He tucked his gloved hand into the crook of her elbow, as if she was his niece. It was not important to her. She could smell the sharp marmalade on his breath and there were toast crumbs meshed in the brush of his moustache.
‘Your message went through. Remarkable, but they haven’t changed their cryptology for three years, doesn’t give us any trouble. It went through verbatim . . . Can’t say what they’ll do with it at their end, Havana, but it was fine leaving us, right . . . ?’
He tried to make a little joke of it, and she thought he wouldn’t have known a bad joke if it had bitten him. She could feel the clutch of his fingers on her arm. The pity of it was that she needed the old fart . . . It was ostentation, in her opinion, the way he smacked the tip of the furled umbrella on the paving. She took the big breath.
‘And the bad news . . . ?’
He gabbed. ‘They were ambushed. They were only a small group, when we last heard. They were ambushed by troops of the Kaibil battalion. They burned their way through. He has a flame thrower, it’s a hideous weapon, and he scorched a path through the ambush . . . I’ve a very good man reporting to me, excellent contacts . . . He tells me there is a father and mother of an inquest in the High Command as to how your man was able to break the ambush. But that’s not really the point, is it?’
She looked into the drawn face of Percy Martins, into the eyes that were furtive. The wind off the river snatched at his hair. ‘What is the point?’
‘They’ve had contact, the Kaibil battalion, and after contact there will be close pursuit. It will be close pursuit right to the landing strip. It will leave them vulnerable. Do I make myself plain, Miss Parker?’
She felt the shudder in her body. She took his hand from her arm, broke the grip. She strode away from him.
‘Stay close to your telephone tomorrow, there’s a dear girl . . .’ His voice trailed behind her, died.
She walked the pavements, and once she slammed into the rubbish bin bolted to a lamppost . . . close pursuit.
She crossed the streets, and twice there was the bellow of a taxi’s horn and the stretched scream of brakes . . . vulnerable.
She showed her ID to the Front Security.
She took the lift up.
She remembered him. Shy, not easy with her. Slow loving, not confident with her. She would never be so damn bloody stupid again. She remembered him in Ireland. The young Five girl who was winning the reputation and handling a player, and becoming an item with the regiment man who usually seemed to work the duty for her field protection. Her Gord, hooked to her little finger. Tour served, gone home, back to paper-pushing before Mr Hobbes decided she was ready to be chucked over the water again. Gord, on the short leave, ringing and being invited to the Battersea flat. Not the way it had been in Ireland, because there was no danger in a bloody Battersea flat, no hazard, no need to shelter behind him when the secret fear caught her. Never be so damn bloody stupid again . . . Threw him out. Not returned the calls, recognized the handwriting on the envelopes and sent them back . . . Gone back to Ireland, the second tour and extended, put him out of her mind because that was the creed of Five . . . There were other career women at Five, hell’s good careers and kicking the door down into the men’s club and doing the job a hell of a sight better . . . and no man and no love and no babies . . .
She sat silent at her desk and the flow of the open-plan office moved around her, unnoticed.
He could see the village that was away at the far side of the landing strip.
They sat in the bush scrub where they could see the oil lamps and the big fire that burned in the heart of the village that was on the far side of the landing strip.
The Street Boy stood shy for a moment in front of Gord, and watched as Gord replaced the field dressing on the wound. He had the rifle that he wanted and two magazines, loaded, for it, and he had four hand grenades.
He said that he was going to look for apples, anything to eat, and none of them seemed to hear him.
The Street Boy left them.
20
They heard the throb beat of the marimba music, the honey-sweet rhythm of the muffled drum tips on the metal tubes.
They sat in the darkness and they listened and they watched.
They saw the dancing figures that were highlighted against the big fire burning at the heart of the village.
