In the grey dawn of a drizzly day, the Freya, an old-fashioned freighter of 8000 tons, limped into the estuary and dropped anchor in the roadstead of Buenos Aires harbour. When the port officials boarded her for the usual pratique, her papers showed that she was bound for Callao and that she was temporarily disabled by a cracked shaft-bearing, which must be replaced before she could proceed. The replacement parts were being flown out from Holland. The formalities were quickly completed. Temporary landing permits were granted to officers and crew and, an hour later, the Captain went ashore to visit the company’s agents, Guzman Brothers. At midday he was sitting in a small waterside restaurant with John Spada, alias Erwin Hengst.
The instructions he received were simple. For five days he would follow the normal routine of a vessel under repair. The deck crew would clean ship, chip and paint, take shore leave in the evenings. In the engine room, they would fake the clutter of a repair job, with tools and spare parts spread about in sufficient confusion to distract any casual official. On the sixth day, as late as possible, they would make ship and get clearance papers, so that they could be ready to move between midnight and dawn, as soon as the escapees were on board.
The Captain raised an immediate problem. He could take the ship out, sure. But by regulation he must have a pilot on board until he cleared the estuary channel. Therefore, the escapees must come on board before the pilot and remain below decks until he was dropped at the channel mouth. If they tried to run without a pilot, they could be boarded and arrested by the harbour police. Either way, there was a risk, but the pilot was a lesser one.
‘So be it then.’ Spada nodded agreement. ‘Now there’s another problem. My son-in-law is a sick man. He’ll need medical attention. Where’s the first port we can get it?’
The Captain looked dubious.
‘Montevideo is out. Uruguay and Argentina co-operate in anti-subversive measures. We could call into Rio, but I don’t like that either. If we’ve got a sick man, with no papers, on our manifest, the police will get very suspicious. The best thing would be to get a doctor on board and let us head straight back to the Dutch Antilles. From there you can fly your patient back to New York.’
‘What sort of medical kit do you have?’
‘The usual Captain’s medicine chest, but that’s not too sophisticated: oxygen, penicillin, sulpha drugs, pills for belly-ache, burn-salves, heart stimulants, splints, a few scalpels . . . it’s first-aid stuff really.’
‘OK. We need a doctor and a medical kit. Let me see what I can do. You’re clear on the time-table?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Good. Then, unless there’s any change, you won’t hear from me again. Just check with the Guzman office every day in case I have to leave a message. How much will you have to tell the crew?’
‘Nothing. The engineer knows, of course, because he had to take the breakdown. The others will know nothing until the last moment; then I’ll hand around some cash to keep them quiet until we’ve dropped the pilot.’
‘Then I guess that’s all-except to say “thank you, skipper”.’
‘My pleasure,’ said the Captain with a grin. ‘It’s better than a cargo of hides and tallow, which is what we usually ship from here. Good luck, my friend!’
Spada’s next call was at a convent of the Missionary Sisters of the Poor, in one of the older quarters of the city. It was ten o’clock in the evening when he arrived and the Sister who answered the door protested his presence at so late an hour. The community was preparing for bed. The Mother Superior had had a long and tiring day. Tomorrow perhaps? Please, Sister, now! It was most important. Well… !
In the small parlour, smelling of beeswax, under the blank gaze of a plaster Madonna, John Spada explained himself and his mission to the Mother Superior, a surprisingly young woman with a strong Nebraska twang.
‘… My daughter, Teresa, worked with you, so I felt you’d be willing to help if you could.’
‘I want to, of course. Teresa did great work here, and suffered terribly because of it. How is she now?’
‘Recovering. But it’s a slow job. Now our information is that her husband is in bad shape. I’ll need medical help if I’m to get him back alive.’
‘There are difficulties, Mr Spada. Any doctor who goes with you, goes into virtual exile, because he would have great difficulty in re-entering the country, since he could not demonstrate how or when he left it. While he was away his friends and relatives would be in danger.’
‘Perhaps then, there is someone who would like to get out, and stay out. There would be no difficulty about funds or help in re-establishing himself.’
‘In which case, we deprive our poor people of help which they can ill afford to lose. However, let me think . . .’ She reflected for a few moments and then went on: ‘Sister Martha will be leaving us very soon. She’s applied for release from her vows. She’s a fully-trained physician and an American citizen. If she’s willing to take the risk, I’ll release her to go with you . . .’
‘Could we speak with her now?’
‘I’m afraid not. She’s up-country at our mission in Mendoza. She flies back in three days’ time.’
‘That’s running it very fine.’
‘I know. But it’s the best I can do; and, if she consents, she’s the best possible person: no local ties, no immediate connection with us in Buenos Aires. How shall I get in touch with you?’
