miles west and three miles south of airport, heading north. You will continue until we give you the signal to turn south and take up your landing pattern. Acknowledge and repeat. Over.”

  I acknowledged and repeated.

  “What do you think?” Fat Cat asked.

  “Sounds O.K.,” I said, “unless the army
has gone over to the rebels.” I adjusted my airspeed just as the radio came back on. “Anyway, we’ll know in a few minutes.”

  They gave us the minimum lights necessary to land. As soon as our wheels touched the ground, they went off, and we taxied by our own landing lights toward the dimly lit terminal.

  “Do you see anything?” Fat Cat asked.

  “Not yet,” Giraldo answered.

  A moment later we reached the loading apron. Slowly I turned the plane around, keeping the motor running so we could get out the way we had come in if we had to.

  Suddenly soldiers came running from all sides, surrounding the plane. There seemed to be at least forty of them, all with rifles.

  “Are they ours or theirs?” Fat Cat’s voice was puzzled.

  I peered down at our landing beams. A short man marched pompously forward, dressed in a captain’s uniform. I laughed suddenly and cut the engines. “Ours!”

  “How do you know?”

  “Look!” I said, pointing.

  There was no mistaking the man. Prieto. All dressed up in an officer’s uniform. I smiled to myself. Never in my life had I ever thought I would be glad to see Prieto again.

  ***

  “How is it going?” I asked after we got into the terminal.

  The single light on Prieto’s desk glowed weakly as he poured coffee for us. “There is still fighting at Santa Clara.”

  I picked up the cup and sipped the coffee gratefully. “We had heard that Santa Clara had fallen.”

  “No, the rebels are a mile or so outside the town. They are dug in, waiting for the forces from the south to join them.”

  There was noise outside, then the sound of a shot and a man shouting. Silence. I looked at Prieto questioningly.

  “The men here are nervous,” he said with a slight smile. “They shoot at anything that moves, even shadows. Afterward they shout.”

  “Have any of the rebels tried to get through to here?”

  “A few,” Prieto said. “They are all dead.” He reached for a cigarette, and I noticed the faint trembling of his fingers. “We picked you up on our radar about fifty miles out. We thought it might be you but couldn’t be sure until you had identified yourself.”