by John Creasey
The cars all stopped.
If there was confusion Palfrey did not know of it, for he sat with Fonesca in a stunned silence. Then he heard the powerful, screeching roar of a dive-bomber, and to the right of the road heard the crump of bombs, five in all. The bomber screamed away, and after a lull the engine of another sounded in the distance, growing rapidly nearer.
Only then did the men in the convoy recover from their stupefaction and start moving for the sides of the road. There was an exception in Stefan, who reached Palfrey’s car and wrenched open the door.
‘Come, José!’ snapped Stefan. He was lifting the Social Patriot leader bodily from his seat when the next bomb fell.
Chapter Twenty-Three
No Doubt of Betrayal
Palfrey climbed out of the far window, moving deliberately and wishing that he had a steel helmet. He glanced behind him in time to see that Drusilla had reached the hedge and was throwing herself into a ditch. He walked towards her, and a dozen men seemed to be running to either side.
The third stick of bombs had fallen too far to the left, but above them the air was filled with the noise of engines.
Suddenly the heavens about them were illuminated by a vivid glare, a strange, bright light which burned with a great clarity and cast no shadows.
‘A flare,’ thought Palfrey. ‘It’s like the blitz.’
The flare was bright enough to show every car in the convoy, one of them overturned – the leading escort car. It was enough, also, to make visible the bomber which came swooping down, and the bombs which left it looked ten times larger than they were.
He reached the first car.
Two men badly needed attention, but there was little he could do, although a little man who was bending over one of them straightened up when Palfrey arrived and produced a first-aid box. Palfrey worked quickly, stemming a flow of blood, and while he worked he became aware of others coming towards him.
One was Drusilla.
The brilliant light of the flare, which floated downwards with agonising slowness, showed her very clearly. There was a scratch on her forehead which was bleeding a little, but her face was quite composed.
She began to help with the injured men.
During the next few minutes the silence was so profound that they began to wonder whether the attack had finished. Over the countryside the light from the single flare spread its garish whiteness, showing the trees in stark outline and, not far away, two wooden sheds.
Looking behind them, they saw several of the Patriots at the cars, one of them pulling at a self-starter, another over an open bonnet; there was no answering buzz from the engine. Then they saw Stefan walking along the hedge. He went to the middle of the road, preoccupied and not seeing them, and took his automatic from his pocket. His big figure was clear and vivid as he raised the gun and took aim at the descending flare. As he did so the drone of an aeroplane engine sounded again in the distance, and drew rapidly nearer.
The flashes from Stefan’s gun were lost in the brightness of the flare, but they heard the reports, until the fourth was lost in the roar of the approaching engine.
Stefan came towards them, calling Palfrey’s name. He joined them as they stood up in the darkness.
‘José is all right. No doubt now, Sap, of betrayal. This was well-planned.’
‘Why the hell did we have the lights on?’ Palfrey snapped.
‘It was a signal to the Patriots to let us go through,’ said Stefan. ‘I have been talking to one of the men. Little parties of Patriots are all over the country. Guarda movements are always carried out without head lamps, and it was thought wise for us to show plenty, I understand.’
Palfrey shrugged.
‘It was damned silly, but—I suppose no one could be expected to think this would happen. The road’s blocked ahead, I suppose?’
‘Someone thought of it and planned it,’ said Stefan slowly. His voice was quite expressionless, and Palfrey had an impression that he was forcing back an overwhelming anger. ‘Yes, the road, it will be blocked. And behind us, too. But if the cars can be made to go, some of us can get through. I am told we are only three miles from Vicosa, and the village can be seen from here.
Palfrey said sharply: ‘We’re going all to pieces. There’ll be others here by road pretty soon, the Guarda worked this out. Stefan, can you get Fonesca away?’
After a moment of hesitation Stefan said: ‘You are right, Sap. I will get him to Vicosa if it can be done.’ He called out in Catanese a moment later, and two or three men hurried towards him, volunteering to go. He made no effort to get any of the cars to move, but raised Fonesca and then started to walk across the fields, armed men in front of and behind him.