‘I’ll call you – and remember, I’m Erwin Hengst. Next question. Can you assemble a medical kit for me: drugs, surgical instruments, that sort of thing?’ He fished out his wallet and laid a stack of bills on the table. ‘Pay for it out of that and keep the rest for the mission.’
The Mother Superior left the money untouched on the table. She asked gravely:
‘I have to ask this, Mr Spada. What are the risks for Sister Martha?’
‘Minimal.’ Spada was very definite. ‘Once we’re on board the worst is over. Tell me, what kind of woman is Sister Martha?’
‘As a physician, first-rate. As a woman –’ The Mother Superior gave a faint, ironic smile. ‘Let’s say she gets on better with men than with women. In a convent, that does create certain problems . . .’
‘If that were our biggest problem.’ said John Spada, ‘we’d be very fortunate people.’
In the dining-room of the Kunz apartment, Major Henson clipped a series of hand-drawn charts to the table top and outlined his battle-plan.
‘… From Buenos Aires to the mouth of the Parana river and the ferry terminal for Martín Garcia is about eighty miles by road. I’ve driven it by day and night. In traffic you have to allow two and a half hours. If there’s a jam in the city, it can take longer. However, at night, we should do it in two . . . Now, here’s the island of Martín Garcia; and here, on the mainland, is the ferry jetty. As you see, there is a parking spot in front of the jetty, and then a quarter of a mile of narrow road leading back to the highway. On either side there are citrus groves, good for concealment. However, the approach to the jetty can easily be blocked, and our vehicles could be bottled up. So, it’s a good place to hide but a bad place to fight . . . Now, follow the main highway back about eight miles and you’ll see this other turning down to the river. There’s a quiet beach there where we can bring in the motor-boat from the Freya. The Freya will be lying here, just on the edge of the channel… All clear so far?’
There was a murmur of agreement round the table. Henson laid another, smaller chart over the free space on the table.
‘Now let’s look at dispositions and time-tables. We’re divided into two parties. I have my detachment in the truck, with the driver whom Sancho has found for us. We park by the jetty, with our boys dispersed on the edges of the orange groves. There’s no ferry traffic after midnight; so it should be nothing more than a quiet waiting game . . . ’
‘Back in the city, Colonel Juarez has dinner at the Staff Officers Club. Some time between eleven and midnight he goes to Rosita’s, here, on this other map. He dismisses his driver at this corner, and then walks ten paces down the colonnade to the entrance of Rosita’s. That’s where he’s accosted by Sancho, Dr Lunarcharsky and Spada. They show him their security cards. They walk him back to the car, then he is driven out of town to Sancho’s safe house, which is about twenty minutes from the jetty. From there, the Colonel makes his telephone call to the prison. Then you all continue to the jetty to form part of the reception committee…’
‘With the Colonel?’ Spada was dubious.
‘I advise it,’ said Sancho curtly. ‘It adds urgency and authenticity to the scene when the prisoners are brought from the prison under escort and handed over. If he makes a false move, we cut him down.’
‘What’s the next move?’ Again it was Spada’s question.
‘You and your people drive with Vallenilla to the embarkation point and head out to the Freya. The rest of us go back to town. Finish, done! Simple as that.’
‘It sounds simple but what are the principal risks?’
‘Tell him,’ said Major Henson to Sancho.
‘First that a police patrol comes by the jetty. They prowl that stretch of highway and, sometimes, they turn off to the water for a smoke or ten minutes with a girl they’ve picked up. In that case, we turn very formal. We show them our security cards, tell them there’s an operation in progress, and hustle them off. Even the police don’t meddle with the goons from security. The second and bigger risk is that someone at the gaol has checked back to security headquarters, and they’ve decided to mount a raid. That means the boys in the orange grove have to decide whether to open fire or disengage on foot. We’ll have one advantage. We’ll arrive last, with the Colonel. We’ll cruise past the turn-off and double back. That way we should be able to spot an ambush . . . The only other risk is that either of the vehicles runs into a routine highway check, coming or going. Again, the only answer is to flourish the security cards and bluff our way through. Any other questions?’
‘Only one,’ said the Scarecrow Man. ‘How good are your troops, Major? For instance, will they stay cool enough to sweat out a police check?’
‘They’d damned well better. I’ve told them that I’ll kill the first son-of-a-bitch who even breaks wind without an order.’
‘Did you say that in Spanish?’ asked Spada with a grin.
‘No. Sancho said it for me. And they seemed to believe him.’
‘One more question,’ said John Spada. ‘What happens to the Colonel?’
‘He’s ours,’ said Sancho flatly.
