by Alan Judd
That meant it must be day, thought William. Getting some idea of the time was a small triumph. ‘The people at the club were nothing to do with it, they didn’t know.’
‘That is not possible. It was arranged with them.’
‘It wasn’t.’
‘Who knew, then?’
‘Box and me.’
‘Plus at least two. One is too important to be punished and is saying he now regrets his foolishness. The other has got what she deserves.’ Manuel smiled. He added that Ricardo would also get what he deserved and that El Lizard was being foolishly intractable, trying to deny everything. So were some of the girls. He hoped William would be more cooperative than his colleagues and would feel able to recall, without too much persuasion, the whereabouts of Box’s secret transmitter.
Manuel’s tone as he said that Theresa had got what she deserved, his playful little smile, distilled all William’s feelings into one. It was a feeling as definite and intoxicating as desire, an illicit release from the sense, if not the fact, of responsibility. He would do something at last, something all his own. Before he died, he would kill Manuel Herrera. He was as certain of that as Theresa had been that things would not work out. He wanted to tell Manuel, to watch his expression change, but instead he said, ‘I don’t know where he hid his transmitter. I know he had one, but he was very security-conscious. He only told me what he thought I needed to know.’
Manuel nodded. ‘Maybe. He did seem to go to great lengths – unnecessary and futile lengths. A strange man. Why did they send him, do you think?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s hard to believe they were serious. Did they tell you he was coming when they sent you?’
‘They didn’t send me; he recruited me.’
Manuel smiled again. ‘I find that very hard to believe.’ He nodded to the soldiers, who took William by the arms. ‘One thing.’ The soldiers stopped. ‘We haven’t yet decided whether to shoot you or to keep you for a while. You may be useful later. If you are sensible, you will be. Meanwhile, I think you will find the regime here will help with your weight problem. Chau.’
They took him back to a different cell. The paint and layout were the same but there were fewer reddish-brown smears on the walls. It unsettled him for the first hour or so. He had not realised he had become accustomed to the old cell. Though weak and tired, he paced the four walls while trying to recall Manuel’s every word and nuance of tone. This was what they counted on, he assumed, provided they weren’t actually torturing you. You thought about nothing but your predicament, obsessively, despairingly, with no end in sight, and your only contact with the world was your interrogator. All he had to do was to make you tired and keep you waiting and in the end you would want to talk to him. Even with Manuel, there had been moments when he had felt like explaining everything – it would have been so good to have rest – but that was before Manuel had said what he had about Theresa.
The door opened and a soldier came in holding a metal tray with a mug of water, a bowl of brown soup and a chunk of bread. He put it down and went out. William lay on the cold floor, propped on his elbow, and ate and drank quickly. He did not mind that the cameras would see how hungry he was. When he had finished he felt hungrier than before and got up feeling slightly warmed but shivering again. The door opened, the soldier took the tray, the door closed, the bolts rammed home and there was silence.
Once he thought he heard a fly. He had read that in some Chinese prisons the prisoners lived off them. They also ate the corn found in horse-dung. Solitary confinement didn’t so far seem so bad. It was an opportunity to look back on a half-life of partial decisions and easy options. It was better, too, than the overcrowding of British gaols. If only he could get warm and the light would go off and there were more food. Sometimes it was as if time wasn’t passing at all.
The door opened. This time it was another soldier carrying a plastic bag. He held it upside down, emptied it of William’s possessions, and went out.
William stared. His clothes were familiar yet strange; he was slightly reluctant to put them on despite the offered warmth. He felt he would be resuming his old life, that the change he felt he had undergone would be nullified. When he started to dress, though, he did so quickly. It was surprising what a difference shoes and socks made. His money was there but not his credit cards, cheque-book or passport.
The door opened. ‘Come on,’ the soldier said.
This time there was no blanket, no arms behind his back. They were in another green corridor with bright lights, steps going up at one end and double doors opened by push-bars at the other. They walked towards the doors. Perhaps he was to be shot. Would they dress him for that? Quite likely. Even his glasses were in his trouser pockets. He put them on but they showed no more than that the green paint was in worse condition than he had thought.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘You are being freed.’
‘Why?’
They did not answer. Their footsteps echoed in the corridor. Perhaps this was what they always said to prevent panic. One of the soldiers knocked open the push-bar doors. It was dark outside. William stopped. Surely it could not be the same night as his arrest? No, he knew it wasn’t. It must be the one after, perhaps even the one after that. His eyes being so bad at night, they took some time to make what adjustments they could. He realised he was in one of the palace huts where he had previously seen the prisoners crouching on the steps. The steps led down to the grass. To either side he could see other huts, linked by the covered walkways along which he had seen them drag the bloodied prisoner.
He went gingerly down the steps. The soldiers seemed to realise it was difficult for him and took his arm.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked again.
‘To the guard-room. They are letting you go. You can walk out. Free.’
