Hurricane Gold (15 page)

‘I hope it’s worth it.’

Everyone looked round to see Precious glaring at Mrs Glass.

‘You talking to me?’ said Mrs Glass, taking the bottle from Strabo.

‘Yes, I
am
talking to you,’ said Precious. ‘I want to know if the money in that safe is worth all the lives you’ve taken. How many is it now? Twelve? Thirteen?’

‘I’m not counting,’ said Mrs Glass.

‘I am,’ said Precious. ‘And I am going to make you pay for every one of them.’

‘Fine words, honey,’ said Mrs Glass. ‘But in the end, just words. What are you going to do, huh? What do you seriously think you are going to do, sister?’

‘You never answered my question,’ said Precious.

‘Is it worth it?’ said Mrs Glass. ‘That’s a good question. The men who drilled this oil well? Working themselves to death eighteen hours a day for the promise of wealth? Did they think it was worth it? The generals, back there in the war, when they sent thousands of young men off to die? Did they ask themselves if it was worth it? God, up there in heaven? When he sent the storm to wipe out Tres Hermanas –’

‘I’m not asking God,’ said Precious. ‘I’m asking you. Is the money in that safe worth all the blood you’ve spilt?’

‘In a word, honey, no.’

‘So, why did you do it, then?’ asked Precious.

‘The thing is,’ said Mrs Glass, rubbing her tired eyes, ‘we didn’t expect to find a whole lot of money in that safe.’

‘What? You’re saying there’s no money in it?’

‘Oh, there’s some cash in there, but that’s not what we were looking for.’

‘So you’ll just throw it away?’

‘Of course not. We’ll spend it, and enjoy it. It’s the least we deserve after all the trouble we’ve been to. But it won’t last long. Your daddy didn’t have a lot of cash.’

‘He’s a rich man,’ said Precious and Mrs Glass laughed quietly.

‘Oh, sure, your daddy likes to give the impression he’s rich,’ said Mrs Glass. ‘Living in that fancy house with all those fancy things. He’s got a front to keep up. The great American war hero, rewarded by his country. But the house is rented, the furniture too. His cars borrowed.’

‘That’s not true,’ said Precious. ‘We live in the finest house in Tres Hermanas.’

‘You think he could afford all those servants if he lived in America? Why do you think he moved down here in the first place?’

‘Because of the oil boom. He works for the big oil companies. Scouting for new fields.’

‘That’s right. Allows him to fly wherever he likes. All over Mexico, in and out of the States, down into South America, over to the Caribbean. Good old Jack Stone: fly boy, war hero – free to travel the heavens, no questions asked.’

‘What are you talking about?’ said Precious.

‘Your daddy,’ said Mrs Glass, ‘seems I know him a whole lot better than you do. Maybe that’s because he’s one of us.’

‘No, he is not!’ Precious shouted. ‘He is a hero! He won three medals in the war. He had dinner with the president.’

‘Many crooks have had dinner with the president,’ said Mrs Glass.

‘Have you?’ said Precious scornfully.

Mrs Glass smiled.

‘Matter of fact, I have,’ she said.

‘Shut up,’ said Precious. ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Have it your own way,’ said Mrs Glass. ‘It’s no concern of mine.’

‘Why?’ shouted Precious. ‘Why would you rob a safe that had no money in it? Answer me that.’

‘There are some things more valuable than notes and coins.’

‘Daddy doesn’t have any jewels, if that’s what you think, or gold.’

‘Never said he did, sugar. Never said he did. But, pound for pound, some things are worth a whole lot more than gold.’

‘Like what?’

‘Secrets.’

15

The Samaritan

‘Let me tell you a story,’ said Mrs Glass, warming her hands by the fire. ‘About a war hero. About a famous air ace. About a guy who travelled the world and met kings and queens and movie stars, a walking commercial for the United States of America. A guy who found out that when the fighting stops a country doesn’t have much need of heroes; it needs businessmen and factory workers and farmers. The world is always changing, sweetheart, and as it changes, people change too. Time don’t stand still and men will do desperate things to cling on to what they got. The taste for barnstorming air shows and flying daredevils didn’t last. Airplanes are expensive machines to run. Your father’s money began to disappear. He hired himself out as an expert aviator to whoever needed him and, yes, when the oil boom hit Mexico, like so many other adventurers that sniffed a quick buck, he moved south.

‘He sold up and brought his family down here, to El Dorado, hoping to get rich from the harvest of black gold. But he soon found out it wasn’t that easy. Sure, people were getting rich – the men who owned the oil companies – but everyone else, as usual, was getting screwed. He did what he could. He worked as a scout, a spotter, a taxi service for the rich executives. But no taxi driver ever got rich. His dreams were coming to nothing. But he was Jack Stone. He had to keep up the pretence of being a rich, successful swashbuckler. He had a big house to maintain. He had servants to pay and a wife to keep happy. It was a lie, though.’

‘It
wasn’t
,’ said Precious. ‘It’s
not
true.’

‘Oh, come on, sugar,’ said Mrs Glass. ‘You’re telling me you never suspected anything? You never wondered why your mother left home?’