‘What will you do with him?’
‘Why the hell should you care?’
‘Because I’m a party to all this – and, afterwards, that fact will be known.’
‘That’s the risk you took at the beginning.’
‘So, I repeat the question. What are you going to do with the Colonel?’
‘Sweat him for information; then kill him. Objections?’
‘None,’ said John Spada. ‘Just so you don’t plant the body on my doorstep – or try to charge me undertaker’s fees.’
‘How could you possibly think that,’ said Sancho with sour humour. ‘A deal’s a deal, isn’t it?’
‘Provided you can read the small print,’ said John Spada.
In the infirmary of Martín Garcia, they were trying to keep Rodolfo Vallenilla alive. Doctor Wolfschmidt prescribed the regimen; the junior aide administered it with a constancy and a tenderness touching to see – except that there was no one to see it save the doctor, who had a profound contempt for anything remotely resembling humanity. He had a whole repertory of epithets for his junior: ‘my mother superior, sister sweet-lips, our young gelding, the Commandant’s choir-boy’. Yet there was a limit line which, drunk or sober, the good doctor never dared to cross.
Whatever he did in the torture-rooms, inside the infirmary he never laid violent hands on a patient. He might neglect his charges; but he might never insult them. Once, and once only, he had tried it, and had been reduced to gibbering terror by the cold, murderous fury of his assistant, who had backed him into a corner of the surgery and demonstrated how many, how subtle and how painful ways there were to kill him, and how, waking or sleeping, inside the prison or abroad, there was always an executioner in attendance.
The fact that Wolfschmidt submitted to the blackmail, was a matter of wonder to the inmates, but to his junior it was an exquisite, if dangerous, calculation, because Doctor Wolfschmidt was wanted by the Israelis and by the underground and was, moreover, avid for dominance and punishment which no one but this pale youth had the courage to inflict on him. So, the strange relationship persisted, and the dark angel of Wolfschmidt’s gehenna became the minister of mercy to his victims.
For Vallenilla he had developed an almost filial affection, a protective gentleness, from which all sexual emotion had long since purged itself. He washed Vallenilla’s bent and emaciated body. He fed him, patiently, as one might feed an infant, spoonful by spoonful. He coaxed back the courage upon which Vallenilla’s slim hope of survival depended.
‘Listen to me, Rodolfo! Don’t give up! I need you alive. We all do. What you have in your head, what you will one day tell the world, is important to us all – even to a nothing man like me. Oh yes, you must believe that. I feed you like this; but you feed me too. One day I will be able to stand up and say: “You see that great man? I gave him back to the world. The words he says are the words I wish I could say” . . . That’s my boy! Eat another spoonful. It’s good broth. I made it myself on the burner . . . Not like the prison slop, is it? . . . That’s splendid! Now lie quiet while I make up your injection . . . I know it hurts; but that’s because you’re too skinny. When I fatten you up, you won’t feel it half as much . . .’
But the battle was not easily won. Often Vallenilla would slip away into the black pit of depression, where he cowered, fearful and fretful, suspicious even of his benefactor.
‘Why are they treating me like this? They never cared before I The security boys want me back, don’t they? They’re just trying to get me better so they can put me through it all over again. They’ve done it to others . . .’
‘No, Rodolfo! No! I keep telling you, the Commandant is scared. If you die, he’ll be blamed; because everybody saw what happened in the exercise yard. He can’t afford that. He’s a bastard; but even among the bastards there are rules . . . Come on now! You know I’m your friend, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I know that. But promise me something.’
‘Anything, Rodolfo. Anything in my power.’
‘Then swear to me!’ The bony hands clutched at his stained jacket. ‘Swear that if you ever hear they’re taking me back, you’ll kill me! You can do it . . . a pill, an injection – anything! On your mother’s grave, swear it!’
‘I can’t swear it on my mother’s grave. She’s still alive, and sleeping with an artillery sergeant. But sure, I promise. They’ll never get you back . . . There now, don’t cry! Wolfschmidt will be back in a minute. You’ve got to look strong and defiant!’
It was a promise easily given, and at the final test, not too hard to fulfil. He had finished off more than one poor devil too broken to survive and yet not so far gone that they could not inflict a few more agonies on him. It was not hard to accomplish – a bubble of air in the syringe, while the butchers were relaxed and waiting for the next session. There were no post-mortems to worry about, and collapses were all too commonplace . . . He drew the blanket over his patient, made him close his eyes and crooned over him until he lapsed into a restless, wheezing doze. Poor devil! All that brain, all that fire, in such a frail carcass.