In the darkness Palfrey, Drusilla and the rest of the uninjured men worked, Palfrey with a sense of frustration and a feeling of anger which made it impossible for him to talk. Drusilla proved quick and capable. They had bandages in plenty, but there was too little water, and a guide set off to the nearby village for more. As he went, the engine of one of the cars began to splutter, and a man stood away from the bonnet, calling:
‘We can go, señors!’
‘Ye-es.’ Palfrey straightened up with a hand at his back. ‘Get the wounded in there,’ he called in English, and then broke off irritably: ‘Tell them, Drusilla.’
She did so, and the wounded men, six in all, were loaded into the car as comfortably as could be arranged, and the car was driven off, creeping cautiously and close to one side to avoid the bomb-holes; there was no room for fit men.
‘Well,’ said Drusilla, after a few minutes. ‘We’d better start walking, Sap.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Palfrey.
One of the remaining guides spoke urgently in Catanese; Drusilla translated. He was urging them to move off the road, for someone was approaching on a bicycle. ‘A good idea,’ said Palfrey. They climbed the hedge and then waited, hardly breathing, while the sound of the approach grew louder.
Palfrey whispered:
‘Not the Guarda, they wouldn’t come in twos or threes.’
He stopped, while voices travelled from the other side of the hedge, some way across the road. With straining ears they listened until Drusilla suddenly gripped Palfrey’s arm.
‘Sap, that’s Brian!’
As she finished Brian’s voice came quite clearly, unmistakable and reassuring.
‘There’s been a hell of a dust-up,’ he said. I hope they weren’t with the cars.’
‘We’ll learn,’ came van Hoysen’s voice clearly.
‘Four cars, and not a soul in sight,’ said Brian. ‘I wish we could have stopped that car heading for the village.’ His voice was almost on a level with Palfrey and Drusilla, and it was Palfrey who stood up to his full height and called out: ‘Brian.’
They heard Brian swing round, and van Hoysen exclaim.
‘Well, Doc,’ said van Hoysen, from Palfrey’s side. ‘How’re you making out?’
‘Eh?’ asked Palfrey, startled and then relieved to hear the American’s matter-of-fact voice. ‘Not too badly. How did you manage to get here?’
‘That’s an easy one,’ said van Hoysen. ‘We knew you were around, and heard the bumps. Smith and the Marquis are back in the village; it looks like we’ll all be together again pretty soon.’
‘Yes,’ said Palfrey slowly. ‘Not before it’s time. I hope Fonesca gets—’
He stopped.
Afterwards it seemed to him that when anything disastrous happened it was at a moment when he was least expecting it, when he had lulled himself into a sense of security and a conviction that there was no immediate danger. It was like that then. He was speaking to van Hoysen, and Drusilla was saying something to Brian, who was cleaning the scratch on her forehead, when men sprang from the ground about them. Not one or two, but dozens of men, dark figures just visible and all carrying arms. There was not even a chance to make a fight, they were forced back to the hedge and surrounded before they really understood what was happen
ing.
But as he felt the point of a bayonet close to his chest, just pricking the skin, something clicked in Palfrey’s mind. He thought:
‘Of course, they waited for Brian and Clem, they knew someone else would come from the village. That’s why they didn’t come before.’
Then a man gabbled at him in Catanese, but he felt too weary to wonder what was meant.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Trial, Sentence and Execution
Drusilla, Brian, van Hoysen and Palfrey were standing with their backs to the hedge, with a line of armed Guarda men in front of them. A half-light illuminated the countryside, and in it the faces of the Guarda looked grey and bleak and evil. Men were talking one against the other, and in places there were scuffles as Patriots tried to get away. The light was good enough to see a hefty Guarda swing his rifle towards the head of a little Patriot. The butt crashed into the man’s head with a sickening crunching sound. Palfrey heard Drusilla gasp.
