Marchand Woman

by Brian Garfield

  She sat behind the wheel of the Bronco with the revolver in her lap and tried to ignore the sensation that Emil Draga, handcuffed to a chain in the back seat, was burning holes in her back with his eyes.

  Farmland rolled away in all directions and the mountains lifted soft and green under the bellies of the clouds. Harry and Anders had been gone a long time. She kept looking at her watch. Get hold of yourself.

  She twisted the rear-view mirror to get a better view of Emil Draga. Blindfolded still, he sat groggily with his head slack against the window, mouth open. The drug was half worn off and in another thirty minutes he’d be alert.

  She was going to have to get used to being his jailer. She tried to steel herself.

  On the horizon a smoke-chuffing tractor moved very slowly, pulling some sort of harvesting machine. She could see the driver’s tiny silhouette and wondered if he would become curious about the vehicle parked by the fence. He was a good quarter-mile away and she hoped his curiosity wouldn’t be sufficient to goad him into crossing the distance.

  After a time the tractor went out of sight. A few fine drops of rain touched the windshield. She thought about switching on the radio for company but decided against it; it might awaken Draga. She didn’t want to have to converse with him.

  She covered her eyes with tinted glasses and tipped her head over against the frame of the door. The few droplets were all; a false alarm—the cloud moved on, the windshield dried. Ten minutes more and the sun poked through.

  She heard him stirring behind her and looked up in quick alarm but he was only shifting position. His head lolled to the left and he uttered a somnolent murmur, something in Spanish and too slurred for her to guess at it.

  Tensions and anxieties had drained her of the will to think. She tried to see ahead but preoccupation with the present kept crowding everything else aside. A kind of hyperacuity had infected her, sensitizing her to every signal: the flight of a bird from a tree, the shuddering tempo of Draga’s breathing, the smells of farming, the very motionlessness of the truck seat.

  A figure approached on foot—Harry, there was no mistaking his limp even at a distance. He emerged from the trees and waved her forward and she started it up and drove bumping across the field, Draga awakening and grumbling in the back seat with petulant loquaciousness. He was still talking in Spanish when she stopped the truck and Harry opened her door.

  “Everything’s fine. There was one man—he decided not to fight the drop. Glenn’s got him undercover.”

  “Get in, then.”

  “No hurry.” He offered his hand and helped her down. Looking in at Draga he said, “He’ll keep,” and walked her away—a copse of trees, a hummock of grass in the shade. It was hot but she was getting used to the sticky closeness of the climate.

  She understood right away that he wanted to be alone with her here because they’d have no chance once they joined Anders. She turned toward him. Her hands touched his shirt, shyly, and slid up to the back of his neck.

  There was no heat in it; it was only a touching of lips, very light, but she needed his touch, needed to draw strength from him. They sat down on the earth with their backs against the same tree and leaned against each other, shoulder to shoulder. Harry crooked his good leg and looked at the bottom of his shoe. “These are the times that try men’s bootsoles.” There was muck smeared on it.

  She took off her sunglasses and swung them back and forth by one earpiece. “What’s the program?”

  “We’ll backpack a few gas grenades. If it looks promising we’ll try to knock them out. Otherwise we’ll pull back to the farm and think about raising reinforcements.”

  “From whom?”

  “I can maybe call in a few friends and acquaintances from various ports. It’d cost you some money.”

  “Wouldn’t it be safer to do that first?”

  “Ducks, we don’t know how long Rodriguez is going to sit up there on the mountain. He could bug out any time.”

  “Don’t be too heroic, Harry. I can only take nobility in small doses. You were the one who used to keep insisting the wages didn’t include walking into the jaws of death.”

  “There won’t be any trouble.”

  “You’re lying and I love you for it but I don’t believe it.”

