Hurricane Gold (24 page)

At last there came the knock on the door that they had been both longing for and dreading. It was time for dinner. Time to find out what El Huracán had in store for them.

James went indoors and quickly tried to brush his hair into shape. As usual he failed. He studied the face in the mirror. He looked thinner and older. He wondered if he would ever be able to adjust to life back at Eton.

If he ever made it back to Eton.

Strange to think of life going on there without him. All those boys asleep in their rooms, with nothing worse to worry about than winning a House cricket match or translating a few lines of Latin. Since his letter from Pritpal he’d had no contact with the school. He wasn’t to know that there was a growing pile of mail waiting for him at the central post office in Mexico City.

Mail that he would never read.

He left his room and marched across the plaza with Precious and their escort. Despite what he’d said to Precious earlier about not giving up hope, he couldn’t help feeling like a condemned man on his way to the scaffold.

People were strolling in the plaza. They were mostly men, but there were a handful of women as well. James scanned their faces for a sight of Mrs Glass, but she was not among them.

They were taken back to the dining room where James had first met El Huracán. They found the room deserted, but four places at the table were set for dinner, with heavy silver cutlery and crystal glasses. They sat down and waited, too anxious to talk to each other.

James looked at the pictures on the walls. They were mostly framed plans and drawings of the island relating to its long history. There were some pieces of Mayan art, a couple of detailed maps, some old designs for the prison, architects’ drawings of El Huracán’s redevelopment and a row of documents concerning the slave trade.

His attention strayed to the table and he noticed that Precious was staring at the other two place settings. He had wondered about them himself. One, he presumed, was for their host, El Huracán, but who was the other one for? And what might it mean for their future?

Their questions were soon answered as El Huracán strolled in with Mrs Glass on his arm. She was wearing an expensive evening dress with matching jewellery and her hair was tied up in a silk turban with a diamond brooch pinned to the front of it.

She was laughing and chatting breezily, but, when she saw whom she was going to be dining with, the smile died on her lips.

‘Well, hello there,’ she said icily, as El Huracán escorted her to her seat.

‘Hello,’ said James.

Precious said nothing. She had a face like thunder.

‘I believe you all know each other,’ said El Huracán. ‘We have a great deal to talk about, and I thought it was for the best if we did it face to face.’

‘I have nothing to say to her,’ hissed Precious.

‘Don’t worry, sweetheart,’ said Mrs Glass with the hint of a mocking smile, ‘the feeling is entirely mutual.’

‘Please,’ said El Huracán, ‘I would ask you to leave all your guns at the door. This room is neutral territory. I won’t have any ill feeling in here. This is to be a civilised dinner.’

He clicked his fingers and a servant poured chilled white wine for Mrs Glass.

25

A Civilised Dinner

Fish soup was served and for a few minutes the four of them ate and talked with strained politeness. El Huracán asked if James and Precious were happy with their rooms, and how they had spent the day. He was interested in the gruesome details of the botfly maggots that James had picked up and told him how he had spent many years in the jungle when he was younger and was very familiar with the ‘hungry little devils’ as he called them.

Suddenly Precious threw down her spoon.

‘I can’t stand it,’ she said. ‘How can we sit here and pretend that nothing has happened, when this woman has ruined my life? She killed all those people. She stole from my father. I can’t stand it a moment longer.’

‘Well, now,’ said El Huracán, turning to Mrs Glass with a polite smile wrinkling his ancient face. ‘What have you to say for yourself?’

‘I don’t have to defend my actions, here,’ said Mrs Glass haughtily. ‘There’s men a thousand times worse than me wandering around out there in the plaza, taking the evening air, without having to answer a lot of snotty accusations from a child. What kind of a place are you running here, Huracán? Letting kids like this in.’

‘I let anybody come here who wants to,’ said El Huracán calmly.

‘That’s a damn lie,’ said Mrs Glass. ‘I know full well that if you can’t pay your way you’re sent packing.’

‘I cannot send these children away,’ said El Huracán. ‘They have seen too much of my world. They might tell tales of my island and give away my secrets.’

‘Then why didn’t you shoot them on sight?’

‘I had to find out who they were.’

‘I paid my way,’ said Mrs Glass. ‘I gave you the papers.’

‘Yes. And very valuable they are too.’ El Huracán nodded to one of his servants, who placed the leather pouch containing the naval documents on the table.

El Huracán stroked the US Navy insignia. ‘These will assure you a long and comfortable stay here in Lagrimas Negras,’ he said, and then looked up at Mrs Glass. ‘You know, of course, that you can never leave?’

‘I know it now,’ said Mrs Glass. ‘And I think it stinks.’