As they crossed the grass there were sounds of distant gunfire – small-arms fire with occasional louder crumps. Both soldiers stiffened and one said something about the airport. Alarm bells rang. The soldier who had spoken ran off, while the other indicated to William to keep walking. There were shouts and running figures in the darkness, vehicles were started and revved, a klaxon sounded, drowning the alarms. The remaining soldier looked worried and confused. ‘This is a full alert,’ he said. ‘I must be at my position.’
He was a boy, really. William nodded. ‘I know my way.’
‘You know your way out?’
‘I have been here before.’ The soldier left him. The darkness seethed with movement, much of it invisible to William. The klaxon made an unbearable noise. There was no sound of nearer gunfire. Perhaps this was an exercise or maybe just panic. Anyway, who would be attacking the palace? He wasn’t far from the entrance he had used before. Maybe they would let him out now, maybe he would be shot as an intruder. Why should he have been allowed to go, anyway? It was suspicious.
He stood still long enough to get his bearings and to make his decision. Twice, groups of soldiers ran past without noticing him. When most of the immediate activity had died down, he headed for Carlos’s quarters. The door through which they had carried the coffin was locked but one of the side-room windows was ajar. He climbed in, which was more difficult than he had thought, and closed the window behind him. He headed for the white-panelled room that led to Carlos’s private quarters, walking as confidently as he could since there was no hope of hiding in the passage and his only chance on meeting someone would be to brazen it out.
By the time he reached the panelled room the klaxon and bells had stopped. There were sounds of troops outside but the building itself was eerily quiet. Carlos’s private garden was deserted and there were no lights in his quarters. Perhaps he was with his family or imprisoned at his ranch. Deciding he would wait a while, William sat in an armchair behind the door.
He must have slept because when he heard voices and footsteps they sounded on top of him. They were just outside the door and one voice was defin
itely that of Carlos. The handle turned, the door opened a few inches and stopped. William did not move. He could not, anyway; his limbs were leaden with sleep and would not obey him. He heard Carlos saying, ‘Sí, sí. I’m sure you’re right to try. Neither of them ever mentioned it to me, but I don’t know.’ He sounded as if he were trying to get away. The other speaker said something indistinct. ‘Good,’ continued Carlos. ‘He got away before the alarm? Just as well. That will leave you free to attend to the airport business.’
Carlos came in and closed the door. He was wearing his general’s uniform and looked tense. He would have gone through without noticing if William had not spoken. At first he was startled, then angry and fearful.
‘They’ll kill me if they find you here. They’ll think I got you in. How did you get here?’
William told him. He did not get up.
‘What do you want?’ Carlos asked. ‘I can get you money if that’s what you need but you can’t stay here. They’ll think we’re colluding.’
‘I want to know what happened.’
‘Nothing happened, that’s the trouble. It all went wrong, just fizzled out. Isn’t it obvious?’ He paused as if hoping that might satisfy William. ‘When they got back here with Quinto and Paulotti no one knew what to do with them. People lost their nerve and hung around. Someone told the security police troops and one of their officers contacted Manuel who was in the apartment he uses here. He’d been down at the club with us, you see, and had then come back. By the time I got here, they’d shot some of my soldiers and freed Quinto and Paulotti and then they attacked our party. They thought I might be a prisoner, too. They still think that – even Quinto and Paulotti – except that Manuel knows it’s not true. He worked it out straight away when he saw I was with Theresa – only he hasn’t told anyone, I think, so I’m even more in his power. I don’t know what he’s planning but he’ll get rid of me, I know he will.’ Carlos looked petulant and seemed close to tears. ‘If he finds you here, he’ll kill us both.’
‘What happened to Arthur Box?’
‘I don’t know. It was dark. They took the colonel prisoner and they were going to take the girls back to their barracks but Arthur wouldn’t let them. He said it was ungentlemanly or something stupid. He got hold of the colonel’s sword and shouted to Theresa and me to run away while he held them off from the girls. They still hadn’t realised I was there, you see. I ran away with Theresa and they shot Arthur. Why didn’t he have a gun? Are your people never armed?’
‘What happened to the colonel?’
‘Being interrogated, I suppose.’ Carlos’s petulance faded and he sat wearily in one of the armchairs. ‘Same as all the others.’
‘Which others?’
‘El Lizard and your assistant and some of the girls.’
‘What’s happened to Theresa? They caught her with me.’
‘I don’t know. She came back here with me. Then she escaped.’
‘Has Herrera said anything about her?’
‘He said, “You will be pleased to hear that your treacherous mistress has met the fate she deserved at the hands of a number of soldiers.” I remember it exactly because it sounded as if he had been saving it for me.’
Every utterance was an effort for William, a raising for a few seconds of the great blanket of weariness. ‘Why did Herrera let me go?’
‘He thinks Arthur must have had other accomplices and that you might lead him to them. He thinks someone must be keeping a secret radio transmitter for Arthur and that you might know them even if you don’t know they’re involved. They were going to keep you under surveillance from the time you left the guardroom. Then they’ll arrest you again.’