  “Then I’ll lay it out for you. There’s a good chance they’ve got some central gathering place up there. A tent, a cave, a hut, whatever. There’ll be one or two men on guard and we’ll have to take them out. Then we find the camp and we wait for all of them to congregate. If it’s an enclosed space we’re all right. We hit ’em with tear-gas grenades and exploding canisters of chemical Mace. In less than ten seconds that stuff disables a man completely. It takes him quite a while to function again and by that time we’ll have handcuffs on them. It’ll work if they eat together or have a pep-talk meeting or sleep in the same hut or otherwise have some reason to reassemble inside. It’ll work if we can take out the guards without alerting the camp, and it’ll work if Draga’s told us the truth and there’s only a dozen or fourteen men up there.”

  “Have you counted the ifs in that?”

  “If it doesn’t work out that way we’ll pull back.”

  “Promise me.”

  “I’m not a fool, ducks. Sure.”

  “How far is it? To the camp.”

  “Not too far as the buzzard flies but we may waste a while chasing false leads. I’ve tracked VC through country thicker than this—if they’re up there I’ll find them but I don’t want you to come apart at the seams if I’m not back right away. Give it a couple of days before you start to panic. On the morning of the third day you’re on your own. How do you feel about this?”

  “Scared.”

  Harry nodded. “That’s the right answer.”

  “Maybe it’s like what Mark Twain said about Wagner: It isn’t as bad as it sounds.”

  “You just need to worry about two things, ducks. Keep an eye on the mountain because if anyone besides Glenn and me comes down that hill it means you’re in trouble. Get in the Bronco and run for it—forget everything, just run. Head for the federal building in San Juan and don’t stop till you get there.”

  The unspoken addendum was that if the terrorists came down the mountain it would mean Harry and Anders were dead because that was the only way Rodriguez was going to get through them.

  He said, “And the other thing’s your charges there. You’ve got two prisoners to look after and they’ll try every trick they can think of to get loose, especially when they realize they’re being held by a woman alone. Keep them ankle-shackled to water pipes in separate rooms. Spoon-feed them but never undo the handcuffs behind their backs. You listening to me? Keep the revolver cQcked and if you’re even a little bit uncertain of their intentions start shooting. You’ve got five loads and you may as well burn them all up because one of them’s bound to knock the man down if you keep plugging in his direction. Are you going to get gun-shy and not pull the trigger?”

  “No.”

  “Remember this: If you get humane and one of them gets away, all three of us are dead. There’s not a chance in a thousand that Rodriguez hasn’t got a radio receiver up there on the mountain. If Emil Draga or the watchman gets away from you they’ll head for the nearest phone and we’ll be finished.”

  “I understand.”

  In a different voice he said, “Do you regret it, ducks?”

  “Doing this? No, I don’t think so. I regret that it has to be done.”

  “You’re not wrought up anymore. Not the way Glenn is.”

  “I haven’t forgotten my son if that’s what you mean.”

  He said bluntly, “Your son’s dead whether or not we go through with this.”

  “But Rodriguez is free. Until we do it.”

  “Which is it then—revenge or justice?”

  She shook her head. “God knows. It’s not an obsession—but it’s a compulsion. Does that make any sense?”

  “Bet your bottom,” he agreed.
>
  “Harry, tell me something.”

  “All right.”

  “After this—after it’s done—are we going to be able to make it together?”

  “Why, ducks,” he said, “do you know, I expect we will.”

  Harry swung the Bronco into the caved-in barn and they got Emil Draga out and took him across to the house and at the door Harry could not resist his moment of wistful comedy: He took a step backward and bowed over his extended leg with a minuet flourish. Then he kicked Emil Draga in the rump and sent him inside asprawl.

  Anders, holding the door open, made a face. Glancing at him as she came past into the house, Carole suppressed a shiver. Anders’ eyes had gone peculiar and she was disturbed by it: She said, “Harry, you’d better show me around,” using it as an excuse to get him away from Anders.

  Harry took her through the house. It was ramshackle—a bigger and more substantial place than Santana’s but it had the same smell, the same taste. In the kitchen—she was relieved to see running water—she said under her breath, “Glenn’s got a wire down in him, Harry. Don’t trust him.”

  “I’m keeping an eye on him. But I want him with me, not with you.”

  She clutched him then, squeezed until her arms gave out. “Promise me you’ll come back.”