The Patriot went down like a log; the Guarda turned viciously, swinging his rifle again but finding no one whom he could attack. By then the other mêlées were over, and in that grey light, spreading from the eastern skies, Palfrey saw four of the men, who had been in the cars, rounded up. There were five guards to every Patriot, and amongst the guards two officers. They came swaggering towards the four by the hedge, and one stopped in front of Palfrey. He put a hand out and pushed Palfrey’s head back, then peered closely into Palfrey’s face and sneered:
‘The doctor, si.’
‘The doctor,’ said Palfrey. Weary though he was, the sight of that callous murder had revived him, and he clenched his teeth to prevent himself uttering a comment.
Then the officer turned to van Hoysen, and barked: ‘Who are you?’
‘Buddy, I am American. Got that? A citizen of the United States of America.’ Van Hoysen lowered his voice, giving the impression that he found a relish in what was happening. ‘Americano, General, Americano!’
‘Spy!’ spat the officer. ‘American spy!’ He drew his hand back and struck at van Hoysen, who simply bent his knees. The officer’s hand swept over his head, and the man stumbled forward. Van Hoysen brought his right, clenched fist up and struck the man in the pit of the stomach. There was a gasp, the officer staggered into the hedge, and van Hoysen straightened up.
Two of the Guarda moved forward, swiftly and suddenly and without speaking. The butt of a revolver cracked against van Hoysen’s temple, another on the other side. He grunted and slumped down, and the Guarda spat at him; one man kicked him viciously.
‘My oath!’ exclaimed Brian. ‘I can’t stand that!’
He moved forward, but Drusilla caught his right arm, Palfrey his left. He stopped, struggled, but then drew back, his lips quivering. Van Hoysen lay inert upon the ground, while the officer he had struck straightened up, gasping, stared down at him, and then kicked him again. The wind seemed to be forced from the American’s body.
‘Steady, Brian,’ said Palfrey. ‘Steady, old man.’
A second officer, small and neater, came towards them. He reminded Brian of de Barros, but was a shorter man.
The officer turned to Palfrey and snapped: ‘You, Señor Doctor.’ He sneered the words. ‘You know the fate of spies?’
Palfrey said nothing; to him it was agonisingly obvious that there was nothing to say.
‘I will show you!’ barked the officer. He turned about, leaving them guarded by four impassive men whose fixed bayonets glinted in the growing light of the autumn morning. Already it was light enough for them to see over the hills to the mists in the valleys, and to see the birds which had awakened noisily to greet the sun. There was dampness in the air, a chilliness which made Palfrey shiver as he watched the officer approach the other four prisoners.
Why the Social Patriots were small men he did not know; but they were small compared with their captors, little fellows who stood upright with a proud dignity in defeat, becoming them well. They did not make any attempt to resist the way in which they were hustled towards the hedge.
The man van Hoysen had struck recovered, then stepped towards the party. The three English people stood staring, not knowing what was to come and yet dreading it. The dapper officer barked words in Catanese, and Palfrey glanced at Drusilla.
Drusilla said in a low voice which Palfrey could only just hear: ‘He is telling them that they have been guilty of insurrection, high treason and espionage, and that the decision of the Guarda Nationale is that they should be shot.’
Obviously they were helpless; a single movement would bring the bayonets into them, and if they tried to help the doomed Patriots it would do more than hasten their own deaths. There was nothing to be done but stand and watch on that chill autumn morning, realising that they were watching a parody of justice, a brutality and blood-lust which made Palfrey feel icy cold.
The officer gabbled again.
Drusilla turned to Palfrey, but said nothing. Brian said hoarsely:
‘Sentence of death.’
He made a move forward. As he went a bayonet pricked his chest, while another Guarda moved behind him and tripped him up. He managed to avoid the full thrust of the bayonet, and fell heavily. None of the others appeared to notice what had happened, and Palfrey and Drusilla stood quite still as the four Patriots were bundled against the hedge, their hands tied behind them to pieces of branches. It was an incredible thing, macabre and unnerving. The men’s eyes were not even bandaged; none of them fought, but one began to talk. Before he finished a big Guarda struck him heavily across the mouth.