Precious looked away, not wanting Mrs Glass to see what she was thinking.

‘Your father’s a good actor, but you must have known that something was wrong,’ Mrs Glass went on. ‘You must have seen the worry in your father’s face. Secret meetings with strange men?’

‘Go on,’ said Precious, holding her voice steady.

‘Your father found a way to make good money. Smuggling. He had the perfect cover. He was a clean-cut American hero and he could fly wherever he wanted without suspicion. It started small. Some guy would approach him in a bar and ask if perhaps he could fly something over the border for him. This guy would have a friend. His friend had a friend. Word got around. Soon he was at the centre of a major smuggling operation. Built a false bottom in that plane of his. Secret compartment to stash hot items in.

‘Some of the most valuable things he carried were ancient artefacts. The Incas, the Mayans and the Aztecs all left a lot of treasure behind, objects made of gold and studded with jewels, hidden in the forests and the jungles. Your father would spot forgotten ruins. He’d fly men there, open the temples, the graves and the treasure houses, and rob what was in them. Then he’d fly the stolen treasures to where the money was. To collectors in Brazil and America and the West Indies. I’m sure he reckoned he wasn’t doing no harm. Nobody was getting hurt. Along the way, though, he met a lot of guys, some of them pretty bad pieces of work, and through them he heard about a great treasure. It wasn’t gold, nor silver, it wasn’t jade: it was words on paper. An American naval officer had stolen some secrets. Somehow he’d got his hands on a great deal of information about the US Pacific fleet. Details of the ships, their movements, their construction, their armaments, their secret radio codes even. And there was more. There were all the plans for new ships. Everything was in these papers. The officer well knew the value of it all and he escaped across the border into Mexico, starting a trail of greed and betrayal. He asked around and eventually he turned up on your father’s doorstep. They struck a deal. In return for a handsome sum of money, your father would fly the officer to Argentina, where he had a buyer for the information.

‘On the flight south, though, your father faked engine trouble. Told the officer that he’d have to set the plane down for repairs. He landed on a secret airstrip he knew in the heart of the rainforest, miles from anywhere. He tricked the officer. He left him there and flew home with the stolen documents. The poor schmuck ain’t been seen since.’

‘You’re lying,’ said Precious. ‘How do you know all this?’

‘It’s my job to know,’ said Mrs Glass.

‘If my father took those papers it was so he could return them,’ said Precious. ‘He’s not a traitor.’

‘Gold makes traitors of us all, honey,’ said Mrs Glass. ‘Your father set about trying to see who would pay the most for what he had, but he was playing a game that was too big for him. He’d strayed into very dangerous waters and he got too greedy. His price kept going up. He’d make an agreement and then break it. In the end, one of the bidders ran out of patience.’

‘Who?’ said Precious.

‘Who would dearly love to control the Pacific Ocean? Who would pay most for American naval secrets?’

James looked at Sakata. ‘The Japanese,’ he said.

‘Exactly,’ said Mrs Glass. ‘America’s rivals in the Pacific. They got scared that the documents were gonna slip through their hands, so they sent a man.’

‘Sakata,’ said James.

‘Sakata,’ said Mrs Glass, nodding.

‘My people knew of Mrs Glass,’ said Sakata. ‘They told me where to find her.’

‘He came to me and asked if I’d be willing to steal the documents. The Japs were willing to pay a lot for them. I put together a team. It should have been easy. All we had to do was force Stone to open his safe and that would be that. Sakata would take the documents with him back to Tokyo. What could your father do? He couldn’t go to the police. He couldn’t tell anyone. As I say, should have been easy. But things went wrong from the start. First of all Stone wasn’t there and nobody else knew the combination. Then the storm hit. And now…’

Mrs Glass looked at James and Precious.

‘The papers weren’t in the safe, were they?’ said James.

‘Nope,’ said Mrs Glass. ‘Which means that Jack Stone has them with him.’ She stared at Precious and lit a cigarette with a glowing piece of firewood. ‘Which means that this ain’t over for you yet, honey.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that your daddy might see fit to hand over those papers in exchange for you.’

‘But JJ,’ said Precious, ‘he has to get to a doctor. He will die.’

‘I only need one of you,’ said Mrs Glass.

‘But you can’t just let him die,’ wailed Precious.

‘Why not? It might just focus your daddy’s mind,’ said Mrs Glass. ‘With one kid dead, he ain’t going to risk anything happening to the other one, is he? Now, there’s only one thing I need to know.’

‘What?’

‘Where is your daddy?’

‘You think I’d tell you that?’

Mrs Glass nodded to Strabo, who went into the storage hut and returned a little later carrying JJ in his arms. He laid him on the ground next to the fire.

Mrs Glass stood and pulled her pistol from her belt. She aimed it at JJ’s sleeping body.

‘Where’s your daddy?’ she said calmly.

‘This is not right,’ said Sakata.

‘Where’s your daddy?’

‘Stop it! Stop it!’ Precious screamed. ‘He’s near Palenque. His plane is damaged. There’s a jungle airstrip there.’