  “I promise, ducks.”

  PART

  FIVE

  Chapter 17

  There was rain. In the cave Cielo sat on a crate chewing on a pencil and watching it flood down like a beaded string-curtain. The radio stuttered at him—a lightning bolt not too far away interrupted the message entirely with a burst of static and then the thunder deafened him to another few words but he had the gist of the message and Julio, switching it off at the end of the transmission, sat back against the wheel of the howitzer and said, “I wonder what drew them off?” According to the wireless message “Butch and Sundance and Etta” had vanished. But Butch hadn’t checked out of his hotel. Did that mean Glenn Anders intended to return shortly?

  It was unnerving. He felt entrapped, not only by isolation but also by unknowing.

  Julio sat absorbed in something on the jacket of which was painted a lurid creature that looked a bit like a feathered octopus with the head of a vulture, its hues running from silver to electric orange.

  Cielo was getting hungry but he wasn’t quite ready to brave the downpour across the distance to the chow tent. It would require a change of boots afterward and he wasn’t sure the others had dried out from the morning’s storm. Fifteen years ago he’d have taken such discomforts as a matter of course but the passage of years had taught him that there were all kinds of ways to prove one’s manhood and that in the end nobody cared much anyway. By now dry feet were more important than demonstrating he was unafraid of the squall.

  He awakened stiff from having lain with his bones on the rock cave floor. The rain had quit. Still daylight; he checked the time: 4:10. So he hadn’t slept that long, really. He glanced at Julio. “Want to get something to eat?”

  Julio spoke without looking up from his book. “You have an uncanny talent for interrupting me right at the crucial point.” He held up the book so that Cielo could see he was within a very few pages of the end.

  Cielo picked up his rifle and went to the mouth of the cave. He had brought down two rabbits with the rifle yesterday, for the pot; he was a hell of a marksman and it was one of the things he still took pride in. The rifle wasn’t a military weapon. It was his indulgence: a Mossberg #800 chambered for 6.5mm Magnums—a walnut Monte Carlo stock and a 6X riflescope sight. Sometimes he used its telescope to look at parrots in the treetops. He never shot one.

  He stood a while in the shadows at the side of the cave mouth searching the trees. Right after a rain was a good time to spot birds: They came out to clean themselves and scout for food that might have been exposed by the storm.

  Broken clouds sailed by overhead but high above them hung a fat roll of cumulonimbus and he knew there would be more rain. He’d had enough rain up here in the past few days to last him the rest of his life. He knew the rest of the men felt the same way. If the radio didn’t terminate their restrictions soon there would be trouble in the camp. The men were already picking at each other.

  Something stirred at the corner of his eyeline. He looked that way, casually curious—saw a man lift himself from the ground and move crabwise, jinking from cover to cover.

  ¡Chingado!

  But he didn’t move—didn’t want to alert the man. Over his shoulder and very softly he said, “Julio.”

  In a moment, alerted by his tone, Julio was behind his left shoulder. Cielo said, his voice dropping almost out of hearing, “Look half left. See the acacia? Just beneath it. Wait for him to move again—”

  “I see him.” Something clicked in Julio’s hands—the Uzzi, probably; it had been near at hand.

  “No shooting yet.” Cielo lifted the Mossberg and fitted his eye to the scope socket. The rain forest came right up close and he had to play it around before he found the target. Behind him Julio was sidling away toward the far side of the cave—standard defense posture: Never give the enemy a bunched target.

  How did he get in here past the road guard? Who was on the road this shift? Santos, yes. If Santos fell asleep on his post.…

  The face of the enemy came into focus and Cielo recognized it and was not surprised. Harry Crobey—submachine gun, grenade belt, backpack.

  Crobey was working his way down toward the tents. Cielo took a moment to think it out. It was no good shouting at him to surrender; Crobey would fade into the forest in half a second if he had a chance. On the other hand it was no good killing him cold; there were things Cielo needed to learn from him.