Six men lined up, with rifles ready, opposite the four ‘convicted’ men. Even in its execution it was a travesty, an incredible and unbelievable thing, for the dapper officer made no real pretence at giving orders, the guns were fired one after another. Sharp cracks echoed, the men by the hedge slumped downwards, supported only by their bonds.
Drusilla turned about abruptly, and Palfrey saw that she was biting her lower lip, and that tears welled from her eyes.
The dapper officer stepped forward and fired at close range at a man who had not yet died. The smoke from his gun had not faded away before he holstered it, turned, and walked smartly to Palfrey.
‘That happens to spies!’ he rapped.
Palfrey said wearily: ‘I do not speak Catanese.’
‘You!’ snapped the man, and swung Drusilla round. ‘You can tell him what will happen to all of you. Understand this, we shall do that unless—’ he paused – ‘unless you deliver to us the person of José Fonesca, whom you are hiding.’
Drusilla said: I don’t know where he is.’
‘That is a lie. You!’ He saw Brian struggling to his feet and turned to him, a little cockatoo in his drab but clean uniform, his eyes glittering and his expression fierce. ‘Where is Fonesca?’
‘A long way away, I hope,’ said Brian.
‘He was with your party.’
‘We separated,’ said Drusilla.
‘That is a lie! He—’
‘Isn’t here,’ completed Drusilla. ‘He’s gone.’ Her voice was dull, and once she looked towards the figures on the ground, bodies which were being cut loose from the hedge and carried across the field.
‘We shall see!’ snarled the officer. ‘Your friends were in Vicosa. Did he go there?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Drusilla, and then very softly: ‘Why don’t you go to find out, Commandant?’ The little man’s face coloured, and she went on: ‘Are you afraid? Are the authorities in the village too powerful for you? Would there be danger for you there?’
The man raised a clenched hand, then turned about and stamped away. Brian brushed his hand over his forehead and said: ‘Well done, Drusilla, but damned dangerous.’
‘Yes,’ said Drusilla wearily. ‘I know, but—’ She looked down at van Hoysen. ‘But we had to find out, Brian. They daren’t raid the village. They waited for you to come before attacking us, of course—they hoped the bombing would draw you away. Is he there?’
>
Brian nodded, while from the dapper officer came quick orders to his men. All except those with the prisoners lined up and began to march away. The party with the prisoners used their bayonets to urge them to move forward, while two men came from the ranks to lift and carry van Hoysen. They walked for perhaps ten minutes, much of the time down an incline, so that they were hidden from the road which they had left. At the foot of it was another road, little more than a track, and on it were two cars and several lorries.
Drusilla was helped into the back of one of the lorries. Palfrey and Brian climbed in after her, and van Hoysen was pushed in after them. Four Guarda men followed, keeping their bayonets fixed. The little convoy started off along the track, which led across the hills and the fields.
After a while Brian said.
‘Well, they don’t seem to want to kill us yet.’
‘They haven’t learned what they think we know,’ said Drusilla.
After what seemed an interminable drive the convoy stopped and they were all blindfolded. Then the lorry lurched off once more.
No word was passed before it stopped again.
They heard footsteps, barked orders and commands. The voices sounded hollow, echoing dully about their ears. The scarves were taken from their faces, and they were helped out of the lorry, narrowing their eyes against the light.
It was not the light of day. Shadeless electric lamp-bulbs hung on flex dangling from the roof of what might have been a large cavern – explaining the echoing noise.
The dapper officer approached them, gave orders to their guards, and then led the way down a narrow passage with damp walls, in some places streaming with water. In places the light was very dull, but the commandant walked without hesitation until he reached a heavy, iron-studded door. He pressed a bell-push. After a pause the door opened, and a guard with fixed bayonet looked out. An exchange of words followed before they were led through, one at a time.