The door of the infirmary creaked open and old Corporal Pascarelli came in, bleeding all over the floor. He had been trying to take out a broken pane from the window in his quarters. He had slipped and gashed his palm. He needed stitches and a large shot of brandy from Wolfschmidt’s cupboard. The son-of-a-bitch would never notice! While the operation was being performed, he talked compulsively in a conspirator’s whisper.
‘I’ve got a couple of messages from outside. One’s for your boy over there.’ He jerked his head in the direction of Vallenilla’s bed. ‘Tell him somebody’s sending him a fish in a box.’
‘Is that all – a fish in a box?’
‘That’s all.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘I never ask, sonny boy. It’s safer that way. People outside pay me to deliver messages and then forget. If they want an answer, I try to get one back.’
‘How do they know the message has been delivered?’
‘They know me. They trust me.’ There was a glimmer of pride in the rheumy, bloodshot eyes. ‘It’s a good reputation to have. Not every prisoner stays in this dump forever. When they get out, they remember old Pascarelli. A lot of the other guards are idiots. They forget that, when they’re transferred, there’ll be someone waiting to stick a knife in their ribs or kick ’em to death in a dark alley. Not me! Live and let live, I say. Better to have money in your pocket than six inches of steel in your gut. So, pass the message like a good boy, eh?’
‘Sure, sure! Hold still now while I get the dressing on . . . Who’s the other message for?’
‘Chavez – but he’s been in solitary for six days. Gets out tomorrow if he’s lucky.’
‘Which means he’ll probably end up here first. What do you want me to tell him?’
‘The tiger’s sniffing around. Got that?’
‘Got it! . . . There, you’re wrapped up like a wounded hero. All you need is a medal to go with it.’
‘For our kind of war,’ Pascarelli grunted contemptuously, ‘there won’t be any medals, just curses scratched on our tombstones. Well, thanks! See you, sonny boy! Keep your back to the wall!’
On the morning of his departure for Buenos Aires, Colonel Juarez made his customary round with Major Gutierrez. As always, the Colonel was elated by the prospect of four days’ freedom in the capital.
When he came to the infirmary and saw Rodolfo Vallenilla huddled under the soiled blankets, his spirits rose. He twitched back the covers with the tip of his cane and surveyed his victim with tolerant contempt…
‘Good! My little dog looks better. They must be feeding you well. Enjoy it while you can. It won’t last forever. I’m going up to the city today. I’ll let the security boys know you’re almost ready for another interrogation. Did you think they’d forgotten you? Never! They have a passion for detail and there are still a lot of unanswered questions. But don’t let it worry you! After this vacation you’ll be able to stand quite a long session! Go back to sleep now, little dog… Sweet dreams!’
When he had gone, Rodolfo Vallenilla lay curled into a foetal position, trembling and chattering as if in an ague. The junior aide sat on the edge of the bunk and tried to comfort him.
‘Relax, Rodolfo! He’s gone now. He’ll be gone the whole weekend – Monday and Tuesday as well. I’ll make you some coffee with lots of sugar. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘No! I don’t want anything.’ The intensity of the protest was like a convulsion racking his withered frame. ‘I can’t take any more! I can’t!’
‘He’s playing a game. Can’t you see that? Ignore him’ Pull the shutters down and blot him out of your mind.’
‘He means it. Why else does he let me stay here? He wants me dead; but he doesn’t want to kill me himself. He knows the security boys will do it for him. Please, my friend! You made me a promise. Kill me, I beg of you, kill me!’
As suddenly as it had flared, the fire died in him and he lay whimpering like a small animal. The junior aide sponged the sweat from his face with a wad of cotton wool and crooned over him softly.
‘Come on! I’ve got a message for you from outside.’
‘What sort of message?’
‘Someone’s sending you a fish in a box.’
‘Say that again.’
The frail, bony hands clutched at his sleeve.
‘A fish in a box.’
‘Then I’ll try to hang on.’
‘You do that.’
‘But promise me you’ll never let them take me back to the Fun Palace?’
‘I promise! I’ll give you something to make you sleep now.’
‘Thank you.’ A grateful whisper. ‘You’re a kind boy.’
‘When you get wherever you’re going, Rodolfo, say a good word for me, eh?’
‘The best I know,’ said Rodolfo Vallenilla. ‘The very best . . . Will you sit with me a while? I . . . I’d like to feel you near until I go to sleep.’
‘It’s still early.’ Sancho parked the car in a shadowy angle at the end of the colonnade. ‘You two stay here. I’ll stroll down past Rosita’s and make sure everything’s quiet.’
He got out of the car and strolled casually through the shadows of the vaulted passageway. Spada turned to the Scarecrow Man.
‘Everything’s OK?’