  Let him know he’s zeroed in. Harry won’t fight the drop. Deciding, Cielo turned and made a down-pushing motion for Julio’s benefit and Julio nodded, lowering the muzzle of the Uzzi, relaxing. Cielo took aim through the ‘scope and flicked off the thumb safety and fired with casual ease. The racket of the gunshot was earsplitting because of the echoing walls of the cave.

  The bullet spanged off the treetrunk against which Harry Crobey had paused. Cielo stepped out into the open jacking another cartridge into the chamber, shouldering the rifle again and training it so that Crobey could see the telescope and measure his chances. Over to one side Julio walked out showing the Uzzi.

  Cielo saw Crobey’s eyes move from one to the other. A heavy bleakness hooded Crobey’s lids; he stood up with slow resignation, dropping the submachine gun out to one side.

  “Come on up, Harry.”

  With Crobey limping between them they went down into camp and ushered him into the radio tent. Since they’d moved the radio up to the cave to protect it from the cloudbursts the tent had fallen into disuse. It was a good place to have a private talk with Crobey.

  Some of the others had heard the shot and come outside to have a look. It was starting to rain again—big slow drops; in a few moments it would pour. The men clustered around. Crobey had trained most of them and there were a few hesitant smiles until Cielo said, “Scatter yourselves. Martin, go down the road and see what’s become of Santos, Villasenor—a couple of you scout up through there, find out if he was alone. Look for tracks.”

  Vargas loomed. “Harry?”

  “Hello, Vargas. Time you went on a diet, innit?” Crobey grinned—or grimaced.

  Cielo pushed him into the radio tent. Julio came in after him and held the Uzzi on him while Cielo stripped him of backpack and grenade belt. Looking through the backpack Cielo discovered a dozen pairs of handcuffs. He used two of them on Crobey and when the prisoner was snugged down Cielo said, “I didn’t think you’d turn against us, Harry.”

  “I didn’t think you’d take up murdering innocent hostages,” Crobey replied.

  Cielo made a face; he’d had a feeling that might come back to haunt them. “An accident,” he said, feeling a need to set the record straight. “It wasn’t our doing. An outsider—a mishap.”

  “E
mil Draga?”

  A shrewd guess, Cielo thought, but only a guess. It didn’t surprise him that Crobey knew the name. Crobey had been born a few minutes ahead of the rest of the world. Cielo fixed a dismal stare on him. “You seem calm about this.”

  “Well I might throw a fit and tear my hair if I thought it would help any. Is this all you’ve got? Eleven chaps? Hardly seems enough for an invasion of Havana.”

  “How many of you out there?”

  Crobey said, “That’s for you to find out.” He was smug.

  Cielo poked around in the backpack. Chemical Mace. The grenades on the web belt weren’t fragmentation, they were tear gas. The only thing Crobey had been carrying by way of a deadly weapon had been the submachine gun; there were only two thirty-round spare magazines for it in Crobey’s belt.

  So he wasn’t prepared for a firefight.

  Cielo brooded at his prisoner. Crobey smiled cheerfully back but Cielo wasn’t ready to be fooled by it. Crobey was clever that way and the smile could mean anything.

  “May as well give it up,” Crobey said. “You’ve been found, haven’t you?”

  “Who told you to look for us here?”

  “I found it in a horoscope.”

  Julio was nervous. “What shall we do?”

  “Man the radio. If there’s a force after us we’ll be told of it. Post a few men in the forest—give them rain slickers. Spread everyone else out. And stay by the radio. Go on—leave me the Uzzi.”

  “Shouldn’t we get out of here?”

  Cielo watched Crobey’s face. “I don’t think there’s any need, Julio. I think he came alone—I think he’s on his own. Working for the mother of that dead boy.”

  Crobey grinned at him and Cielo had to smile back; Crobey had that sort of infectious way.

  “How can you know this?”

  “Look how he came armed. He wanted to wait till we all sat down to supper—then pop a few gas canisters into the tent and put handcuffs on us all. Harry always liked to be a one-man air force, remember? Now he’s a one-man army.” Cielo shook his head in mock disappointment. “We’re all much too old for this, Harry. Five or ten years ago you wouldn’t have exposed yourself that way.”