They sat in the darkness on the far side of the landing strip and the night dew cold cut at them and the hunger in their stomachs bit at them. When the wind gathered and came from the west across the landing strip they could hear the marimba music better, but Gord cursed the wind because it carried the smells of the pig that had been cooked over the fire for eating. They had not eaten, none of them, since the stampede run through the ambush, since they had discarded everything that might have slowed them. The dog, too, growled for food.
Zed said it was the Dance of the Bull. Vee said to Gord that the bull was sacred and prized for its strength and nobility, and Zed chuckled and said that the bull was valued for the wealth carried low under its back haunches. The figure of the prancing bull was against the fire and a great head had been made for it of cloth and painted wood and it leaped and charged and then backed away from the children. Gord watched the children. The children were decked for the fiesta, bright shirts and coloured skirts, and their cries of happiness came to him on the wind. In the shit corner of the shit country, the children scattered before the rush of the bull, shrieking in the fun of it, then rushed back as the bull retreated. He saw the floating movement around the bull of the taunting butterflies . . . If the plane came, if, and if they flew out, and if it were known to the military what strip they had used, then the village would feel the counterstrike. The homes of the children would be burned, the mothers of the children would be scattered, the fathers of the children would be shot . . . Gord watched the dancing of the butterflies around the bull, in front of the fire, and he heard the cheering of the mothers and the fathers as the children ran again from the charge of the bull, and the beat of the music grew.
Gord sat alone. He leaned his back against the cart and felt the harsh arms of the frame against his spine. He had loaded the tubes, slow but he had achieved it, and the fuel carried in the wheelbarrow was now exhausted, and he would have no further use for the air pressure cylinder. He sat alone but they talked to him in English so that he was a part of them. She was wonderful, Alex, and she was hunched among the low scrub bushes before the cleared area that led across to the goat-grazed landing strip, and she cradled the head of Eff, and Gord thought her as resolute as barbed wire. There were the soft and whispered voices of Jorge and Harpo and Zeppo. He was sorry that the Street Boy had gone . . . The dance was finished. The marimba music was lost. The children’s voices faded. The bull was gone. The big fire in the heart of the village died.
Only the soft and whispered voices for company.
Later, he would make the fire heaps along the landing strip, when the village slept, when the butterflies rested, to guide the plane in, if it came.
Jorge talking fast. ‘. . . Go to Europe. Italy would be best. My sister is there, her husband would welcome me, her children would want to know me. I could stay with her until I was started. What I would like is to get the job of an auto salesman. Italy is best because then I could get the job of selling the Ferrari. It is fourteen years since I have seen my sister. I would sell the 512 TR model of the Ferrari. Think of the commission . . . It sells at 200,000 US dollars. If you sell it then you get to drive it. It has, do you know, 311 kilometres per hour top speed, zero to ninety-nine kilometres per hour in 4.8 seconds, that is just incredible . . . I think I will go to Italy and I think that I will sell the Ferrari . . .’
And what suit he would wear in Palacio Nacional, forgotten. And whether it would be the American Ambassador first, forgotten. And Gord’s future . . . ?
Harpo said, ‘. . . Myself, Canada. The old guy, he said Canada was good. He said they have a big programme for refugees, and they give
them good money. The cold is the hell there, but they live with it, I can live with it. On the west of Canada you can go out in a boat and you can catch the big Pacific salmon, wonderful fish. It is not bad when they pay you money so that each day you can go fishing in the Pacific for salmon. I think I would like Canada . . .’
And the charge with the machine gun on the gate of the camp at Playa Grande, forgotten. And Gord’s future . . . ?
Zeppo said, ‘. . . I think I would try to get to Miami, but the bastard is getting there. I don’t know whether I could manage the crossing, the open boat, bad currents. Perhaps they will let me go from Havana. I would like to have a coffee stall in Miami. Just like we were in Havana, there are so many refugees in exile in Miami, and they have to have a place to drink coffee and read the old newspapers. Make strong coffee, and take the money . . .’
And Gord’s future . . . ?
And Alex’s future . . . ?