‘Everything. Henson left on time with his troops in the truck. The woman doctor’s on board the Freya. The boat is already at the rendezvous point. We’re in good shape.’
‘So far,’ said John Spada. ‘Sancho’s coming back.’
Sancho slid into the seat beside Spada and gave a last hurried direction.
‘We should get ready now. There’s a doorway on either side of the entrance to Rosita’s. You two take up positions there. As soon as the Colonel moves into the colonnade, close on him. Make sure he doesn’t ring the bell, because the fellow who opens the door is a security man. Just flash your cards at the Colonel and say you’d like a few words with him. I’ll make sure his driver has moved off; then I’ll come in from the rear. We walk him back here, put him the middle of the back seat and then shove a gun in his ribs . . . Clear?’
‘Clear.’
‘Let’s go!’
They waited five, ten, twelve agonising minutes in the shadows, until they saw the military vehicle draw up a few yards down from the entrance, and the driver hurry around to open the door for his passenger. They heard the ritual exchange:
‘Pick me up at ten in the morning. Until then, enjoy yourself.’
‘The Colonel is too kind. I have to watch my pocket.’
They saw the Colonel pause on the sidewalk, straightening his jacket, twitching at his tie, setting his cap square on his head, while the driver engaged the gears and moved off with decorous precision. Then Spada and the Scarecrow Man stepped out of the doorway to accost Juarez. It was the Scarecrow Man who spoke the first words in a very passable Buenos Aires accent.
‘Colonel Ildefonso Juarez?’
‘Yes!’ The Colonel stiffened into a defensive formality.
‘Security! Our identification . . . We’d like a few words with you. We won’t detain you long.’
‘Oh! Let’s go inside then.’
‘Our car is just up there. If you please, Colonel.’
The Colonel hesitated a moment; but when he saw Sancho moving out of the shadows he shrugged and said irritably:
‘Very well! But I hope you understand that…’
‘Perfectly, Colonel.’ The Scarecrow Man was politeness itself. ‘But the matter is urgent, as we shall explain.’
‘What matter?’
‘Inside the car, please. We don’t want to talk our business up and down the street.’
They squeezed him into the middle of the back seat with Spada on one side and the Scarecrow Man on the other. The Scarecrow Man held a gun at his belly. Sancho sat in the driver’s seat and announced calmly:
‘Now, Colonel, sit quiet and you’ll be fine. Make one silly move or a single noise and you’re dead.’
He gunned the motor and they moved off, threading a careful course through the alleys towards the northern highway. It was at least a minute before Colonel Juarez found voice or words:
‘What is all this? Where are you taking me?’
‘This is a security operation,’ said the Scarecrow Man. ‘Please co-operate.’
‘Then why do you have to threaten me?’
‘People do silly things in the heat of the moment; we can’t afford to take chances, even with reliable folk like you, Colonel. Now, just relax. If we’re stopped at any point, say nothing.’
‘You still haven’t said where you’re taking me?’
‘Back to Martín Garcia.’
‘I’m on leave.’
‘We know, Colonel; but a good soldier is always on call, isn’t he? Now listen carefully . . . We’re taking in two of your prisoners for further questioning. Their names are Pablo Maria Chavez and Rodolfo Vallenilla. You’re going to telephone the prison and instruct your deputy to have the prisoners delivered to us at the ferry dock up-river.’
‘I could have done that from Rosita’s. Anyway, Vallenilla’s sick.’
‘We’d like it done our way, Colonel.’
‘I need documents, authorisations.’
‘We have them, as you will see.’
‘Then what?’
‘We’ll drive you back with the prisoners.’
‘This is most irregular.’
‘We live in irregular times,’ said the Scarecrow Man mildly.
‘You’re not from security!’
‘No? Our documents say we are. Why don’t you just play along? Much safer, I promise you.’
‘Mother of God!’
‘Lean back, Colonel. Put your hands on your knees. That’s better. Now tell me, who is the Officer-in-Charge during your absence?’
‘Major Gutierrez. But he’ll be asleep now. There’s a night duty officer.’
‘You’ll have the Major wakened and pass your instructions direct.’
‘He’ll want identification and confirmation.’
‘We’ll provide it. The number of the documents. The originals will be handed over at the landing stage . . .’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘O man of little faith!’ The Scarecrow Man admonished him amiably. ‘Please try to believe. Otherwise you’ll never see the girls at Rosita’s again. Now, you said Vallenilla is sick. How bad is he?’
‘He’s in the infirmary.’
‘That means he’s damned near dying,’ said Sancho from the front seat. ‘We heard you kept him chained in the exercise yard, and beat him like a dog.’