‘See,’ said Mrs Glass, putting the gun away. ‘It wasn’t so bad, was it? In the morning we’re getting out of this dump. Corona, you’re going to get us to Palenque. Wherever the hell that is.’

That night James felt too sick to eat. He sat out alone under the stars and thought about everything that had happened. Mrs Glass’s story. The death of Whatzat. And the death of Garcia. He had lost a friend today. He had only known Garcia a short time, but he knew that he had been a decent man. A good man. James had seen enough of the world, however, to know that good men die as easily as bad.

He told himself that he would not give in to despair. Deep inside, a tiny hard nub of hope kept him going, and right next to that nub of hope sat something cold and dark.

Revenge.

He had been to chapel enough times at Eton to know that a good Christian was supposed to turn the other cheek. That forgiveness was better than revenge. Well, maybe that was good enough for other boys, but it didn’t work for him. He wouldn’t be going to heaven when he died, but if he could only take some of these people to hell with him, then so be it.

Slowly everyone else in the camp settled down until he was the only one awake. He didn’t want to sleep. Sleep was a healer. He wanted to feel his anger. He didn’t want the comfort of dreams. Dreams would only lie to him and take him somewhere pleasant. They would take him home, back to Eton or Aunt Charmian’s cosy little cottage in Kent.

Sometimes dreamt that his mother and father were still alive.

He had no use for dreams.

He heard a noise and saw someone come out of the shed and walk quietly away.

It was a man, too tall to be Strabo. It must be Sakata.

James watched as he began to pace up and down.

‘What are you doing?’ he said and Sakata stopped dead.

‘I didn’t know you were there,’ he said.

‘Can’t sleep,’ said James.

Sakata came over. He had a concerned look on his face.

‘I am sorry about Garcia,’ he said.

‘Feeling sorry won’t bring him back,’ said James.

‘I do not want you to think that I am like those other two,’ said Sakata softly.

‘Aren’t you?’ said James. ‘You seem to go along with them quite happily.’

‘Until a month ago I did not know them at all,’ said Sakata. ‘I was sent because I can speak good English. I did not know what they were like. They have no honour. They leave a trail of senseless death behind them everywhere they go. I do not pretend to be a good man. I am a gangster too. Yakuza. But Mrs Glass and Strabo have no allegiance. They serve no one. They have no code –’

‘Please,’ said James. ‘I’m not sure I can bear to hear one murderer saying he’s better than another because he kills people politely. You’re all as bad as each other.’

‘Perhaps you are right,’ said Sakata with a sigh. ‘But perhaps I can change things for the better.’

‘It’s a little late, don’t you think?’ said James. ‘The damage is done.’

‘We shall see,’ said Sakata. ‘I have had enough of this. It is not the fault of the children. They are innocent.’

‘You want to help Precious and JJ?’ said James. ‘Then get the boy to the hospital in Vera Cruz. Otherwise just shut up. Shut up and leave me alone. I’m sick of the lot of you.’

In the morning Sakata was gone. And he had taken JJ and the Chevrolet with him.

Strabo was furious. He stamped about the camp yelling obscenities and kicking things. The combination of his anger and the bruising had turned him a virulent purple colour. He was so hoarse from shouting that his rasping voice had nearly fallen silent. The foul insults he hurled at the name of Sakata were the worst that James had ever heard.

Mrs Glass remained quiet. James could see she was angry, angrier even than Strabo, but she refused to show it. Instead she turned in on herself and retreated into moody silence. She sat on a rock next to the truck and lit a cigarette, watching the grey smoke drift off into the still air around her. She gave off an atmosphere of coiled, poisonous menace. James noticed that Strabo was careful not to go near her.

Precious and James watched and waited by the truck to see what would happen now.

James could see that Precious was confused about JJ’s disappearance. Different emotions fought to gain control of her features – hope, despair, happiness, fear, anger.

She put a hand on James’s arm.

‘Where do you think Sakata’s taken him?’ she said. ‘Where’s JJ gone?’

‘I think our man Sakata had a sudden attack of the morals,’ said James. ‘He turned out to be the Japanese equivalent of the good Samaritan. The good Samurai perhaps.’

‘You mean JJ’s going to be all right?’

‘I think so. I think Sakata must have taken him to Vera Cruz. He didn’t want to watch him die. He’d probably have taken you too if Mrs Glass hadn’t been keeping such a close watch on you.’

James told Precious about his conversation with the big Japanese man the night before and she slowly broke down into tears.

She wept for a long time and then she dried her eyes and wiped her nose.

‘I’m not going to cry any more,’ she said. ‘I won’t give them the satisfaction.’

James smiled at her. ‘The odds are much better now,’ he said. ‘It’s two against two.’

Eventually Strabo’s anger died away and Mrs Glass flicked her cigarette into a mud hole. This act seemed to clear her mood, and she straightened her hat and came over to James with her usual air of cool detachment.

‘Strabo, you get everything together and load up the truck,’ she said. ‘And you, Corona, you show me where we’re going.’

She took an old crumpled map from her jacket and unfolded it on the bonnet of the truck.

‘Far as I can tell we’re somewhere here,’ she said, jabbing at a spot just north-west of Vera Cruz.