The soft and whispered voices of the Ferrari salesman and the salmon fisherman and the bar owner played close to him. The village was silent and the lights had gone. A small crescent of the moon hung above the length of the landing strip. He stared down at his watch. Another hour to be killed before he could be certain that the village was settled, before he should go and make the fire heaps that would guide the plane, if it came.
And Gord’s future . . . ?
The pilot walked down the line of them and he shook the hand of each of the base officers.
It was three minutes to midnight, three minutes to the time for the take-off.
The area of the apron in front of the hangar was bright from the high floodlights. He wore a woollen cap tight down over his scalp and a thick fleece-lined flying jacket over his one-piece fatigues and insulated long pants over his buttocks and thighs, and heavy boots that were proof against the cold in the goddamn Antonov. He could smile, dry, because every officer with the rank of major and above had stayed at the base through the evening and into the night, and then made a line so that he could shake their hands . . . Like none of the goddamn bastards ever expected to see him again. The base commander was last in the line. The pilot saluted, sloppy, and he shook the hand of the base commander, loose, and then he gave him his handkerchief and the loose change coins in his pocket and his air force ID and his gate entry card, and he gave him his wallet which had banknotes and the photograph of his wife . . . It was what he thought of a piss awful order.
He climbed up into the Antonov cockpit. He eased the flying helmet down over the woollen cap. He pulled the scarf up from his throat to cover his lower face. He gave the signal. The chocks were pulled away from the wheels. He turned the key, had ignition. The noise rattled around him, growing. The propellers spun.
The pilot took the Antonov out to the end of the runway. She seemed to him to be running sweet.
He could see the line of the officers watching and waiting, and behind the officers and standing in the open mouth of the hangar were the ground crew technicians who had worked at the engines. The pilot built the power.
The Antonov lumbered down the runway, along the channel of the blazing lights, and lifted.
He took her out over the sea.
He set the course.
He stood on a straight chair. Percy Martins manipulated the hands of the wall clock, put them back to Central America time. He checked at his wrist and made the final adjustment to the clock. It was seven minutes after midnight, Central America time. He stood down from the chair and went to the window and pulled the strings that lifted the blind. A pleasant start to the day in London. He craned his neck, pushed his nose against the glass, and saw a tug boat pulling a convoy of rubbish waste barges on the river. He had slept rather well because the easy chair in his office was expensive and comfortable, a perk that he had bullied from Property (Internal). He shaved with the electric razor gained from duty free in Athens, and charged on expenses, and now the subject of nitpick inquiry by Accounts. He assumed that he had slept rather better than that fine young woman, probably curled on a sofa with a travelling rug wrapped around her. He paced, restless and excited. Always the way he felt when a live mission was running . . . Shouldn’t have been running, of course, no bloody authorization for sticking out his neck, but there were precious few on the Vauxhall Bridge Road, in the upper office suites of the building, who would dare play the heavy hand with Percy ‘Sniper’ Martins who had brought the head of a Palestinian killer to the Prime Minister’s table . . . And about the right time to interfere finally.
Never best to give people too much time to ferret on a minor request. Too much time was too much doubt, and added to too much cock-up. He dialled. He estimated that the night duty man who picked up the telephone, Ministry of Defence (Intelligence), would be going off shift within the hour, would get the message passed fast enough to ensure he was not late home.
‘Percy here . . . No, I have not yet died, and not yet been buried . . . Yes, I am alive and kicking hard. Small favour, Belize . . . Yes, Belize . . . Might be a flight coming across Belize airspace in three and a half to four hours’ time. Won’t have lights, won’t have markings, won’t respond to Belize control . . . Two favours, actually. Don’t scramble for it, don’t put the Harriers up, because its fuel will be on the edge and evasion will waste fuel. Second, do not inform our Yankee cousins of this flight, imperative you do not . . . Send it fast, there’s a good fellow . . . I’m so grateful.’