‘That’s a lie.’
‘We’ll soon know, won’t we?’
During all the talk Spada remained silent, trying to read the body chemistry of the man pressed against his flank. The Colonel was tense, but he was far from panic. He was still functioning logically, weighing the contradictory information that was being fed to him, observing the route they were driving, alert to any possible chance of escape. Spada decided to push him harder.
‘Save yourself some labour, Colonel. The route is perfectly straightforward. You’re not gagged or blindfolded . . . You can ever memorise our faces. That must tell you something, surely?’
‘I don’t understand any of this.’
‘You’ve been under observation for some time, Colonel.’
‘Observation? For what?’
‘You have a nice comfortable job. We’d like to be sure you haven’t abused its privileges.’
‘A bused… ? I have no idea what you’re talking about! My record demonstrates . . .’
‘Ah yes! The record! Who writes the record, Colonel? Who files the reports?’
‘I do.’
‘Quite. Of course, if the facts conform with the record, there’s nothing to worry about, is there? The Army protects its own. Tell me about Vallenilla.’
‘The man was a recalcitrant, a trouble-maker. He had to be disciplined . . .’
‘By you, personally?’
‘In exemplary situations, sometimes…’
‘Not now, Colonel. Later you can explain these “exemplary situations”. Tell me, have you ever thought about defection?’
‘Defection? To whom? Where? The idea’s preposterous.’
‘Strange! We’ve talked to your driver. He seemed to think you maintain a very expensive lifestyle on a Colonel’s pay. A private room at the Formosa . . . and Rosita’s girls aren’t cheap. Of course, we know you don’t have high living expenses on Martín Garcia; but still . . . you do see there are questions to be answered.’
‘Then I’ll answer them at the proper tribunal.’
‘After you’ve made your depositions to us.’
‘Look! I’ve nothing to hide. I’m perfectly happy to cooperate.’
He was confused now. The first smell of fear began to exude from him. Spada drew away and looked out of the window at the traffic and the sprawling lights of the suburbs. The habitations had thinned out now and they were passing from the outer suburbs into the first fringes of the small-holdings and the truck farmers. Suddenly, Sancho swung the car hard left on to a rutted track, at the end of which was a large, barn-like structure, with fruit crates and vegetable boxes stacked in front of it. He switched off the engine and the lights and turned his head to address the Colonel.
‘Now listen carefully. There’s a telephone inside. You’ll call the prison and have Major Gutierrez brought to the phone. You’ll instruct him to send the two prisoners, Vallenilla and Chavez, immediately to the ferry dock on the mainland. You’ll quote him the numbers of the documents we’ll give you. Tell him you’ll be there with us to take delivery. Clear so far?’
‘Clear.’
‘How many escorts would he send normally?’
‘Three. A boatman and two officers.’
‘Is your radio working?’
Not at this hour. We close down at ten, unless there’s an emergency.’
‘Which this is not. Now, when you’ve given your instructions, pass the phone to me.’
‘Very well.’
‘One last word, Colonel. Say only what I’ve told you. Otherwise you end like a Martinmas pig with an apple in your mouth.’
‘I don’t understand why you have to threaten me like this. I’ve told you I’ll co-operate.’
‘But you’re bluffing, Colonel,’ said the Scarecrow Man gently. ‘You think we’re not security; so you’re playing the game they taught you in Staff School. Be calm. Placate the captors. Try to establish a personal relationship . . . This time it won’t work, because we’ve got different rules. There are only two. Get clever and you die inside that shed. Co-operate and you stay alive a while longer . . . That’s all. Let’s go inside.’
The barn was a single large hangar with a tiny cubbyhole office at one end. They sat Colonel Juarez at the table and stood up about him with pistols drawn. Sancho laid the security document in front of him and pointed to the serial number. Then he handed him the telephone.
‘Make sure you get it right, Colonel.’
Juarez dialled the number with an unsteady hand. On the first round his finger slipped and he had to begin the series again. Spada winked at the Scarecrow Man who nodded assent: Colonel Juarez was no hero. They heard the ringing of the telephone, then the voice of the prison operator, distant and crackly. Sancho bent dose to listen. The Colonel spoke, a trifle unsteadily.
‘This is Colonel Juarez. I want to speak to Major Gutierrez . . . Of course, you fool; I know he’s in bed. Wake him up! . . .’
There was a long pause, the sound of a switchboard transfer and then a grumpish slurred voice.
‘Gutierrez!’
‘Major! Rub the sleep out of your eyes. This is Colonel Juarez.’
‘Yes sir! Yes Colonel!’