‘Oh, you will get used to it,’ said El Huracán. ‘In time you will forget that there ever was a world outside these shores.’

‘Those documents do not belong to her,’ said Precious angrily. ‘They belong to my father. If you had any decency you’d give them back to me.’

‘You know very well that they do not belong to your father, either,’ said El Huracán. ‘He himself stole them.’

‘My father is not a thief.’

‘Isn’t he?’ said El Huracán. ‘I know your father, Precious. There have been occasions when I have had need of his plane and his skills as a pilot. He is not a bad man. He was just trying to get by, like everybody else. But he should never have got involved with these stolen secrets. For him smuggling was a great game. This is different. The stakes are higher. These papers have touched the lives of many people. Touched them with the hand of death.’

‘Smuggling’s one thing,’ said Mrs Glass, ‘turning traitor and selling state secrets is another. He shoulda left it to the professionals.’

‘Is that what you are?’ said Precious. ‘A professional? A professional what? Murderer? Crook? Kidnapper?’

‘I guess you could call me a spy,’ said Mrs Glass.

‘A spy for who?’

‘Whoever will pay me most.’

‘Don’t make me laugh,’ said Precious. ‘Manny told us all about you. How you married some gangster in Los Angeles, how you were nearly killed in a shoot-out.’

‘He didn’t tell you the rest,’ said Mrs Glass, ‘because he didn’t know. He didn’t tell you about how I went into hiding, travelled down through Mexico into South America, hung out there a coupla years before heading across the Pacific to Japan. I had decided to do a world tour and learn everything I could about crime.

‘In Japan I met with the Yakuza, in China it was the tongs. I spent time with gangs in India and the Balkans. In Italy I made friends with the Cosa Nostra, which was how I met dear, departed Strabo. I finally wound up in Germany, where I discovered that it was impossible to tell who were the crooks and who were the politicians. It was a crazy time there. Adolf Hitler’s Nazi Party was growing.

‘I met an American called Alan Glass. He was a fascinating guy – smart, ruthless, charming. He taught me everything there was to know about being a spy. He knew everyone and played them all off against each other. In the end I don’t think he even knew whose side he was on. He was a double-triple-quadruple agent. He sold secrets to the Russians, the British, the Americans, the Germans, and they all thought they were his best buddies. We married, and for a time we had a ball. But it couldn’t last. One day he wasn’t there any more. He’d disappeared. I never saw him again. I reckon it was the Russians took him, but I can’t be sure.

‘Next morning I was on a plane back to the States. Went straight to Washington. I was welcomed as a heroine. One of their best agents in Europe. Gave them a lot of baloney, kept them happy, told them what they wanted to hear, had dinner with the president. They turned a blind eye to my less than honest past.’

‘Why?’ said Precious. ‘Why would they? I don’t believe you.’

‘I told you, honey,’ said Mrs Glass, taking a sip of wine. ‘I was a cast-iron, gold-plated heroine, and, besides, they knew I could be useful to them. The big problem in America right now is organised crime. The gangs are taking over. And back then in nineteen thirty, when I showed up, we still had Prohibition, so things were just about as bad as they could be. They were looking for someone to work with the Bureau of Investigation and infiltrate the gangs.

‘I did what they wanted; I went back to my old ways. The first gangster I dealt with was Legs Diamond. Got close to him, set him up, and watched him die. And as I watched him bleed to death I made a decision: this wasn’t going to be me. I wanted something better for myself. I had contacts in crime and espionage and politics all round the world. I set myself up as a mercenary, smuggling secrets wherever they were wanted.’ She paused, and then looked at Precious. ‘And that,’ she said, ‘is how I ended up at your father’s house.’

Now she turned her attention to James. ‘I’ve dealt with New York gangsters, Russian secret police from the OGPU, Japanese assassins and Mexican bandits, but an English schoolkid came closest to sinking me.’ She raised her glass in a mock toast. ‘Here’s to you, James Bond,’ she said. ‘I hope you’re satisfied with what you’ve done, because you’re stuck here with me for the rest of your miserable life.’

‘I’m afraid that is true,’ said El Huracán with a shrug. ‘I can never let you two leave.’

James felt a cold, sick feeling inside. He had woken from his dream. Precious had been right. They had come blundering out to the island with no real thought of what would happen when they got here.

Precious hung her head in her hands and two fat tears dropped into her plate.

James was dimly aware that El Huracán was still talking, his voice calm and even, like a schoolmaster discussing a lesson.

‘. . . you will have to pay your way. You may stay in your guest rooms tonight, but in the morning you will move to the worker dormitories. We will see where you are best suited. In the kitchens, perhaps, or helping to grow food. You look strong, James: there is always construction work to be done. Or, perhaps, you would rather be a waiter or a barman?’