There was more distant gunfire.
‘I was sorry about Arthur,’ Carlos added. ‘I liked him. I suppose I might have done something, but it was difficult. I kept quiet and just ran when he said.’
‘Is that gunfire coming from the airport?’
‘Yes, they think it may be some rebel soldiers from another part of the army. You see, even I call them rebels now.’ Carlos grinned humourlessly. ‘The control tower said the airport was under attack but we haven’t been able to get anything more out of them. Manuel says I mustn’t make my television appearance until we’ve found out what’s happened.’
‘What are you going to say?’
‘It’s being written for me.’ Carlos stared at his shoes, then looked up. ‘Did you send my message to your Queen and prime minister?’
‘Yes. Also the Americans know about it. My wife’s lover turned out to be a CIA man and she showed it him.’
Carlos cheered up. ‘That is good, very good. Maybe the Americans will do something – they are more likely to do something than the British, aren’t they?’
‘I suppose they are.’
‘It was kind of your wife to show it to her lover. Please thank her from me.’
‘She’s gone off with him now.’
‘Well, when you next write.’
William got to his feet. ‘I’d better go.’
‘It won’t be very easy for them to follow you with this alert going on.’
‘That’s good, too.’
‘I’m sorry it has not worked, William. I hope you escape. If they catch you, please don’t tell them you have seen me.’
‘All right.’
‘It is not for myself, it is for my family. I am worried for them.’
‘Yes.’
‘You do not look well.’
William looked at himself in the wall mirror. He was unshaven and bleary and he thought he looked disgusting. ‘I’ve been in the cells.’
‘Of course, I was forgetting.’
‘Do you have any food?’
Carlos’s irritation and anxiety returned. ‘Food? I can’t feed you. Someone would realise.’
‘Anything will do.’
Carlos went to another room and came back with two bars of chocolate. William ate one and put the other in his pocket. Then he held out his hand. ‘Good luck.’
‘And you.’ Carlos was much happier now. ‘It was a shame it didn’t work, but if you can persuade your embassy to get you out of the country you should be safe. Herrera and the others have enough to do here. Perhaps we will meet again. If I can stay president, I will visit London one day. It’s a pity about Theresa, too. She was one of the best I’ve had – possibly the best.’
William opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.
Chapter 15
Whoever had searched the flat had indulged a malicious pleasure in destruction. The wardrobe hung open, clothes were trodden on the floor, the mattresses lay half off the beds, the carpets were pulled up, the crockery broken. The fridge lay on its side in the middle of the kitchen, the washing machine was pulled away from its plumbing points. William’s stamp collection was scattered over the floor of the spare bedroom. The windows had been left open but the door was locked, the lock unforced. Presumably they had got keys from the owners.
William was too tired to do more than close the windows and pull the mattress back onto the main bed. He couldn’t move without treading on things. Whatever they’d wanted to find, they’d failed, and that was something. If they had been following him from the palace they’d been further disappointed because he’d simply gone home – and that was also something. And if they were waiting outside now they’d have to wait all night. He drank a lot of water, ate the other bar of chocolate, set the alarm and stretched out on the mattress.
When the alarm woke him he couldn’t move. His heart wouldn’t seem to pump enough to get him going. He was like a sheep on its back, unable even to roll onto his side. He had never felt so heavy. Eventually he rolled onto the floor on all fours, then got up and went to the bathroom where he washed and shaved without turning on the light; he felt his eyes wouldn’t stand it, and there was just enough daylight for him to see where things were. The shave was wonderful; it was like food, drink and sleep all in one. Afterwards he drank more water, ate
all the cheese that had been in the fridge and put two apples in his pocket.
He could see through the window that there was a thick sea-mist, which was perfect. The tree-tops showed above it but below all was white and impenetrable. Confident that no one would be able to see him from below, he stood on the balcony and breathed in the morning air. The balcony rails were wet and cold, the air clear, the day absolutely silent. The mist muffled everything, even the sound of the sea.
He used the stairs rather than the lift but there was no doorman anyway. He slipped out and crossed the road. As soon as he had gone far enough for the building to be invisible, he paused beneath a tree and listened. There was no sound of hurrying footsteps. They would need to keep close if they wanted to follow him in that mist. Box would have approved, he thought.
He cut across towards the golf course. The remains of Señor Finn’s hut still stood among the pampas grass. Beyond he could hear the small lapping waves. The sea must be calm.
The mist was lifting by the time he reached the cemetery but there was no one about, not even the flower-seller, and the gate opened. The mist made the sepulchres and tombs even more grotesque than usual. As he reached the second square, he became aware that his footsteps on the path were being echoed by the walls. It was the only sound and it was far too loud. He stopped and listened. The sound continued. There were footsteps ahead of him, distant but receding. The mist was shifting and he could see twenty yards, sometimes thirty, sometimes ten. He walked carefully through the arch and turned off towards number 1066.