‘Listen to me and listen carefully. I am with the security people. They want immediate delivery of two prisoners : Chavez and Vallenilla. Get them ready as quickly as you can . . . Tonight? Of course, tonight! We’ll be waiting at the ferry dock. Yes, I know Vallenilla’s sick. Put him on a stretcher! . . . No, don’t go yet! Make a note of the custody order number. Write it in the log. You’ll get the original document at the hand-over. Here it is: OS 759 stroke 8635 stroke 4126. Got it? . . . Hold on a moment…’
Sancho took the receiver out of his hand and continued the call.
‘Major Gutierrez, this is Major Borja, security. Have you got any civilian clothes for these men? . . . Good, so long as they’re half-way decent. They’re not going to a dinner party. Oh . . . and no chains. We’ve got enough troops to keep ’em quiet. How long will it take to have them at the mainland? . . . Forty minutes? Christ, that’s running it fine. This is part of a bigger operation. If you can do it in thirty minutes you’d help us a lot . . . One more thing. As of now we want complete radio silence. No transmissions at all from Martín Garcia. If you want to contact me or the Colonel, don’t go through Central Office; use this number: 758-9563. We’re working out of town and we’re busy as hell… So, if we’re engaged, just keep trying; but don’t hold up the despatch of the prisoners. That’s absolutely vital. Any more questions for the Colonel? . . . No, he won’t be coming to the prison. He’ll be returning to town with us . . . Thank you, Major. Goodnight!’ He put down the receiver and patted Colonel Juarez on the shoulder. ‘Nicely done, my friend! Just keep going like that and you’ll live to lay a lot more girls.’ He lifted the receiver off the hook and laid it on the table. Then he laid the barrel of his pistol along the Colonel’s cheek. ‘And remember, from here on, you’re walking through a minefield. One false step and . . . boom-boom! Vamos amigo!’
The truck was parked in the open space by the ferry dock. The driver sat at the wheel, smoking one cigarette after another. The mercenaries were dispersed along the edges of the orange grove, sweating in the still, dank air of the river flats. Henson himself made the rounds continuously, checking the entrance to the highway, passing from tree to tree, whispering commands in bad Spanish supplemented by hand-signs, a pointing finger, a touch on the shoulder, a signal indicating the line of fire if the police should come.
The river itself was empty, grey under the pallid moon, with yellow lights pricking out from the estuary islands. The only sounds were the distant drone of the traffic along the highway, the occasional cry of a night bird and the slurring sigh of the river around the piles of the jetty. When he reached the truck, Henson snatched the cigarette from the driver’s mouth and ground it out under his heel. The fellow protested in voluble Spanish, but Henson drew a hand across his throat in a meaning gesture and walked away towards the jetty. He looked at his watch and cursed quietly. Spada was ten minutes late. If the boat arrived before the reception committee . . . Then he heard the car, swung round and saw the headlights shining down the track. The headlights went out and the car rolled into the parking space, turned to face back to the road and stopped. Sancho got out, opened the rear door and shepherded three men on to the circle of gravel. Henson hurried across to offer an anxious greeting.
‘Thank Christ you’re here. I was beginning to get worried.’
‘No sweat,’ said John Spada. ‘There’s plenty of time.’
Sancho, the stage manager, asked a single question.
‘Where are your men posted?’
‘Two at the entrance to the highway. Two half-way down. Two at the edge of the parking area.’
‘Good.’ He turned back to the Colonel and the Scarecrow Man. ‘When the boat arrives, we three walk along the jetty to meet it. You, Colonel, will present the documents. You Major, and you, Mr Spada, follow behind. We don’t want Vallenilla to recognise you immediately. The prison guards will hand the prisoners on to the jetty. Then you, Colonel, send them back. Understood?’
‘I understand.’
‘Major, as soon as you hear the boat, move your men out into the open. We want a show of strength.’
‘Right.’
‘And Colonel…’
‘Yes?’
‘Think like a soldier now. We are ten on the land against three guards in a boat. That’s bad odds – and you’ll be the first man dead.’
‘Mother of God, do you think I’m stupid?’
‘You have been,’ said the Scarecrow Man. ‘This is your last chance to use your brains.’
From far across the river they heard the sound of the engine; then, a few moments later they saw the lights, red and green, heading towards the landing stage. Sancho and the Scarecrow Man pushed the Colonel ahead of them and strode along the jetty. Major Henson gave a low whistle and six men emerged from the orange grove and came running to join him. He ranged them in a circle, four facing the jetty, two facing back to the roadway; then, with Spada at his side, he stood watching the small tense drama at the landing stage. First the boatman tied up, then one of the guards addressed the Colonel.