James said nothing. He would not let his life be decided for him like this. He was damned if he was going to give up without a fight. They’d got this far. They would see it through to the finish. Now was not the time to say anything, though. He would wait until he was alone with Precious and then they would think and plan and choose their moment.

At six o’clock in the morning, before any of the ‘guests’ were up, James was taken to the whipping post in the main square, where twenty men were waiting patiently. They were all Indians, dressed in loose white cotton work clothes. A foreman called Morales divided them up into teams and set them each a task. James was assigned to a gang whose job was to rebuild an old stone bridge near the harbour. They worked steadily until twelve, when they were given a lunch of rice, corn and beans, and then had to carry on until sunset. The pace was easy-going, the men worked slowly but steadily. James didn’t have any trouble keeping up and he enjoyed the physical labour: mixing cement and carrying stones.

While he worked he took the opportunity to study the comings and goings at the harbour. Two small ships put in during the day and unloaded supplies. Three armed guards patrolled the harbour side and carefully searched each sailor as he got on and off the ship. Two other guards stayed in a stone watchtower, manning a heavy machine gun.

There was no hope of sneaking aboard one of the ships. El Huracán’s men watched like hawks and the sailors were in an obvious hurry to get away as quickly as possible.

The next day James’s gang climbed to the highest point on the island to repair a massive steel water tower. From here he got a clear view of the sea. It was obvious that it would be hopeless to try to swim anywhere. There was no other land in sight in any direction and his experience on the reef that completely surrounded the island had shown him just how dangerous these waters were.

They worked on the water tower for two days, cutting thin steel and aluminium sheets with powerful snippers and patching up some of the joins where the pipes entered the tank.

Sitting in the sun with an ocean breeze cooling his skin, James could almost imagine spending the rest of his days here. He wondered how long it would take him to forget his old life.

No.

That must never happen. He was not going to stay here and rot.

His resolve grew stronger when he was assigned to his next job. There was a narrow canyon in the centre of the island, which was crossed by a rickety bridge. The bridge was guarded at either end, and James was intrigued to find out what went on on the other side. A winding path led through a patch of forest to a hidden area. This was where El Huracán grew most of his food. There were chickens, bees in hives, goats and sheep. What fertile land there was, was densely planted with corn and vegetables, mostly tomatoes, peppers and onions.

James was surprised to see that all the farm labourers were old, in their fifties and sixties, though it was hard to tell exactly as they were so malnourished and poorly treated that they were old before their time. And, unlike the other workers on the island, only a handful of them appeared to be Mexican. They looked worn down and miserable as they toiled with bony bent backs over the crops. He was even more surprised to see that armed guards in little wooden observation towers watched them, as if they were prison labourers.

James and his gang had come to repair some barbed-wire fencing and he had been told not to talk to the elderly labourers. He watched them as they worked on under the sun. At one point one of the workers threw down his shovel and shouted something at a guard. The guard casually strolled over and brutally clubbed him to the ground with the butt of his rifle, and after that none of the other workers looked up from what they were doing.

At lunchtime James’s works gang was escorted to a shaded area that overlooked a wide stony riverbed. There were more old people here, digging up piles of dirt and sieving them over long, wooden waterways. They were skinny and ragged and feeble looking.

James had made friends with an Indian called Moises, who spoke a little English and some Spanish, and he managed to ask him what they were digging for.

‘
Oro
,’ said Moises quietly, and in such a way as to let James know that he should ask no more questions.

Oro
was Spanish for gold. These wretched old skeletons were panning for gold.

They finished work early, so that they could get back across the island before it got dark. As they strolled through the trees, James asked Moises who the people were. Moises was smoking a huge, hand-rolled cigarette, as were most of the other Indians. The path was thick with pungent smoke.

‘
Dinari
,’ said Moises.

‘Money?’ said James.

‘Sí. They have no
dinari
. No money. They work for El Huracán.’

‘What? You mean they’re guests who have run out of money…?’

‘Don’t talk about this,’ Moises interrupted. ‘
Silencio
.’ And he would say no more.

James knew not to ask him any more questions. El Huracán’s men had mastered the art of the stone face. They would not be any help to James if he wanted to escape. They were all either fiercely loyal to their ruler, or too scared of him to say anything.

That night, James was feeling thoroughly depressed and hopeless. A Cuban rumba band was playing in the plaza and there was a lively atmosphere. People were chatting and dancing and most were drunk. This was hardly surprising, as there was little else for anyone to do all day except drink.

He looked around at the confident, ruthless faces of the men. If these tough criminals and gangsters couldn’t find a way off the island, then what hope did he have? He had tried asking a couple of them if they knew of any way to escape and they had just laughed in his face.