It was as much as he could do, more than he should have done. He thought of the young woman with the answerphone, wasted in Five. He thought of the young man that she seemed to love, lucky devil, and there was work for him in Six. If the Secret Intelligence Service were ever again to make a mark, regain a trifle of independence from the Yankee cousins, then it would be on the backs of such young women and such young men, directed on operations by ‘Sniper’, of course. Just the fellow, just the ticket, he sounded, Miss Parker’s Gord, for sniffing at the perimeter fences around the Ukrainian bases that held the nuclear warheads. The right sort of man to be up on the Turkish/Iranian border and supervising havoc in mullah-land. He’d march them into the Deputy Director General’s office, craven creature, thought a real day’s work was either sitting at a desk and studying altitude photographs with a magnifying glass or budget balancing with a calculator, and introduce them. He’d be back in harness . . . Blotted from his mind, unwelcome and unwanted, was the thought of close pursuit and an aircraft coming vulnerable to a landing strip. Fuck it and forget it . . . He thought he was secure in his employment whatever the outrage he caused on the upper-floor office suites of Vauxhall Bridge Road. The alternative to employment was compulsory redundancy, the voucher in the brown envelope, retirement to Motspur Park and the wife who ignored him and the son who rejected him. He would not go easy . . . It was the dream of directing field operations again that sustained Percy Martins.
He rang down to the front desk. Coffee, soonest, proper coffee.
The dogs had the scent trail.
They pounded on the scent foot marks, slobbering and snorting, hunting the trail.
The pair of bloodhounds had been flown in at the beginning of the evening from the headquarters of the Brigada de Investigaciones Especiales y Narcóticas, big beasts, the gift of the Spanish Guardia Civil, black-and-tan-coated beasts. Two bitches, each weighing more than ninety pounds, each able to follow a scent that was more than a hundred hours old.
They had come across the river. They had been brought to the place where the imprint of a half of a shoe’s heel had been found. The soldiers had stood back. The handlers had let the dogs circle the place. The scent had been found.
The handlers, experienced men, held the dogs on long leashes, and let them lead. The scent was made by men who had sweated hard, and left a good trail for the dogs to track. And easy for the dogs because the way that the men had gone was off the paths that were used by the people of the villages and forest people. One sweat scent for them to follow that was not confused. The pair of bloodhounds w
ere the best, the passion of their handlers, young and strong dogs, and eager to please. The handlers slipped the dogs titbits of dried meat, and the dogs led them on and strained at the taut leashes. They had poor eyesight. Their world was a monochrome mess of shadows. They were at home in the blackness of the forest with their noses hovering above the ground on which men had struggled with heavy weights.
Behind the handlers were the troops of the Kaibil battalion. Slow going in the night forest and the dogs held back so that the troops could stay with them. It was past two. They used a compass to report back the direction that the dogs took them.
The generator gave the light to the lamp above the map.
Each time the call came, each time they gave the position, approximate because they had no landmarks in the night to relate to, Arturo made the crayon mark on the clear cellophane sheet over the map.
The line wavered. The line looped a village and skirted a cliff face and avoided cleared fields, but the line held. With his crayon he drew the first track of the line, joined the points.
Bad waiting. The camp on the roadside rested. A soldier coughed, a radio screamed in static transmission, a soldier tripped on a clattering rifle and swore, a jeep came and went. They were all waiting, and for him it was the worst. Past three . . . He would have them, find them, when the daylight came, if the dogs held the scent.
On the side of the landing strip away from the sleeping village, Gord gathered cut brush and light fallen branches. There was enough light from the crescent moon, barely, for him to see ahead and to see behind far enough to know where he had made the last heap of brush and branches, and under each of the heaps he forced what dried old grass he could find by touch.
He was near to the far end of the runway, had two more heaps to make, when she came to him.
She was quiet out of the darkness and she had drifted close to him before he started up. She was close to him, and her dog was beside her.
The Fighting Man (1993) Page 41