‘Two prisoners as requested. Chavez and Vallenilla. This one . . .’ He pointed to Vallenilla lying on the stretcher. ‘He’s unconscious. They gave him a sedative before he left.’
‘Lift him on to the jetty,’ said Sancho curtly.
The two guards hoisted the stretcher out of the boat, climbed the steps from the landing stage to the deck of the pier, laid down the stretcher, then looked to the Colonel for instructions. Sancho intervened again. He called to the other prisoner:
‘You, Chavez!’
‘Yes?’
‘Come up here.’
Chavez mounted the steps and stood facing Sancho. A faint flicker of recognition showed in his eyes; but he said nothing. The guard turned to the Colonel.
‘Are you coming back with us, Colonel?’
‘No . . . I have business here. Tell Major Gutierrez . . .’
‘Tell him nothing! This is security business,’ said Sancho sharply. ‘You can telephone later, Colonel, when this operation is over. Dismiss your men, please.’
‘Dismiss!’ said Colonel Ildefonso Juarez.
The guard stood his ground.
‘We need the order, sir, and a receipt for the bodies.’
‘Oh, of course.’
Sancho stood close as the documents were exchanged. Then, with obvious relief, the guards saluted and climbed back into the boat. The handler cast off, started the motor and headed back at full speed towards the island. Sancho threw his arms around Chavez and embraced him.
‘Welcome back, comrade!’
John Spada came at a run and turned back the greasy blanket from Vallenilla’s face. He looked so tiny and Waxen that, for a moment, Spada thought he was dead. Chavez said harshly:
‘You’d better get him some good medical attention. He’s damn near dead – and this bastard did it.’ He spat in the Colonel’s face.
‘Enough!’ said John Spada harshly. ‘Get Vallenilla into the truck.’
Sancho and Chavez picked up the stretcher. Spada and the Scarecrow Man followed, with the Colonel two paces in front of them. As the small procession moved along the jetty to the vehicles, the Colonel turned and asked plaintively:
‘Who are you? What are you going to do with me?’
Spada was silent. The Scarecrow Man answered for him.
‘We? Nothing. You don’t belong to us. Your own people will take care of you. But don’t worry. They’re very careful about protocol. When they bury you, there’ll always be someone to spit on your grave.’
It was an hour after dawn when they dropped the pilot and headed, north by east, across the gulf into the long Atlantic swell. Spada and his companions emerged from the hold; and, while the others climbed on deck to refresh themselves in the cool morning air, Spada went to the mate’s cabin to see Vallenilla. He was still comatose. Sister Martha had rigged a drip bottle and an oxygen mask, and was taking his pulse count. Spada asked:
‘How is he, Sister?’
‘He’s holding; that’s all I can say just now. I’ve pumped him full of penicillin and I’m drip-feeding him. His pulse is weak but steady.’ She handed Spada a gauze mask. ‘Wear this whenever you come to see him. All the symptoms indicate he’s got TB: nummular sputum, bloody at times, the chest full of rales and ronchi. The rest of him . . . God knows – he must have suffered terribly.’
‘Can you keep him alive until we get him home?’
‘With luck, yes.’
‘I’ll help you nurse him,’ said Spada. ‘Just show me what to do.’
‘It’s simple enough. Regular injections, change the drip bottle, keep him clean and comfortable. Most important, make him want to stay alive.’
‘I want to thank you for agreeing to come, Sister.’
‘Not Sister any more. Just plain Martha – Martha Moorhouse. I’m happy to help.’
Vallenilla stirred and groaned and opened his eyes. They were glazed and unfocused. Spada bent towards him. Martha held him back.
Spada slipped the gauze pad over his mouth and nostrils. His voice came out muffled and strange.
‘Rodo, this is John . . . John Spada. Can you hear me? If you can, squeeze my hand.’
He felt a faint answering pressure from the thin, clammy fingers. He talked on soothingly:
‘Don’t try to answer. You’re safe now. Understand that. You’re safe. We’re taking you home to Teresa.’
‘Teresa!’ Through the transparent plastic of the oxygen mask they saw his lips form the word; then he closed his eyes again and his hand went slack in Spada’s grip.
‘That’s enough,’ said Martha. ‘Let him rest.’
‘I have to see the Captain,’ said John Spada. ‘I’ll relieve you in an hour. Where will you sleep?’
‘The second officer has lent me his cabin. It’s just across the companionway. Oh, Mr Spada . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I presume you’ll be getting in touch with your family?’
‘Of course. I’ll use the ship’s radio as soon as we’re out of Argentine waters. Why do you ask?’
‘Don’t let them expect too much, especially your daughter. You’re taking home an invalid – a permanent invalid; and he’ll never be able to mate with a woman again.’